Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

“The book,” she said, pointing. “I know it’s probably bothering you how trite and ridiculous it is.”

I looked down at the cover again. “Oh, I don’t know, it’s not that bad.…”

“Alcatraz, you’re riding a vacuum cleaner.”

“And a noble steed he was. Or, er, well, he appears to be.…” Somewhere deep inside—hidden far within me, next to the nachos I’d had for dinner a few weeks back—a piece of me acknowledged that she was right. The story did seem rather silly.

“It’s a good thing that copy is Folsom’s,” Himalaya continued. “Otherwise we’d have to listen to that dreadful theme music every time you opened the book. Folsom removes the music plate before he reads the books.”

“Why’d he do that?” I asked, disappointed. I have theme music?

“Ah,” Folsom said. “Here we are!”

I looked up as the carriage pulled to a halt outside a very tall, red-colored castle. It had a wide green lawn (the type that was randomly adorned with statues of people who were missing body parts) and numerous carriages parked in front. Our driver brought us right up to the front gates, where several men in white uniforms stood about looking very butlery.

One stepped up to our carriage. “Invitation?” he asked.

“We don’t have one,” Folsom said, blushing.

“Ah, well, then,” the butler said, pointing. “You can pull around that direction to leave, then—”

“We don’t need an invitation,” I said, gathering my confidence. “I’m Alcatraz Smedry.”

The butler gave me a droll glance. “I’m sure you are. Now, you go that way to leave—”

“No,” I said, standing up. “Really, I’m him. Look.” I held up the book cover.

“You forgot your sombrero,” the butler said flatly.

“But it does look like me.”

“I’ll admit that you are a good look-alike, but I hardly think that a mythical legend has suddenly appeared just so that he can go to a lunch party.”

I blinked. It was the first time in my life someone had refused to believe that I was me.

“Surely you recognize me,” Folsom said, stepping up beside me. “Folsom Smedry.”

“The critic,” the butler said.

“Er, yes,” Folsom replied.

“The one who panned His Highness’s latest book.”

“Just … well, trying to offer some constructive advice,” Folsom said, blushing again.

“You should be ashamed of trying to use an Alcatraz impostor to insult His Highness at his own party. Now, if you’ll just pull along in that direction…”

This was getting annoying. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I broke the butler’s clothing.

It wasn’t that hard. My Talent is very powerful, if a little tough to control. I simply reached out and touched the butler’s sleeve, then sent a burst of breaking power into his shirt. Once, this would have simply made it fall off—but I was learning to control my abilities. So, first I made the white uniform turn pink, then I made it fall off.

The butler stood in his underwear, pointing into the distance with a naked arm, pink clothing around his feet. “Oh,” he finally said. “Welcome then, Lord Smedry. Let me lead you to the party.”

“Thank you,” I replied, hopping down from the carriage.

“That was easy,” Himalaya said, joining Folsom and me. The butler led the way, still wearing only his underwear, but walking in a dignified manner regardless.

“The Breaking Talent,” Folsom said, smiling. “I forgot about it! It’s extremely rare, and there’s only one person alive—mythical legend or not—who has it. Alcatraz, that was a five out of five point five maneuver.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But what book of the prince’s did you give such a bad review to?”

“Er, well,” Folsom said. “Did you ever look at the author of the book you’re carrying?”

I glanced down with surprise. The fantasy novel bore a name on the front that—in the delight of looking at my own name—I’d completely missed. Rikers Dartmoor.

“The prince is a novelist?” I asked.

“His father was terribly disappointed to hear about the hobby,” Folsom said. “You know what terrible people authors tend to be.”

“They’re mostly social miscreants,” Himalaya agreed.

“Fortunately, the prince has largely avoided the worst habits of authors,” Folsom said. “Probably because writing is only a hobby for him. Anyway, he’s fascinated with the Hushlands and with mythological things like motorcycles and eggbeaters.”

Great, I thought as we walked through the castle doorway. The corridors inside held framed classic-era movie posters from the Hushlands. Cowboys, Gone with the Wind, B movies with slime monsters. I began to understand where the prince got his strange ideas about life in the United States.

We entered a large ballroom. It was filled with people in fancy clothing, holding drinks and chatting. A group of musicians played music by rubbing their fingers on crystal cups.

“Uh-oh,” Himalaya said, grabbing Folsom as he started to jerk erratically. Himalaya pulled him out of the room.

“What?” I asked, turning with shock, prepared for an attack.