Ash and Quill

  Thomas mounted the small, improvised steps and stood there uncomfortably next to his machine. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and then closed it again without speaking. He gestured to Jess, who sighed and came up to join him.

  "You talk!" Thomas whispered fiercely.

  "No," Jess whispered back, and took the spot at the controls of the machine. Not a simple lever anymore. This was a small stand of levers and switches, and Thomas threw him a look of hurt betrayal . . . and then, with a deep breath, the German started speaking. He started out a little uncertainly, but before long, just as Jess had thought, he was well into the details and comfortable with them. Talk of ink density and valve pressure and tensile strength. The audience looked intrigued but still not impressed, and when Thomas's explanation came to a halt, Jess flicked the first switch.

  The only thing that happened was that the large copper boiler in the corner began to hiss as it built up pressure. It was decidedly not impressive.

  "Is this all?" Old Man Argent asked, and ostentatiously checked his pocket watch. "I didn't come to the hinterlands for an oversized kettle and vague promises--"

  The hiss in the boiler reached a high-pitched whine; Jess flicked another switch. The machine lurched into motion. A roller spread ink over letters set in a metal plate. The watching crowd fell silent and craned forward to watch.

  "Step one," said Thomas. "The master plate is inked." He nodded, and Jess turned the next lever, which pulled a thick roll of paper into place and stretched it over the plate--not close enough to touch. "Now, the paper. You notice that it is in rolls, not in sheets, for speed." Thomas looked at Jess, who nodded. "And now, the printing."

  Jess flipped the final two switches together, and the paper was pressed down, lifted up, measured out, and cut with a sharp blade. It settled in the tray, and already, the next page was in place, the ink ready, the process repeating.

  "We can print copies of the page at the rate of almost a hundred per minute, when we turn the speed higher," Thomas said over the steady thrumming of the machine. "And as you will see, we print two pages at once--the first and the last of the folio."

  Thomas plucked the first sheet from the drying pile, and in the bright lights of the workshop, Jess felt a strange, exhilarating chill run through him. There, in block letters on the paper, were two full pages of text in Greek that had never been seen before by anyone but them. There was so much wrong with what would happen tonight.

  But this . . . this was right. And important.

  Thomas held the page up for all to see. "The first and last pages of Hermocrates, by Plato," he said. "Suppressed by the Great Library since Scholar Plato's death. Careful. The ink needs time to dry. This is one of the books we rescued from the Black Archives." The murmurs started then, and built. Thomas raised his voice again to be heard. "These are words that few living people have read. This is what the Library has kept from us. This, and so much more. But with this machine, they no longer have that power."

  One of the guests stepped forward--a tall woman, severe in a long black gown. Jess vaguely remembered her from his childhood--a refugee Frenchwoman who had built up a business in smuggled originals out of Sardinia. "If none of us have ever read it, you could have made up the words, no? We're not blind fools. We've seen false miracle machines before that turn lead to gold, or glass into steel."

  Jess reached for a leather case that lay on the table near him, opened it, and took out the scroll. He handed it to her. "The original's here. You can compare it for yourself."

  They had to almost shout now to be heard over the press, which continued to print page after page, slotting them into racks for drying. The thick smell of hot metal and ink made some of the visitors hold their noses, but they weren't leaving. They were crowding forward, experts all, to examine the original and then the copy.

  "Word for word!" one man exclaimed. "And you can print the rest? Page by page?"

  "Yes. We can print anything. We have letters and symbols cast for seven languages already, and more to follow. It's as simple as putting the letters and symbols together in the tray," Thomas said.

  "It's not that simple," Jess said in a quieter tone, but just to him.

  "No point in disillusioning them with details," Thomas whispered, then went back to a near shout. "We will turn off the press now, and you may inspect it for yourselves!"

  Jess shut it all down, reversing the order, and with a last, hissing sigh, the press went idle again. There were enough copies drying in the rack for every single one of Callum Brightwell's visitors to go home with a souvenir.

  And now Callum was taking the stage, as Thomas gratefully descended. Jess stayed where he was, not from any desire to be there, but his father was blocking his way out. "You see the beginnings of this," his da said. "Yes, it's a loud, noisy, smelly process. Yes, it takes an investment of time and ink and paper, bindings and skill. But you can print books. Any books. Sell copies of whatever you'd like. The Great Library doesn't control this machine. It can't even see it, or the pages that come off this press. This machine renders the all-seeing eye of Horus blind." He looked at the machine with something, Jess thought, like real reverence. "It's freedom."

  There was a roar of suddenly competing questions, protests, all vying for attention. Some people pressed forward to demand details from Thomas, who immediately started providing them. Some were hanging back, arguing with one another.

  And one stepped forward to say, "Freedom, you say? Freedom to what? Destroy our own businesses? Get us all killed?" The man was speaking so precisely his words could have been printed on the press in sharp edges and ink. "You'll destroy our family with this--abomination. And what do you think the Library will do? They'll kill us for just seeing this!"

  "It's a temporary loss and risk for a vast long-term gain, Cormac. With this machine, we become our own library. We sell endless copies of every book, to every set of hands eager to hold one . . ." The glitter in Callum Brightwell's eyes was as much greed as hope. "Imagine the possibilities. Hand-tooled bindings, engraved with the name of the printer, or the owner. Gilded titles. Mass production of forbidden classics! There's nothing people want more. Even the Burners would pay good money to get their hands on those books. And the plans for this machine. Which we now own."

  "I still say it's a leap," said Cormac, but he seemed less against it now. In fact, most of those talking seemed to be discussing possibilities now, not penalties. "And how long does it take to build one of these things? We'd need an Artifex to do it, and they're all Library sworn--"

  "It's not that difficult," Thomas said. "We can show you. And there are many Library-trained mechanics who can easily build, run, and repair these machines."

  "Ink and paper, though," mused one elderly man, who leaned on his cane. "They must be secured in large quantities. Might draw suspicion."

  "Not if you buy the company that makes them," Callum said. "And I've already acquired one of each right here in England. They'll supply what we need to our own specifications. My son Jess will be in charge of the business of the presses, while I continue to oversee our rare books." He glanced at Jess and, for the first time, smiled at him. Really, warmly smiled. Knowing what he did, Jess felt a tide of dizziness come over him in a shuddering wave. He couldn't bring himself to smile back. "And my son, who's also participated in the building of this press, will answer any questions you may have on the workings of the machine. Along with inventor Thomas Schreiber, of course. The credit for this engine of change goes to them."

  "No," Jess said, and held up his hands. "No." He met Thomas's gaze and got the nod he expected. "Not to us. You have to understand: this machine has existed for hundreds of years. Discovered by Scholar after Scholar, who died for their daring to imagine it. We aren't the first. We're just the ones who survived to tell you, and show you, what the world can be. If you want to give credit, give it to Scholar Gutenberg, who was murdered for this idea. And to Scholar Christopher Wolfe, who suffered for it in prison, at the hands o
f the Archivist." Wolfe deserved the recognition, tonight of all nights. He saw Santi and Wolfe turn, saw Wolfe's face, blank for a moment, and then full of some storm of emotion Jess couldn't properly read. Didn't want to know.

  People turned toward Wolfe in silence, and for a long moment, no one seemed to quite know what to do. Then someone applauded, a lone clap of hands. A scatter joined in, and then a wave, then a roar. Jess watched as Wolfe bowed slightly, accepting the applause. Santi squeezed a hand on Wolfe's shoulder. All of his friends were smiling now, applauding . . . all except Glain.

  Glain was watching Jess, with a sharp intelligence that alarmed him. He turned away to talk to an imperious old man who wanted to inspect the type pieces in the tray, and felt her continuing to watch him.

  He'd known his false face couldn't hold with her. Not for long.

  His da was suddenly at his shoulder, and slapped his back and whispered, "Well done, son. Though I'd rather have not drawn attention to the bloody Scholar." And then he was gone down the steps to press palms.

  As Jess stepped to the floor, Brendan blocked his way. For a moment, they just looked at each other, and then his twin threw his arms around him in a quick, fierce embrace. "Now I'll never catch up to you. Always seconds and steps ahead, you are. Why did you have to make it more difficult than it has to be?"

  "Shut up, Scraps," Jess whispered, and the little broken pieces inside him healed a bit--crooked, perhaps. A touch brittle. But better. "You run your own race. You always have." He shoved his brother away. "Doesn't mean I can't still beat you if I have to."

  "Right. And now I'm going to pretend to be you and tell people absolute bollocks about how this thing runs. Meet me in ten minutes." Brendan slipped away into the crowd.

  When he turned, he found Morgan next to him. The room was full of noise, and it seemed too loud, suddenly, too warm, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd, nodding at those who wanted to congratulate him, answering a few questions about power and capacity, and then they were through and out into the icy, whispering fog. The rain had stopped, though it glittered like diamonds on the branches of the old trees in the forecourt. The heavy bulk of the fortress loomed over them, stone and steel. No stars showing, just some dim, cloud-veiled moonlight.

  Enough for him to see her, even in the shadows by the carriage house. Enough for him to kiss her. The dark floral scent of her rolled over his senses and blotted out everything else but the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. It was a long, sweet kiss, and when they finally parted, she just held him tight. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

  "I can't do it," he said. He wanted to scream. He wanted to gather her up and take her somewhere, anywhere, to hide with her and pretend none of it was happening, none of it would ever happen. He wondered if some part of her wanted that, too. He didn't think so. She wasn't the coward he was. "I was wrong. I can't see this happen to them. To you. Morgan--"

  She took hold of his tie to pull him even closer. He wondered rather wildly just how secluded this spot truly was, and whether they could find deeper shadows . . . and then she broke the kiss with a gasp and pulled back, lips damp and parted, eyes shining with tears. He hadn't meant to make her cry. Never that. "I'm not the one in danger," she said. "But Wolfe--"

  "He's a survivor," Jess said. "We know that. I'm more worried about what the captain and Thomas will do tonight when they realize what's happening. Do what you can to protect them. Please."

  She nodded and said, "I've got to go back in."

  "Make sure that Dario does his part when you do," Jess said. "Make it look good."

  He heard the distant bells from the clock tower and pulled out a pocket watch to check the time. He needed to go, but something in him wouldn't let go of her hand, as if he knew this might be the last time he held it.

  Some of his father's guests were spilling out of the carriage house now, still talking, arguing, every one of them clutching one of the printed pages. Some had wrapped them into tubes, like scrolls; some had carefully folded them in half, to read later. All of them cradled them as if they were sacred, valuable objects. As usual, Callum Brightwell was going to get his way. And make a profit.

  Jess saw that Callum was working his way toward a particular spot as well. He could see the Brightwell guards changing positions. Moving to plan.

  "Go," he said, and lifted Morgan's hand to his lips. He kissed the back of it and saw her lips part. She said something, but it was lost in the noise of the crowd around them as the guests spread out.

  Then she turned and was gone, walking through the crowd to stand close to Santi. He felt cold. Alone. Separated from them now, the last tie cut, the last chain broken. Already, some of Da's guests were calling for their vehicles. Da had one of his trusted men taking payments--discreetly, of course--at a gilt-edged table set up near the exit. Even the toughs were dressed in real finery this evening, though most looked uncomfortable about it.

  Thomas came barreling at him and wrapped him in a smothering embrace. "Thank God I won't have to lecture again." He lowered his voice to a rough whisper. "Where are you going?"

  "To piss," Jess said, and shoved him back. "And the joke's on you, Mountain. You'll have to lecture all over Europe before long, once your press becomes famous."

  "Ach, you're no fun," Thomas said. "Come back here. Dario's promised to steal one of your father's prized wines."

  "I will," Jess said. Thomas started to turn away, and on impulse, Jess held out his hand. Thomas frowned at it. "Congratulations. You've done the impossible, you know. You've made Callum Brightwell believe in something."

  "I've made your father believe in money," Thomas said archly, but he took Jess's hand and shook it anyway. He didn't let go. "You don't look well, Jess. Is something wrong?"

  "Tired," Jess said, and smiled. "Go on with you. I'll see you soon."

  "All right."

  He watched Thomas walk away and had to close his eyes and take deep breaths against the pain.

  He needed to get to Brendan. He avoided the last few questions with an apologetic smile and jogged up the steps and into the castle hall. Crossed the vast open space with long strides, short of breath, his heart pounding like he'd run a marathon.

  He'd almost gotten to the stairs when an arm like an iron bar closed around his throat and pulled him sharply backward, and he felt the sharp sting of a knife under his chin.

  "Stay still," Glain said. "And explain to me what the hell you're planning to do."

  "Let go!"

  "Not going to happen, Jess. You haven't been right all day. I saw it when you looked at Wolfe. You looked like you were giving a damned eulogy at his grave, and you're going to tell me why!"

  "Let me go!"

  "If I have to slice you a new smile, Brightwell, I'll--"

  Something hit her. Hard. Jess felt the impact of it throw her forward, and he was slammed into the hard stone of the banister. He twisted and grabbed her as she turned toward her attacker, and yanked her around to face him again. He couldn't let her see who had just hit her, and he moved faster than he would have believed possible, and with as much force as he could. With Glain, there was no possibility of pulling a punch.

  He hit her square in the right side of the jaw, and felt a bone in his hand give with a bright red slash of pain. Her head snapped to the side, and she went down. He eased her to the floor and checked her pulse. It was there, slow and steady. She was out but wouldn't stay that way for long.

  "Dios, is she dead?" Dario asked. He stood there looking as pale as Jess had ever seen him, with a small marble bust clutched in a death grip in his right hand. His voice was shaking. He was shaking.

  "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be out there, with Morgan!"

  "I saw her following you; I had to--"

  "Go!" Jess grabbed the bust away, and Dario turned and ran for the castle entrance.

  Glain was already starting to rouse--vague movements, eyes rolling behind the closed lids. Jess left the bust there, ki
cked the knife off into the shadows, and ran to meet his brother.

  He found him waiting in the chapel, just where they'd agreed. The peace of the place, the ancient weight of it, felt suffocating, and when Jess came to a halt, he saw the compassion in his brother's face.

  "You look as bad as I've ever seen you," Brendan said. "You can still change your mind."

  "No. I know what I'm doing."

  "It'll be easier for me. You know that."

  "Shut up, Scraps."

  "Call me that again and I'll knock you over the head and hide you in a corner."

  "You thought about doing that already."

  "Of course I did." Brendan gave him a broken little smile as he untied his cravat. "And I might yet, if you don't hurry up."

  Brendan removed his gray jacket and cravat and handed them over. Jess gave him the tie and black coat, and the two of them dressed in silence. Brendan swept his hair back. "Scar," Jess reminded him.

  "Already gone. Your girl fixed it for me. I'm going to miss it, a bit. Just make damned sure your friend hits you in the right place to make it stick." Brendan took a breath and straightened his back. "There. Do I look like enough of a sad, bookish arse?"

  "Do I look enough like a cutthroat thief?"

  "You'll do," Brendan said, and stuck out his hand. "In bocca al lupo, brother."

  "Crepi il lupo," Jess replied. He ignored the hand and embraced him, fast and hard, before he turned on his heel and walked out of the chapel. He had to be right now. Focused. Utterly right. I'm Brendan Brightwell. Shining son of this castle and this fortune. And I walk like I know it. He lengthened his stride, took on the easy, swinging gait of his brother, and as he did, he stuck his hands in his coat pockets. The clips Brendan had gotten from Da were there. Three of them. Two in the right pocket, one in the left. They felt cool and inert.

  Glain was coming up the stairs as he was going down. He flashed her Brendan's wild grin, and she ignored him, gaze sweeping up. Her eyes were a little unfocused, and she was holding on to the banister with one white-knuckled hand. "Where's your brother?" she asked.