Ash and Quill(56)

"Yes, yes, fine, we'll build drying lines to hang the pages on," Beck said, and flapped a dismissive hand. "Counselor Lindsay? You may keep the first page from the press." 

One of the group who'd been standing in the shadows stepped forward and took the page almost reverently, and held it as carefully as she would something liable to break apart at a touch. "Amazing," the woman said to Jess, and then bowed to Thomas. "Astonishing. You have shown us a miracle. It will change the world."

"Yes. Yes it will, under our direction, of course," Beck said. "Valin, you saw how the young men placed the ink and paper. This time, you do it. I want everyone proficient in the use of this machine."

Thunder boomed again. It sounded closer. Jess looked out toward the window. The clouds were rushing in on them, and as he watched, shadows began to strangle the light.

The storm was no longer coming. It was here.

Jess stepped back as the Burners crowded closer around the press. So did Thomas, and as he did, he took hold of Jess's arm and moved him farther away, all the way to the corner. It was done casually, as if giving the Burners possession of the device, and in truth, Beck hardly noticed. His attention was all on a small older man-Valin, must have been-who stepped forward at Beck's impatient gesture. He was clearly terrified of the machine, and he trembled as he slopped too much ink on the metal letters, and wasted a page when he placed it crookedly and tried to adjust it. He murmured a nervous apology and tried again, this time clipping the paper in the right spot before stepping back.

Beck hardly waited for the man to get clear before he yanked hard on the lever, and the weights slammed down. When he cranked it open again, he nodded to Valin, who peeled the paper free. Smudged, but readable. "It's the same!" Valin said. "Sir, the same exactly!" He sounded overwhelmed.

Beck's face was florid with pleasure. "Again!" he ordered. "I want a full hundred of these pages before we're done!"

"Will this work?" Jess whispered to Thomas.

"It had better," he whispered back. "It would be tragic if we built it too well."

The springs failed spectacularly on the fifth pull of the lever.

Jess heard the difference as the springs engaged; there was a distinct, flat snap to it, and the weights crashed down . . . and collapsed straight through. The wood frame shattered under the strain. Parts spun off in all directions, broken springs flying, gears smashing and breaking and rolling.

It was as magnificent a failure as they might have wished, and it was all Jess could do to keep from grinning. He nudged Thomas without looking at him, and thought, You brilliant, crazy fool, as Beck shouted in horror and alarm and his men-those who hadn't been struck by flying pieces of shrapnel-ran uselessly around trying to salvage the rolling gears and broken parts.

Beck's shock lasted only a few seconds before his gaze turned on Jess and Thomas.

And Thomas, bless him, shrugged with what looked like absolute innocence. "My apologies, Master Beck, but this was never meant to be a permanent version of the machine. You gave us pot metals and castoffs to build your future. We did the best we could with what was available. We can do better, of course. We just need better materials. Perhaps you can acquire those for us?" He picked up a piece of paper from the table to his left. "Here's a list of the items that are necessary."

Beck didn't take the list. He was staring at them with angry, bitter eyes, but it had looked like an accident, all right, and there was no denying that Thomas had worked a miracle from scraps, however long it had worked. Beck suspected he'd been tricked, but he couldn't work out how, or why.


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But one thing was certain: he now felt he needed them. He lusted after this machine with a passion that was going to drive him for the rest of his life.

Beck was still clutching the last page that had come off the machine, and from the way he held it, it seemed he didn't intend to ever let it go. He stooped and, with his other hand, picked up a broken, misshapen spring and ran his thumb over the coils while he stared at them both.

"Draw the plans," he said.

"The plans are no help to you without a working prototype, given your resources," Thomas said, in his most reasonable voice. "Let us build you another, Master Beck. And we will do it in full cooperation with your picked craftspeople and provide detailed plans at every stage."

Beck's friendly face took on new lines, new hard angles that made him look completely different from the man who'd been on his knees just a few moments before, weeping in joy . . . This one, Jess was sure, was the real Beck, the one who'd ruthlessly held power and kept a city together in the face of constant Library attacks. Not a man who would take no for an answer.