by Rachel Caine
"No, no, don't take that," Thomas called. He was half-hidden under the machine as he connected springs. "It's just water. I colored it with some dye I stole from a clothing shop. The real bottle is over there." He pointed toward a shelf cluttered with scraps of unused metal. Jess felt around and found a tiny glass vial, half-full and carefully stoppered. "Not much left. But good to have in an emergency."
"Where's Diwell?"
"Privy," Thomas said. "Something he ate disagreed with him. I offered him food I'd saved up. It was nicely rotten. It isn't my fault he decided to take it. I gave him a choice. Don't worry, I don't think it will kill him. Just make him wish he was dead."
"And I remember when you were just an innocent farm boy who wouldn't hurt a fly." Jess's smile quickly faded. "I got in contact with my brother."
"And?" Thomas slid out from beneath the frame of the machine to look at him. "The tunnel?"
"We're not going out the tunnel."
"Then it's good I made the Ray," Thomas said.
"Where is it?"
"I haven't put it together yet."
"Wait. What?"
Thomas slid back under the press. "All the component parts are completed. All it needs is assembly. It will work."
"Have you tested it?"
"It will work."
That, Jess thought sickly, wasn't an answer. "Thomas! We recycled old glass and I polished it by hand. With terrible supplies! These are not fine manufacturing conditions!"
"I know," he replied calmly, voice muffled by the machine looming over him. "And the great Heron had far less to work with when he invented it. So it will work well enough."
Sometimes, Thomas's cheerful optimism could be painful. Jess stepped back and looked at the towering machine that now stood in the middle of the room. It wasn't a pretty sight--no elegance to it at all, in fact--but Thomas had assembled it while Jess was still sleeping, and it was very nearly . . .
"Done!" Thomas said, and slid himself out from under it again. He stood up and shook the frame, but he did it carefully. It didn't look entirely stable; the woods were mismatched, and though carefully braced, the entire structure had the look of everything in Philadelphia: cobbled together. "I think it's ready to test," Thomas said. "Paper?"
Jess found one of the sheets of paper they'd cut carefully out of Blanks and brought it over. He saw that Thomas had already laid in metal lettering, in English and in Greek. Reading it backward in the dim light was difficult, so he said, "What are you printing?"
"Something that will whet Beck's appetite." Thomas wiped dirty sweat from his face with an equally filthy sleeve. "All right. One test only."
Jess reached for the pot of ink that they'd begged from the meager stores, and swabbed the letters in a thick black coating, placed the paper, and stepped back. He looked at Thomas, who placed his hand on the lever.
"Do you want to do it?" Thomas asked.
"No. It's your invention."
"I suppose we should say something important."
"I just hope the damned thing works."
"I guess that will have to do," Thomas said. "Do we risk it?"
Jess looked at his friend's grin, at the sweaty, exalted expression on his face, and threw caution out the door. "What's life without risk?"
Thomas pulled down on the lever, and springs engaged to snap the press down--paper against ink against metal, a sudden and violent collision. Nothing shattered. Both of them stayed quiet for a second, and then Thomas let out a gust of breath that ended in a shaky laugh. "I admit I was not as confident as I seemed. Now, for the second part." He turned a wheel and cranked the plate back up again, revealing the paper adhering to it. Jess peeled it off, and he had to admit, there was a spark of real wonder as he held it up to the light.
"English and Greek," he said. Jess stared at what they'd made from that simple pull of the lever. The ink stood out clear and crisp on the creamy paper, chillingly perfect. They'd done something so world breaking that he couldn't even imagine the waves that would ripple out of this moment, out of something he and Thomas had built from sweat and pain and hope.
It was the start of something. And the end of something else. And in that moment, he couldn't find the thread of what was right, or wrong, in any of it.
Thomas set the catch to hold the plate in place, and came to look. He put a heavy arm around Jess's shoulder, and together they stared at the page they'd printed. The ink still glistened wet, giving the letters an almost supernatural gleam. We did this, Jess thought. We did.
He couldn't speak, he found, and he looked at Thomas and saw tears in the big German's eyes. He couldn't fully understand what this meant to him, either; it had started as a pure thing, and then it had become the reason he'd been dragged into torture and imprisonment. Was this anger? Joy? Was he crying for what had happened, or what was still to come? Or just from the same wonder that Jess felt pressing inside him?
Jess didn't know, because Thomas didn't speak, either.
They stood together, holding the page until the last of the damp sheen faded from the letters, and Jess finally cleared his throat to say, "Show me the pieces of the Ray. We need to have them on us."
Thomas nodded, put the page down, and moved around the room. From a heap of scraps he pulled out what looked like just another piece of wood--only more shaped and polished than the others. From a tangle of iron, a straight, thick tube. From behind the forge tools, a trigger mechanism. From behind a loose stone in the wall, a small golden ball that he pitched to Jess. "Don't drop that," Thomas said.
"Will it blow up?"
"Of course not," Thomas said. "But you'd crack the casing, and we've only got the one."
"Ah." Jess slipped it in his pocket. It was the power source come from Morgan's little singing bird. He watched as Thomas found the other pieces--small bits that he handed to Jess, while he used a length of cloth to bind the thick tube to his thigh. It came almost to his knee, but at least the heavy canvas trousers he wore helped conceal it. Jess took the other pieces and fashioned them into a necklace on another strip of cloth he tied around his neck, to dangle under his shirt. He had the Codex tied on his chest already, and slipped the trigger mechanism into the binding. "I hope this all fits together."
"It will," Thomas said. "What else?"
"Santi said to make sure we have another way out of this building, if the worst happens."
"Ah," Thomas said, and picked up a crude shovel. He tossed it to Jess, who nearly got knocked down by the weight of it. "So we make one. You start."
Jess couldn't hold back a groan.
He hated digging.
Two hours had passed by the time Diwell, looking terribly unwell, staggered back to his chair by the door. The fact that he hadn't dispatched another guard to cover his shift was, Jess thought, fairly significant; accepting extra food must have been a dire crime for him to avoid mentioning why he was ill. He was afraid Thomas might report him.
We can use that, Jess thought. He checked the time--a crude sundial using the sun from the window--and saw they were approaching the hour. He wished he felt more confident.
He wished he knew that Morgan was all right. Wolfe will see to her, he told himself. Mind your work. It didn't help.
"Feeling better?" Thomas asked the guard, with a cheerful glee that made Diwell send him a look that wished him burning in hell. "Good. You can take a message to Master Beck for us: we will have his prize ready for him to see within the next hour. I'm sure he will be pleased."
Diwell groaned. It was a faint sound, but raw. He put his head in his hands for a moment, then nodded and stood up. He started to speak, but maybe he realized that threats had no force now, and they watched in silence as he left. It might take him half an hour to limp his way to city hall, at that rate.
"Now we wait," Thomas said. "Here." He tilted back an enormously heavy anvil, and beneath it, Jess saw he'd dug out a small space. Into it he'd thrust two wicked knives, gracefully shaped but deadly at edges and points. He handed one to
Jess. "Careful. It will split hairs."
Jess nodded and slipped it carefully into a slot in his boot--one made for a dagger about this size. Something Thomas no doubt had observed, or asked Glain about. Thomas had made a small leather sheath from scraps here in the workshop, and he slipped his own knife into it and strapped it to his forearm, hilt down. He rolled his shirt cuffs down to cover it. "Do you think we're going to die?" Thomas sounded almost academic about it. Remote. "I wish I could write to my parents. In case. But I suppose there's no way to do that, is there?"
Jess silently took out the makeshift Codex that he'd concealed under his shirt, and opened it to the empty page. The blue feather was still there, waiting. "I'll have to write it for you," he said. "But I can ask Brendan to deliver it."
Thomas nodded, eyes fixed on the window. On the storm, still rushing toward them. "It would be a bad omen," he finally said. "No. I will wait. I will write to them when I am free. When this is done. Just--just ask him to tell them that I love them."
Jess quietly wrote his brother the message, and added, Same from me to anyone who might care. And I suppose from Khalila to her family, and Dario, and Glain. Captain Santi has a brother somewhere. Morgan and Wolfe have no one, so if there are prayers to be done, I suppose it's left to you.
He wasn't sure his brother would write back at all, and when he finally did, the pen moved slowly, as if Brendan was fighting to write the words. Don't be such a morose bastard. You'll live to bury me. You're the luckiest ass who ever lived. And the fastest, and the bravest. So live, and do your own praying. We're moving our camp. Zara's made up some excuse. We'll be in place as agreed. You just get yourselves there. Understood?
Understood, Jess wrote, and closed the book with the feather caught inside the pages. He retied the book across his chest. Not as secure as a smuggling harness, but it would have to do.
Outside, the air grew charged and heavy, and the clouds massed higher and darker to the west like an approaching army. As Jess watched, lightning laced a bright line through the black, and a rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. Coming on fast, he thought. All of it. Too fast.
Diwell returned nearly an hour after that, limping and looking miserable; he collapsed into his chair and glared at Thomas. "You've poisoned me, you Library bastard."
"I did not!" Thomas protested. "If I had, you'd be dead by now. But some of the food might have spoiled, I suppose. My apologies."
Diwell muttered something, took a deep breath, and suddenly bolted again for the door. Retching.
"I really am sorry," Thomas said, not to Diwell exactly. Just in general. "For all of it."
"I didn't think Protestant Germans went to confession," Jess said.
"We don't," Thomas said. "But sometimes, confession is good for the soul. And I think before this is over, our souls will need a little cleansing, don't you?"
He was probably right about that.
EPHEMERA
Text of a letter from Scholar Johannes Gutenberg to the Archivist Magister, interdicted to the Black Archives. Not indexed in the Codex.
With the greatest respect and admiration I have always borne for you, great Archivist, I must ask why you have ordered the High Garda to remove the model of the device I described to you, a device I believe to be of eminent importance that will only add to the great reach of the Library.
I must also ask why soldiers have taken from me all papers, drawings, and journals that refer to this device, and warned my family, in the safety of their own home, to say nothing of this, on pain of death.
I cannot believe this is done with your approval, or if it has been, that you have been properly apprised of all the wondrous possibilities of my device for the greater glory of the Library.
If I may pay a personal visit to you, I may put your mind at rest upon this matter.
Text of a notation in the margins of the letter, from the Archivist Magister of the time to the Artifex Magnus. Not indexed in the Codex.
Arrange for him to come to you. I have no stomach for the bloody work to be done here. His family, too, must be silenced, and you must see it done. Make sure no one else knows of this device. I want every tongue stilled, and every eye made blind that ever beheld the thing.
I despise the necessity of such things, but the safety of the Library comes above all else. Gods help us all if this knowledge should ever escape.
CHAPTER SIX
The storm hadn't yet arrived when Beck entered the workshop another hour later, surrounded by a small mob of guards and followers. "I hope you haven't summoned me for nothing--" He fell silent. The light from the windows and a single oil lamp glimmered on gears, metal springs, and the tall wooden frame. At the very least, Jess thought, what they'd built looked imposing, and Beck seemed momentarily impressed. Momentarily. He slowed and walked around the machine, then gestured to Thomas.
"Interesting," he said at last. "Explain it to me."
"Best to show you," Thomas said. "Jess? Ink and paper."
Jess sponged the ink on the letters and fixed the paper in place.
"Now, Master Beck, step back. All the way back, please."
Beck made a cautious retreat, and so did his men, as Thomas pulled down the lever. Beck let out a surprised yelp at the resulting crash, and several of the guards drew weapons. Luckily, they seemed unsure what exactly they should shoot or stab.
"It isn't dangerous," Thomas said, perfectly calmly. "Now you will see."
"See what?" Indira barked. "All right, all of you. Relax. Fire only on my orders!" Thank God, there was a professional in the fanatical ranks.
Thomas had managed to ignore their peril completely. Which was . . . very Thomas. "This machine is the future of the Burners," he said. "And the Library. Jess?"
While Thomas cranked the lever up and secured it, Jess stepped forward to retrieve the printed page. He carried the sheet to Willinger Beck, who took it, still looking doubtful . . . until he examined it in the light of the window.
"A life is worth more than a book," he read aloud, and the astonishment in his voice rang clear. "This is in both English and Greek. Our motto. The motto of this city." He stared hard at the paper, then turned it to face Jess and Thomas. "What kind of Obscurist trick is this?"
"It's not magic," Thomas said. "No Obscurists involved. It's pure machinery. Anyone can build it. Anyone can operate it. All you need is the machine, ink, and paper to print as many copies as you like, of anything you please."
"But . . . this is only a page," Beck said. "You said I could have books. A book made of the same words, over and over? What use is it?"
"This is all movable. Each letter is a separate piece. They can be removed and replaced, like a child's spelling blocks. You can write out anything you like, in any language known . . . we used English and Greek, but you could as easily use French and German, or Arabic and Chinese. You can mirror the text of any book and produce a thousand copies, one page at a time. All you have to do in the end is bind those pages together."
Beck slowly turned the page around again, and his lips moved silently as he read what they'd printed once more. When he looked up this time, his eyes were shining. At first, Jess thought it was with lust for power, and then . . . and then he realized he was seeing tears, as they broke free and spilled down the man's stubbled cheeks.
Beck said, "My God . . . my God," and fell into wrenching sobs. He sank down on his knees, still clutching the page in trembling hands, while his soldiers looked on. Some of them clearly understood what had brought him low; as Jess looked around, he saw the comprehension on their faces. Some looked elated. Some, like Beck, seemed overwhelmed.
Only Indira seemed unmoved. She watched them with cold focus.
Beck managed to regain control of his emotions and roughly swiped a handkerchief across his face and eyes. He cleared his throat with a sound like gravel turning over in a bucket. "I am sorry. I just realized . . . that the words on this page exist by themselves. They can't be erased from existence. They are both or
iginal and copy." His eyes had taken on a faraway look. He was seeing the future, Jess thought. "The Library does not control this page. It can't even see this page." He looked around at the others he'd brought with him. "Do you understand what this means? What we have?"
"What you have is dangerous," Thomas said. "I give you fair warning: the Library will do anything to see this machine destroyed, any trace of it wiped away. When I sketched plans for it in my journal, I was taken. My machine was destroyed. I was put in prison. I would have died there without--" Thomas's steady, calm voice hitched just a little, and Jess felt him flinch. "Without the devotion of my friends. You must not let them know what you have."
Thomas was blunt but honest; Jess wouldn't have warned Beck about consequences. He didn't think the man deserved the courtesy.
Beck hardly paid attention at all. His whole attention was on the inked letters in front of him. "Brilliant," he said, and it was clear he hadn't heard a word Thomas had said. "This is brilliant. We will print our messages on this machine! We will post hundreds of them in every city, every town in the world where the Library lays its hand! We will shove them down the throats of every High Garda bastard we kill. We will shape the world at last in our image, not the Archivist's. It will be our calling card, these very words, printed on this wonder." Jess felt his stomach lurch at that, picturing Glain lying dead, a grinning Burner stuffing her mouth with paper he and Thomas had printed. He imagined Santi defiled like that, and Wolfe lying broken beside him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Beck rushed right over him. "How quickly can you print more?"
Thomas's face had gone entirely blank, but Jess had never seen his clear blue eyes so dark. "We can begin now. Would you like to operate the machine yourself?"
Beck looked stunned, as if someone had offered him the chance to sit in the Archivist Magister's throne. "Yes, yes, I would!" Beck said, and rushed to stand uncertainly next to the cobbled-together press. "What do I do? Show me, boy! Quickly!"
Without comment, Jess brushed ink over the metal lettering and placed another blank sheet of paper over them. He stepped back. Beck stared expectantly, as if he was waiting for some magical process to begin.
