The connection between these three things should be readily obvious to you:
Socrates.
Socrates was a funny little Greek man best known for forgetting to write things down and for screaming, ‘Look, I’m a philosopher!’ in the middle of a No Philosophy zone. (He was later forced to eat his words. Along with some poison.)
Socrates was the inventor of something very important: the question. That’s right, before Socrates, languages had no ability to ask questions. Conversations went like this:
Blurg: ‘Gee, I wish there were a way I could speak to Grug and see if he’s feeling all right.’
Grug: ‘By the tone of your voice, I can tell that you are curious about my health. Since I just dropped this rock on my foot, I would like to request your help.’
Blurg: ‘Alas, though our language has developed the imperative form, we have yet to discover a method of using the interrogative. If only there were a simple way to ease communication between us.’ Grug: ‘I see that a Pteroydeactyl has begun to chew on your head.’
Blurg: ‘Yes, you are quite right. Ouch.’
Fortunately, Socrates eventually came along and invented the question, allowing people like Blurg and Grug to speak in a way that wasn’t quite so awkward.
All right, I’m lying. Socrates didn’t invent the question. But he did popularize it through something we call the Socratic method. In addition, he taught people to ask questions about everything. To take nothing for granted.
Ask. Wonder. Think.
And that’s the final thing you can do to help fight the evil Librarians. That, and buy lots of my books. (Or did I mention that one already?)
‘So, who’s this prince that’s throwing the party?’ I asked as Folsom, Himalaya, and I traveled by carriage.
‘The High King’s son,’ Folsom said. ‘Rikers Dartmoor. Out of seven crowns, I’d give him five and a half. He’s likable and friendly, but he doesn’t have his father’s brilliance.’
I’d been trying for a while to figure out why Folsom rated everything like that. So I asked: ‘Why do you rate everything all the time like that?’ (Thanks, Socrates!)
‘Hum?’ Folsom asked. ‘Oh, well, I am a critic.’
‘You are?’
He nodded proudly. ‘Head literary critic for the Nalhallan Daily, and a staff writer for plays as well!’
I should have known. Like I said, all of the Smedrys seemed to be involved in one academic field or another. This was the worst yet. I looked away, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
‘Shattering Glass!’ Folsom said. ‘Why do people always get like that when they find out?’
‘Get like what?’ I asked, trying to act like I wasn’t trying to act like anything at all.
‘Everyone grows worried when they’re around a critic,’ Folsom complained. ‘Don’t they understand that we can’t properly evaluate them if they’re not acting normal?’
‘Evaluate?’ I squeaked. ‘You’re evaluating me?’
‘Well, sure,’ Folsom said. ‘Everybody evaluates. We critics are just trained to talk about it.’
That didn’t help. In fact, that made me even more uncomfortable. I glanced down at the copy of Alcatraz Smedry and the Mechanic’s Wrench. Was Folsom judging how much I acted like the hero in the book?
‘Oh, don’t let that thing annoy you,’ Himalaya said. She was sitting next to me on the seat, uncomfortably close, considering how little I trusted her. Her voice sounded so friendly. Was that a trick?
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘The book,’ she said, pointing. ‘I know it’s probably bothering you how trite and ridiculous it is.’
I looked down at the cover again. ‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s not that bad . . .’
‘Alcatraz, you’re riding a vacuum cleaner.’
‘And a noble steed he was. Or, er, well, he appears to be one . . .’ Somewhere deep – hidden far within me, next to the nachos I’d had for dinner a few weeks back – a piece of me acknowledged that she was right. The story did seem rather silly.
‘It’s a good thing that copy is Folsom’s,’ Himalaya continued. ‘Otherwise we’d have to listen to that dreadful theme music every time you opened the book. Folsom removes the music plate before he reads the books.’
‘Why’d he do that?’ I asked, disappointed. I have theme music?
‘Ah,’ Folsom said. ‘Here we are!’
I looked up as the carriage pulled to a halt outside a very tall, red-colored castle. It had a wide green lawn (the type that was randomly adorned with statues of people who were missing body parts) and numerous carriages parked in front. Our driver brought us right up to the front gates, where several men in white uniforms stood about looking very butler-y.
One stepped up to our carriage. ‘Invitation?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have one,’ Folsom said, blushing.
‘Ah, well, then,’ the butler said, pointing. ‘You can pull around that direction to leave, then—’
‘We don’t need an invitation,’ I said, gathering my confidence. ‘I’m Alcatraz Smedry.’
The butler gave me a droll glance. ‘I’m sure you are. Now, you go that way to leave—’
‘No,’ I said, standing up. ‘Really, I’m him. Look.’ I held up the book cover.
‘You forgot your sombrero,’ the butler said flatly.
‘But it does look like me.’
‘I’ll admit that you are a good look-alike, but I hardly think that a mythical legend has suddenly appeared just so that he can go to a lunch party.’
I blinked. It was the first time in my life someone had refused to believe that I was me. ‘Surely you recognize me,’ Folsom said, stepping up beside me. ‘Folsom Smedry.’
‘The critic,’ the butler said.
‘Er, yes,’ Folsom replied.
‘The one who panned His Highness’s latest book.’
‘Just . . . well, trying to offer some constructive advice,’ Folsom said, blushing again.
‘You should be ashamed of trying to use an Alcatraz imposter to insult His Highness at his own party. Now, if you’ll just pull along in that direction . . .’
This was getting annoying. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I broke the butler’s clothing.
It wasn’t that hard. My Talent is very powerful, if a little tough to control. I simply reached out and touched the butler’s sleeve, then sent a burst of breaking power into his shirt. Once, this would have simply made it fall off – but I was learning to control my abilities. So, first I made the white uniform turn pink, then I made it fall off.
The butler stood in his underwear, pointing into the distance with a nak*d arm, pink clothing around his feet. ‘Oh,’ he finally said. ‘Welcome, then, Lord Smedry. Let me lead you to the party.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, hopping down from the carriage.
‘That was easy,’ Himalaya said, joining Folsom and me. The butler led the way, still wearing only his underwear, but walking in a dignified manner regardless.
‘The breaking Talent,’ Folsom said, smiling. ‘I forgot about it! It’s extremely rare, and there’s only one person alive – mythical legend or not – who has it. Alcatraz, that was a five out of five point five maneuver.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But what book of the prince’s did you give such a bad review to?’
‘Er, well,’ Folsom said. ‘Did you ever look at the author of the book you’re carrying?’
I glanced down with surprise. The fantasy novel bore a name on the front that – in the delight of looking at my own name – I’d completely missed. Rikers Dartmoor.
‘The prince is a novelist?’ I asked.
‘His father was terribly disappointed to hear about the hobby,’ Folsom said. ‘You know what terrible people authors tend to be.’
‘They’re mostly social miscreants,’ Himalaya agreed.
‘Fortunately, the prince has mostly avoided the worst habits of authors,’ Folsom said. ‘Probably because writing is only a hobby for him. Anyway, he’s fascinated with the Hushlands and with mythological things like motorcycles and eggbeaters.’
Great, I thought as we walked through the castle doorway. The corridors inside held framed classic-era movie posters from the Hushlands. Cowboys, Gone with the Wind, B movies with slime monsters. I began to understand where the prince got his strange ideas about life in the United States.
We entered a large ballroom. It was filled with people in fancy clothing, holding drinks and chatting. A group of musicians played music by rubbing their fingers on crystal cups.
‘Uh-oh,’ Himalaya said, grabbing Folsom as he started to jerk erratically. Himalaya pulled him out of the room.
‘What?’ I asked, turning with shock, prepared for an attack.
‘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 nak*d 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 thirty-something 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.’