Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

“It’s nothing,” she said, stuffing cotton balls into Folsom’s ears. I didn’t have time to comment on the strange behavior as the mostly naked butler cleared his throat. He pointed at me and proclaimed with a loud voice, “Lord Alcatraz Smedry and guests.” Then he turned around and walked away.

I stood awkwardly at the doorway, suddenly aware of my bland clothing: T-shirt and jeans, with a green jacket. The people before me didn’t seem to be dressed in any one style—some were wearing medieval gowns or hose, others had what looked to be antiquated vests and suits. All were better dressed than I was.

A figure suddenly pushed to the front of the crowd. The thirtysomething man was wearing lavish robes of blue and silver, and had a short red beard. He also wore a bright red baseball cap on his head. This was undoubtedly Rikers Dartmoor, novelist, prince, fashion mistake.

“You’re here!” the prince said, grabbing and shaking my hand. “I can barely contain myself! Alcatraz Smedry in the flesh! I hear you exploded upon landing in the city!”

“Yes, well,” I said. “It wasn’t that bad an explosion, all things considered.”

“Your life is so exciting!” Rikers said. “Just like I imagined it. And now you’re at my party! And who is this with you?” His face fell as he recognized Folsom, whose ears were now stuffed with cotton. “Oh, the critic,” the prince said. Then, more softly, “Well, I guess we can’t help who we’re related to, can we?” He winked at me. “Please, come in! Let me introduce you to everyone!”

And he meant everyone.

When I first wrote this next section of the book, I tried to be very accurate and detailed. Then I realized that’s just plain boring. This is a story about evil Librarians, Teleporting Glass, and sword fights. It’s not a book about dumb parties. So instead I’m just going to summarize what happened next:

Person one: “Alcatraz, you’re so awesome!”

Me: “Yes, I know I am.”

The prince: “I always knew he was. Have you read my latest book?”

Person two: “Alcatraz, you are more awesome even than yourself.”

Me: “Thank you. I think.”

The prince: “He’s my buddy, you know. I write books about him.”

This went on for the better part of an hour or so. Only it wasn’t boring for me at the time. I enjoyed it immensely. People were paying attention to me, telling me about how wonderful I was. I actually started to believe I was the Alcatraz from Rikers’s stories. It became a little hard to focus on why I’d come to the party in the first place. Mokia could wait, right? It was important that I get to know people, right?

Eventually Prince Rikers brought me to the lounge, chatting about how they’d managed to make his books play music. In the lounge, people sat in comfortable chairs, making small talk while they sipped exotic drinks. We passed a large group of partygoers laughing together, and they seemed focused on someone I couldn’t see.

Another celebrity, I thought. I should be gracious to them—I wouldn’t want them to get jealous of how much more popular I am than they are.

We approached the group. Prince Rikers said, “And of course you already know this next person.”

“I do?” I asked, surprised. The figure in the middle of the crowd of people turned toward me.

It was my father.

I stopped in place. The two of us looked at each other. My father had a large group of people doting on him, and most of them—I noticed—were attractive young women. The types who wore gowns that were missing large chunks of cloth on the back or on the sides.

“Attica!” the prince said. “I must say, your son is proving to be quite a popular addition to the party!”

“Of course he is,” my father said, taking a sip of his drink. “He’s my son, after all.”

The way he said it bothered me. It was as if he implied that all of my fame and notoriety were simply because of him. He smiled at me—one of those fake smiles you see on TV—then turned away and said something witty. The women twittered adoringly.

That completely ruined my morning. When the prince tried to pull me away to meet some more of his friends, I complained of a headache and asked if I could sit down. I soon found myself in a dim corner of the lounge, sitting in a plush chair. The soft, whispery sounds of the crystal music floated over the buzz of chattering people. I sipped some fruit juice.

What right did my father have to act so dismissive of me? Hadn’t I been the one to save his life? I’d grown up inside the Hushlands, oppressed by the Librarians, all because he wasn’t responsible enough to take care of me.

Of all the people in the room, shouldn’t he be the one who was most proud of me?

I should probably say something to lighten the tone here, but I find it hard. The truth was that I didn’t feel like laughing, and I don’t really think you should either. (If you must, you can imagine the butler in his underpants again.)

“Alcatraz?” a voice asked. “Can we join you?”