Gabriel put a hand on the door. He grinned at Aubrey, showing a bad tooth. 'Your task awaits you.'
Gabriel's silent friends were behind Aubrey and George. Aubrey sized up the moment. He was sure he and George could escape, but it would ruin their chances with the Sons of Victor. No, they were committed to going through with whatever ordeal Gabriel had planned for them.
His heart pounded as he crossed the threshold and stared down a short flight of stairs into the room below. The only light came from the door behind him and through cracks in the boards covering the windows, so the room was a pit of shadows. He took a deep breath and descended into the unknown.
Carefully, arms extended, Aubrey kicked aside loose paper that was strewn on the floor. The place was damp and he was sure it would smell of mildew – if he could smell. In the middle of the room, he strained to make out a large shape, as tall as George, unmoving and ominous. He tensed at movement, but it was only Gabriel lighting a match, then an oil lamp, and Aubrey sighed with relief when the darkness rolled back.
'A printing press,' George said without enthusiasm.
'This is your challenge,' Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together.
Aubrey had skinned many knuckles on printing presses during his father's helter-skelter election campaign. He ran his hand along the guide rail. It came away dusty.
Aubrey sighed. 'It's a Woolley Imperial. Made in Albion.'
'You are familiar with this machine?' Gabriel said. 'Good. We need handbills. Many handbills. Lutetia must be carpeted with our handbills.'
Aubrey took off his hat and jacket. He looked for a place to hang them but gave up and dropped them in a corner. Something stirred and ran away under the paper, squeaking. Aubrey reminded himself to check his clothes when he picked them up again.
'This is our task?' George asked. 'To make handbills? That's all?'
'Hah!' Gabriel smiled nastily. 'You think that working the Beast is easy? You're more stupid than you look.'
Aubrey watched George. His friend nodded, slowly, and Aubrey knew he was making special note of Gabriel's face. For later.
Two hours later, Aubrey understood how the printing press had earned its nickname. His shirt was soaked with sweat and he had ink stains up to his elbows. George had a nasty gash on the back of his hand where a retaining bar had, without warning, snapped back into place while he was adjusting a platen head. They had not managed to print a single handbill.
Aubrey was struggling. His thumb was still bleeding, despite his twice rebinding the wound with fresh handkerchiefs. His knees, elbows and shoulder joints were spots of hot pain, as if someone had filled them with powdered glass.
Gabriel left after half an hour's gloating, taking one of his comrades with him and leaving the other to supervise. This consisted of sitting on a bale of paper, picking teeth, grunting and refusing any requests for help.
The door opened. Aubrey straightened from tightening a roller nut, ready to explain their meagre output.
'Fitzwilliam! My friend! What are you doing here?'
'Hello, Saltin.' Aubrey was glad of the distraction. He wiped his face with a weary hand. 'I was wondering the same thing.'
The airman was reassuringly unharmed. 'I am here to help my friends in their struggle for a free Marchmaine.'
'Isn't that a little . . . well . . . dangerous? For someone in your position?'
'Nonsense. When does a citizen of Gallia fear to speak his mind? The revolution was fought for such freedoms!'
George scratched his chin. 'But you don't want to be part of Gallia any more.'
Saltin was puzzled for a moment, then brightened. 'But the enlightened state of Marchmaine will naturally share the same values as revolutionary Gallia. It is the only truly modern way.'
Aubrey looked at his supervisor, who hadn't moved. 'I think it's time for a break, wouldn't you say?' He repeated it in Gallian and earned a grunt in reply. This time, he chose to interpret it as a positive grunt rather than a negative one. He sat on one of the boxes of useless spare parts that George had hauled from one of the back rooms. George sprawled on another, but Saltin remained standing.
'What about last night?' Aubrey said to Saltin.
The airman's face fell. 'The AT 204. It was almost totally destroyed. Months of work, gone.'
'AT 204? I thought the 200 was your most advanced airship.'
Saltin grinned. 'The 200 is a wonderful craft, but the 204 is going to be even better.' His face fell. 'Was going to be even better.'
'Who do you suspect?'
Saltin spread his hands. 'I have no shortage of suspects, but no evidence to speak of.'
'It wasn't a magical attack. I can assure you of that.'
'Ah. That is good to know. When I left the airfield, the Bureau had been there for some hours. They said the same thing, but they were puzzled by what they called magical traces on the other side of the hangar. When I told them about the bear, they were most excited.'
They would be. 'What about your airship development program?'
'It has been damaged, severely. We have a dozen craft that are airworthy, with another three under repair. These are all serviceable, but they lack the refinements we were working on for the AT 204.'
Aubrey mentally translated the word 'refinement' to mean 'armament'. He had no doubt that the new generation of Gallian airship was being planned with the impending war in mind. Which, of course, made the Holmlanders the obvious suspects.
'I'd love to help you,' Aubrey said, 'but . . .' He gestured at the printing press. It looked smug and Aubrey glared at it.
'Ah!' Saltin exclaimed. 'The Beast! That is why I have come!'
'You know this thing?' George asked.
'We are old foes.' The airman took off his cap and jacket. He folded them on a bale of paper and rolled up his sleeves. 'Let us face the enemy together, as our treaty demands, Gallia and Albion as allies!'
Saltin pressed their supervisor into service. He sulked while he cranked the machine, but his shoulders were well suited to the task. He tolerated no nonsense from the printing press, either. A snarl and kick from him did wonders, where Aubrey's careful adjustments had failed.
It took another hour, but eventually they stood back, exhausted, with a working printing press.
Gabriel came back alone, with paper-wrapped lunch, in time to see handbills emerging from the maw of the Beast. They were clear, well trimmed and presentable. Gabriel gave the lunch parcels to Saltin and slapped Aubrey on the back. 'You are one of us, now. Free Marchmaine!'
'Free Marchmaine,' Aubrey and George echoed.
Gabriel's other comrade slipped in, slamming the door behind him and cursing.
'Dumont!' Gabriel said. 'What is it?'
He spat on the floor. 'A soulless one. In the street.'
Aubrey wiped his hands together. His knuckles hurt. 'Are the police on their way?'