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"They get a few things wrong here,” Himalaya whispered, "but it's still the closest you'll get to American food while in Nalhalla."
I nodded thankfully to the owner, who smiled with pleasure. He left a handful of mints on the table, though I don't quite know why, then went back to serving customers. I glanced at the dessert he'd provided. It was, indeed, a large bandana filled with ice cream. I tasted it hesitantly but it actually was kind of good, in an odd way. I couldn't quite place the flavor.
That probably should have worried me.
"Alcatraz Smedry," Folsom said, as if taking the name for a test drive. "I have to admit, your latest book was a disappointment. One and a half stars out of five."
I had a moment of panic, thinking he referred to the second book of my autobiography. However, I soon realized that was silly, since it not only hadn't been written yet but I didn't even know that I would write it. I promptly stopped that line of thinking before I caused a temporal rift and ended up doing something silly, like killing a butterfly or interfering with mankind's first warp jump.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, taking another bite of ice cream.
"Oh, I have it here somewhere," Folsom said, rifling in his shoulder bag.
"I didn't think it was so bad," Himalaya said. "Of course, my tastes are tainted by ten years as a Librarian."
"Ten years?" I asked. She didn't look much older than twenty-five to me.
"I started young," she explained, playing idly with the mints on the table. "I apprenticed to a master Librarian after I'd proven my ability to use the reverse lighthouse system."
"The what?"
"That's when you arrange a group of books alphabetically based on the third letter of the author's mother's maiden name. Anyway, once I got in, the Librarians let me live the high life for a time – buttering me up with advanced reader copies of books and the occasional bagel in the break room. When I was eighteen, they began introducing me into the cult."
She shivered, as if remembering the horrors of those early days. I wasn't buying it, though. As pleasant as she was, I was still suspicious of her motives.
“Ah," Folsom said, pulling something out of his pack. "Here it is." He set a book on the table – one that appeared to have a painting of me on the cover. Me riding an enormous vacuum cleaner while wearing a sombrero. I held a flintlock rifle in one hand and what appeared to be a glowing, magical credit card in the other.
Alcatraz Smedry and the Mechanic's Wrench, it read.
"Oh, dear,” Aunt Patty said. "Folsom, don't tell me you read those dreadful fantasy novels!"
"They're fun, Mother," he said. "Meaningless, really, but as a diversion I give the genre three out of four marks. This one here was terrible, though. It had all the elements of a great story – a mystical weapon, a boy on a journey, quirky sidekicks. But it ended up ruining itself by trying to say something important, rather than just being amusing."
"That's me!" I said, pointing at the cover.
If Bastille were there, she'd have said something pithy, such as "Glad you can recognize your own face, Smedry. Be careful not to wear a mustache, though. Might confuse yourself."
Unfortunately, Bastille wasn't there. Once again, I found myself annoyed, and once again, I found myself annoyed at myself for being annoyed, which probably annoys you. I know it annoys my editor.
"It's a fictionalized account, of course," Folsom said about the book. "Most scholars know that you didn't do any of these things. However, you're such a part of the cultural unconsciousness that stories about you are quite popular."
The cultural what? I thought, bemused. People were writing books about me! Or, at least, books with me as the hero. That seemed pretty darn cool, even if the facts were sketchy.
"That's the kind of thing they think happens in the Hushlands," Himalaya said, smiling at me, still playing idly with the mints. "Epic battles with the Librarians using strange Hushlander technology. It's all very romanticized and exaggerated."
"Fantasy novels," Aunt Patty said, shaking her head. “Ah, well. Rot your brain if you want. You're old enough that I can't tell you what to do, though I'm glad you kicked that bed-wetting habit before you moved out!"
"Thanks, Mother," Folsom said, blushing. "That's . . . well, that's really nice. We should –“ He cut off, glancing at Himalaya. "Um, you're doing it again."
The former Librarian froze, then looked down at the mints in front of her. "Oh, bother!"
"What?" I asked.
"She was classifying them," Folsom said, pointing at the mints. "Organizing them by shape, size, and... it appears, color as well."
The mints sat in a neat little row, color coordinated and arranged by size. "It's just so hard to kick the habit," Himalaya said with frustration. "Yesterday, I found myself cataloging the tiles on my bathroom floor, counting the number of each color and the number of chipped ones. I can't seem to stop!"
"You'll beat it eventually," Folsom said.
"I hope so," she said with a sigh.
"Well," Aunt Patty said, standing. "I've got to get back to the court discussion. Folsom should be able to give you the information you want, Alcatraz.”
We bid farewell, and Aunt Patty made her way from the room – though not before pointing out to the owner that he really ought to do something about his bad haircut.
"What information is it you wanted?" Folsom asked.
I eyed Himalaya, trying to decide just what I wanted to say in front of her.
"Don't worry,” Folsom said. "She's completely trustworthy."
If that's the case, then why does she need a guard to watch over her? I didn't buy that Folsom was needed to accustom her to life in the Free Kingdoms – not after six months. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any getting around talking with her there, so I decided to explain. I didn't think I'd be revealing anything too sensitive.
"My grandfather and I would like a report on Librarian activities here in the city," I said. "I understand you're the one to come to about that sort of thing."
"Well, I do have a good time keeping an eye on Librarians,” Folsom said with a smile. "What do you want to know?"
I didn't honestly know, as I was still kind of unused to this hero stuff. Whatever the Librarians had been up to lately probably had something to with their current attempt to conquer Mokia, but I didn't know what specifically to look for.
“Anything that seems suspicious," I said, trying to sound suave for my fans, in case any of them were eavesdropping. (Being awesome is hard work.)
"Well, let's see," Folsom said. "This treaty mess started about six months back, when a contingent from the Wardens of the Standard showed up in the city, claiming they wanted to set up an embassy. The king was suspicious, but after years of trying hard to get the Librarians to engage in peace talks, he couldn't really turn them down."
"Six months?" I asked. That would be a little bit after Grandpa Smedry left for the Hushlands to check in on me. It was also about the length of time a frozen burrito would stay in the freezer without turning totally nasty. (I know this because it's very heroic and manly. )
"That's right," Himalaya said. "I was one of the Librarians who came to staff the embassy. That's how I escaped."
I actually hadn't made that connection, but I nodded, as if that were exactly what I'd been thinking, as opposed to comparing my manliness to a frozen food.
“Anyway,” Folsom continued, "the Librarians announced they were going to offer us a treaty. Then they started going to parties and socializing with the city's elite."
That sounded like the kind of information my grandfather wanted. I wondered if I should just grab Folsom and take him back.
But, well, Grandfather wouldn't be back to the castle for hours yet. Besides, I was no errand boy. I hadn't simply come to fetch Folsom and then sit around and wait. Alcatraz Smedry, brave vacuum cleaner rider and wearer of the awesome sombrero, didn't stand for things like that. He was a man of action!
"I w
ant to meet with some of these Librarians," I found myself saying. "Where can we find them?"
Folsom looked concerned. "Well, I guess we could head to the embassy."
"Isn't there somewhere else we could find them? Someplace a little more neutral?"
"There will probably be some at the prince's lunch party.” Himalaya said.
"Yeah," Folsom said. "But how will we get into that? You have to RSVP months in advance."
I stood up, making a decision. "Let's go. Don't worry about getting us in – I'll handle that."
CHAPTER 7
Okay, go back and reread the introductions to chapters two, five, and six. Don't worry, I can wait. I'll go make some popcorn.
Pop. Pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop. Pop. POP!
What, done already? You must not have read very carefully. Go back and do it again.
Munch. Munch-munch. Munch-munch-munch. Munch. Crunch.
Okay, that's better. You should have read about:
1) Fish sticks
2) Several things you can do to fight the Librarians
3) Mental hospitals that are really churches
The connection between these three things should be readily obvious to you:
Socrates.
Socrates was a funny little Greek man best known for forgetting to write things down and for screaming, "Look, I'm a philosopher!" in the middle of a No Philosophy zone. (He was later forced to eat his words. Along with some poison.)
Socrates was the inventor of something very important: the question. That's right, before Socrates, languages had no ability to ask questions. Conversations went like this:
Blurg: "Gee, I wish there were a way I could speak to Grug and see if he's feeling all right."
