Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians

back and reread sections (which, because of the marvelous writing the book contains, you have undoubtedly done). You could even scan to the end and read the last page. Know that by doing so, however, you would violate every holy and honorable story-telling principle known to man, thereby throwing the universe into chaos and causing grief to untold millions.
    Your choice.
    Either way, since you can reread anytime you want, you could go back and find out exactly where I first heard cantaloupes mentioned. With such an advantage, it is very easy to find and point out things that my friends and I originally missed.
    The third reason you think you are smarter that the characters is because you have me to explain things to you. Obviously, you don’t fully appreciate this advantage. Suffice it to say that without me, you would be far more confused about this story that you are. In fact, without me, you’d probably be very confused as you tried to read this book.
    After all, it would be filled with blank pages.
    Two soldiers stood in the hallway, chatting with each other, obviously guarding the door that sat between them. Sing, Bastille, and I crouched around a corner just a short distance away, unnoticed. We’d followed Grandpa Smedry’s footprints all the way here. His prints went through the door – and that, therefore, was the way we needed to go.
    I nodded to Bastille, and she slipped quietly around the corner, moving with such grace that she resembled an ice-skater on the smooth stone floor. The guards looked over as she approached, but she was so quick that they didn’t have time to cry out. Bastille elbowed one in the teeth, then caught his companion in a grip around the neck, choking him and keeping him quiet. The first guard stumbled, holding his mouth, and Bastille kicked him in the chest.
    The first guard fell to the ground, hitting his head and going unconscious. She dropped the second guard a moment later, after he’d passed out from being choked. She hadn’t even needed the dagger.
    “You really are good at this,” I whispered as I approached.
    Bastille shrugged modestly as I moved up to the door. Sing followed me, looking over his shoulder down the hallway, anxious.
    I knew it wouldn’t be long before the entire library was on alert. We didn’t have much time. I didn’t care about the Sands of Rashid. I just wanted to get my grandfather back.
    “His footprints go under the door,” I whispered.
    “I know,” Bastille whispered as she peeked through a crack in the door. “He’s still in there.”
    “What?” I said, kneeling beside her.
    “Alcatraz!” Bastille hissed. “Blackburn’s in there too.”
    I paused beside the door, peeking through an open-holed knot in the wood. That was one thing that old-style wooden doors had over the more refined American versions. In fact, Bastille would probably have called this door more ‘advanced,’ since it had the advantage of holes you could look through.
    The view in the room was exactly what I had feared. Grandpa Smedry lay strapped to a large table, his shirt removed. Blackburn stood in his suit a short distance away, an angry expression on his face. I twisted a bit, looking to the side. Quentin was there too, tied to a chair. The short, dapper man looked like he’d been beaten a bit – his nose was bleeding, and he seemed dazed. I could hear him muttering.
    “Bubble gum for the primate. Long live the Jacuzzi. Moon on the rocks, please.”
    The walls of the room were covered with various nasty-looking torture implements – the kinds of things one might find in a dentist’s office. If that dentist were an insane torture-hungry Dark Oculator.
    And there were also… “Books?” I whispered in confusion.
    Bastille shuddered. “Papercuts,” she said. “The worst form of torture.”
    Of course , I thought.
    “Alcatraz,” Bastille said. “You have to leave. Blackburn will see your aura again!”
    “No he won’t,” I said, smiling.
    “Why not?”
    “Because he made the same mistake I did before,” I said. “He’s not wearing his Oculator’s Lens.”
    Indeed he wasn’t. In his single, monocle eye, Blackburn was not wearing his Oculator’s Lens. Instead, as I had anticipated, he was wearing a Torturer’s Lens – it was easy to distinguish, with its dark green and black tints.
    Perhaps I wasn’t as stupid as you thought.
    “Ah,” Bastille said.
    Blackburn turned, focusing on Grandpa Smedry. Even though I wasn’t wearing my