Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(73)

It would have taken someone with his practiced eye to see it, but once seen, it was unmistakable. If this had been smugglers, or even collectors, he might have kept all this to himself . . . but not this time. This time, they were looking for Burners, and whether they’d invested in a printing press or not, they were still enemies.

As Jess considered his next step, he heard a soldier report back. “We’ve been through every room, Captain. Nothing suspicious. No one here.”

“They’re here,” Jess said. “You just can’t see them.”

The new captain turned slowly to stare at him. “Meaning what? That they’re invisible? Ghosts? Speak sense.”

For answer, Jess reached out and tipped the book, then back in.

They all heard the click. Soldiers fanned out, but Jess didn’t move. He knew where it was. No point in helping them, though. They’d surely work out that this house didn’t have space for any hidden rooms of any size.

Not unless they were below.

He bent and pulled back the rug. Even with the cover gone, it was cleverly done; the sides of the trapdoor were almost invisible, flush with the wooden floor. There was one piece of wood of an odd size, as if it had been added as a replacement or fit; he pushed on it, and one end flipped up to form a handle.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

The captain formed up the troops and then gave him a brisk nod.

He pulled the trap up in one fast motion, and the soldiers plunged down the steps. They went quietly, and the quiet remained for two or three heartbeats . . . until the sound of shots exploded. Shots, cries, shouts, screams. Flashes of light. Jess stepped back as the battle intensified and the sharp smell of gunpowder and blood hit the air. He had no High Garda armor, and putting himself in the thick of it would do no one any good. Besides, it seemed from the slowing gunfire that he wasn’t needed.

In the brief pause between one spate of shouting and the next, he heard the unmistakable soft click of another latch being released.

Jess stepped back, careful to be as silent as he could, and angled to see into the next room. A bedroom, with a small, flat bed that was swinging silently upward. Clever. He had no weapon, but he took a heavy soapstone statue of Horus from the bookcase and waited.

The Burner who emerged stopped and took a bottle from her pocket. Greek fire, sloshing in her shaking hand. She shouted, “A life is worth more than a book, you Library ghouls!” and tossed it down the steps. Jess heard it shatter and knew the captain would order her people back out through the other trap.

The Burner turned to run and saw him blocking her path.

She was older than he was, but not by much. A year, maybe two. African extraction, with a sharply triangular face and skin as dark as burnished ebony.

And she didn’t hesitate to attack.

He saw her lunge and draw the knife at her belt in the same motion, and he used the statue to deflect the stab that would have surely gutted him. “Stop!” He tried to keep it as low as he could. “Stop, I’m not your enemy!”

She didn’t believe him, and why would she? He’d come here with the High Garda. And, truthfully, he was no friend of the Burners, either. She came at him again with the knife, and this time she scored a shallow cut along his ribs with it before he swung the statue and connected hard with her head.

She dropped. Not out, but not conscious enough to escape, either, and now it was too late even if she’d had a planned exit; High Garda troops were coming up through the other trapdoor at a run, and the captain spotted him. “You! Brightwell! With me! You two, get that Burner and put her in with the rest we’ve got.”

Jess set the statue down and went to the captain as the Burner was dragged to the front door and out toward the troop carriers. More of her companions were being led up or carried from the rooms below. Jess counted a dozen of them before the last was out, and the captain grabbed his shoulder and shoved him toward the steps.

“I’m not going down there,” Jess said. “She’s thrown Greek fire.”

“It’s out,” she said. “We have suppressant. Go on. I need your expert opinion on what I’m looking at down there.”

“Expert?” he asked, brows arched. “Really?”

“Shut up and move.”

He descended carefully. The room was smoky but lit by still-burning glows, and though the acrid, thick mist made him cough, it didn’t seem to be actively dangerous. The ceiling was higher than he’d expected; it had taken a lot of work to dig out this large room. Multiple exits, too. He spotted at least three other trapdoors, all open. “Did anyone get away?” he asked.

“We don’t think so, but it’s possible,” said one of the other soldiers. “There’s a tunnel in the back we’re following. This place is a warren. It’s dug under half the houses on the block.”

Including Red Ibrahim’s? No, not bloody likely. He’d avoid that, at all costs. And what possible alliance could he have with Burners?

But he knew the answer to that the instant his eyes fixed on the structure that had been built in the center of the room. It was crude, and poorly aligned, but the plan of it was familiar. Stacks of raw paper sat against the walls, ready for pressing. Jess thought of the flyer he’d used as notepaper to send to the Spanish ambassador. It had almost certainly come from this press.

“You know what it is?” the captain asked. “It seems to be some kind of . . . ink machine.”