Warbreaker Part 87

"Before we leave, I need to know what our resources are. What's your Talent, lad?"

I frowned. "Talent?"

"Yes," Leavenworth said. "Every Smedry has a Talent. What is yours?"

"Uh... playing the oboe?"

"This is no time for jokes, lad!" Leavenworth said. "This is serious! If we don't get that sand back..."

"Well," I said, sighing. "I'm also pretty good at breaking things."

Leavenworth froze.

Maybe I shouldn't play with the old man, I thought, feeling guilty. He may be a loon, but that's no reason to make fun of him.

"Breaking things?" Leavenworth said, sounding awed. "So it's true. Why, such a Talent hasn't been seen in centuries..."

"Look," I said, raising my hands. "I was just joking around. I didn't mean-"

"I knew it!" Leavenworth said eagerly. "Yes, yes, this improves our chances! Come, lad, we have to get moving." Leavenworth turned and left the room again, carrying his briefcase and rus.h.i.+ng eagerly down the stairs.

I sighed, following the old man, intending to close the door on him. However, when I reached the doorway, I paused, looking out. Leavenworth waved toward me eagerly, standing on the doorstep in his little tuxedo.

There was a car parked on the curb. An old car. Now, when you read the words 'old car,' you likely think of a beat-up or rusted vehicle that barely runs. A car that is old, kind of in the same way that ca.s.sette tapes are old.

This was not such a car. It was not old like ca.s.sette tapes are old-it wasn't even old like records are old. No, this car was old like Beethoven is old. Or, at least, so it seemed. To me-and, likely, to most of you living in the Hushlands-the car looked like an antique. Kind of like a Model T.

Now, that was an a.s.sumption on my part. I was actually wrong about the car's age. Grandpa Leavenworth had obtained this car only one year before, and it was still quite new. (Though, admittedly, it had a silimatic engine based on Free Kingdoms technology, and had only been disguised to look like an American car.) The point is that many times, the first thing a person presumes about something-or someone-is inaccurate. Or, at the very least, incomplete. Take the young Alcatraz Smedry, for instance. After reading my story up to this point, you have probably made some a.s.sumptions. Perhaps you're-despite my best efforts-feeling a bit of sympathy for me. After all, orphans usually make very sympathetic heroes.

Perhaps you think that my habit of using sarcasm was simply a method of hiding my insecurity. Perhaps you've decided that I wasn't a cruel boy, just a very confused one. Perhaps you've decided, despite my feigned indifference, I didn't like breaking things.

Obviously, you are a person of very poor judgment. I would ask you to kindly refrain from drawing conclusions that I don't explicitly tell you to make. That's a very bad habit, and it makes authors grumpy.

I was none of those things. I was simply a mean boy who didn't really care whether or not he burned down kitchens. And, that mean boy was the one who stood on the doorstep, watching Grandpa Smedry leave.

Now, perhaps I'll admit that I felt just a little bit of longing. A... wishfulness, you might say. Getting a package that claimed to be from my parents had made me remember days back when-before I realized how foolish I was being-I had yearned to know my real parents. Days when I had longed to find someone who had to love me, if only because they were related to me.

Fortunately, I had grown past that age. My moment of weakness pa.s.sed quickly, and I slammed the door closed and locked old man outside. Then I went to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

That, however, is when someone drew a gun on me.