“But,” another whispered, “we doubt that you know how to speak Elder Faxdarian.”
Speak ancient Greek … I thought, confused. Then it occurred to me. They don’t know about my Translator’s Lenses! They think that because I understood them back at the beginning, I must have known the language.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said casually, swapping my Discerner’s Lenses back for my Translator’s Lenses. “Try me.”
“Ha,” one of them said in a very odd, strange language—it consisted mostly of spitting sounds. Like always, the Translator’s Lenses let me hear the words in English. “The fool thinks he knows our language.”
“Give him the rules then,” another hissed.
“First rule,” said the one in front of me. “If anyone enters our domain bearing writing, we may separate them from their group and demand the writing be given to us. If they resist, we may take the writing, but we must return copies. We may hold these back for one hour but, unless the items are requested, can keep them from then on.
“Second rule, we may take the souls of those who enter, but we can do so only if the souls are offered freely and lawfully. Souls may be coerced, but not forced.
“Third rule, we may accept or reject a person’s request for a soul contract. Once the contract is written, we must provide the specific book requested, and the person must then sign the contract to certify that the book fulfills the request. We must then refrain from taking their soul for the time specified in the contract. This time may not be longer than ten hours. If a person takes a book off its shelf without a contract, we may take their soul after ten seconds.”
I shivered. Ten seconds or ten hours, it didn’t seem to matter much. You still lost your soul. In my experience, there’s really only one book in all of the world that is worth your soul to read—and you’re holding it right now.
I accept credit cards.
“Fourth rule,” the Curator continued. “We cannot directly harm those who enter.”
Hence the traps, I thought. Technically, when we trip those, we harm ourselves. I continued to stare blankly ahead, acting as if I didn’t understand a word they were saying.
“Fifth rule, when a person gives up their soul and becomes a Curator, we must deliver up their possessions to their kin, should a member of the family come to the library and request such possessions.
“Sixth rule, and most important of them all. We are the protectors of knowledge and truth. We cannot lie, if asked a direct question.”
The Curator fell silent.
“That it?” I asked.
If you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise … okay, I’m going to assume that you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise. Suffice it to say that the experience was quite amusing, in a creepy sort of way.
“He speaks our language!” one hissed.
“Impossible,” another said. “Nobody outside the library knows it.”
“Could he be Tharandes?”
“He would have died millennia ago!”
Bastille and Kaz were watching me. I winked at them.
“Translator’s Lenses,” one of the Curators suddenly hissed. “See!”
“Impossible,” another said. “Nobody could have gathered the Sands of Rashid.”
“But he has…” said a third. “Yes, they must be Lenses of Rashid!”
The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they had before.
“What’s happening?” Bastille whispered.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
Based on the Curators’ own rules, there was one way to discover if my father really had come to the Library of Alexandria and given up his soul. “I am the son of Attica Smedry,” I said to the group of creatures. “I’ve come here for his personal effects. Your own laws say you must provide them to me.”
There was a moment of silence.
“We cannot,” one of the Curators finally said.
I sighed in relief. If my father had come to the library, then he hadn’t given up his soul. The Curators didn’t have his personal items.
“We cannot,” the Curator continued, skull teeth beginning to twist upward in an evil smile. “Because we have already given them away.”
I felt a stab of shock. No. It can’t be! “I don’t believe you,” I whispered.
“We cannot lie,” another said. “Your father came to us, and he sold his soul to us. He only wanted three minutes to read the book, and then he was taken to become one of us. His personal items have already been claimed—someone did so this very day.”
“Who?” I demanded. “Who claimed them? My grandfather?”
“No,” the Curator said, smile broadening. “They were claimed by Shasta Smedry. Your mother.”
Chapter
12
I would like to apologize for the introduction to the last chapter. It occurs to me that this book, while random at times, really shouldn’t waste its time on anarchist farm animals, whether or not they have bazookas. It’s just plain silly, and since I abhor silliness, I would like to ask you to do me a favor.
Flip back two chapters, where the introduction should now contain the bunny paragraphs (since you cut them out of Chapter Eleven and pasted them in Chapter Ten instead). Cut those paragraphs out again, then go find a book by Jane Austen and paste them in there instead. The paragraphs will be much happier there, as Jane was quite fond of bunnies and bazookas, or so I’m told. It has to do with being a proper young lady living in the nineteenth century. But that’s another story entirely.
I walked, head bowed, watching the ground in front of us for tripwires. I wore the Discerner’s Lenses again, the Translator’s Lenses stowed carefully in their pocket.
I was beginning to accept that my father—a man I’d never met, but whom I’d traveled halfway across the world to find—might be dead. Or worse than dead. If the Curators were telling the truth, Attica’s soul had been ripped away from him, then used to fuel the creation of another twisted Curator of Alexandria. I would never know him, never meet him. My father was no more.
Equally disturbing was the knowledge that my mother was somewhere in these catacombs. Though I’d always known her as Ms. Fletcher, her actual name was Shasta. (Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)
Ms. Fletcher—or Shasta, or whatever her name was—had worked as my personal caseworker during my years as a foster child in the Hushlands. She’d always treated me harshly, never giving me a hint that she was, in truth, my biological mother. Did she have something to do with the twisted, half-human Scrivener’s Bone that was hunting me? How had she known about my father’s trip to Alexandria? And what would she do if she found me here?
Something glowed on the ground in front of us, slightly brighter than the stones around it.
“Stop,” I said, causing Bastille and Kaz to freeze. “Tripwire, right there.”
Bastille knelt down. “So there is,” she said, sounding impressed.
We carefully made our way over it, then continued on. During our last hour of walking, we’d left behind the hallways filled with scrolls. More and more frequently, we were passing hallways filled with bookshelves. These books were still and musty, with cracking leather-bound covers, but they were obviously newer than the scrolls.
Every book ever written. Was there, somewhere in here, a room filled with paperback romance novels? The thought was amusing to me, but I wasn’t sure why. The Curators claimed to collect knowledge. It didn’t matter to them what kinds of stories or facts the books contained—they would gather it all, store it, and keep it safe. Until someone wanted to trade their soul for it.