Part 12 (1/2)

”I've always been curious,” Blackburn said, as if to himself. ”Why did they leave a Smedry of the pure line to be raised in Inner Libraria? Old Leavenworth must have known that we would find the boy. That we would watch him, control him. It seems like an odd move, wouldn't you say?”

Ms. Fletcher shrugged. ”Perhaps they just didn't want him. Considering his... parentage.”

What? I thought. I thought. Say more on that! Say more on that!

But Blackburn didn't. He just shook his head thoughtfully. ”Perhaps. But then this child seems to have an inordinately powerful Talent. And there were always the sands. Old Smedry must have known, as we did, that the sands would arrive on the boy's thirteenth birthday.”

”So, they used the boy as bait for the sands,” Ms. Fletcher said. ”But we got to them first.”

”And old Smedry ended up with the child. Who gained the better half of the deal, I wonder?”

Tell me where the sands are! I thought. I thought. Say something useful! Say something useful!

”As for the sands,” Ms. Fletcher said. ”There is the matter of payment....”

Blackburn turned, and I caught a flash of emotion on his face. Anger?

Ms. Fletcher raised a finger. ”You don't own me, Blackburn. Don't presume to think that you do.”

”You'll get paid, woman,” Blackburn said, smiling.

It was not the type of smile one wanted to see. It was dark. Dark as the footprints I had followed. Dark as the hatred in a man's eyes the moment he does something terrible to another person. Dark as an unlit street on a silent night, when you know something is out there, watching you.

It was from this smile that I realized where Radrian Blackburn got the t.i.tle ”Dark” Oculator.

”You would sell the child too, wouldn't you?” Blackburn said, still smiling as he removed his monocle, rubbed it clean, then placed it in his pocket. ”You would pa.s.s him off for wealth, as you did with the sands. Sometimes you impress even me, Fletcher.”

Ms. Fletcher shrugged.

Blackburn placed a different monocle onto his eye.

Wait, I thought. I thought. What am I forgetting? What am I forgetting?

And then I realized what it was. Ms. Fletcher's foot prints, along with Blackburn's, shone below. I was still wearing the Tracker's Lenses. Cursing quietly, I pulled them off, then switched them for my Oculator's Lenses.

Blackburn glowed with a vibrant black cloud. He crackled with power, giving off an aura so strong that I had to blink against the terrible s.h.i.+ning darkness.

If Blackburn gave off an aura like that... what did I give off?

Blackburn smiled, turning directly toward the place where I was hiding with the others. Then his monocle flashed with a burst of power.

I immediately fell unconscious.

Chapter 11

You probably a.s.sume you know what is going to happen next: me, tied to an altar, about to get sacrificed. Unfortunately, you're wrong. The story hasn't gotten to that part yet.

This revelation may annoy you. It may even frustrate you. If it does, then I've achieved my purpose. However, before you throw this book against the wall, you should understand something about storytelling.

Some people a.s.sume that authors write books because we have vivid imaginations and want to share our vision. Other people a.s.sume that authors write because we are bursting with stories, and therefore must must scribble those stories down in moments of creative propondidty. scribble those stories down in moments of creative propondidty.

Both groups of people are completely wrong. Authors write books for one, and only one, reason: because we like to torture people.

Now, actual torture is frowned upon in civilized society. Fortunately, the authorial community has discovered in storytelling an even more powerful and more fulfilling means of causing agony in others. We write stories. And by doing so, we engage in a perfectly legal method of doing all kinds of mean and terrible things to our readers.

Take, for instance, the word I used above. Propondidty. Propondidty. There is no such word I made it up. Why? Because it amused me to think of thousands of readers looking up a nonsense word in their dictionaries. There is no such word I made it up. Why? Because it amused me to think of thousands of readers looking up a nonsense word in their dictionaries.

Authors also create lovable, friendly characters then proceed to do terrible things to them (like throw them in unsightly, Librarian-controlled dungeons). This makes readers feel hurt and worried for the characters. The simple truth is that authors like like making people squirm. If this weren't the case, all novels would be filled completely with cute bunnies having birthday parties. making people squirm. If this weren't the case, all novels would be filled completely with cute bunnies having birthday parties.

So, now you know the reason why I one of the most wealthy and famous people in the Free Kingdoms would bother writing a book. This is the only way I can prove to all of you that I'm not the heroic savior that you think I am. If you don't believe what I'm telling you, then ask yourself this: would any decent, kindhearted individual become a writer? Of course not.

I know how this story ends. I know what really happened to my parents. I know the true secret of the Sands of Ras.h.i.+d. I know how I finally ended up suspended over a bubbling pit of acid magma, tied to a flaming altar, staring at my reflection in the twisted, cracked dagger of a Librarian executioner.

But I am not a nice person. And so, I'm not going to reveal any of these things to you. Not yet, anyway.

So there.

”I can't believe how stupid stupid I am!” Bastille snapped. I am!” Bastille snapped.

I blinked, slowly coming awake. I was lying on something hard.

”I should have realized that Alcatraz would have an aura,” Bastille continued. ”It was so obvious!”

”He only just started using Oculator's Lenses, Bastille,” Sing said. ”You couldn't have known he'd have an aura already.”

She shook her head. ”I was sloppy. I just... have trouble thinking of that idiot as an Oculator. He doesn't seem to know anything.”

I groaned and opened my eyes, discovering a bland stone ceiling above me. The something hard I was lying on turned out to be the ground. And no, it didn't want to be friends with me.

”What happened?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.

”Shocker's Lens. They cause a flash of light that knocks out anyone who's looking at the Oculator.”

I grunted, sitting. ”I'll have to get a set of those.”

”They're very very difficult to use,” Bastille said. ”I doubt you could manage it.” difficult to use,” Bastille said. ”I doubt you could manage it.”

”Thanks for the confidence,” I grumbled. We were in a cell, apparently. It felt more like a dungeon than a prison. There was a pile of straw to one side, apparently to use for sleeping, and there didn't appear to be any ”facilities” besides a bucket by the wall.

It was certainly not a place I wanted to spend any extended period time. Especially in mixed company.

I stumbled to my feet. My jacket was gone, as were Sing's bag of weapons and Bastille's handbag. ”Is there anyone out there?” I asked quietly. The cell had three stone walls, while the front was set with more modern-style cagelike bars.

”One guard,” Bastille said. ”Warrior.”

I nodded, then took a deep breath and walked up to the front of the cell. I put one hand on the bars and activated my Talent.