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“… Help us?” I asked. “You brought Bastille?”
“Of course I did,” Draulin said. “I will need her aid dealing with three”—she glanced at my mother—“well, technically four Smedrys. Bastille is below, in the infirmary.”
“Delightful,” Shasta said. “So you won’t have anyone to blame but yourself when your daughter gets killed alongside everyone else on this mission.”
Draulin stood up with a clinking of armor.
“Ahem,” Grandpa said. “Draulin, why don’t you go search the rest of the ship for more tracking devices?”
Draulin glared at Shasta, then faced Grandpa and bowed. “Yes, Lord Smedry,” she said before turning and marching from the room. I was a little surprised she obeyed; Bastille would have told him to shove the order up his mustache.
Not wanting to be near my mother any longer, I rose to follow Draulin. I didn’t have any specific plans for where I was going, but my grandfather piped up. “Your quarters are on deck three, Alcatraz. Technically this is part of your fleet—or it was, until I gave it to Shasta—so you should have a wardrobe in your closet. I’d suggest changing. That bathrobe isn’t appropriate unless you have a towel too.”
Walking through the inside of Penguinator proved to be an odd experience, now that the entire ship was turned horizontal. To go between “floors,” Draulin and I had to enter the stairwells and walk along a pathway beside the steps. Had all the rooms been built so you could walk on both the floor and the wall?
We passed a window, and I stopped in place. Were those penguins shooting through the air beside us? Real ones, not made of glass, each with a large flame jetting from their posterior?
“Penguins?” I asked, pointing.
“Giant penguins,” Draulin said, sounding distracted.
“They really can fly?”
“Of course,” Draulin said. “Why else would they look like missiles?”
I shook my head. Every time I thought I understood the world, something like this dropped on me like—well—a giant penguin.* I hurried on, and though I spotted a sign on the wall saying we’d reached deck three, I followed Draulin for another two decks. Here she entered a glass room.
Bastille was strapped to a bed. It looked like the chamber was built to rotate when the penguin took off—which matched some other Free Kingdomer technology I’d seen, so I wasn’t surprised. Draulin began searching the room for bugs or tracking devices, peering under tables and glass shelves.
I walked to Bastille. She looked so … helpless. Her mother had dressed her in simple pajamas, like what we wear in the Hushlands, and her sword was strapped to the table next to her. Her silver hair was spread out around her head, her eyes closed. Someone else might have looked peaceful, but looking at her, all I could do was imagine how angry she’d be.
It’s not right, I thought. Bastille shouldn’t be an invalid.
Was there anything more I could do, other than hunt down the cure? What would Bastille have wanted me to do, if she could talk?
Honestly, she’d probably have wanted me to punch anyone who mentioned her being helpless.
“I couldn’t leave her,” Draulin said, stepping up beside me. “The missiles were falling, and I knew you and your grandfather would be sneaking away. I grabbed Bastille, but I didn’t have time to get to one of the shelters. The only thing to do was to bring her, you see. I…”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I’ve been too hard on her,” Draulin said. She’d taken off one of her gauntlets, and she laid her hand on Bastille’s cheek in a tender motion. “I so wanted her to follow her father’s path, not mine. The life of a knight is a lonely one.”
She almost seemed to be tearing up. It was like seeing a rock cry. I watched, baffled.
So that’s what it’s like to have a parent who actually cares, I thought. Huh.
“So helpless,” Draulin said.
I punched her.
“Lord Smedry?” she asked, looking at me as I shook my hand. Punching people wearing plate mail armor = not smart.
“That was for her,” I said. “Because she’d be mad … er … you see, I figured that she would want…”
“Ah,” Draulin said. “Of course. That makes sense.”
Draulin continued her search for tracking devices, and I eventually made my way back up to deck three, where my quarters were marked with my name. I could turn the walls dark by touching them and giving a command, so I could catch a nap if I wanted—or change clothing without worrying that I’d reflect something unmentionable* all the way up to the cockpit.
I darkened the walls, then looked in the closet, where I found a nice selection of clothing. Most was of Free Kingdomer make—Mokian wraps, Nalhallan tunics, that sort of thing. On one side, however, a series of Hushlander outfits hung on hooks. There were a few T-shirts, and even a pair of jeans, along with some more abnormal costumes. Free Kingdomers had some odd ideas about what people wore in the Hushlands—a lot of their views of us came from fashion magazines and old movies they stole.
I found a note pinned to one T-shirt.
I’ve gathered clothing of a wide variety, useful in a potential infiltration. However, I don’t believe for a moment that Hushlanders actually wear things so bland as this Twee-Shirt. I’d suggest against this, and instead would wear the chicken costume I’ve hung at the back.
—Janie
When in the world had she found time to stock this chamber? I shook my head, tucking away the note. I grabbed a T-shirt and jeans, then walked to the bed—which was not glass, fortunately—and prepared to dress.
I found myself sitting there, however, holding the clothing. All through my adventures, I’d stubbornly worn my Hushlander garb. It was familiar; it was comfortable. It was me, wasn’t it?
I looked back at the closet. Should I wear a tunic instead?
You’re not one of them, Alcatraz.…
I hated that my mother was right. I debated for far too long. Then something in the closet* caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but smile.
A short time later I approached the cockpit of Penguinator, a conversation between my grandfather and Kaz drifting out and echoing in the hallway.
“We can’t get to Sing Sing,” Kaz was saying. “There’s just not enough time.”
“We need an expert, Son,” Grandpa said. “I don’t know the Hushlands nearly well enough, and young Alcatraz grew up in one little town. I’m telling you, our team isn’t complete. We need someone else.”
“But Dif?” Kaz asked. “You know how little I like him.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad.”
“He’s weird,” Kaz said.
I walked up to the doorway. “He must be pretty strange indeed,” I said, “if he’s weird in comparison to us.”
The two turned toward me. My mother still sat in her seat, reading a book she’d pulled out of her pocket. She glanced toward me, and her jaw dropped visibly.
I wore a tuxedo—complete with red bow tie—matching my grandfather’s. It was ridiculous. He wore the clothing because he assumed that it would help him blend into the Hushlands, but it actually made him stand out.
To me that clothing represented something. I pulled out a pair of reddish-tinted Oculator’s Lenses and slipped them on. I might not fit in with the Hushlanders or with the average Free Kingdomer, but there was a place I fit.
I was a Smedry.
Chapter
Lilliana
How dramatic. Let’s talk about Aesop.
Oh, I’m sorry. Were you expecting the book to continue on with my daring infiltration of the Highbrary? Great. That means you have something to look forward to.
Aesop was a funny little Greek man known for his love of animal puppets, for his fondness for jumping off cliffs* without parachutes, and for maybe never existing in the first place. (Like Socrates, the guy really should have learned to write stuff down.)
Aesop was a storyteller who shamelessly used fictional characters in clever narrative to insul
t and make fun of the people listening to his stories. So basically he was the most awesome person ever. If he were still alive, I’d have asked him to write my autobiography for me. Unfortunately, see the line about cliffs above.
Anyway, there’s a theme running through all the stories Aesop told: If you’re in one, you’re probably doomed. Whether you be a frog (eaten by a heron), a grasshopper (starved to death in the winter), a snake (pinched to death by his best friend the crab), a deer (heart eaten by a lion), or a mouse (suffocated inside an oyster, seriously), life is shown to be short, while death is depicted as brutal and often humiliating.
I’ve noticed something about these stories as we retell them. They’re getting nicer. In modern incarnations, the grasshopper doesn’t starve but is taken in by the ants. (Likewise, modern fairy tales involve fewer girls turning into sea foam, and more singing crabs.)
Why is this important? Well, I’ll tell you.*
Eventually.
“So who is this Dif guy?” I asked, leaning against the wall and folding my arms. I felt suave wearing a tuxedo. If you’ve never tried it, you really should. Then I can laugh at you for looking so ridiculous because there’s no way you’ll pull this off as well as I do.
“Dif is a Smedry cousin,” Grandpa said. “He checked in a few minutes ago, and it occurred to me that I needed someone else for the team. He’s spent most of his life embedded deeply inside the Hushlands, and is one of our foremost experts on Librarian culture.”
