Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

I yelled, shocked, but Bastille snatched the Lenses from the air as they passed her. She stood, dagger in one hand, Lenses in the other. I stepped up beside her, readying my Windstormer’s Lenses, trying not to look at the frosty wounds on Bastille’s hand.

Kiliman stood up, but did not raise his Lenses. “I still hold the knight,” he whispered, picking up the fallen Crystin sword. “She will die, for you don’t know where to find her. Only I can replace her Fleshstone.”

The room fell silent. Suddenly Kiliman’s face began to disintegrate, the tiny bits of metal all springing legs and crawling down his body. Half of his head, then his shoulder, and finally one arm all transformed to tiny metal spiders, which crawled across the bars separating us, swarming like bees in a hive.

“She will die,” the Scrivener’s Bone said, somehow speaking despite the fact that half of his face was now missing. “I do not lie, Smedry. You know I do not lie.”

I stared him down, but felt an increasing sense of dread. Do you remember what I said about choices? It seems to me that no matter what you choose, you end up losing something. In this case, it was either the Lenses or Draulin’s life.

“I will trade her to you for the Lenses,” Kiliman said. “I was sent to hunt those, not you. Once I have them, I will leave.”

The metal spiders were crawling into the room, crossing the floor, but they stayed away from Bastille and me. Kaz groaned, finally getting to his feet from where I’d inadvertently pushed him.

I closed my eyes. Bastille’s mother, or the Lenses? I wished that I could do something to fight. But the Windstormer’s Lenses couldn’t hurt this thing—even if they blew him back, he could simply flee and wait for Draulin to die. Australia was still lost somewhere in the library. Would she be next?

“I will trade,” I said quietly.

Kiliman smiled—or at least the remaining half of his face smiled. Then, to the side, I saw several of his spiders climb up on something.

A tripwire in the room where I was standing.

The floor fell away beneath Bastille and me as the spiders tripped the wire. Bastille cried out, reaching for the edge of the floor, but she barely missed grabbing it.

“Rocky Mountain oysters!” Kaz swore in shock, though the pit opened a few feet away from him. I caught one last glimpse of his panicked face as I tumbled into the hole.

We plummeted some thirty feet and landed with a thud on a patch of too-soft ground. I landed on my stomach, but Bastille—who twisted herself to protect the Translator’s Lenses she still clutched—scraped against the wall, then hit the ground in a much more awkward position. She grunted in pain.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. Then I crawled over to Bastille. She groaned, looking even more dazed than I felt, but she seemed all right. Finally, I glanced up the dark shaft toward the light above. A concerned Kaz stuck his head out over the opening.

“Alcatraz!” he yelled. “You two okay?”

“Yeah,” I called up. “I think we are.” I poked at the ground, trying to decide why it had broken our fall. It appeared to be made of some kind of cushioned cloth.

“The ground is padded,” I called up to Kaz. “Probably to keep us from breaking our necks.” It was another Curator trap, meant to frustrate us but not kill us.

“What was the point of that?” I heard Kaz bellow at Kiliman. “They just agreed to trade with you!”

“Yes, he did.” I could faintly hear Kiliman’s voice. “But the Librarians of my order have a saying: Never trust a Smedry.”

“Well, he’s not going to be able to trade with you while he’s trapped in a pit!” Kaz yelled.

“True,” Kiliman said. “But you can trade. Have him pass you the Translator’s Lenses, then meet me at the center of the library. You are the one who has the power to Travel places, are you not?”

Kaz fell silent.

This creature knows a lot about us, I thought with frustration.

“You are a Smedry,” Kiliman said to Kaz. “But not an Oculator. I will deal with you instead of the boy. Bring me the Lenses, and I will return the woman—with her Fleshstone—to you. Be quick. She will die within the hour.”

There was silence, broken only by Bastille’s groan as she sat up. She still had the Translator’s Lenses in her hand. Eventually, Kaz’s head popped out above the pit.

“Alcatraz?” he called. “You there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Where else would we be?” Bastille grumbled.

“It’s too dark to see you,” Kaz said. “Anyway, the Scrivener’s Bone has left, and I can’t get through the bars to follow him. What should we do? Do you want me to try to find some rope?”

I sat, trying—with all of my capacity—to think of a way out of the predicament. Bastille’s mother was dying because a piece of crystal had been ripped from her body. Kiliman had her and would trade her only for the Translator’s Lenses. I was trapped in a pit with Bastille, who had taken a much harder hit falling than I had, and we had no rope.