Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(100)

Not the recording device, he thought. There simply wasn’t enough there to exploit. What was left? Well, the automaton of Heron. The steam calliope that didn’t seem to work. Piles of treasure. He lifted his glow to reach to the far edges of the room, and froze.

The back wall was full of scrolls.

For a moment he forgot that this room was trying to kill him, because the wonder of it overwhelmed him. These were Heron’s writings, the secret works that he’d never shared with the Great Library. Things no one had seen. Discoveries that might well be greater than Poseidon rising from the sea. Valuable beyond anything else in this room.

Books were Heron’s real treasure.

He had to force himself back to the practical work of survival. You’ll never know what’s in them if you don’t live. That much was certain.

He said to the automaton, “Can you give me a clue?” It was worth a try.

The automaton was silent for a moment, and then it said, “What disappears when you say its name?”

Another riddle. Thomas barely checked a shout of frustration. The green mist was coiling up his legs now, nearly at his waist. If he was immersed in it, what would happen? How long would it take him to choke to death?

Fear, it seemed, was a wonderful focus lens, because the answer came to him almost immediately. “Silence,” he said. “Silence disappears when you say its name. But is silence the answer or . . .” He stopped, because now it was obvious. “No. Sound is the answer. But what sound? The calliope? It doesn’t work! I don’t have time to—” He broke into ragged, tearing coughs. This gas would disable him before it ever reached his face, he thought. He had to think.

He looked at the water clock to see how much time was actually left. By the amount of water that had drained into the reservoir, and the space left to fill, he could only have a few moments to—

It’s a water clock.

He lunged forward and took the mechanism from the automaton’s grasp. It released it easily—as if it expected him to make that motion. He looked at it from all angles and found an opening at the top that was fully sealed, which was why the water within it hadn’t evaporated over the ages.

He grabbed a tool from a rack nearby and dug into the seal until it broke, and revealed a hole the size of the tip of a finger.

Thomas grabbed a funnel from the array of tools and raced to the calliope. It took precious seconds to find the opening; he jammed in the funnel and had to stop for another bout of horrible, painful coughs. His mouth felt too wet, and he tasted bitter foam he couldn’t seem to swallow. The mist had risen to his chest now, a greenish sea of nightmares. His eyes burned and bled tears.

He had to have a steady hand to do this. He forced himself to be still and focus, and slowly poured the water from the clock into the funnel.

As soon as the clock was empty, he dropped it and slammed the lid shut. Now for the button, and then it would be done. A burner would ignite, heat the boiler; valves would release the steam in patterns and intensity to play the organ, and . . .

He couldn’t see the button. The calliope’s lower half was completely hidden in the mist, and it seemed to be rising faster now. His lungs hurt like they were filling with fire, and foam built in his mouth and nose, choking him. He could hear his strangled gasps, and his whole body was drenched in sweat.

His knees buckled. He grabbed for the steam calliope’s frame and felt the whole thing rock unsteadily on metal wheels. No, no, I can’t go down. If I do I’ll be dead. Once his head went below that mist, he wouldn’t survive.

Tears dripped down his face as he shut his eyes and once again summoned up focus. He’d seen this machine. He knew where the button was. Panic was blinding him, but he forced his mind to be still and show him what he needed to do.

The calliope drew itself in glittering lines in the pulsing darkness of his closed eyes, and there it was: the switch to flip the machine on. It was just a foot below the level of the mist.

He didn’t open his eyes as he reached out.

His fingers closed on it, and he flipped it from down to up.

He heard the boiler begin to heat. It would take some seconds for the chemicals around it to heat it to boiling. He tried holding his breath, but it hurt too much, almost as much as breathing. I am in a lake of fire, he thought, and burning from the inside out.

Heron’s automaton said, “Well done,” and Thomas heard the hiss of steam engaging. The calliope was starting.

He opened his eyes as the notes sounded. The same notes as in the crystal cavern, but played in a beautiful, lyrical dance.

The mist continued to rise. It was at his chin. He wasn’t going to make it out of this place.

And then there was a sudden, violent blast of cool air from somewhere above, driving down the mist, drying the tears on his cheeks. He turned his face up to it like it was the sun coming out from clouds, and tried to breathe. Even standing was too difficult now, and his knees failed him as the last of the gas was driven down into cleverly concealed metal vents that snapped closed.

He was on the floor. He didn’t remember falling.

The automaton looked down on him with an expression almost of sadness. “You have done well,” it said. “But your trial is not over. The gas will be fatal if you don’t retrieve the antidote.”

He coughed out a bitter mouthful of foam and rolled on his side to gasp, “Where?”

Heron’s automaton pointed to the far wall, the one with the scrolls. A section of the shelves slid open like a drawer. Thomas stared at it in despair. It was too far away, and he was too weak. The idea of standing again, walking again, seemed as remote as the moon.