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."