Alcatraz

by Brandon Sanderson

  ‘It depends,’ I said. ‘How flexible is your Talent? What kinds of things can you become, if you try?’

  ‘I once dreamed about a hot day and I woke up as a Popsicle.’

  Well, I thought, that’s one thing she’s got on me. Either way, it meant that the Talent was pretty darn flexible – more so than Kaz had given it credit.

  Bastille was back a few seconds later. ‘He’s there,’ she whispered. ‘Talking into a Courier’s Lens, but not making much progress because of the Library’s interference. I think he’s seeking direction about what to do with you.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Tied up on the side of the room,’ Bastille said. ‘They’re in a large, circular chamber with scroll cases running along the outside. Alcatraz . . . he’s got Kaz too, tied up with my mother. Kaz can’t use his Talent if he can’t move.’

  ‘Your mother?’ I asked. ‘How’s she look?’

  Bastille’s expression grew dark. ‘It was hard to tell from the distance, but I could see that she hasn’t been healed yet. Kiliman must still have her Fleshstone.’ She pulled her dagger from its sheath.

  I grimaced, then glanced at Australia.

  ‘So, who am I supposed to look like again?’ she asked, yawning. To her credit, she already looked drowsy.

  ‘Put away that dagger, Bastille,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to need it.’

  ‘It’s the only weapon we have!’ she protested.

  ‘Actually, it’s not. We’ve got something far, far better . . .’

  Are you sure I can’t stop the book here? I mean, this next part isn’t really all that important. Really.

  All right, fine.

  Bastille and I dashed into the room. It was just like she had described – wide and circular, with a domed roof and racks of scrolls around the outside. I didn’t need the Discerner’s Lenses to tell that these scrolls were old. It was a wonder they hadn’t fallen apart.

  A smattering of ghostly Curators moved through the chamber, several of them whispering tempting words to Kaz and Draulin. The captives lay on the ground – Kaz looking furious, Draulin looking sickly and dazed – directly opposite from the doorway Bastille and I came in through.

  Kiliman stood near the captives, Crystin sword on an ancient reading table beside him. He looked up when we entered, seeming completely shocked. Even if he’d anticipated trouble, he obviously hadn’t been expecting me to charge into the room head-on.

  To be honest, I was a little surprised myself.

  Kaz began to struggle even harder, and a Curator floated toward him, looming menacingly. Kiliman smiled, flesh lips rising on one side of his twisted face, metal ones rising on the other side. Gears, bolts, and screws shifted around his single, beady glass eye. The Scrivener’s Bone immediately grabbed Draulin’s crystal sword in one hand, then he pulled out a Lens with the other.

  ‘Thank you, Smedry,’ he said, ‘for saving me the trouble of having to go and fetch you.’

  We charged. To this day, that is probably one of the very most ridiculous sights in which I’ve ever participated. Two kids, barely into our teens, carrying no visible weapons, charging directly at a seven-foot-tall half-human Librarian with a massive crystalline sword.

  We reached him at the same time – Bastille had paced herself to keep from outrunning me – and I felt my heart begin to flutter with anxiety.

  What was I doing?

  Kiliman swung. At me, of course. I threw myself into a roll, feeling the sword whoosh over my head. At that moment – while Kiliman was distracted – Bastille whipped a boot out of her pack and threw it directly at Kiliman’s head.

  It hit, sole first. The Grappler’s Glass immediately locked onto the glass of Kiliman’s left eye. The front tip of the boot extended over the bridge of his nose, jutting out past the side of his face, almost completely obscuring the view out his flesh eye as well.

  The Librarian stood for a moment, seeming completely dumbfounded. That was probably the proper reaction for one who had just gotten hit in the face by a large, magical boot. Then he cursed, reaching up awkwardly, trying to pull the boot off of his face.

  I scrambled to my feet. Bastille whipped out the second boot, then threw it – her aim dead on – at the pouch on Kiliman’s belt. The boot stuck to the glass inside, and Bastille yanked hard on the trip wire in her hands – which was, of course, tied to the boot.

  The pouch ripped free, and Bastille pulled the whole lot – wire, boot, and pouch – back into her hands, like some strange fisherman without enough money to afford a pole. She grinned at me, then pulled open the pouch, triumphantly revealing the crystal inside, stuck to the boot.

  She tossed it all to me. I caught the boot, then turned off its glass. The pouch fell into my hand. Inside it, I found the Fleshstone – which I tossed to Bastille – and something else. A Lens.

  I pulled it out eagerly. It wasn’t, however, my Translator’s Lenses. It was just the Tracker’s Lens that Kiliman had been using to follow us.

  We’ll have to worry about the Translator’s Lenses later, I thought. No time right now.

  Kiliman bellowed, finally getting one hand inside the boot, then pulling it free by making as if he were taking a step with the hand. The Grappler’s Glass let go, and Kiliman tossed the boot aside.

  I gulped. He wasn’t supposed to have figured that out so quickly.

  ‘Nice trick,’ he said, swinging the sword at me again. I scrambled away, dashing back toward the exit. Kiliman, however, just raised his Frostbringer’s Lens, getting ready to fire it square into my back.

  ‘Hey, Kiliman!’ a voice suddenly yelled. ‘I’m free and I’m making a face at you!’

  Kiliman spun with shock to find Kaz, standing free from his bonds and smiling broadly. A Curator hovered next to him – but this Curator had grown legs and was starting to look more and more like Australia as her Talent wore off. We’d sent her in first, looking like one of the ghosts, to untie the captives.

  Kiliman had another moment of dumbfounded shock, which Bastille took advantage of by tossing her mother’s Fleshstone to Kaz. The short man caught it, then grabbed one of Draulin’s ropes – she was still tied up – while Australia grabbed the other one. Together, they towed the knight behind them, running away.

  Kiliman screamed in rage. It was a terrible, half-metallic sound. He spun his Frostbringer’s Lens around. The glass was already glowing, and a beam of bluish light shot out.

  But Kaz and the other two were already gone, lost by Kaz’s Talent, into the netherspaces of the Library.

  ‘Smedry!’ Kiliman said, turning back toward me as I reached the doorway. ‘I will hunt you. Even if you escape me today, I will follow. You will never be free of me!’

  I paused. Bastille should have already run for freedom. Yet, she still stood in the center of the room, from where she’d tossed the Fleshstone to Kaz.

  She was staring at Kiliman. Slowly, he became aware of her presence, and he turned.

  Run, Bastille! I thought.

  She did. Directly at Kiliman.

  ‘No!’ I yelled.

  Later when I had time to think about it, I would realize why Bastille did what she did. She knew that Kiliman wasn’t lying. He intended to chase us, and he was an expert hunter. He’d probably find us again before we even got out of the Library.

  There was only one way to be rid of him. And that was to face him. Now.

  I wasn’t aware of this reasoning at the time. I just thought she was being stupid. Yet, I did something even more stupid.

  I charged back into the room.

  19

  Life is not fair.

  If you are the discriminating reader that I think you are (you picked up this book, after all), then you should have figured this out. There are very few aspects about life that are, in any way, fair.

  It isn’t fair that some people are rich and others are poor. It isn’t fair that I’m rambling like this, instead of continuing the climax of the story. It isn’t fair that I’m so ou
trageously handsome, while most people are simply ordinary. It isn’t fair that diphthong gets to be such an awesome-sounding word, yet has to mean something relatively unawesome.

  No, life is not fair. It is, however, funny.

  The only thing you can do is laugh at it. Some days, you have to sit in your boring chair sipping warm cocoa. Other days, you get to blast your way out of a pit in the ground, and then run off to fight a half-metal monster who is holding your friend’s mother captive. Other days, you need to dress like a green hamster and dance around in circles while people throw pomegranates at you.

  Don’t ask.

  There are two lessons I think one should learn from this book. The second one I’ll blather on about in the next chapter, but the first one – and perhaps more interesting one – is this: Please remember to laugh. It’s good for you. (Plus, while you’re laughing, it’s easier for me to hit you with the pomegranate.)

  Laugh when good things happen. Laugh when bad things happen. Laugh when life is so plain boring that you can’t find anything amusing about it beyond the fact that it’s so utterly unamusing.

  Laugh when books come to a close, even if the endings aren’t happy.

  This isn’t part of the plan, I thought desperately as I dashed back into the room. What’s the point of having a plan if people don’t follow it?

  Kiliman activated the Frostbringer’s Lens, blasting it toward Bastille. She dropped her pack and whipped up her dagger, slicing it directly through the icy beam. The dagger shattered, and her hand turned blue. But, she blocked the ray long enough to get inside Kiliman’s reach, and she delivered a solid blow to his stomach with her other hand.

  Kiliman let out an oof of pain and stumbled backward. Angered, he slammed his sword down toward Bastille. Somehow, she got out of the way, and the sword hit the ground with a harsh sound.

  She’s so quick! I thought. She was already around to Kiliman’s side and delivered a powerful kick to his ribs. Although he didn’t look like he enjoyed the blow, he didn’t react as much as I would have thought a regular person would. He was part Alivened; regular weapons couldn’t kill this creature. That was a job for an Oculator.

  As I grew close, Kiliman spun, slamming his shoulder into Bastille’s chest. The blow threw her backward to the ground, and Kiliman laughed, then raised the Frostbringer’s Lens, pointing it directly at her.

  ‘No!’ I yelled. The only thing I had, however, was the Grappler’s Glass boot. So, I threw it.

  The Lens began to glow. For once in my life, however, my aim was true – and the boot hit the Lens square on and locked into place. When the Lens went off, ice formed in a large block around the shoe, weighing it down, but also filling the boot itself, making it impossible to reach inside and turn it off.

  Kiliman cursed, shaking his hand. As he did so, I realized that I still had ahold of the trip wire tied to the boot. Thinking that I’d be able to pull the Frostbringer’s Lens to myself, I yanked on the wire.

  I hadn’t stopped to think that Kiliman might yank back. And he was a lot stronger than I was. His pull caused the wire to bite into my hands as it yanked me off my feet. I cried out, hitting the ground, and my Talent proactively broke the wire before Kiliman could pull me any farther toward him. I looked up, dazed, ten feet of wire still wrapped around my hands.

  Kiliman freed his hand from the frozen Lens-boot combination, and he tossed both aside. Bastille was climbing to her feet. Without her jacket – which had broken when the Dragonaut crashed – she couldn’t take much more punishment than a regular person, and Kiliman had hit her square on with a metal shoulder. It was a wonder she could even walk.

  Kiliman hefted the Crystin blade in two hands, then smiled at us. He didn’t seem to be at all threatened; that attitude, however, seemed to make Bastille even more determined. Despite my yelled warning, she charged the monster again.

  And she calls us Smedries crazy! I thought with frustration, pushing myself to my feet. As Kiliman raised his weapon to swing at Bastille, I slammed my hand to the ground and released the Breaking Talent.

  The floor cracked. There was an awesome, deafening sound as rocks shattered and sections of floor became rubble. Kiliman idly stepped to the side, raising a metallic eyebrow at the rift that appeared behind him.

  ‘What, exactly, was that supposed to do?’ it asked, glancing at me.

  ‘It was supposed to make you stumble,’ I said. ‘But, it’ll work as a distraction too.’

  At that moment, Bastille tackled him.

  Kiliman yelled, falling to the ground, the Crystin blade sliding from his grip. As he hit, something fell from one of his pockets and skidded across the floor.

  My Translator’s Lenses.

  I cried out, dashing toward them. From behind, I could hear Bastille grunting as she snatched the Crystin blade. Kiliman, however, was just too strong. He grabbed her foot with a metal-bolt hand, then threw her to the side, causing her to drop the sword.

  She hit the wall with a terrible thud. I spun in alarm.

  Bastille slid to the ground. She looked dazed. Her forehead was bleeding from a cut, and one of her hands was still blue from the blast of frost. She favored her side and grimaced as she tried – then failed – to stand. She seemed to be in really bad shape.

  Kiliman stood up, then recovered the Crystin blade. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and with his flesh hand he pulled out another Lens. The Voidstormer’s Lens: the one that sucked things toward him.

  He pointed the Lens toward Bastille. She groaned as she began to slide across the floor toward him, unable to even stand. Kiliman raised the sword.

  I dived for the Translator’s Lenses, which had skidded across the floor to rest beside one of the scroll-covered walls. I knelt beside the Lenses, hurriedly grabbing them.

  ‘Ha!’ Kiliman said. ‘You’d fetch those Lenses even as I kill your friend. I thought that Smedries were supposed to be bold and honorable. We can see what happens to your grand ideals once real danger is near!’

  I knelt there for a moment, my back to Kiliman, Translator’s Lenses in my fingers. I knew I couldn’t let him have them. Not even to save my life or Bastille’s . . .

  I glanced over my shoulder. Bastille came to a rest in front of Kiliman. She had her eyes closed, and barely seemed to be breathing. He raised her mother’s sword to kill her.

  This is the part I’ve been warning you about. The part I know you’re not going to like. I’m sorry.

  I dashed away, making for the exit of the room.

  Kiliman laughed even more loudly. ‘I knew it!’

  At that moment, in my haste, I tripped. I stumbled on the uneven ground and fell facedown, the Translator’s Lenses sliding from my fingers and hitting the stone floor. They tumbled away. ‘No!’ I yelled.

  ‘Aha!’ Kiliman said, then spun his Voidstormer’s Lens toward the fallen Translator’s Lenses. They whipped off the floor and flew toward him. I watched the Lenses go, meeting Kiliman’s eyes – one human, one glass – as he exulted in his victory.

  Then I smiled. I think it was about that moment when he noticed the trip wire tied around the frame of the Translator’s Lenses, which flew through the air toward him.

  A thin wire, nearly invisible. It stretched from the spectacles to a place across the room. The place where I’d been kneeling by the wall a moment before.

  The place where I’d tied the other end of the trip wire to one of the scrolls.

  Kiliman caught the Lenses. The trip wire pulled taut. The scroll popped off of its shelf, falling to the ground.

  The Librarian monster’s eyes opened wide, and his mouth gaped in shock. The Translator’s Lenses fell to the ground in front of him.

  Immediately, the Curators surrounded Kiliman. ‘You have taken a book!’ one cried.

  ‘No!’ Kiliman said, stepping back. ‘It was an accident!’

  ‘You signed no contract,’ another said, skull face smiling. ‘Yet you took a book.’

  ‘Your soul is ours.’
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  ‘NO!’

  I shuddered at the pain in that voice. Kiliman reached toward me, furious, but it was too late. A fire grew from nothing at his feet. It burned around him, and he screamed again.

  ‘You will fall, Smedry! The Librarians will have your blood! It will be spilt on an altar to make the very Lenses we’ll use to destroy your kingdoms, break that which you love, and enslave those who follow you. You may have beaten me, but you will fall!’

  I shivered. The fires consumed Kiliman, and I had to shield my eyes against the bright light.

  And then, it was gone. I blinked, clearing the after-image from my eyes, and saw a new Curator – one with only half of a skull – hovering where Kiliman had stood. A group of discarded nuts, bolts, gears, and springs were scattered on the ground.

  The half-skull Curator hovered over to the side of the room, carefully replacing the scroll that had been pulled free. I ignored it; there were more important things to worry about.

  ‘Bastille!’ I said, rushing over to her. There was blood on her lips, and she seemed so bruised and battered. I knelt beside her.

  She groaned softly. I gulped.

  ‘Nice trick,’ she whispered. ‘With the trip wire.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She coughed, then spit up some blood.

  By the first sands, I thought with a sudden stab of fear. No. This can’t be happening!

  ‘Bastille, I . . .’ I suddenly found tears in my eyes. ‘I wasn’t fast enough or smart enough. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What are you blathering about?’

  I blinked. ‘Well, you look kind of bad, and . . .’

  ‘Shut up and help me to my feet,’ she said, stumbling to her knees.

  I stared at her.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘It’s not like I’m dying or anything. I just broke a few ribs and bit my tongue. Shattering Glass, Smedry, do you have to be so melodramatic all the time?’

  With that, she stretched, grimaced, and stumbled over to pick up the fallen Crystin sword.

  I got to my feet, feeling relieved and a little foolish. I went over and carefully untied the Translator’s Lenses from the trip wire, then slid them into their pocket, where they belonged. To the side, I could see Kaz peek into the room, apparently having returned from depositing Draulin and Australia somewhere safe. He smiled broadly when he saw me and Bastille, then rushed into the room.