Thomas, he realized, was currently reading one of them.
“Ah,” Beck said, and rose from his desk to come over to a chair near Thomas. “Come, sit. We have things to discuss, you and I.”
“I’m fine here,” Jess said. He wanted to stay on his feet and mobile. He’d already begun analyzing ways out of the room—the broad windows looked like the best exit. Chuck one of the handy, heavy sculptures through the glass, and oh, the possibilities. His main worry was in getting Thomas to follow him out. One thing at a time. I could kill Beck on the way.
“I said sit down,” Beck said, and all the false good humor was gone now, which was an improvement. Jess responded by leaning against the wall, between two paintings he hadn’t even glanced at, and crossing his arms. The silent standoff went on for almost half a minute before Beck pretended Jess hadn’t just forced his hand, and turned to Thomas. “You said he would be cooperative.”
“He will be,” Thomas said, unruffled, “once you tell him why he’s here.”
Beck didn’t like this, Jess realized. He didn’t like that Thomas, despite all sense and appearances, held power right now. He certainly didn’t like having to pretend to be civil. Good, Jess thought, imagining those books going up in ash toward the sky. “Well, this sounds interesting,” Jess said. “Go on.”
Thomas didn’t, which forced Beck to say—growl, really, “He’s told me that you together can build a machine to reproduce original books without the use of an Obscurist or a copyist. He says the job requires you both.”
“That’s true,” Thomas said. “My first model was crude and unreliable. Jess designed many improvements to make the machine run correctly.”
Thomas was getting very good at lying. I’m having a bad influence, Jess thought, and was rather proud of that. Beck glared at both of them, ending with Jess, who shrugged. “Think of it this way: use us, and you’ll be able to undermine the Library in a way that counts for more than just destroying books.”
“It’s true,” Thomas said. “How do you devalue a country’s currency? Make more until it’s worthless. Knowledge is the common currency of the Great Library. If you make books freely available with no restrictions, the Library has no power over you. Over anyone.”
Beck’s resting expression—dour—didn’t change, and Jess found himself thinking the man might be either very stupid or very good at holding his cards close. Since he’d survived as Burner leader so long, it had to be the latter. Beck’s fingers reached for a pen and twirled it as he sat back, staring at Jess—only at Jess—and thinking. “I see,” he finally said. A gambit, that phrase, to buy time. “Most interesting.”
Jess sighed. “Get to the point.”
Beck didn’t like being rushed. He wanted to appear deeply thoughtful about it, but in fact, Jess knew, he’d already made up his mind. So despite the glare, Beck said, “We have no opportunity to take any books you produce here beyond these walls. Unless you have some magical means of transporting them . . . your Obscurist, perhaps . . .”
Keep any mention of Morgan out of it, Jess thought, but he didn’t know how to signal that to Thomas.
He didn’t need to. “You miss our meaning,” Thomas said without missing a beat. “What we offer eliminates the need for an Obscurist. We will build you a machine, and give you the plans to build more, out of simple components that can be made anywhere. Send those plans out, not books. Set up printing facilities in every corner of the world.”
Beck didn’t manage to conceal a greedy little spark this time, something that fired through his expression in an instant and disappeared, leaving him professionally disinterested. “I would have to see such a miracle in operation first.”
“Naturally,” Jess said. “And you will, provided you give us the tools and supplies to build it.”
“And you will prepare written instructions for the building of this machine in return for what?”
“Freedom,” Jess replied. “For us and all our friends.”
That made Beck give a bitter little laugh. “I can’t set my own people free outside these walls. What makes you believe I can promise you any such thing?”
“He means freedom here, in Philadelphia,” Thomas said. He cut in so smoothly Jess couldn’t tell if he’d anticipated the objection or just reacted fast. “No more locked cells. You feed us and allow us to live as we wish. Freely.”
That made Beck laugh out loud, but it was fast and humorless and ended in “No.” A flat slap of a word. “You must think I’m a mewling idiot. Let Scholars and soldiers loose here to sabotage and destroy our city? I’d be better off trading you to the High Garda!”
That was exactly what they didn’t need to happen. Once the Great Library learned that Wolfe and his students had survived London and were trapped inside Philadelphia, Jess thought that would be a perfectly simple puzzle for the Archivist to solve: destroy the entire city. Kill them all in the process. Neat, and a dual benefit.
“Trading us to the High Garda wouldn’t get you as much as trading with my family,” Jess said, to head off the entire discussion. “I assume you know of my father. Callum Brightwell.”
He saw the exact second when Willinger Beck’s world shifted. The man’s eyes widened, blinked. In that moment, he didn’t look like a man who’d be good at any game that required a bluff. “Brightwell,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “Brightwell.” That last repetition was weighted by a heavy varnish of chagrin.
“I see you know of him,” Jess said. “I assume you work with smugglers to stay alive. Might be a mistake to get on the wrong side of one of the most powerful families for a stupid, preventable reason.”
Beck’s face went still, but red spots formed and burned high in his cheeks. Still, he wasn’t a rash sort. He thought it out. While he did, Jess glanced at Thomas, who had raised his eyebrows and now quickly lowered them again. Surprised? Worried? Hard to tell.
Beck gained control of his voice. It sounded smooth, but the tension underneath was as sharp as sharks. “I didn’t recognize the connection. I’m familiar with your illustrious father, and your very impressive brother.”
Of course you are, Jess thought. “My illustrious father and very impressive brother got sold down the river by your people in London,” he said. “My father won’t be in a good mood. And he won’t look kindly on any further insults toward his family.”
“I never heard that he had a son in Library uniform. I wonder, are you really still considered part of the family?”
That struck, and cut. Jess smiled to hide it. “Oh, Callum Brightwell knows full well I’m in this uniform. I can promise you, sending me to the Library was his plan.” Both those things were true. They didn’t quite add up to the sum of the parts, but Jess saw Beck reconsidering his stance.
Beck went for a cautious half measure and said, “He’s always been fair to us. Sympathetic, even. I think I can count on him to be consistent in his dealings with us, whatever your . . . situation.”
“My father values two things above all else: his business and his family. He considers the two the same. If you harm his son—or my friends—I can promise you that he’ll take that personally.”
Beck took his time thinking it over. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out, clasping his hands behind his back; with the soft light on his face, he looked like a flattering portrait of a statesman. Jess wondered if he’d done it for the effect. “I must do what is the best for my people, of course. Alienating the Brightwells might not be in their interest.”
“That’s good sense,” Jess said. He wasn’t averse to praising people when they said the bloody obvious, so long as it was in his favor. “My recommendation is to let me write and explain.”
Beck ignored that. He stared out for another long set of clock ticks and then turned to regard him and Thomas with a sudden smile on his face. Far too wide. Far too warm.
“No, I think that I will write to him. No doubt the fact you are in residence here will make him a stronger friend to Philadelphia. And of course, I welcome the construction of this machine you’re talking about. We can discuss some small privileges for your friends while you do the work.” He turned to Thomas then. “If that is acceptable to you, Scholar Schreiber?”