Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore (21 page)

*   *   *

It takes longer than it should, but at last I’m finished and the pages of
PENVMBRA
are safe on the hard drive. More so than with
MANVTIVS
, I feel like I just accomplished something important. I snap my laptop shut, shuffle over to the place where I found the book—marked by
MOFFAT
’s remains on the floor—and slot the glimmering blue
codex vitae
back into place.

I give it a pat on the spine and say, “Sleep well, Mr. Penumbra.”

Then the lights come on.

I’m blinded and stricken, blinking and panicking. What just happened? Did I set off an alarm? Did I trigger some trap laid for overreaching rogues?

I claw my phone out of my pocket and swipe madly at the screen, bringing it back to life. It’s almost eight in the morning. How did this happen? How long was I circumnavigating the shelves here? How long was I scanning
PENVMBRA
?

The lights are on, and now I hear a voice.

When I was a kid, I had a pet hamster. He always seemed to be afraid of absolutely everything—permanently trapped and trembling. This made hamster ownership pretty much totally unpleasant for the whole eighteen months that it lasted.

Now, for the first time in my life, I empathize 100 percent with Fluff McFly. My heart is beating at hamster-speed and I am throwing my eyes around the room, looking for some way out. The bright lamps are like prison-yard spotlights. I can see my own hands, and I can see the pile of charred paper at my feet, and I can see the table with my laptop and the skeletal scanner set up on top of it.

I can also see the dark shape of a door directly across the chamber.

I sprint to my laptop, scoop it up, then grab the scanner, too—crushing the cardboard under my arms—and make for the door. I have no idea what it is or where it leads—to the canned beans?—but now I hear voices, plural.

My fingers are on the door handle. I hold my breath—please, please be unlocked—and I push it down. Poor tormented Fluff McFly never felt anything like the relief of that door giving way. I slide through and close it behind me.

*   *   *

On the other side, it’s all darkness again. I stand frozen for a moment, cradling my awkward cargo in my arms, my back pressed up against the door. I force myself to take shallow breaths; I ask my hamster-heart to please, please slow down.

There is the sound of motion and conversation behind me. The door is not set tightly into its frame of rock; it’s like one of those bathroom stalls that feels way too see-through. But it does give me the chance to set the scanner aside and flatten myself down on the cold, smooth floor and peek through the half inch of empty space beneath it:

Black-robes are flooding into the Reading Room. There are a dozen here already, and more coming down the steps. What’s going on? Did Deckle forget to check the calendar? Did he betray us? Is today the annual convention?

I sit up straight and do the first thing a person is supposed to do in an emergency, which is send a text message. No such luck. My phone flashes
NO SERVICE
, even if I stand on tiptoe and wave it up near the ceiling.

I need to hide. I’ll find a little spot, curl up in a ball, and wait until tomorrow night to slink out. There will be the issue of hunger and thirst, and maybe going to the bathroom … but one thing at a time. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness again, and if I beam my headlamp around in a wide circle, I can make out the shape of the space around me. It’s a small, low-ceilinged chamber packed with dark shapes, all interconnected and overlapping. In the gloom, it looks like something from a science fiction movie: there are sharp-edged metal ribs and long tubes that reach up into the ceiling.

I am still feeling my way forward when there’s a soft click from the door, which sends me back into hamster mode. I scuttle forward and crouch down behind one of the dark shapes. Something pokes me in the back and wobbles there, so I reach around to steady it—it’s an iron rod, painfully cold and slippery with dust. Can I whack the black-robe with this rod? Where will I whack him? In the face? I’m not sure I can whack somebody in the face. I’m a rogue, not a warrior.

Warm light falls into the chamber, and I see a figure framed in the doorway. It is a round figure. It’s Edgar Deckle.

He shuffles through, and there’s a sloshing sound. He’s carrying a mop and bucket, which he holds awkwardly with one hand while he feels along the wall. There’s a low buzz, and the room is bathed in orange light. I grimace and squint.

Deckle makes a sharp gasp when he sees me crouched in the corner, iron rod raised like some Gothic baseball bat. His eyes go wide. “You were supposed to be gone by now!” he hisses.

I decide not to reveal that I got distracted by
MOFFAT
and
PENVMBRA
. “It was really dark,” I say.

Deckle sets aside his mop and bucket with a clack and a plop. He sighs and wipes a black sleeve across his forehead. I lower the rod. I can see now that I’m crouched next to a huge furnace; the rod is an iron poker.

I survey the scene, and it’s not science fiction anymore. I’m surrounded by printing machines. There are refugees from many eras: an old Monotype bristling with knobs and levers; a wide, heavy cylinder set on a long track; and something straight out of Gutenberg’s garage—a heavy whorled block of wood with an enormous corkscrew poking out at the top.

There are cases and cabinets. There are tools of the printing trade laid out on a wide, weathered table: fat book blocks and tall spools of heavy thread. Under the table, there are lengths of chain piled up in wide loops. The stove next to me has a wide, smiling grille, and at the top, it sprouts a fat pipe that disappears into the chamber’s ceiling.

Here, deep beneath the streets of Manhattan, I have discovered the world’s weirdest print shop.

“But you got it?” Deckle whispers.

I show him the hard drive in its Bicycle box.

“You got it,” he breathes. The shock doesn’t last long; Edgar Deckle is quickly recomposing himself. “Okay. I think we can make this work. I think—yes.” He nods to himself. “Let me just take these”—he lifts three heavy books, all identical, up off the table—“and I’ll be right back. Stay quiet.”

He balances the books against his chest and goes back the way he came, leaving the light on behind him.

*   *   *

I wait and inspect the print shop. The floor is beautiful: a mosaic of characters, each in its own tile, each deeply etched. The alphabet at my feet.

There’s one metal case much larger than the rest. The top has a familiar symbol: two hands, open like a book. Why do organizations need to mark everything with their insignia? It’s like a dog peeing on every tree. Google is the same way. So was NewBagel.

Using both hands, I grunt and lift the case’s lid. Inside, it’s divided into compartments—some long, some wide, some perfectly square. They all hold shallow piles of metal type: stubby little 3-D letters, the kind you line up on a printing press to make words and paragraphs and pages and books. And suddenly I know what this is.

This is Gerritszoon.

The door clicks again and I whirl to look: Deckle stands there with his hand tucked into his cloak. I am briefly gripped with the certainty that he’s been playing dumb, that he’s betrayed us after all, that he’s been sent back to kill me now. He will do Corvina’s handiwork—maybe flatten my skull with the Gutenberg press. But if he’s bent on clerkicide, he’s putting on a good show: his face is open, friendly, conspiring.

“That’s the inheritance,” Deckle says, nodding to the Gerritszoon case. “Pretty great, huh?”

He strolls over as if we’re just hanging out here, deep beneath the surface of the earth, and reaches down to run round pink fingers through the type. He picks up a tiny
e
and holds it up to his eye. “The most-used letter in the alphabet,” he says, turning it around, inspecting it. He frowns. “It’s really worn down.”

The subway rumbles through bedrock nearby and it makes the whole room clatter. The Gerritszoon type clinks and shifts; there’s a tiny avalanche of
a
’s.

“There’s not very much of it,” I say.

“It wears out,” Deckle says, tossing the
e
back into its compartment. “We break letters but we can’t make new ones. We lost the originals. One of the great tragedies of the fellowship.” He looks up at me. “Some people think if we change typefaces, new
codex vitae
won’t be valid. They think we’re stuck with Gerritszoon forever.”

“Could be worse,” I say. “It’s probably the best—”

There’s a noise from the Reading Room; a bright bell clangs and makes a long, lingering echo. Deckle’s eyes flash. “That’s him. Time to go.” He gently closes the case, reaches around to the back of his waistband, and pulls out a folded square of black fabric. It’s another robe.

“Put this on,” he says. “Stay quiet. Stay in the shadows.”

BINDING

T
HERE’S A CROWD
of black-robes at the end of the chamber, down by the wooden dais—dozens of them. Is this everybody? They’re talking and whispering, pushing the tables and chairs back. They’re setting things up for a show.

“Guys, guys!” Deckle calls out. The black-robes part and make way for him. “Who’s got mud on their shoes? I see those prints. I just mopped yesterday.”

It’s true: the floor shines like glass, reflecting the colors on the shelves, beaming them back as pale pastels. It’s beautiful. The bell clangs again, echoing in the cave and making a harsh chorus with itself. The black-robes are forming up in front of the dais, facing a single figure, who is of course Corvina. I position myself directly behind a tall blond-haired scholar. My laptop and the crumpled carcass of the GrumbleGear are stuffed back into my bag, which is slung over my shoulder and concealed under my brand-new black robe. I pull my head down toward my shoulders. These robes should really have hoods.

The First Reader has a stack of books in front of him on the dais, and he taps them with sturdy fingers. They’re the books Deckle retrieved from the print shop moments ago.

“Brothers and sisters of the Unbroken Spine,” Corvina calls out. “Good morning.
Festina lente.
”

“
Festina lente
,” the black-robes all murmur in return.

“I have gathered you here to speak of two things,” Corvina says, “and this is the first.” He lifts one of the blue-bound books and holds it up for everyone to see. “After many years of work, your brother Zaid has presented his
codex vitae
.”

Corvina nods, and one of the black-robes steps forward and turns to face the crowd. The man is in his fifties, thickset under his robe. He has a face like a boxer, with a smooshed-down nose and splotchy cheeks. This must be Zaid. He’s standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back. His face is pinched; he’s trying hard for fortitude.

“Deckle has validated Zaid’s work and I have read his book,” Corvina says. “I have read it as closely as I know how.” He really is a charismatic dude—his voice has a quiet but irresistible confidence. There’s a pause, and the Reading Room is silent. Everyone is waiting for the First Reader’s judgment.

Finally, Corvina says simply, “It is masterful.”

The black-robes whoop and rush forward to embrace Zaid and shake his hands two at a time. Three scholars near me start belting out a song, which sounds like a for-he’s-a-jolly-good-fellow sort of tune, but I’m not sure because it’s in Latin. I clap my hands to fit in. Corvina raises a hand to quiet the crowd. They move back and settle down. Zaid is still standing up in front, and now he raises a hand to cover his eyes. He’s crying.

“Today, Zaid is bound,” Corvina says. “His
codex vitae
has been encrypted. Now it will be shelved, and the key will remain secret until his death. Just as Manutius chose Gerritszoon, Zaid has chosen a trusted brother to carry his key.” Corvina pauses. “It is Eric.”

Scattered cheers again. I know Eric. There he is in the front row, a pale face under a splotchy black beard: Corvina’s courier to the store in San Francisco. Black-robes are clapping him on the shoulders, too, and I can see him smiling, a bloom of color on his cheeks. Maybe he’s not so bad. That’s quite a responsibility, keeping Zaid’s key. Is he allowed to write it down somewhere?

“Eric will also be one of Zaid’s couriers, along with Darius,” Corvina says. “Brothers, come forward.”

Eric takes three sure steps forward. So does another black-robe, this one with golden skin like Kat’s and a tight cap of brown curls. They both unbutton their robes. Underneath, Eric is wearing his slate-gray slacks below a crisp white shirt. Darius is in jeans and a sweater.

Edgar Deckle also steps out of the crowd, carrying two wide sheets of thick brown paper. One at a time, he hoists a book from the dais, wraps it crisply, and hands the package off to a courier: first Eric, then Darius.

“Three copies,” Corvina says. “One for the library”—he lifts the blue-bound book again—“and two for safekeeping. Buenos Aires and Rome. We entrust Zaid to you, brothers. Take his
codex vitae
and do not sleep until you have seen it shelved.”

So I understand Eric’s visit better now. He came from here. He was carrying a fresh
codex vitae
, delivering it for safekeeping. And, of course, being a jerk about it.

“Zaid adds to our burden,” Corvina says gravely, “just as all the bound before him have added to it. Year by year, book by book, our responsibility grows heavier.” He swivels his gaze to take in all of the black-robes. I suck in my breath and scrunch in my shoulders and try to disappear behind the tall blond-haired scholar. “We must not falter. We must unlock the Founder’s secret, so that Zaid and all who came before him can live on.”

There’s a deep murmur from the crowd. Up in front, Zaid is no longer crying. He’s composed himself, and now his face looks proud and severe.

Corvina is silent for a moment. Then he says, “There is something else we must speak of.”

He gives a little wave with his hand and Zaid returns to the crowd. Eric and Darius head for the steps. I think for a moment about following them, but quickly reconsider. Right now my only hope is to blend in completely—to crouch in this shadow, not of normalcy, but of deep strangeness.