The short man stopped, looking confused. ‘That’s a new one,’ he noted.
‘What kind are you?’ I asked. ‘Leprechaun? Elf?’
The short man raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Bastille. ‘Hazelnuts, Bastille,’ he swore. ‘Who’s this clown?’
‘Kaz, this is your nephew Alcatraz.’
The short man glanced back at me. ‘Oh . . . I see. He seems a bit more dense than I assumed he’d be.’
I flushed. ‘You’re . . . not a fairy then?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you a dwarf? Like in Lord of the Rings?’
He shook his head.
‘You’re just a . . . midget?’
He regarded me with a flat stare. ‘You realize that midget isn’t a good term to use, don’t you? Even most Hushlanders know that. Midgets are what people used to call my kind when they stuck us in freak shows.’
I paused. ‘What should I call you, then?’
‘Well, Kaz is preferable. Kazan is my full name, though the blasted Librarians finally named a prison that a while back.’
Bastille nodded. ‘In Russia.’
The short man sighed. ‘Regardless, if you absolutely have to reference my height, I generally think that short person works just fine. Anyway, is someone going to explain why we changed course?’
I was still too busy being embarrassed to answer. I hadn’t intended to insult my uncle. (Fortunately, I’ve gotten much better at this over the years. I’m now quite good at insulting people intentionally, and I can even do it in languages you Free Kingdomers don’t speak. So there, you dagblad.)
Thankfully, Bastille spoke up and answered Kaz’s question. ‘We got word that your father is at the Library of Alexandria. We think he might be in trouble.’
‘So we’re heading there?’ Kaz asked.
Bastille nodded.
Kaz perked up. ‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘Finally, some good news on this trip.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘That’s good news?’
‘Of course it is! I’ve wanted to explore that place for decades. Never could find a good enough excuse. I’ll go get preparing!’ He took off down the corridor toward the cockpit.
‘Kaz?’ Bastille called. He stopped, glancing back.
‘Your room is that way.’ She pointed down a side corridor.
‘Coconuts,’ he swore under his breath. Then, he headed the way she’d indicated.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘His Talent. Getting lost.’
Bastille nodded. ‘What’s worse is that he generally acts as our guide.’
‘How does that work?’
‘Oddly,’ she said, continuing down the corridor.
I sighed. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’