Alcatraz by Brandon Sanderson Read Free Book Online

Free Kingdoms if they are allowed to fall into Librarian hands.’
    The room fell silent. Finally, Sing raised a meaty hand. ‘Does this mean I can bring weapons?’
    ‘Of course,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
    ‘Can I bring lots of weapons?’ Sing asked carefully.
    ‘Whatever you deem necessary, Sing,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘You’re the specialist. But go quickly! We’re going to be late.’
    Sing nodded, dashing back down his hallway.
    ‘And you?’ Grandpa Smedry asked of Quentin.
    ‘I’m fine,’ the short man said. ‘But . . . my lord, don’t you think we should tell Bastille what we’re doing?’
    ‘Jabbering Jordans, no!’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘Absolutely not. I forbid it.’
    ‘She’s not going to be happy . . .’ Quentin said.
    ‘Nonsense,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘She enjoys being ignored – it gives her an excuse to be grumpy. Now, since we have to wait for Sing to get his weapons, I’m going to go get something to eat. I was clever enough to pack some lunches for myself and the lad. Coming, Alcatraz?’
    I shrugged, and we made our way out though the cooler – passing the armored knights – and walked back into the shop. Grandpa Smedry nodded to the two hillbilly attendants, then walked out toward his car, apparently going to grab the briefcases stuffed with food.
    I didn’t follow him. At that point, I still felt a little overwhelmed by what was happening to me. Part of me couldn’t believe what I had seen, so I decided to see if I could figure out how they were hiding that huge room inside. I turned, wandering around to the back of the small service station, then I carefully paced off the lengths of its walls.
    The building was a rectangle, ten paces long on two sides, eighteen paces long on the other two. Yet the room inside had been far larger. A basement? I wondered. (Yes, I realize that it took me quite some time to accept that the place was magical. You Free Kingdomers really have no idea what it’s like to live in Librarian-controlled areas. So, stop judging me and just keep reading.)
    I kept at it, trying to figure out some logical explanation. I squatted down on the hot, tar-stained concrete, trying to find a slope in the ground. I stood up, eyeing the back of the building, which was set with a small window. I grabbed a broken chair from a nearby Dumpster, then climbed up to peek in the window.
    I couldn’t see anything through the dark glass. I pressed my face against it – bumping my glasses against the window – and shaded the sunlight with my hand, but I still couldn’t see inside.
    I leaned back, sighing. But . . . then it seemed as if I could see something. Not through the window, but alongside it. The edges of the window seemed to fuzz just a little bit, and I got the distinct, strange impression that I could see through the wall’s siding.
    I pulled off my glasses. The illusion disappeared, and the wall looked perfectly normal. I put them back on, and nothing really changed. Yet, as I stared at the wall, I felt the odd sense again. As if I could just barely see something. I cocked my head, teetering on the broken chair. Finally, I reached up a hand, laying it against the white siding.
    Then I broke it.
    I didn’t really do much. I didn’t have to twist, pull, or yank. I just rested my hand against the wall for a moment, and one of the siding planks popped free and toppled to the ground. Through the broken section, I could see the true wall of the building.
    Glass. The entire wall was made of a deep lavender glass.
    I saw through the siding , I thought. Was it my glasses that let me do that?
    A footstep sounded on the gravel behind me.
    I jumped, almost slipping off the chair. And there he was: the man from my house, the caseworker – or whatever he was – with the suit and the gun. I wobbled, feeling terror rise again. Of course he would chase us. Of course he would find us. What was I thinking? Why hadn’t I just called the police?
    ‘Lad?’ Grandpa