Gutenberg's Apprentice

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Book: Gutenberg's Apprentice Read Online Free PDF
Author: Alix Christie
Tags: Biographical, Fiction, Historical
bound securely with a length of twine. He laid a sheet of paper over these, and then a light wood frame containing a stretched length of vellum. He grunted as he shoved the whole tray underneath the dangling block. Fust winked, and Peter finally exhaled. He’d been holding his breath since he’d first stepped into that pit.
    Konrad grabbed the lever and yanked it full across the press. This action dropped the heavy weight onto the tray. There was a thud, and then a crashing, grinding sound; Peter felt the impact in his bowels. The process was repeated in reverse; the master spat into his hands and wiped them clean, then took the paper as the pressman peeled it from the letters. He frowned, mouth working; Peter peered over his shoulder as he turned. The text was clearly crooked. “Blind buggers,” Gutenberg muttered as he strode toward the workbench by the forge. Peter and Fust, forgotten, trailed behind. Despite himself, the scribe felt a stir of interest.
    Amid a mess of crucibles and cupels on the bench stood a wooden box, and next to this a row of long brass letter punches. These were the same as those used by bookbinders to press letters into leather spines. Square-cast metal hunks were scattered randomly around.
    “We use a mold.” Gutenberg stalked past the table. “An idiot could do it. Show them, Hans.” He went on toward the window and left them waiting for the older man. The smith plucked up a piece of metal, held it out to Peter between burned, misshapen nails. He was a wizened thing, all bent and brown. “I hear you know some’at of scripts,” he said, his eyes so hooded they were hardly more than slits. Peter nodded as he took it, weighed its heft: as thick as his own index finger, and roughly half as long. It bore the letter a , protruding in relief upon its tip, and had been cast out of some dense silver metal. He jiggled it and frowned.
    “We cast ’em in the box.” The old smith gestured at the flat, hinged casket. A basic mold, like those that Peter’d seen in Uncle Jakob’s shop—filled with fine sand that held an object’s shape for a brief time. Jewelers used them to make brooches, ring heads, and seals that later they would fix to pins or bands. And now they used them to make letters out of metal.
    Peter went around the bench and saw more letters—dozens, scores, all dully gleaming. A pile of a ’s and u ’s and m ’s, each one identical. He blanched and crossed his arms to hide his hands, afraid that they might tremble. He felt a dizziness, as if the ground had dropped away. Noise battered at his ears: he heard the furnace roar, the crude press crash, as if to rend in two the very fabric of the world.
    Gutenberg was standing in the mottled light of a small, dirty window, holding up the freshly printed sheet. Fust prodded Peter, and they gingerly approached. The man was frowning, fingers twisting at his lower lip. Though weak, the sun’s rays lit up every smear and imperfection. “Blind me,” he repeated, shaking his strange, hoary head, scowling as the two of them approached.
    Suddenly there was a gleam in his dark eyes. “You.” His head jerked. “You there, young scribe.” A thin, cruel smile flickered. “Let’s see what you advise.”
    Peter saw the smiths exchange a sidelong look. He took the paper sheet. The ink gave off a sweetish smell; he felt the strange raised welts the press had left on its reverse. He took a breath, willed his hands still, and held it up to focus on the printed lines.
    Which should he say—the truth or polite falsehood? He felt his father shifting at his side. He dipped the paper slightly, looked the bastard in the eyes. “Not bad. The letterforms are strong. Though I would say a bit too rounded.” He was a master scribe—he would not hide. “A thinner form, with finer spurs, might be more pleasing.”
    “Not bad!” The master’s laugh was caustic. He looked with hard, forced mirth around the room. “We forge these bloody letters in a
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