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If you've never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise . . . okay, I'm going to assume that you've never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise. Suffice it to say that the experience was quite amusing, in a creepy sort of way.
"He speaks our language!" one hissed.
"Impossible," another said. "Nobody outside the Library knows it."
"Could he be Tharandes?"
"He would have died millennia ago!"
Bastille and Kaz were watching me. I winked at them.
"Translator's Lenses," one of the Curators suddenly hissed. "See!"
"Impossible," another said. "Nobody could have gathered the Sands of Rashid."
"But he has . . . ," said a third. "Yes, they must be Lenses of Rashid!"
The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they had before.
"What's happening?" Bastille whispered.
"I'll tell you in a minute."
Based on the Curators' own rules, there was one way to discover if my father really had come to the Library of Alexandria and given up his soul. "I am the son of Attica Smedry," I said to the group of creatures. "I've come here for his personal effects. Your own laws say you must provide them to me."
There was a moment of silence.
“We cannot," one of the Curators finally said.
I sighed in relief. If my father had come to the Library, then he hadn't given up his soul. The Curators didn't have his personal items.
“We cannot," the Curator continued, skull teeth beginning to twist upward in an evil smile. "Because we have already given them away!'
I felt a stab of shock. No. It can't be! “I don't believe you," I whispered.
"We cannot lie," another said. "Your father came to us, and he sold his soul to us. He only wanted three minutes to read the book, and then he was taken to become one of us. His personal items have already been claimed – someone did so this very day.”
"Who?" I demanded. “Who claimed them? My grandfather?"
"No," the Curator said, smile deepening. "They were claimed by Shasta Smedry. Your mother."
CHAPTER 12
I would like to apologize for the introduction to the last chapter. It occurs to me that this book, while random at times, really shouldn't waste its time on anarchist farm animals, whether or not they have bazookas. It's just plain silly, and since I abhor silliness, I would like to ask you to do me a favor.
Flip back two chapters, where the introduction should now contain the bunny paragraphs (since you cut them out of chapter Eleven and pasted them in chapter Ten instead). Cut those paragraphs out again, then go find a book by Jane Austen and paste them in there instead. The paragraphs will be much happier there, as Jane was quite fond of bunnies and bazookas, or so I'm told. It has to do with being a proper young lady living in the nineteenth century. But that's another story entirely.
I walked, head bowed, watching the ground in front of us for trip wires. I wore the Discerner's Lenses again, the Translator's Lenses stowed carefully in their pocket.
I was beginning to accept that my father – a man I'd never met, but whom I'd traveled halfway across the world to find – might be dead. Or worse than dead. If the Curators were telling the truth, Attica's soul had been ripped away from him, then used to fuel the creation of another twisted Curator of Alexandria. I would never know him, never meet him. My father was no more.
Equally disturbing was the knowledge that my mother was somewhere in these catacombs. Though I'd always known her as Ms. Fletcher, her actual name was Shasta. (Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)
Ms. Fletcher – or Shasta, or whatever her name was – had worked as my personal caseworker during my years as a foster child in the Hushlands. She'd always treated me harshly, never giving me a hint that she was, in truth, my blood mother. Did she have something to do with the twisted, half-human Scrivener's Bone that was hunting me? How had she known about my father's trip to Alexandria? And what would she do if she found me here?
Something glowed on the ground in front of us, slightly brighter than the stones around it.
"Stop," I said, causing Bastille and Kaz to freeze. “Trip wire, right there."
Bastille knelt down. "So there is," she said, sounding impressed.
We carefully made our way over it, then continued on. During our last hour of walking, we'd left hallways filled with scrolls behind. More and more frequently, we were passing hallways filled with bookshelves. These books were still and musty, with cracking leather-bound covers, but they were obviously newer than the scrolls.
Every book ever written. Was there, somewhere in here, a room filled with paperback romance novels? The thought was amusing to me, but I wasn't sure why. The curators claimed to collect knowledge. It didn't matter to them what kinds of stories or facts the books contained – they would gather it all, store it, and keep it safe. Until someone wanted to trade their soul for it.
I felt very sorry for the person who was tricking into giving up their soul for a trashy romance novel.
We kept moving. Theoretically Kaz's Talent was leading us toward Australia, but it seemed to me like we were just walking aimlessly. Considering the nature of his Talent, that was probably a good sign.
"Kaz,” I said. "Did you know my mother?"
The short man eyed me. "Sure did. She was . . . well, is . . . my sister-in-law."
"They never divorced?"
Kaz shook his head. "I'm not sure what happened – they had a falling-out, obviously. Your father gave you away to be cared for in foster homes, and your mother took up position watching over you." He paused, then shook his head. "We were all there at your naming, Al. That was the day when your father pronounced the Sands of Rashid upon you as your inheritance. We're still not sure how he got them to you at the right time, in the right place."
"Oracle's Lenses" I said.
"He has a pair of those?"
I nodded.
"Walnuts! The prophets in Ventat are supposed to have the only pair in existence. I wonder where Attica found some."
I shrugged. "He mentioned them in the letter he sent me."
Kaz nodded thoughtfully. "Well, your father disappeared just a few days after pronouncing your blessing, so I guess there just wasn't time for a divorce. Your mother could ask for one, but she really has no motivation to do so. After all, she'd lose her Talent."
"What?"
"Her Talent, Al," Kaz said. "She's a Smedry now."
"Only by marriage."
"Doesn't matter,” Kaz said. "The spouse of a Smedry gains their husband's or wife's same Talent as soon as the marriage is official."
I'd assumed that Talents were genetic – that they were passed on from parents to children, kind of the same way that skin color or hair color was. But this meant they were something different. That seemed important.
That does make some things make more sense, I thought. Grandpa Smedry said he'd worried that my mother had only married my father for his Talent. I'd assumed that she'd been enthralled with the Talent, much as someone might marry a rock star for his guitar skills. However, that didn't sound like my mother.
She'd wanted a Talent. "So, my mother's Talent is . . ."
"Losing things," Kaz said. "Just like your father's." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "I don't think she's ever figured out how to use it properly. She's a Librarian – she believes in order, lists, and catalogues. To use a Talent, you just have to be able to let yourself be out of control for a while."
I nodded. "What did you think? When he married her, I mean."
"I thought he was an idiot,” Kaz said. “And I told him so, as is the solemn duty of younger brothers. He married her anyway, the stubborn hazelnut."
About what I expected, I thought.
"But, Attica seemed to love her," Kaz continued with a sigh. “And, to be perfectly honest, she wasn't as bad as many Librarians. For a while, it seemed like they might actuall
y make things work. Then . . . it fell apart. Right around the time you were born."
I frowned. "But, she was a Librarian agent all along, right? She just wanted to get Father's Talent."
"Some still think that's the case. She really did seem to care for him, though. I . . . well, I just don't know."
"She had to be faking," I said stubbornly.
"If you say so," Kaz said. "I think you may be letting your preconceptions cloud your thinking."
I shook my head. "No. I don't do that."
"Oh, you don't?" Kaz said, amused. "Well then, let's try something. Why don't you tell me about your grandfather; pretend I don't know anything about him, and you want to describe him to me."
"Okay," I said slowly. "Grandpa Smedry is a brilliant Oculator who is a little bit zany, but who is one of the Free Kingdom's most important figures. He has the Talent to arrive late to things."
"Great," Kaz said. "Now tell me about Bastille."
I eyed her, and she shot me a threatening glance. "Uh, Bastille is a Crystin. I think that's about all I can say without her throwing something at me."
"Good enough. Australia?"
