‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Glad I’m not allergic!’
General Mallo grunted, gesturing with his flaming spear, leading us forward. Carrying that spear around struck me as a little bit dangerous, but who was I to speak? After all, I was the one walking around with a weapons-grade Smedry Talent stuffed inside me.
‘Fortunately, Lord Smedry,’ Mallo said as we walked, ‘our flowers are all nonallergenic.’
‘How did you get them that way?’ I asked.
‘We asked them very nicely,’ Mallo said.
‘Er, okay.’
‘It was much more difficult than it sounds, Alcatraz.’ Aydee added. ‘Do you know how many different species of flower there are in the city? Six thousand! Our floralinguists had to learn each and every language.’
‘Floralinguists?’ I said.
‘They talk to flowers!’ Aydee said excitedly.
‘I kind of figured that,’ I said. ‘What kinds of things do they say?’
‘Oh,’ Mallo said, ‘they tend to ramble a lot and use big words, but there isn’t often much substance to what they say, despite the beauty and ornamentation of the language.’
‘So . . . er . . .’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Mallo said. ‘Their speech is quite flowery.’
I walked right into that one like a bird hitting a glass sliding door at seventy miles an hour. Beside me, Bastille rolled her eyes.
Kaz whistled, watching the city. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth . . . er, sorry. I’m having trouble getting over that last chapter. Anyway, I’ve always loved visiting Tuki Tuki. There’s no place like it; I always forget how beautiful it is.’
‘Perhaps it was a pleasure to visit in the past,’ Mallo said, his face growing even more solemn, ‘but the siege has been difficult for all of us. See how our regal daftdonias droop? The Shielder’s Glass lets in light, but the plants can feel that they are enclosed. The entire city wilts beneath the Librarian oppression.’
Indeed, many of the flowers lining the street did seem to be drooping. As the wonder of my first sight of Tuki Tuki began to wear off, I saw many other signs of the siege. Open yards where people were up despite the late hour, cutting bandages and boiling them in enormous vats. The sounds of blacksmiths working on weapons rang in the air. Most of the men we passed – and even many of the women – wore bandages and carried weapons. Spears with long, shark-tooth-like ridges down the sides, or swords and axes of wood, also made with shark-tooth sides.
If you’re wondering where the Mokians get all of those shark teeth, by the way, it involves using children as bait – specifically children who skip to the ends of books to read the last page first. I’m sure that you would never do something like that. That would be downright stoopiderific.
Many of those passing waved hello to Aydee, and she waved back. Her family, the Mokian Smedrys, were well known. Eventually, we approached the palace. It looked like a very large hut, constructed using thick reeds for the walls. It had a crown of red flowers blanketing its thatch roof.
Now, you’re probably thinking what I am. Huts? Aren’t the Mokians supposed to be one of the most learned, scientifically minded people in the Free Kingdoms? What were they doing living in huts?
I assumed that, obviously, there was a good explanation. ‘So, these buildings,’ I said. ‘They’re made of special, reinforced magical reeds, I assume. They look like huts, but they’re as strong as castles, right?’
‘No,’ Mallo said. ‘They’re just huts.’
I frowned.
‘We like huts,’ Mallo said, shrugging. ‘Sure, we could build skyscrapers or castles. But why? To cut ourselves off from the sky with walls of stone and steel?’
‘It makes sense,’ Bastille added. ‘Huts are more advanced than the buildings you have in the Hushlands, Smedry. Automatic air-conditioning, for one thing, and—’
‘No,’ Mallo said. ‘With all respect, young knight, we must learn to stop saying things like this. We like to pretend that what we have is better than what the Librarians have. But comparisons like those, and the jealousy they inspire, began this war in the first place.’
He looked forward, toward the palace. ‘We choose this life in Mokia. Not because it is “primitive” or “advanced,” but because it is what we like. The more complex the things surrounding your life become – the homes, the vehicles, the things you put in your homes and your vehicles – the more time you must spend on them. And the less time you have for thought and study.’
I blinked, shocked to hear those words coming from the mouth of the enormous, spear-wielding, war-painted Mokian. To the side, Bastille folded her arms, brooding. Her assertions that everything in the Free Kingdoms was better than things in the Hushlands had shocked me the first day we met. I had assumed that that was the way that all Free Kingdomers thought, but I was coming to realize that Bastille just has a . . . particular way of seeing the world.
(That means that she’s bonkers. But I can’t write that she’s bonkers, because if I do, she’ll punch me. So, uh, perhaps we should forget I wrote this part, eh?)
We reached the steps up to the palace, where a woman waited for us. She looked familiar too, though this time I could pinpoint why. She looked a lot like her sister, Bastille. Tall and slender, Angola Dartmoor was about ten years older than Bastille and wore a Mokian wrap of yellow and black with a matching flower in her hair. She carried a royal scepter of ornately carved wood.
She was absolutely beautiful. She had long blond hair, kind of the shade of a bowl of mac and cheese. She was smiling a wide, genuine smile – which was rather the shape of a macaroni and cheese noodle. She seemed to radiate light, much like a bowl of mac and cheese might if you stuffed a lightbulb into it. Her skin was soft and squishy, like—
Okay. Maybe I’m too hungry to be writing right now. Either way, though, Angola was gorgeous. Definitely one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
Bastille stepped on my foot.
‘Ow!’ I complained. ‘What was that for?’
‘Stop gawking at my sister,’ Bastille grumbled.
‘I wasn’t gawking! I was appreciating!’
‘Well, appreciate her a little less, then. And stop drooling.’
‘I’m not—’ I cut off as Angola breezed down the steps gracefully, coming up to us. ‘I’m not drooling,’ I hissed more softly, then bowed. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Lord Smedry!’ she said. ‘I’ve heard so much about you!’
‘Er . . . you have?’
She didn’t reply, instead laying her hands gracefully on her sister’s shoulders. ‘And Bastille. After all these months of writing you and asking you to come visit, now you finally come? During a siege? I should have known that only danger would lure you. Sometimes, I wonder if you’re not as attracted to it as those you protect!’
Bastille blushed.
‘Come,’ Angola said. ‘You are welcome to what comforts Mokia can provide you. We will take morning repast and discuss the news you bring. The Aumakua bless that it be of good report, as we have seen too little of that as of late.’
Now, as an aside, you might be shocked to hear such a distinct reference to religion from Angola. After all, I haven’t talked much about religion in these books.
This is intentional, mostly from a self-preservation standpoint. I’ve discovered that talking about religion has a lot in common with wearing a catcher’s mask: Both give people liberty to throw things at you. (And in the case of religion, sometimes the ‘things’ are lightning bolts.)
Unfortunately, in the later years of my life I’ve developed a very rare affliction known as chronic smart-aleckiness. (It’s kind of like dyslexia, only easier to spell. Particularly if you don’t have dyslexia.) Because of this tragic, terminal disease, I’m unable to read or write about things without making stoopid wisecracks about them.
Due to my affliction, I’ve wisely left the topic of religion alone – because if I were to talk about it, I’d have to make fun of it. And that might be offensive, as people take their religions very seriously. Better not to talk about it at all.
Therefore, I will most certainly not tell you what religion has in common with explosive vomiting. (Whew. Glad I didn’t say anything like that. It could have been really offensive.)
Angola nodded to Kaz and Aydee in welcome, giving each a smile, then glided back up the steps, expecting us to follow her in.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Is she always so . . .’
‘Nauseatingly regal?’ Bastille asked softly. ‘Yeah, even before she was married.’
‘Well, I can see why the king married her. Too bad I won’t be able to meet him.’
Bastille’s eyes flickered toward Mallo. It was only for a moment, but I caught it. Frowning, I turned to study the general, trying to find out what had drawn Bastille’s attention. Once again, he looked familiar to me. In fact . . .
‘You’re the king!’ I exclaimed, pointing at him.
‘What?’ Mallo said, voice stiff. ‘No I’m not. The king was taken to safety by the Knights of Crystallia weeks ago.’
He was a terrible liar.
‘Hey,’ Kaz said. ‘Yeah, I thought I recognized you. Your Majesty! We had dinner once a few years back. Remember? My father spilled cranberry juice on your tapa.’
The man looked embarrassed. ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ he said. ‘I see there are some things I need to explain.’
(Also, if you’re wondering, it’s because both often make you fall to your knees.)
No!
I try very hard to be deep, poignant, and meaningful at the beginning of each chapter. Most of the content of these books is basically silliness. (Granted, these events are real silliness that actually happened to me, but that doesn’t stop them from being silly.) In the introductions, therefore, I feel it’s important to explain meaningful and important concepts so that your time reading won’t be completely wasted.
I suggest you scrutinize these introductions, searching for their hidden meanings. My thoughts will bring you enlightenment and wisdom. If you are confused by something I say, rest assured that I’ll eventually explain myself.
For instance, in reading the introduction to the previous chapter, you might have understood my screams to be an expression of the existential angst felt by modern teens when thrust into a world they were ill-prepared to receive – a world that has changed so drastically from the one their parents knew (thanks for nothing, Heraclitus!). Or you might have seen it as the scream of one realizing that nobody can offer him help or succor.
(Actually, I wrote that introduction to express the existential crisis I felt when an enormous spider crawled up my leg while I was typing. But you get the idea.)
We stepped into the palace. It smelled of reeds and thatch, and the wide, open windows let in a cool breeze. The rug was made of long, woven leaves, and the furniture constructed of tied bundles of reeds. Quite cozy, assuming you weren’t enraged, confused, and feeling betrayed like I was.