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Writers hate people. If you've ever met a writer, you know that they're generally awkward, slovenly individuals who live beneath stairwells, hiss at those who pass, and forget to bathe for weeklong periods. And those are the socially competent ones.
I looked up at the sides of our pit.
Bastille sat on the floor, obviously trying to pretend she was a patient person. It worked about as well as a watermelon trying to pretend it was a golf ball. (Though not as messy and half as much fun.)
"Come on, Bastille," I said, glancing at her. "I know you're as frustrated as I am. What are you thinking? Could I break these walls somehow? Make a slope we can climb up?"
“And risk the sides of the wall toppling down on us?" she asked flatly.
She had a point. "What if we tried to climb up without using the Talent?"
"These walls are slick and polished, Smedry," she snapped. "Not even a Crystin can climb that."
"But if we shimmied up, feet on one wall, back against the other one . . ."
"The hole is way too wide for that."
I fell silent.
"What?" she asked. "No other brilliant ideas? What about jumping up? You should try that a few times." She turned away from me, looking at the side of our pit, then sighed.
I frowned. "Bastille, this isn't like you."
"Oh?" she asked. "How do you know what's 'like me' and what isn't? You've known me for what, a couple of months? During which time we've spent all of three or four days together?"
"Yes, but . . . well, I mean . . ."
"It's over, Smedry," she said. "We're beaten. Kaz has probably already arrived at the center of the Library and given up those Lenses. Chances are, Kiliman will just take him captive and let my mother die."
"Maybe we can still find a way out. And go help."
Bastille didn't seem to be listening. She simply sat down, arms folded across her knees, staring at the wall. "They really are right about me," she whispered. "I never deserved to be a knight."
"What?" I asked, squatting down beside her. "Bastille, that's nonsense."
"I've only done two real operations. This one and the infiltration back in your hometown. Both times I ended up trapped, unable to do anything. I'm useless."
"We all got trapped," I said. "Your mother didn't fare much better."
She ignored this, still shaking her head. "Useless. You had to save me from those ropes, and then you had to save me again when we were covered in tar. That's not even counting the time you saved me from falling out the side of the Dragonaut."
"You saved me too," I said. "Remember the coins? If it wasn't for you, I'd be floating around with burning eyes, offering illicit books to people as if I were a drug dealer looking for a new victim."
(Hey, kids? Want a taste of Dickens? It's awesome, man. Come on. First chapters of Hard Times are free. I know you'll be back for The of Two Cities later.)
"That was different," Bastille said.
"No, it wasn't. Look, you saved my life – not only that, but without you, I wouldn't know what half these Lenses are supposed to do."
She looked up at me, brow furled. "You're doing it again.”
"What?"
"Encouraging people. Like you did with Australia, like you've done with all of us this entire trip. What is it about you, Smedry? You don't want to make any decisions, but you take it upon yourself to encourage us all anyway?”
I fell silent. How had that happened? This conversation had been about her, and suddenly she'd thrown it back in my face. (I've found that throwing things in people's faces – words, conversations, knives – is one of Bastille's specialties.)
I looked toward the light flickering faintly in the room above. It seemed haunting and inviting, and as I watched it, I realized something about myself. While I hated being trapped because I worried about what might happen to Kaz and Draulin, there was a larger cause of my frustration.
I wanted to be helping. I didn't want to be left out. I wanted to be in charge. Leaving things to others was tough for me.
"I do want to be a leader, Bastille," I whispered.
She rustled, turning to look at me.
"I think all people, in their hearts, want to be heroes," I continued. "But, the ones who want it most are the outcasts. The boys who sit in the backs of rooms, always laughed at because they're different, because they stand out, because . . . they break things."
I wondered if Kaz understood that there were more ways than one to be abnormal. Everyone was strange in some way – everyone had weaknesses that could be mocked. I did know how he felt. I'd felt it too.
I didn't want to go back.
“Yes, I want to be a hero,” I said. “Yes, I want to be the one leader. I used to sit and dream of being the one that people looked to. Of being the one who could fix things, rather than break them."
"Well, you have it," she said. "You're the heir to the Smedry line. You're in charge."
"I know. And that terrifies me."
She regarded me. She'd taken off her Warrior's Lenses, and I could see the light from above reflecting in her solemn eyes.
I sat down, shaking my head. "I don't know what to do, Bastille. Being the kid who's always in trouble didn't exactly prepare me for this. How do I decide whether or not to trade my most powerful weapon to save someone's life? I feel like . . .like I'm drowning. Like I'm swimming in water over my head and can't ever reach the top.
"I guess that's why I keep saying I don't want to lead. Because I know if people pay too much attention to me, they'll realize that I'm doing a terrible job." I grimaced. "Just like I am now. You and I captured, your mother dying, Kaz walking into danger, and Australia – who knows where she is."
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I fell silent, feeling even more foolish now that I'd explained it. Yet, oddly, Bastille didn't laugh at me. "I don't think you're doing a terrible job, Alcatraz,” she said. "Being in charge is hard. If everything goes well, then nobody pays attention. Yet, if something goes wrong, you're always to blame. I think you've done fine. You just need to be a little bit more sure of yourself."
I shrugged. "Maybe. What do you know of it, anyway?"
“I..."
I glanced at her, the tone in her voice making me curious. Some things about Bastille had never added up, in my estimation. She seemed to know too much. True, she'd said that she'd wanted to be an Oculator, but that didn't give me enough of an explanation. There was more.
"You do know about it," I said.
Now it was her turn to shrug. “A little bit."
I cocked my head.
"Haven't you noticed?" she asked, looking at me. "My mother doesn't have a prison name."
"So?"
"So, I do."
I scratched my head.
"You really don't know anything, do you?" she asked.
I snorted. "Well, excuse me for being raised on a completely different continent from you people. What are you talking about?"
"You are named Alcatraz after Alcatraz the First," Bastille said. "The Smedries use names like that a lot, names from their heritage. The Librarians, then, have tried to discredit those names by using them for prisons."
"You're not a Smedry," I said, "but you have a prison name too."
"Yes, but my family is also . . . traditional. They tend to use famous names over and over again, just like your family does. That's not something that common people do."
I blinked.
Bastille rolled her eyes. "My father's a nobleman, Smedry," she said. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I have a traditional name because I'm his daughter. My full name is Bastille Vianitelle the Ninth."
“Ah, right." It's sort of like what rich people, kings, and popes do in the Hushlands – they reuse old names, then just add a number.
