‘I shall just fetch the few tools I need,’ he said, quickly stepping back into the corridor. As he reached it, he shouted three words in an unknown language, words that Arthur felt vibrate in his chest. Words of sorcery and power.
With that shout, the white sheets whipped back to reveal open space, the real walls some twenty or thirty feet away. The ceiling above was also revealed as a huge slab of green-painted bronze, because it was the top plate of an enormous book press, with Arthur and his friends sitting right in the middle, on top of the bottom plate.
‘Caught!’ shouted Jakem, wringing his hands again, this time in glee.
‘What are you going on about?’ asked Arthur wearily. ‘We’ll just walk out.’
The press wasn’t moving, and though he couldn’t see directly above the plate, he could see one of the arms of the press about thirty feet up, with ten Denizens there standing ready to push the arm, walking around a circular gallery like an internal verandah. He knew there would be a giant screw above the plate and that by pushing the arms clockwise or counterclockwise the Denizens could open or close the press. But it wouldn’t be a quick process.
‘Not from the Architect’s own press, made for the binding of very difficult things!’ crowed Jakem. ‘And not when you’re drugged by ghowchem tea, for good measure!’
Arthur frowned and his hand fell to the Key at his side.
‘The Key won’t help you either.’ Jakem laughed. ‘Not if we press you very slowly, so it does not react to a sharp threat! We have had particular advice on that!’
Arthur frowned again. His arm did feel strangely heavy, and it was true that the Key was quiescent, not leaping into his hand or turning into its rapier form.
‘Start the press down!’ ordered Jakem. ‘Half-speed!’
Eighteen
‘ I HAD HEARD the High Guild was treacherous,’ said Arthur. He sat up straighter in his chair, which took considerable effort. It felt like he had a sack of cement tied to his chest and back.
‘We are merely pragmatic,’ said Jakem.
‘And knowing that,’ said Arthur, ‘I didn’t drink the tea.’
With a gasp, he stood up. The gasp was echoed by Jakem.
‘I bet my friends didn’t either,’ added Arthur. He wasted no effort by looking around as he said that, and he heard no answer. But even if they hadn’t drunk the tea, the others would probably be held silent and in place by the powers of the press.
‘You can’t get up!’ protested Jakem. ‘The press was made by the Architect! It has never failed to hold recalci-trants!’ ‘This was made by the Architect too,’ said Arthur. He took a step and drew the Key, willing it to take its sword form. For a moment he thought it wouldn’t work, then the baton slowly lengthened and shimmered, transforming into a thin silver blade, the graceful quillons of the hilt wrapped around Arthur’s fist.
‘Stop the press,’ ordered Arthur. He took another step, directly towards Jakem. It hurt to walk, with every muscle in his legs, back, and arms feeling like they were being twisted by the fingers of a sadistic masseur. But he had kept going before, when he had no air to breathe, when only his determination kept him moving. This was only pain, not lack of breath.
‘But you can’t!’ protested Jakem. ‘You simply can’t be walking out!’
Arthur did not reply. He took another step and snarled with the effort. His arms and legs were shaking, but he forced himself on. Only four more steps and he would be clear of the base plate – and within striking distance of Jakem, if the Denizen didn’t flee.
‘Perhaps we have been a little overhasty,’ said Jakem.
Three more steps.
‘We were ordered to, you see,’ said Jakem. ‘We have to follow orders.’
Arthur gritted his teeth together. It was only two more steps but he couldn’t lift his foot, it was just too hard. Instead, he slid his right foot forward and let out a sound that to him sounded like a moan of pain, but to Jakem sounded like a growl of anger.
‘Stop the press!’ shouted Jakem. ‘Lord Arthur, we most humbly apologise!’
Arthur slid his left foot off the base plate of the press. Immediately the weight fell off him, so suddenly that he bounded forward and the point of his rapier accidentally flew to Jakem’s face. Arthur only just managed to twitch his wrist so the blade cleared the Denizen’s forehead by two inches and drilled a hole straight through his paper hat.
Jakem fell to the ground as Arthur recovered, bringing the rapier back to the guard position with the Denizen’s hat halfway along the blade. As he slid the hat off, Arthur looked over his shoulder. Suzy was hurrying to his side, her knife in her hand. Ugham had leaped clear of the press and was looking up at the Denizens in the winding gallery, his spear ready. Only Fred was still in his chair, sitting immobile, with his eyes open.