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"Of course," Bastille said. "They have an ambassador in town and we're going to stop them from taking over Mokia. Hence, they tried to kill us. Once the Librarians try to blow you up a few dozen times, you get used to it."
“Are we sure it was them?" I asked. "One of the rooms exploded, you said. Whose?"
"My mother's," Bastille replied. "We think it might have been from some Detonator's Glass slipped into her pack before she left Nalhalla. She carried that pack all the way through the Library of Alexandria, and it was set to go off when she got back in range of the city."
"Wow. Elaborate."
"That's the Librarians. Anyway, something is bothering my mother. I can tell."
"Maybe she's feeling bad for punishing you so harshly."
Bastille snorted. "Not likely. This is something else, something about the sword. . . ."
She trailed off and didn't seem to have anything else to add. A few moments later, Grandpa Smedry waved me toward him. "Alcatraz!" he said. "Come listen to this!"
My grandfather was sitting with Sing on the couches. I walked over and sat down next to my grandfather, noting how comfortable the couch was. I hadn't seen any other dragons like this one crawling across the walls of the city, so I assumed that the ride was a special privilege.
"Sing, tell my grandson what you've been telling me," Grandpa Smedry said.
"Well, here's the thing," Sing said, leaning forward. "This ambassador sent by the Librarians, she's from the Wardens of the Standard."
"Who?" I asked.
"It's one of the Librarian sects," Sing explained. "Blackburn was from the Order of the Dark Oculators, while the assassin you faced in the Library of Alexandria was from the Order of the Scrivener's Bones. The Wardens of the Standard have always claimed to be the most kindly of the Librarians."
"Kindly Librarians? That seems like an oxymoron."
"It's also an act,” Grandpa Smedry said. "The whole order is founded on the idea of looking innocent; they're really the deadliest snakes in the lot. The Wardens maintain most of the Hushlander libraries. They pretend that because they're only a bunch of bureaucrats, they're not dangerous like the Dark Oculators or the Order of the Shattered Lens."
"Well, act or not," Sing replied, "they're the only Librarians who have ever made any kind of effort to work with the Free Kingdoms, rather than just trying to conquer us. This ambassador has convinced the Council of Kings that she is serious."
I listened, interested, but not quite sure why my grandfather wanted me to know this. I'm a rather awesome person (have I mentioned that?) but I'm really not that great at politics. It's one of the three things I've no experience whatsoever doing, the other two being writing books and atmospheric rocket-propelled penguin riding. (Stupid responsibility.)
"So . . . what does this have to do with me?" I asked.
"Everything, lad, everything!" Grandpa Smedry pointed at me. "We're Smedrys. When we gave up our kingdom, we took an oath to watch over all of the Free Kingdoms. We're the guardians of civilization!"
"But wouldn't it be good if the kings make peace with the Librarians?"
Sing looked pained. "Alcatraz, to do so, they would give up Mokia, my homeland! It would get folded into the Hushlands, and a generation or two from now, the Mokians wouldn't even remember being free. My people can't continue to fight the Librarians without the support of the other Free Kingdoms. We're too small on our own."
"The Librarians won't keep their promise of peace," Grandpa Smedry said. "They've wanted Mokia badly for years now – I still don't know why they're so focused on it, as opposed to other kingdoms. Either way, taking over Mokia will put them one step closer to controlling the entire world. Manhandling Moons! Do you really think we can just give away an entire kingdom like that?"
I looked at Sing. The oversized anthropologist and his sister had become very dear to me over the last few months. They were earnest and fiercely loyal, and Sing had believed in me even when I'd tried to push him away. And for that, I wanted to do whatever I could to help him.
"No," I said. "You're right, we can't let that happen. We've got to stop it."
Grandpa Smedry smiled, laying a hand on my shoulder. It might not seem like much, but this was a drastic turning point for me. It was the first time I really decided that I was in. I'd entered the Library of Alexandria only because I'd been chased by a monster. I'd only gone into Blackburn's lair because Grandpa Smedry had urged me on.
This was different. I understood then why my grandfather had called me over. He wanted me to be part of this – not just a kid who tags along, but a full participant.
Something tells me I'd have been much better off hiding in my room. Responsibility. It's the opposite of selfishness. I wish I'd known where it would get me. But this was before my betrayal and before I went blind.
Through one of the windows, I could see that the dragon had begun to descend. A moment later, the gondola settled against the ground.
We had arrived.
CHAPTER 4
All right, I understand. you're confused. Don't feel ashamed; it happens to everyone once in a while. (Except me, of course.)
Having read the previous two books of my autobiography (as I'm sure by now you have), you know that I'm generally down on myself. I've told you that I'm a liar, a sadist, and a terrible person. And yet now in this volume, I've started talking about my awesomeness. Have I really changed my mind? Have I actually decided that I am a hero? Am I wearing kitty-cat socks right now?
No. (The socks have dolphins on them.)
I've realized something. By being so hard on myself in the previous books, I sounded like I was being humble. Readers assumed that because I said I was a terrible person, I must – indeed – be a saint.
Honestly, are you people determined to drive me insane? Why can't you just listen to what I tell you?
Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that the only way to convince you readers that I'm a terrible person is to show you how arrogant and self-centered I am. I'll do this by talking about my virtues. Incessantly. All the time. Until you’re completely sick of hearing about my superiority.
Maybe then you'll understand.
The royal palace of Nalhalla turned out to be the white, pyramid-like castle at the center of the city. I stepped from the gondola, trying not to gawk as I gazed up at the magnificent building. The stonework was carved up as high as I could see.
"Forward!" Grandpa Smedry said, rushing up the steps like a general running into battle. He's remarkably spry for a person who is always late to everything.
I glanced at Bastille, who looked kind of sick. "I think I'll wait outside,” she said.
"You're going in," Draulin snapped, walking up the steps, her armor clinking.
I frowned. Usually, Draulin was very keen
on making Bastille wait outside, since a mere "squire" shouldn't be involved in important issues. Why insist that she enter the palace? I shot Bastille a questioning glance, but she just grimaced. So I rushed to catch up to my grandfather and Sing.
". . . afraid I can't tell you much more, Lord Smedry,” Sing was saying. "Folsom is the one who has been keeping track of the Council of Kings in your absence."
"Ah, yes," Grandpa Smedry said. "He'll be here, I assume?"
"He should be!" Sing said.
“Another cousin?" I asked.
Grandpa Smedry nodded. "Quentin's elder brother, son of my daughter, Pattywagon. Folsom's a fine lad! Brig had his eye on the boy for quite some time to marry one of his daughters, I believe."
"Brig?" I asked.
"King Dartmoor," Sing said.
Dartmoor. "Wait," I said. "That's a prison, isn't it? Dartmoor?" (I know my prisons, as you might guess.)
"Indeed, lad," Grandpa Smedry said.
"Doesn't that mean he's related to us?"
It was a stupid question. Fortunately I knew I'd be writing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might be confused about this point. Therefore, using my powers of awsomosity, I asked this stupid-sounding question in order to lay the groundwork for my book series.
I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.
"No," Grandpa Smedry said. "A prison name doesn't necessarily mean that someone is a Smedry. The king's family is traditional, like ours, and they tend to use names of famed historical people over and over. The Librarians then named prisons after those same famous historical people to discredit them.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
Something about that thought bothered me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Probably because the thought was inside my head, and so "putting my finger on it" would have required sticking said finger through my skull, which sounds kind of painful.
