Alcatraz vs. The Evil Librarians by Brandon Sanderson
“He tried to kill me,” I whispered.
Grandpa Smedry snorted. “Not very well. You’ll understand eventually, lad, but pulling a gun on a Smedry isn’t exactly the smartest thing a man can do. But that’s behind us. Now we have to decide what to do next.”
“Next?”
“Of course. We can’t just let them have those sands!”
Grandpa Smedry raised a hand and pointed at me. “Don’t you understand, lad? It’s not only your life that’s in danger here. This is the fate of an entire world we’re juggling! The Free Kingdoms are already losing their war against the Librarians. With a tool like the Sands of Rashid, the Librarians will have just the edge they need to win. If we don’t get the sands back before they’re smelted—which will only take a few hours—it could lead to the complete overthrow of the Free Kingdoms! We are civilization’s only hope.”
“I … see,” I said.
“I don’t think you do, lad. The Lenses smelted from that sand will contain the most powerful Oculatory Distortions either land has ever seen. Gathering those sands was your father’s life’s work. I can’t believe you let the Librarians steal them. I’ll be honest, lad—I had higher hopes for you. I really expected better. If only I hadn’t come so late…”
I sat quietly, looking out the windshield. Now, it’s time you understood something about me. Despite what the stories like to say about my honor and my foresight, the truth is that I possess neither trait in large amounts. One trait I’ve always possessed, however, is rashness. Some call it irresponsibility; others call it spontaneity. Either way, I could rightly be called a somewhat reckless boy, not always prone to carefully considering the consequences of my actions.
In this case, of course, there was something more behind the decision I made. I had seen some very odd things that day. It occurred to me that if something as crazy as a gunman showing up in my house could happen, perhaps it could be true that this old man was my grandfather.
Someone had tried to kill me. My house was in a shambles. I was sitting in a hundred-year-old car with a madman. What the heck, I thought. This might be fun.
I turned, focusing on the man who claimed to be my grandfather. “I … didn’t let them steal the sand,” I found myself saying.
Grandpa Smedry turned to me.
“Or, well, I did,” I said, “but I let them take the sand on purpose, of course. I wanted to follow them and see what they tried to do with it. After all, how else are we going to uncover their dastardly schemes?”
Grandpa Smedry paused, then he smiled. His eyes twinkled knowingly, and I saw for the first time a hint of wisdom in the old man. Grandpa Smedry didn’t seem to believe what I had said, but he reached over anyway, clapping me on the arm. “Now that’s talking like a Smedry!”
“Now,” I said, holding up a finger. “I want to make something very clear. I do not believe a word of what you have told me up to this point.”
“Understood,” Grandpa Smedry said.
“I’m only going with you because someone just tried to kill me. You see, I am a somewhat reckless boy and am not always prone to carefully considering the consequences of my actions.”
“A Smedry trait for certain,” Grandpa Smedry noted.
“In fact,” I said, “I think that you are a loon and likely not even my grandfather at all.”
“Very well, then,” Grandpa Smedry said, smiling.
I paused as the old car turned a corner, moving with a very smooth speed. We were leaving the neighborhood behind, turning onto a commercial street. We began to pass convenience stores, service stations, and the occasional fast-food restaurant.
It was at that point that I realized Grandpa Smedry had taken his hands off the wheel sometime during the conversation, and now sat with his hands in his lap, smiling happily. I jumped in surprise.
“Grandpa!” I yelped. “The steering wheel!”
“Drastic Drakes!” Grandpa Smedry exclaimed. “I nearly forgot!” He grabbed the steering wheel as the car turned another corner. Grandpa Smedry proceeded to turn the wheel back and forth, seemingly in random directions, as a child might play with a toy steering wheel. The car didn’t respond to his motions but moved smoothly along the street, picking up speed.
“Good eye, lad!” Grandpa Smedry said. “We always have to keep up appearances, eh?”
“Um … yes,” I said. “Is the car driving itself, then?”
“Of course. What good would it be if it didn’t? Why, you’d have to concentrate so much that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Might as well walk, I say!”
Right, I thought.
Those of you from the Free Kingdoms might be familiar with silimatic engines and can—perhaps—determine how they could be used to mimic a car. Of course, if you’re from the Free Kingdoms, you probably have only a vague idea what a car is in the first place, since you’re used to much larger vehicles. (It’s kind of like a silimatic crawler with wheels instead of legs, though people treat them more like horses. Only, unlike horses, they aren’t alive—and when they poop, environmentalists get mad.)
“So,” I asked, “where are we going?”
“There’s only one place the Librarians would have taken an artifact as powerful as the Sands of Rashid,” Grandpa Smedry said. “Their local base of operations.”
“That would be … the library?”
“Where else? The downtown library, to be exact. We’ll have to be very careful infiltrating that place.”
I cocked my head. “I’ve been there before. Last I checked, it wasn’t too hard to get in.”
“We don’t have to just get in,” Grandpa Smedry said. “We have to infiltrate.”
“And the difference is…?”
“One requires far more sneaking.” Grandpa Smedry seemed quite delighted by the prospect.
“Ah,” I said. “Right, then. Are we going to need any … I don’t know, special equipment for this? Or, perhaps, some more help?”
“Ah. A very wise idea, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said.
And the car suddenly jerked, turning onto a larger street. Cars passed on either side, whizzing off to their separate destinations, Grandpa Smedry’s little black automobile puttering along happily in the center lane. Grandpa gave the wheel a few good twists, and we rode in silence.
I kept glancing at the steering wheel, trying to sort out exactly what mechanism was controlling the vehicle. In my world, vehicles don’t drive themselves, and men like Grandpa Smedry are generally kept in small padded rooms with lots of crayons.
Eventually (partially to keep myself from going mad from frustration) I decided to try conversation again. “So,” I said, “why do you think that man tried to kill me?”
“Because the Librarians got what they wanted from you, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said. “They have the sands, which we all knew would make their way to you eventually. Now that they have your inheritance, you’re no longer an asset to them. In fact, you’re a threat! They were right to be afraid of your Talent.”
“My Talent?”
“Breaking things. All Smedrys have a Talent, my boy. It’s part of our lineage.”
“So … you have one of these Talent things?” I asked.
“Of course I do, lad!” Grandpa Smedry said. “I’m a Smedry, after all.”
“What is it?”
Grandpa smiled modestly. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but it’s quite a powerful Talent indeed.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“You see,” Grandpa Smedry said, “I have the ability to arrive late to things.”
“Ah,” I said. “Of course.”
“I know, I know. I don’t deserve such power, but I try to make good use of it.”
“You are completely nuts, you know.” It’s always best to be blunt with people.
“Thank you!” Grandpa Smedry said as the car began to slow. The vehicle pulled up to the pumps at a small gas station. I didn’t recognize the brand—the sign hanging above the ridiculously high prices simply de
Our doors swung open on their own. Grandpa hopped out of his seat and rushed over to meet the station attendant, who was approaching to fill up the tank.
I frowned, still sitting in the car. The attendant was dressed in a pair of dirty overalls and no shirt. He was chewing on the end of a piece of straw, as one might see a farmer doing in old Hushlander movies, and he had on a large straw hat.
Grandpa Smedry approached the man with an exaggerated look of nonchalance. “Hello, good sir,” Grandpa Smedry said, glancing around. “I’d like a Philip, please.”
“Of course, good sir,” the attendant said, tipping his hat and accepting a couple of bills from Grandpa Smedry. The attendant approached the car, nodding to me, then took out one of the gasoline hoses and held it up against the side of the car. There was, I noticed, no sign of a gas tank. The attendant stood happily, gas hose pressed uselessly against the side of the car, whistling pleasantly to himself.
“Come, Alcatraz!” Grandpa Smedry said, walking up to the gas station’s store. “There isn’t time!”
Finally, I just shook my head and climbed out of the car. Grandpa Smedry went inside, the screen door slamming behind him. I walked up, pulled open the screen door—threw the door handle over my shoulder as it broke off—then stepped inside after Grandpa Smedry.
Another attendant—also with straw in his mouth and a large hat on his head—stood leaning against the counter. The small “store” consisted of a single stand of snacks and a wall-sized cooler. The cooler was stocked completely with cans of motor oil, though a sign said ENJOY A COOL REFRESHING DRINK!
“Okay,” I said, “where exactly are you people finding straw to chew on in the middle of the city? It can’t be all that easy to get.”
“Quickly now. Quickly!” Grandpa Smedry gestured frantically from the back of the store. Glancing to either side, he said in a louder voice, “I think I’ll have a cool refreshing drink!” Then he pulled open the cooler door.
I froze in place.
Now, it’s very important to me that you understand that I am not stupid. It’s perfectly all right if you end this book convinced that I’m not the hero that some reports claim me to be. However, I’d rather not everyone I meet presume me to be slow-witted. If that were the case, half of them would likely try to sell me insurance.
The truth is, however, that even clever people can be taken by surprise so soundly that they are at a loss for words. Or at least at a loss for words that make sense.
“Gak!” I said.
You see. Now, before you judge me, place yourself in my position. Let’s say that you had watched a crazy old man open up a cooler full of oilcans. You would have undoubtedly expected to see … well, a cooler full of oilcans on the other side.
You would not expect to see a room with a large hearth at the center, blazing with a cheery reddish-orange fire. You would not expect to see two men in full armor standing guard on either side of the door. Indeed, you would not expect to see a room—instead of a cooler full of oilcans—at all.
Perhaps you would have said “Gak” too.
“Gak!” I repeated.
“Would you stop that, boy?” Grandpa Smedry said. “There are absolutely no Gaks here. Why do you think we keep so much straw around? Now, come on!” He stepped through the doorway into the room beyond.
I approached slowly, then glanced at the other side of the open glass door—and saw oilcans cooling in their wall racks. I turned, looking through the doorway. It seemed as if I could see much more than I should have been able to. The two knights standing on either side of such a small doorway should have left no room to walk through, yet Grandpa Smedry had passed easily.
I reached out, rapping lightly on one of the knights’ breastplates.
“Please don’t do that,” a voice said from behind the faceplate.
“Oh,” I said. “Um, sorry.” Still frowning to myself, I stepped into the room.
It was a large chamber. Far larger, I decided, than could have possibly fit in the store. I could now see a rug set with thronelike chairs arranged to face the hearth in a homey manner. (If your home is a medieval castle.) To my left, there was a long, broad table, also set with chairs.
“Sing!” Grandpa Smedry yelled, his voice echoing down a hallway to the right. “Sing!”
If he breaks into song, I think I might have to strangle myself.… I thought, cringing.
“Lord Smedry?” a voice called from down the hallway, and a huge figure rushed into sight.
If you’ve never seen a large Mokian man in sunglasses, a tunic, and tights before—
Okay. I’m going to assume that you’ve never seen a large Mokian man in sunglasses, a tunic, and tights. I certainly hadn’t.
The man—apparently named Sing—was a good six and a half feet tall, and had dark hair and dark skin. He looked like he could be from Hawaii, or maybe Samoa or Tonga. He had the mass and girth of a linebacker and would have fit right in on the football field. Or at least he would have fit right in if he’d been wearing a football uniform, rather than a tunic—a type of garment that I still think looks silly. Bastille has pictures of me wearing one. If you ask her, she’ll probably show them to you gleefully.
Of course if you do that, I’ll probably have to hunt you down and kill you. Or dress you in a tunic and take pictures of you. I’m still not sure which is worse.
“Sing,” Grandpa Smedry said. “We need to do a full library infiltration. Now.”
“A library infiltration?” Sing said excitedly.
“Yes, yes,” Grandpa Smedry said hurriedly. “Go get your cousin, and both of you get into your disguises. I need to gather my Lenses.”
Sing rushed back the way he had come. Grandpa Smedry walked over to the wall on the other side of the hearth. Not sure what else to do, I followed, watching as Grandpa Smedry knelt beside what appeared to be a large box made entirely of black glass. Grandpa Smedry put his hand on it and closed his eyes, and the front of the box suddenly shattered.
I jumped back, but Grandpa Smedry ignored the broken shards of black glass. He reached into the chest and pulled out a tray wrapped in red velvet. He set this on top of the box, unwrapping the cloth and revealing a small book and about a dozen pairs of spectacles, each with a slightly different tint of glass.
Grandpa Smedry pulled open the front of his tuxedo jacket, then began to slip the spectacles into little pouches sewn into the lining of the garment. They hung like the watches on the inside of an illegal street peddler’s coat.
“Something very strange is going on, isn’t it?” I finally asked.
“Yes, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said, still arranging the spectacles.
“We’re really going to go sneak into a library?”
Grandpa Smedry nodded.
“Only, it’s not really a library. But someplace more dangerous.”
“Oh, it’s really a library,” Grandpa Smedry said. “What you haven’t realized before is that all libraries are far more dangerous than you’ve always assumed.”
“And we’re going to break into this one,” I repeated. “A place filled with people who want to kill me.”
“Most likely,” Grandpa Smedry said. “But what else can we do? We either infiltrate, or we let them make those sands into Lenses.”
This isn’t a joke, I began to realize. This man isn’t actually crazy. Or at least the craziness includes much more than just him. I stood there for a moment, feeling overwhelmed, thinking about what I had seen.
“Well, all right then,” I finally said.
Now, you Hushlanders may think that I took all of these strange experiences quite well. After all, it isn’t every day that you get threatened with a gun, then discover a medieval dining room hiding inside the beverage cooler at a local gas station. However, maybe if you’d grown up with the magical ability to break almost anything you touched, then you would have been just as quick to accept unusual circumstances.
“Here, lad,
I paused. “I don’t need glasses.”
“You’re an Oculator, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said. “You’ll always need glasses.”
“Can’t I wear sunglasses, like Sing?”
Grandpa Smedry chuckled. “You don’t need Warrior’s Lenses, lad. You can access abilities far more potent. Here, take these. They’re Oculator’s Lenses.”
“What are Oculators?” I asked.
“We are, my boy. Put them on.”
I frowned but took the glasses. I put them on, then glanced around. “Nothing looks different,” I said, feeling disappointed. “The room doesn’t even look … redder.”
“Of course not,” Grandpa Smedry said. “The tints come from the sands they’re made of and help us keep the Lenses straight. They’re not intended to make things look different.”
“I just … thought the glasses would do something.”
“They do,” Grandpa Smedry said. “They show you things that you need to see. It’s merely subtle, lad. Wear them for a while—let your eyes get used to them.”
“All right.…” I glanced over as Grandpa Smedry knelt to put the tray back inside the broken box. “What’s that book?”
Grandpa Smedry looked up. “Hmm? This?” He picked up the small book, handing it to me. I opened to the first page. It was filled with scribbles, as if made by a child.
“The Forgotten Language,” Grandpa Smedry said. “We’ve been trying to decipher it for centuries—your father worked on that book for a while, before you were born. He thought its secrets might lead him to the Sands of Rashid.”
“This isn’t a language,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of scribbles.”
“Well, any language you don’t understand would look like scribbles, lad!”
I flipped through the pages of the book. It was filled with completely random circles, zigzags, loop-de-loops, and the like. There were no patterns. Some of the pages only had a couple marks on them; others were so black with ink that they looked like a child’s rendition of a tornado.