"Pull the lever," Thomas said. Beck looked down, took hold, and pulled. He jumped and gasped when the weights snapped down, pressing the paper, and Thomas showed him how to crank the lever back until it caught on the ratchet. Then Jess demonstrated how to carefully peel away the still-wet paper.
"It has to dry," he said. "Touch it when it's wet and it'll smear."
"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.
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.
Thomas's ploy was not going to work, and Jess felt himself go a little cold inside.
"Indira," Beck said. "Shoot the Brightwell boy in both knees. We'll cripple all of them to make sure they have no plans to cheat us."
She drew her gun. Jess threw himself backward and to the side, diving behind a pile of scrap metal. She cursed and moved forward to try for a better shot.
Thomas roared and moved. Fast. As Jess fumbled in the pile of broken metal for something of use, Thomas crossed the space to where Beck stood, put one enormous hand around his throat, and jerked the man off the ground and held him there to choke.
"Thomas, no!" Jess shouted. Indira turned her gun on his friend, and at this range, she couldn't miss. Jess rose, grabbing the first thing he could reach--the broken, twisted remains of a gear--and flung it at her head. Poor throw, but he hit her shoulder and knocked her back a step. The gun went flying. Jess flung himself over the pile of metal and grabbed one of Thomas's massive hammers; adrenaline gave him strength to heft it easily. He rushed at Indira, and she dodged away, trying for her gun. He cut her off.
Her other guards were starting to react now, shaking off shock and going for their weapons. This will be a massacre.
"Thomas! Don't!" This was not the plan.
Thomas wasn't bloody well listening.
Beck's toes thrashed the air, and he dropped the paper and the spring to slap at Thomas's arms, which did absolutely nothing. Thomas's face was bone white, his blue eyes wide and merciless in the dim light. He said something in German, and then switched to English. "Drop your weapons, all of you, or I'll crush his throat."
Jess shot him a disbelieving glance--Who are you? What have you done with my friend?--then quickly returned his attention to the soldiers, who seemed torn between saving Beck and avenging him. Jess kept the hammer ready to deliver a blow if he had to, but there was something in the silky, even inflection of Thomas's voice that made even the most militant of the guards believe him. One by one, they dropped guns and knives.
All except Indira, who retrieved her gun and aimed it at Jess's head. "Kill him, and I kill your friend, Schreiber."
Thomas lowered Beck back to the ground but didn't let him go. He did loosen the grip enough that Beck drew in a raw, whooping breath and coughed it out again.
"Tell her to put down her gun," Thomas said, "or I'll follow your example. I'll cripple you for life. You know I can, as easily as closing my hand."
Definitely not the Thomas Jess knew. This Thomas had been born from pain and despair down in the depths of Rome's prison. This version of his friend was feral and angry and dangerous, and most of all, he was very, very strong.
"Indira! Put it down! For God's sake, put it down!" Beck wheezed. She didn't seem inclined to obey, but his angry hysteria got to her at last. She crouched and put her weapon on the ground. She rose with both hands in the air. Thomas still didn't let go. He looked as if he was considering, very strongly considering, separating the man's hea
d from his neck with a pull and a twist.
"Thomas," Jess said, in as calm a voice as he could manage while threatening men with a hammer. "He's agreed. Let him go now or they're going to kill us. Including our friends."
Thomas still held his position, but he must have comprehended sense, because he released Beck with a sudden, dismissive push. Beck sprawled on the dirt floor, gagging and coughing as his soldiers quickly grabbed him and dragged him behind them to safety.
Now was the moment of real danger, Jess thought, and adjusted his sweaty grip on the hammer. If Beck ordered their deaths . . . and Thomas, alarmingly, didn't seem to care. He stooped down and began picking up broken machine parts as if the men and women threatening the two of them didn't even exist. Jess felt faintly stupid, and very alone, brandishing a household tool.
"You've seen what we can do for you. You know you can use us. Leave us alone now," Thomas said, and wrenched half a broken cog from a bent iron rod. "You're in our way. Go and get us decent wood, metal, and materials."
"You're mad!" Beck said. He could only manage it as a croak. "He's mad!"
"He's a genius," Jess said. "Master Beck, give us better materials and you'll get what you want. Threaten us, or any of our friends, and I don't think Thomas will stop next time at bruising you. You'll never reconstruct this machine without us. Do we have an understanding?"
"You cocky little bastard," Beck grated. He sounded like he'd been gargling the leftover broken glass. "You think you hold any kind of power?"
"I just saw you weeping for joy, didn't I? You want this. We have it. That's the definition of negotiating, and if you contact my father, you know he'll give you a very fine deal on the things you need to make your dream a reality. Now, go."
Beck didn't respond to that at all, but Jess knew he'd scored the point. He waited until the last of Beck's entourage disappeared out the workshop door, then slammed it and shut the bolt from inside before he turned back to Thomas.
Thomas stopped picking up the shattered pieces to look at him, and slowly, very slowly, a grin the likes of which Jess had never seen spread across his friend's face.
"So," he said. "That was glorious."
"It was." Jess didn't want to spoil the moment, which had a kind of demented joy, but he also had to know. "Why did you attack him?"
Thomas's smile dimmed to a curl at the corners of his mouth. "If I hadn't played the German berserker, he'd have done it. It was a good strategy: hobble you, cripple the rest one by one, and we're not likely to be able to flee, even if we've worked out how. Now he knows I'm half-mad, and he thinks he needs me. He will be more careful."
It was part of the truth, Jess thought. Not all. He studied his friend a moment before he said, "Thank you."
Thomas's fingers were restlessly exploring the metal parts in his hands, and he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You are my best friend," he said. "And I will always fight for you."
As simple as that. Jess's throat closed up, as if Thomas's hand had taken hold, but it was only a rush of gratitude that left him weak.
"Check to make sure we have everything," Thomas said. "All the parts of the Ray. They'll be waiting for us." He was still picking up parts and gears, and Jess didn't really understand why.
"You're not seriously going to make them another press, are you?" he said. Thomas raised his brows and opened the forge. He dumped the entire bucket of metal parts and pieces inside and slammed the forge closed again. It would take only a few minutes to reduce all their work to a metal sludge.
"Absolutely not," he said. "Let's go."
Despite his dislike for digging, Jess was very glad he'd made the effort as they wormed through the newly excavated tunnel under the back wall and out into the rapidly darkening afternoon. The guards were still watching the closed, locked workshop door.
A single drop of rain hit his face as he scrambled out. He couldn't judge the time accurately now.
But it was definitely time to go.
Wolfe, Santi, and Morgan were no longer in the prison. It was deserted--except for the dead bodies of two guards, lying in the bunks that Wolfe and Santi had occupied. They'd been covered up to look like they were sleeping.
Jess remembered what the men had said, in the dim early morning. No going back. They'd meant it.
"Where are we to meet them, then?" Thomas asked.
"Didn't Wolfe tell you?"
"Only to stay with you. Which I will."
"Good. I'd hate to think I was on my own right now," Jess said. He took one last look at the prison, all the cell doors opened. If all the world's a lock, be a key. His father had been right. "We're to head for the grain storage across the fields, far side of city hall. And we'd best do it quickly and quietly."
They were halfway across the park when the rain hit in earnest, and it went from fat, cold drops to a heavy, silvery curtain in moments. The storm was all to the good now, though Jess could see people out moving in the rain. Running here and there. No one could see well enough to recognize them and sound an alarm.
And then he realized that the people were coming out of their houses and buildings. That they were not running for shelter, as would be sensible. The people of Philadelphia were pouring out of the buildings, into the streets, and they all seemed to be heading toward city hall . . . the very place Jess and Thomas, also, had to go.
The rain soaked Jess's clothes and hammered them close to his skin; the force of the drops was truly shocking, and overhead, lightning flashed in heavy, constant explosions. Thunder hit hard enough to echo in Jess's chest. This was very different from a London rain shower; it was violent, full of wind and fury, and the trees in the park--including the one half-burned by the last Library attack--were whipping their branches angrily, as if they intended to rip themselves from the ground and walk.
Thomas leaned close as they broke into a run to shout, "What is it? What's happening? Is this part of the plan?"
"I don't know!" Jess shouted back.
He was sickly certain that it wasn't.
The crowd grew thicker around them, condensing as they drew near city hall, and in the flash of lightning, Jess saw that it numbered in the hundreds now. Nearly all of the city, it seemed, had come out in this storm, which was the opposite of what they needed.
And then he saw the figures starkly illuminated at the top of the city hall steps. Even at this distance, he recognized them: Santi. Wolfe. Morgan. Khalila.
And every one of them was being held by a guard.
"God, no," he said, and pulled Thomas to a halt in the mud. "Stop!" He dragged his friend off to the side, under the dark shelter of thrashing branches, and quickly dug from his pockets and bindings everything that Thomas had given him for the Ray of Apollo. "Make your way around through the side streets. If the mob's gathering here, you should be able to make it around that way, to the fields. Get to the barn near the wall. Wait for us, but don't wait too long. Understand? Brendan knows where we'll be coming through. Make a hole behind that building. Morgan's weakened the wall for you. It should work, but when we come, we'll be coming fast. Start as soon as you can."
"I can't just leave," Thomas said. He sounded reasonable. Jess wasn't in the mood for reasonable. He grabbed Thomas and shoved him in the direction he wanted him to go. It was like pushing one of the trees. "Jess. I can help you!"
"No. You're the only one who can open up our way out, and I can't risk you. I need you to do that. Go. Go!"
Thomas gave him one last, silent look, and then turned and went the way Jess had pointed. Away from trouble, for once.
Jess ran toward it.
Willinger Beck had come out from shelter now, and took his place on the landing next to the captives. He raised his hands and shouted, but Jess couldn't hear what he was saying over the roar of the rain and the crowd. And couldn't bother to care. His attention was on his friends. Think. Dario and Glain weren't with them. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, they'd slipped this trap, and that was good.
What
was bad was that Jess saw no chance at all to free the rest of them, and he was all too aware that at any moment, one of the men or women in the crowd might glance at him and recognize him, and then he'd be up there, too, pinned and helpless.
You should go, Wolfe's imaginary, sour voice lectured him. Staying to witness our deaths is less than useless. Get out while you can. That was always the plan.
Imaginary Wolfe's advice was still crap, and he wasn't going to abandon them, any more than he'd abandoned Thomas back in Alexandria--and he'd thought Thomas might be dead.
The crowd was shouting, anger and fear smeared into a fog he could almost taste. He didn't know why they were so angry, but it didn't matter now. He cast a fast look around and fixed on one of Beck's guards lingering near the edge of the crowd. Jess faded back, and as he did, he picked up a fallen branch from one of the trees. Heavy wood. The guard was just in the shadow of a tree, and Jess circled around the trunk and came up behind him. He hit him hard in the back of the head and dragged him backward in the same instant, then hit him again to be sure he was unconscious before he stripped off the man's hooded coat and put it on. He relieved the man of two pistols and a knife. The coat smelled foul, but he hardly noticed; the hood kept his face in shadow and kept the rain off.
A bolt of lightning sizzled from the clouds to strike the statue of Benjamin Franklin on top of city hall, and a cry went up from the crowd. They took it as a sign, he supposed.
So did he. He pushed through the crowd as if he had the right. He was wearing the guns, the coat, the attitude of one of Beck's security men. No one stopped him.
He went right up the steps.
Khalila saw him first, and her eyes went wide; she was soaking wet and shivering, and her dress was clinging to her in ways that would probably make her blush, but she managed a very slight nod. He wanted to go to Morgan, but Morgan was next to Beck, and Khalila was at the end, easy to reach. He stepped up next to the guard who held her, pulled his hood lower, and thought about relieving the other guard . . . but that wouldn't work. The town was small. He'd be instantly recognized.
So he stood silently, tensely, and waited for his chance.
Beck's voice was still hoarse from Thomas's hold, but he managed a full-throated shout to carry over the booms of thunder. A trick of acoustics on the steps amplified him, though how many of the crowd could hear was anyone's guess.