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  - EyesOnly

  Part One The Printer's Devil

  1

  Theo, by occupation, was a devil. That is, he worked as apprentice and general servant to Anton, the printer. Before that, he was lucky enough to be an orphan, for the town fathers of Dorning prided themselves in looking after their needy. So, instead of sending him away to a King's Charity House, where he would be made miserable, they arranged the same for him locally. He was farmed out first to a cooper, then to a saddler, and in both cases did badly. Accidentally, he had learned to read, which in some opinion spoiled him for anything sensible. Anton finally agreed to take in the boy and teach him his trade.

  Theo proved good at this work, and he and his master dealt very well with each other. Anton never whipped his devil, and Theo never gave him cause. Once thickset and muscular, Anton had begun sagging a little around the middle. His passion was his press, and he was forever fussing with it. Since he kept all the smudges for himself and his clothing, his pages came out spotless. He was, in fact, a fine craftsman. Scholars from the university at Freyborg had brought him treatises to print. The business dried up after the king appointed Cabbarus chief minister. By order of Cabbarus, official approval was required for every publication; even a text on botany was eyed with suspicion. Anton was reduced to turning out visiting cards for the gentry and billheads for the tradespeople. He was no worse off than other printers in Westmark. A number had been arrested, and some of them hanged. So, to that extent, he was considerably better off.

  As for Theo, he loved virtue, despised injustice, and was always slightly hungry. Apart from that, he was reasonably happy.

  One day in early spring, Anton went out on business, leaving his devil in charge. Theo cleaned and sorted letter blocks, finished his other chores by the end of the afternoon, and was ready to close shop when a dwarf came strutting in like a gamecock.

  A riding coat swept to the little man's boot heels, an enormous cocked hat perched on the side of his head. He stood, hat included, no higher than the middle button of Theo's jacket. In swagger, he took up more room than half a dozen taller men.

  Theo was glad to see any size of customer, but before he could wish him good-day or ask his business, the stranger went peering into the ink pots, rattling the wooden cases, fingering the stacks of paper, and squinting sidelong at the press.

  At last he stopped, hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat, and declared, in a voice half bullfrog, half bass drum, "Musket!"

  Theo, bemused, could only stare. The dwarf snapped his fingers.

  "Musket! That's my name."

  The dwarf shook his head impatiently, as if Theo should have known without being told, then waved a hand around the shop. "You're the only printer, I suppose, in Upper Dismal or whatever you call this place?"

  "Sir," began Theo, "to tell you the truth."

  "Don't."

  "What I mean is I'm not the printer. I'm only his devil."

  "You're a big one, then. I'll say that much for you," replied Musket. "You'll do. You'll have to."

  The dwarf whipped off his hat, loosing a burst of ginger-colored hair, reached into it, and pulled out a number of closely written scraps of paper. He tossed them on the counter.

  The pages, from what Theo glimpsed, were the draft for some sort of tract or pamphlet.

  "To be printed up. And nicely. No cheap-jack work. It's for Dr. Absalom. He's world-famous. You've heard of him."

  Theo admitted he had not, adding that he had never been out of Dorning.

  The dwarf gave him a look of pity. "A grown lad like you? And never away from this hole-and-corner? You aren't much in the swim of things, are you?"

  Musket now turned his attention to the pamphlet.

  Tapping his thumb against his fingers, he began rattling off the number of copies, the size, the quality of paper the world-renowned Dr. Absalom insisted on.

  The little man was talking about more work than the shop had seen in a year. Theo began calculating in his head how much it would all come to. Musket spared him the trouble by offering his own price, a handsome one, better than handsome. Theo's heart sank at what he heard next.

  "Needed tomorrow," said Musket. "First thing."

  "Tomorrow? We can't. There's not enough time."

  "Take it or leave it. Tomorrow or not at all." The dwarf rocked back and forth on his heels.

  Theo's mind raced. He could not bring himself to turn down such a piece of business. With a master craftsman like Anton, the two of them working all night at top speed, it was possible, though barely so. But the decision was Anton's to make. Theo had never promised work on his own.

  "What's it to be, then?" demanded Musket. "You'll have it. By noon."

  The dwarf shot a finger at him. "Nine." Theo choked a little. "By nine."

  "Done!" Musket clapped on his hat and made for the door. "I'll be here to fetch them."

  Theo had not a moment to waste. Anton would be overjoyed-or furious at him for making promises he could not keep.. From the first days of his apprenticeship, Anton had taught him that his word, once given, must be counted on. As soon as Musket had gone, Theo began studying the scraps of paper to see how best he could arrange his work.

  Dr. Absalom, he read, boasted powers of magnetism, hypnotism, and the secret of eternal youth. He also offered to cure, at a modest fee, warts, gout, gall stones, boils, and every other ailment afflicting humankind.

  It was rubbish, written surely by Dr. Absalom since only an author could have such a good opinion of himself. Theo had read every book in his master's storeroom: law, science, natural philosophy. Unschooled, he was awed by the learned professors at Freyborg. He could imagine what they would say of the self-styled doctor. Nevertheless, the dwarf had come bursting in like a wind from a world beyond anything Theo knew. He was fascinated in spite of himself and half-believing. His common sense nagged at him. He ignored it.

  When Anton came back it was past nightfall. Theo was still at the type case. He had stopped only to light candles. His hand darted over the maze of wooden pigeonholes, snatching up letter after letter and dropping the pieces of type into the composing stick in his other palm. The scrape of Anton's boots on the plank flooring startled him. He left off and hurried to greet the printer, who was wearily shedding his coat.

  Anton's face, usually cheerful, was gray and pouchy. Theo, full of his good news, decided that keeping it for dessert would make it all the better, and offered to heat a pot of lentils for his master.

  "No, no thank you, lad. I lost my appetite at the notary's. I stopped to remind him of the small matter of his unpaid account. He let me cool my heels while he ate a hot supper. Then he swore if I troubled him again he'd have the law on me."

  "He can't. The law's on your side. It says so in Wellek's Legal Commentaries. You know that. You printed it yourself."

  "That was before Cabbarus. Books are one thing; how the world goes now is another."

  "King Augustine must have been out of his wits," retorted Theo, "taking Cabbarus for achy kind of minister, let alone the highest in the kingdom."

  "Out of his wits? Yes, with heartbreak, losing the princess and not another child since then. And that's six years gone. Queen Caroline faced up to it better than he did. Mores the pity, he could have been a good king."

  "I can understand it broke his heart. Th
e one to blame is Cabbarus," said Theo. "He's the one who speaks for the king. No, he does worse than speak. He lays down the law, if you can call it that, for there's no justice in it. He has every printer in Westmark by the throat. Well, I wish I had him by the throat. I wish somebody would."

  "Enough," said Anton. "I don't want to hear that sort of talk. I taught you better than that. Oh, I'll stand up for what's right. And heaven help whoever lays a finger on my press, for he'll have me to deal with. But neither you, nor I, nor anyone can judge whether a man's fit to live or die."

  Theo grinned at him. "That's from De Rerum Justitiae. I've been reading it." Anton chuckled. "Well then, you know as much as I do. Is that how you spend your time when I'm out of the shop? I suppose you could do worse. What are you up to now? I saw you pegging away, but there's no work on hand."

  Theo could no longer hold back his news. "There is. It might even be too much." He quickly told Anton what had happened. Instead of reproaching him, Anton brightened instantly.

  When he saw how far Theo had already gone with the task, he clapped him on the back and seized an ink stained apron.

  "Good lad! I couldn't have managed it better. We may break our backs, but we'll finish in time to suit this fellow Muskrat or whatever he calls himself."

  He bustled around the shop, putting out iron frames, blocks, and wedges so as to have all at hand. Theo hurried back to his typesetting and soon lost track of the hours, not even hearing the town clock. Anton, flushed and inky, readied the press. Well before dawn, they began drawing proofs of the first pages.

  Theo had picked up a sheet of paper when a battering at the door startled him. He thought, first, that Musket had come for his work sooner than promised; but the pounding was more violent than the dwarf, with all his impatience, could have produced.

  He ran to the front of the shop. As he did, the door splintered, burst from its hinges, and crashed inward. Two men in uniform shouldered past him.

  2

  They were field militia. He recognized the green tunics and white cross belts. Without thinking, he flung up his arms to defend himself. One of the soldiers, at this movement, swung the butt of his musket and drove it into Theo's ribs. The blow doubled him up. He fell to his knees, clutching his belly, gagging at the pain. The man who struck him glanced down briefly: without malice, without curiosity, as if he found Theo an uninteresting specimen of livestock.

  A third figure had stepped into the shop. Clean shaven, cloaked in dark gray, he wore a tall hat with a curved brim. He could have passed for a merchant or councilor. The militiamen stiffened to attention.

  Anton was shouting and brandishing his ink dauber. The officer paid no heed. He halted in the middle of the shop. In a voice saturated with boredom, having, made the same declaration so often that he knew it by rote, he informed Anton that all printing establishments were now, by Royal Warrant, subject to inspection.

  "With the view," he went on, "to discover unlawful publications and criminal conduct."

  When it dawned on Anton what the officer was reciting, he burst out laughing. "Unlawful? Criminal? I'll tell you what's criminal here. Lack of business!"

  The printer was red-faced and sweating. The officer looked him up and down with distaste, then strode to the worktable. He picked up one of the sheets and scanned it.

  "Who is this Absalom? He's a fraud on the very face of it, and who knows what more underneath. We'll have a closer look at him. And you, too." He folded the page and slipped it under his cloak. "Is this the sort of trade you favor?"

  "If I only did what suited me I'd starve to death," retorted Anton.

  "I'm a printer, not a judge."

  "Quite so," said the officer. "In which case, show me the license for this publication, and whatever else you've been doing."

  Anton glanced at Theo, who just now had struggled to his feet. "Ah-as for that."

  "We'll have it this morning," Theo broke in, "as soon as the town clerk opens his office."

  "Will The officer raised his eyebrows you, indeed? You admit, however, that in fact you have none at present."

  "The customer came late in the day," said Theo.

  "The office was closed. He needed his work done. There was no other way."

  "Except," said the officer, "to break the law. Very well. The case is clear enough." He nodded curtly to the soldiers and made a gesture toward the press. "Take it down."

  "No!" cried Theo. "That's not right! We're not criminals."

  Anton stared in disbelief. The militiamen slung their muskets and took hold of the press, straining to topple it. The printer's hesitation lasted barely a moment. As the two laid hands on his press, Anton threw himself on them. He thrust his dauber into the face of the closer militiaman. The soldier, under the force of the blow, pitched into a corner, stunned. Anton dropped his makeshift weapon and grappled the man's comrade by the cross belt.

  The soldier broke free. Theo ran to help his master. From the tail of his eye, he saw the officer reach under his cloak and bring out a pistol, aiming at the raging printer.

  One of the iron frames lay on the worktable. Theo seized it and swung it upward. The iron twisted in his grasp, flew slantwise, and struck the officer on the side of the head. The man grunted and went down. The pistol discharged into the floor.

  The soldier in the corner sat up, trying to rub the ink from his eyes. His comrade hastily pointed his musket at Theo and fired. The shot went wide; the bullet splintered one of the type cases.

  Theo scarcely heard either explosion. He could not turn away from the officer sprawled on the floor. The man's hat had rolled under the table. His face had gone slack, mouth open; he was bleeding from the nose, the trickle making a crimson spider web across his cheek.

  The militiaman fumbled his reloading and cursed. Theo stood rooted. Anton was bawling at him; the words reached his ears from a distance. He understood none of them.

  Next thing he knew, Anton was shoving him out the door. He found himself running over the cobbles, legs pumping mechanically. The printer pushed him along whenever he faltered. They plunged into the shadows of an alley.

  Theo was asking over and over if the man was dead. Anton did not answer, laboring for breath. They ran on, turning from one street into the next. Anton halted and put out a hand to steady himself against the side of a building.

  "Out of wind," he gasped. "You-get clear of this." He made a movement with his head. "That way. I'll take the other street. We've a better chance if we separate."

  Theo's mind was still in the print shop. It took him a few moments to grasp what his master was telling him. The clatter of boots grew louder behind them.

  "Get out!" Anton took Theo by the collar, spun him around, and sent him stumbling across the alley in the opposite direction.

  By the time Theo turned back, the printer had vanished. Theo lurched after him, then stopped, uncertain which street Anton had taken. There was a flash, the crack of a shot. He ran blindly ahead.

  He had lived all his life in Dorning, but the town had suddenly changed. He recognized nothing. Houses loomed that he had never seen before. He tried to sight the clock tower. He followed one street that appeared familiar. It ended in a blind alley which should not have been there. He doubled back in panic.

  The marketplace opened in front of him. How he had reached it, he had no idea; but he knew at least where he was. The Crown Inn was on his left, at the near side of the square. He ran toward it, thinking vaguely that he might hide in the stables. The inn yard gates were bolted at this hour. He glanced behind him and saw no one. He leaped up, gained a handhold, and swung himself over.

  The windows of the inn were dark. Theo raced across the yard into one of the sheds. A lantern hung on the wall, but there was no sign of Bodo, the stable man. He could not guess whether the fellow was snoring away somewhere or likely to appear at any moment. Theo had no plan except to rejoin Anton as soon as he collected his wits and his heart stopped pounding.

  A high-wheeled coach
stood at the back of the shed. He saw no better hiding place, went to it, and turned t he door handle. It was unlocked. He flung it open and clambered in. Before he could pull the door shut, a figure popped up like a jack-in-the-box. A cannonball hurtled into his middle and jolted him against the seat. The cannonball was a head attached to a body that seemed to own more than the usual number of arms and legs, all of which were pummeling him at the same time. An instant later he found himself nose to nose with and staring into the indignant face of the dwarf.

  3

  "The devil!" cried Musket, in exasperation more than recognition. His eyes, pink with sleep, batted furiously. Shirt unbuttoned, neckerchief askew, he showed nothing of his afternoon jauntiness. "I thought you were a burglar. What are you doing in my coach?"

  "They tried to smash our press," blurted Theo, too caught up in his own distress to be surprised at the sight of his onetime customer. "They were going to arrest us."

  "You're in trouble with the law?" Musket squinted at him. "Well, don't put us in the same pickle, whatever it is. Out! Off with you!"

  "Please-let me rest. I don't know what to do. My master's out there somewhere. They're after him. They'll be after Dr. Absalom, too."

  The dwarf had been making every effort to push Theo out of the coach. Hearing this, he stopped abruptly.

  "Sit there," ordered Musket. "Don't leave."

  The dwarf pulled on his boots, tumbled from the coach, and scurried across the yard toward the inn house.

  Alone, Theo tried to set his thoughts in order. He cursed himself for not following Anton and again for not finding him. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, only to see the officer's ashen face.

  Musket was back. At his heels, a bulky figure was hastily cramming a shirttail into his breeches.

  Theo climbed out of the coach. "Dr. Absalom?"

  The paunchy man shook his head. He had the plump features of an oversized baby with a ferocious black mustache. "I should say I am at your service, but more likely you shall be at mine. I am Count Las Bombas."