“No,” I said. “She didn’t go with Grandpa Smedry from the dungeons. Those footprints I can see now are the original ones we followed—the ones that led us to the place we got captured. I told you we were close to where we started.”
Bastille frowned. “How well do you know this Ms. Fletcher?”
I shrugged.
“It’s been hours,” Bastille said. “I’m surprised her footprints are still glowing.”
I nodded. As I did, I noticed something else odd.
(If you haven’t noticed, this is the chapter for noticing weird things. As opposed to the other chapters, in which only normal things were ever noticed. There is a story I could tell you about that, but as it involves eggbeaters, it is not appropriate for young people.)
The normalcy-challenged thing that I had noticed was was really not very odd, all things considered. It was a lantern holder—the ornate bracket that I’d ripped free when I’d thrown the lantern at the Alivened.
There was nothing all that unusual about this lantern bracket, except for the already-noted fact that it was shaped like a cantaloupe. For all I knew, cantaloupe-shaped library lanterns were quite normal. Yet the sight of this one sparked a memory in my head. Cantaloupe, fluttering paper makes a duck.
I glanced back at the hallway behind me, with its broken wall, more broken floor, and piles of paper that shuffled in the draft.
It’s probably nothing, I thought.
You, of course, know better than that.
Chapter
16
If you are anything like me—clever, fond of goat cheese, and devilishly handsome—then you have undoubtedly read many books. And, while reading those books, you likely have thought that you are smarter than the characters in those books.
You’re just imagining things.
Now, I’ve already spoken about foreshadowing (a meddling literary convention of which Heisenberg would uncertainly be proud). However, there are other reasons why you only think that you’re smarter than the characters in this book.
First off, you are likely sitting somewhere safe as you read the story. Whether it be a classroom, your bedroom, your aquarium, or even a library (but we won’t get into that right now…), you have no need to worry about Alivened monsters, armed soldiers, or straw-fearing Gaks. Therefore, you can examine the events with a calm, unbiased eye. In such a state of mind, it is easy to find faults.
Secondly, you have the convenience of holding this story in e-book form. It is a complete narrative, which you can look through at your leisure. You can go back and reread sections (which, because of the marvelous writing the book contains, you have undoubtedly already done). You could even scan to the end and read the last page. Know that by doing so, however, you would violate every holy and honorable storytelling principle known to man, thereby throwing the universe into chaos and causing grief to untold millions.
Your choice.
Either way, since you can reread anytime you want, you could go back and find out exactly where I first heard cantaloupes mentioned. With such an advantage, it is very easy to find and point out things that my friends and I originally missed.
The third reason you think you are smarter than the characters is because you have me to explain things to you. Obviously, you don’t fully appreciate this advantage. Suffice it to say that without me, you would be far more confused about this story than you are. In fact, without me, you’d probably be very confused as you tried to read this book.
After all, it would be filled with blank pages.
Two soldiers stood in the hallway, chatting with each other, obviously guarding the door that sat between them. Sing, Bastille, and I crouched around a corner a short distance away, unnoticed. We’d followed Grandpa Smedry’s footprints all the way here. His prints went through the door—and that, therefore, was the way we needed to go.
I nodded to Bastille, and she slipped quietly around the corner, moving with such grace that she resembled an ice-skater on the smooth stone floor. The guards looked over as she approached, but she was so quick that they didn’t have time to cry out. Bastille elbowed one in the teeth, then caught his companion in a grip around the neck, choking him and keeping him quiet. The first guard stumbled, holding his mouth, and Bastille kicked him in the chest.
The first guard fell to the ground, hitting his head and going unconscious. She dropped the second guard a moment later, after he’d passed out from being choked. She hadn’t even needed the dagger.
“You really are good at this,” I whispered as I approached.
Bastille shrugged modestly as I moved up to the door. Sing followed me, looking over his shoulder down the hallway, anxious.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before the entire library was on alert. We didn’t have much time. I didn’t care about the Sands of Rashid. I just wanted to get my grandfather back.
“His footprints go under the door,” I whispered.
“I know,” Bastille whispered as she peeked through a crack in the door. “He’s still in there.”
“What?” I said, kneeling beside her.
“Alcatraz!” Bastille hissed. “Blackburn’s in there too.”
I paused beside the door, peeking through an open-holed knot in the wood. That was one thing that old-style wooden doors had over the more refined American versions. In fact, Bastille would probably have called this door more “advanced,” since it had the advantage of holes you could look through.
The view in the room was exactly what I had feared. Grandpa Smedry lay strapped to a large table, his shirt removed. Blackburn stood in his suit a short distance away, an angry expression on his face. I twisted a bit, looking to the side. Quentin was there too, tied to a chair. The short, dapper man looked like he’d been beaten—his nose was bleeding, and he seemed dazed. I could hear him muttering.
“Bubble gum for the primate. Long live the Jacuzzi. Moon on the rocks, please.”
The walls of the room were covered with various nasty-looking torture implements—the kinds of things one might find in a dentist’s office. If that dentist were an insane, torture-hungry Dark Oculator.
And there were also … “Books?” I whispered in confusion.
Bastille shuddered. “Papercuts,” she said. “The worst form of torture.”
Of course, I thought.
“Alcatraz,” Bastille said. “You have to leave. Blackburn will see your aura again!”
“No he won’t,” I said, smiling.
“Why not?”
“Because he made the same mistake I did before,” I said. “He’s not wearing his Oculator’s Lens.”
Indeed he wasn’t. In his single, monocled eye, Blackburn was not wearing his Oculator’s Lens. Instead, as I had anticipated, he was wearing a Torturer’s Lens—it was easy to distinguish, with its dark green and black tints.
Perhaps I wasn’t as stupid as you thought.
“Ah,” Bastille said.
Blackburn turned, focus
ing on Grandpa Smedry. Even though I wasn’t wearing my Oculator’s Lenses, I could feel a release of power—the Dark Oculator was activating the Torturer’s Lens. No! I thought, feeling helpless, remembering the awful pain.
Grandpa Smedry lay with a pleasant expression on his face. “I say,” he said. “I don’t suppose I could bother you for a cup of milk? I’m getting a bit thirsty.”
“Turtlenecks look good when the trees have no ears,” Quentin added.
“Bah!” Blackburn said. “Answer my questions, old man! How do I bypass the Sentinel’s Glass of Ryshadium? How can I grow the crystals of Crystallia?” He released another burst of torturing power into Grandpa Smedry.
“I really need to get going,” Grandpa Smedry said. “I’m late—I don’t suppose we could call it a day?”
Blackburn screamed in frustration, taking off his Torturer’s Lens and looking at it with an annoyed eye. “You!” he snapped to a guard that I couldn’t see.
“Uh … yes, my lord?” a voice asked.
“Stand right there,” Blackburn said, putting on the monocle. I sensed another wave of power.
The guard screamed. I couldn’t see him crumple, but I could hear it—and I could hear the pain, the utter agony, in the poor man’s voice. I cringed, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth against the awful sound as I remembered that brief moment when I had felt Blackburn’s fury.
I had to work hard to keep myself from fleeing right then. But I stayed. I’ll point out that now, looking back, I don’t consider this bravery—just stupidity.
The guard stopped screaming, then began to whimper.
“Hmm,” Blackburn said. “The Lens works perfectly. Your Talent is stronger than I had anticipated, old man. But it can’t protect you forever! Soon you’ll know the pain!”
Bastille suddenly grabbed my arm—she was still watching through the crack beside me. “He’s arriving late for the pain!” she said in an excited whisper. “Such power … to put off an abstract sensation. It’s amazing.”