Contents

The Gutenberg Rubric

Sixteen

“DO YOU SOLEMNLY RENEW the oaths you took at your initiation and at your ascension to the first and second degrees of mastery?” Rolf asked. Keith answered with the required phrase and was led forward to kneel before the old man on the stone floor. The remainder of the ritual took place in an archaic German dialect with words that were over 500 years old. Keith was asked if he was worthy to ascend to the highest level of mastery and responded that if God willed he would achieve this degree

Keith stood and was led directly in front of the altar where he knelt again.

With Frank on one side of him and Rolf on the other, Keith was presented with the elements. The ritual was reminiscent of a Catholic Mass, and if the Guild’s lore was correct, Archbishop Dieter von Isenberg had been the first to administer this sacrament to the masters of the Guild, which at the time had numbered only Johannes Gutenberg and Peter Schoeffer. After the ritual blessing of the elements, Frank dipped a tiny fragment of parchment in a dish of printer’s ink held by Rolf. This he placed on Keith’s tongue. Keith swallowed and his mouth felt bitter with a strong metallic aftertaste of the ink. Half the ink’s ingredients were toxic by all current standards, but 500 years ago Newton was drinking straight mercury as a health tonic, so Keith figured he would survive a little lead, antimony, lampblack, and boiled linseed oil. Nonetheless, his stomach fought to keep its contents down.

“The sacred elements of alchemy are blended together in precise measure to create a durable new element that will withstand the pressure of a printing press. We call these hardened metals type,” Frank said. “But if the type is damaged and is no longer able to fulfill its purpose, it is cast back into the melting pot where it separates into its native elements.”

“May God so separate my body and soul if I am found unworthy for my task,” Keith responded. These were the words that gave the ritual its greatest power. Keith had committed himself to attaining the third degree no matter the cost. Now he would be given the task that might cost him more than the eye he struggled to compensate for tonight. The toll could be both mental and physical.

He was given a written set of instructions and examined the table before him. Frank and Rolf moved back to join the other members of the Guild against the wall with cowls pulled over their heads so that they all but disappeared against the bones that surrounded them. Keith felt alone in the room.

“Is there anything lacking on this table that you need to complete your task?” Frank asked. Before Keith, hot coals burned in a brazier. It was positioned just a few inches in front of the secret chest of Gutenberg that rested in the niche. According to the instructions, it was not to be moved during the ritual. Additional coal was in a basket at his side, as was a small bellows. On the table were various metals, a scale, crucibles for heating and mixing the metals, and a mold.

“All that is needed is here,” Keith responded formally. “I will assay the task.”

Keith had been honest with Maddie when he told her about creating an alloy with the same specific density as silver. But the task that was before him was far more sensitive than the typecaster’s art. Gutenberg’s secret alloy for lead type contained not only lead, but also tin and antimony. Primitive experiments in pouring hot metal type left gaps in the printing from some letters being smaller than others due to shrinkage while cooling. Unlike most elements, the highly toxic antimony has the property of expanding as it cools from molten to solid, not unlike water turning to ice. Its melting point is over 600°. Most people equated softness with a low melting point for metals, but the fact was that the melting point of lead was nearly 100° higher than that of tin. Like mixing silica with soda to make glass, mixing the three metals together changed the melting point of all three. The lead kept the type metal from being too brittle, while the tin made it more durable so it could withstand the pressure of the press without deteriorating. But antimony, expanding while the other elements contracted, provided the essential ingredient of dimensional stability so that each character of type was the exact same height. In front of Keith were other metal powders as well, including iron, copper, and zinc. Nothing in the instructions indicated what combination of elements he should use or how much of each. Keith had to determine the formula to fit the task he was given.

The test was to mix a perfectly dimensionally stable alloy, melt it, and forge it at exactly the right moment—all with the most primitive tools and measuring devices.

Nothing, of course, was as easy as it seemed. Metal type was exactly 23.33 millimeters or 0.9186 inches in height, known universally as “type-high.” Its size was measured in points, or approximately seventy-seconds of an inch and was as small as 9 or 10 points for most printing work. At that dimension, tiny dimensional imperfections might not be noticed as ink would make up the difference. The mold Keith had in front of him was easily five times that size, both in length and girth. The increased volume of the larger mold left less room for error and the conclusion of the task required that the result be stronger than lead type.

Keith could measure the elements all he wanted, but the real alchemy would happen only if he felt the proper proportions. He had to simply know when the brazier was the right temperature as he pumped the hand bellows gently across the coals. He had to blend the metals at the correct moment and stir them to make the alloy uniform. And he had to make enough of the mixture to fill the mold. Sweat was running down Keith’s face as he shrugged his arms out of the robe, which dropped, leaving him bare from the waist up, the bruises on his back still evident in the dim light. He reached across the brazier to add lead powder to the crucible and a stray thread from the bandage on his left hand touched the coals and flashed in flame. The fire-point for cotton is only 400° and Keith’s brazier was well over 600° already. For a moment it looked like his hand was on fire as he stripped the bandage off the injured hand and heard an involuntary gasp from Maddie in the shadows. He shook his head, trying to focus his one eye on the scale. It wasn’t correct. Keith lifted the beaker, felt its weight, and then added another half-scoop of antimony. He could not see the blue tinge that he expected with his one good eye. Seeing the colors of the metals as they heated—even the color of the coals—was critical to completing the task.

In frustration, Keith ripped the patch off his left eye and rubbed it softly. This time he heard both Frank and Maddie catch their breath as he struggled to see through the film across his eye. He reached into the bucket of water next to him and scrubbed his eye with it. Then he looked again. It wasn’t perfect, but he had better depth perception than he’d had before and he could see the color. He could at least reach for the elements or the crucible and know his hand was in the right place. He reached into the brazier with tongs and grasped the crucible, swirling the metals together in the pot and then quickly returning it to the coals so it would not cool prematurely. The volume of lead he was making was not unlike the amount that would be used to pour an average alphabet of lowercase letters, but it felt much heavier to Keith.

Every muscle in his neck and shoulders ached with tension as he lifted the crucible from the coals and poured the mixture into the mold. With the mold filled, Keith lowered the crucible and plunged the mold into the bucket of water, releasing the mechanism.

Into the water floated a key.

The third degree master is able to unlock the secrets of the Guild, Keith thought. He had not expected the interpretation to be so literal.

If his formula was correct and he had mixed the elements in the exact proportions and poured them into the mold at exactly the right moment, the key would be the perfect size and shape of the mold. If he had erred in his judgment and the metal had not retained its dimensional stability from molten to solid, the key would not open the lock on the chest. The alloy, though stronger than lead type, was not so durable as iron, so it would not take any extra degree of twisting in the lock without bending or breaking. It had to fit perfectly.

He plunged his arm into the water up to the elbow and clasped the key in his hand. This act, too, was carefully timed. A moment too soon and the key would still be hot enough to scar his hand. He felt the living metal with his flesh and drew it out of the bucket.

Keith read from the instructions again. “Each third degree master must forge his own key to the lock. At his death, the key is to be broken and melted. The key to the lock does not exist unless there is a master to wield it.”

There was still the final proof, however, and Keith began sweating anew as he read the instructions. He placed the crucible in which he had melted lead back into the coals, refilled it, and used the bellows to heat the fire. Lead melts at 621° Fahrenheit. Keith still bore the scar on his stomach where a streamer of molten lead from a jammed Linotype machine had hit him in the stomach from 20 feet away. But the instructions were very clear. It was the final test. He had to reach across the crucible of molten lead in order to reach the lock. He would have seconds in which to turn the key in the lock before the heat would become unbearable on his arm and he would have to withdraw or suffer burns over his entire forearm. If the key did not work at the first try, there would be no time to try again. Keith blew the bellows on the coals, and added more lead filings to melt. He examined the key carefully to be sure there was no excess metal at the seams in the mold. Satisfied that the edges were undetectable and that the metal in the crucible was molten, he closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and stretched out his hand.

There was a collective intake of breath in the chamber as Keith reached across the brazier and inserted the key in the lock. What was left of the hair on his arm singed away in an instant and Keith could feel the pain growing as he struggled to turn the key. Tears sprang to his eyes as he turned. It caught and stopped, then gently slid past the catch-point to release the mechanism. The lock popped open and the chains that bound the chest fell to the sides. He pulled the key from the lock and plunged his arm back down into the pail of water, craving relief from the burns up his arm.

Frank moved up behind Keith. Marya, a first degree master, quickly applied salve to Keith’s burned arm while two of the men brought candles close to Keith so Frank could see. Keith felt the cold swab of alcohol against the bare skin of his shoulder blade where his tattoo had been started with just an outline twenty years ago. Twice since then he had endured the cutting of the stylus into his skin as Frank applied more ink to the tattoo. Tonight would be the last time he would be marked in this way and he would know the final piece to the design begun at his first initiation. He bore the twin shields of Schoeffer and Fust, one filled with the traditional tools of the trade and the other still awaiting the final pieces. Keith would scarcely feel the final images being drawn in his current state and he would not see or be told what they were.

When Frank had finished the other Guild members looked at the artwork with approval. Even Maddie and Günther were brought forward so they could see the last engraving on Keith’s skin. Frank started it, but in an instant the entire room was applauding. Keith Drucker was a Third Degree Master Alchemist. Maddie rushed to him and began to examine his eye and his arm. A small amount of blood trickled from his eye like a tear, but Keith insisted that he could see. His arm was another matter. The skin was red and had already blistered in spots. Marya applied more of the salve.

“Burns are the most common injuries in a typefoundry,” Frank explained as Maddie watched and comforted Keith. When she asked for bandages, however, Marya said that the burn needed open air. Gauze would only stick to it and make it worse.

Keith was shaking and was still clasping the key in his hand. He looked at the unclasped chest and then appealed silently to his grandfather. Frank directed the brazier and other implements to be removed and clean towels were brought to the table. Then the chest was lifted from its alcove and set on the table. Battery-operated lights replaced the lanterns around the table and when Keith had equipped himself with the other tools of his trade—gloves, magnifying glass, and tweezers to lift fragile pages with—Frank directed everyone else to leave.

“Aren’t we staying to see the documents?” Maddie asked.

“The third degree master is the only one allowed in the room when the chest is opened,” Frank said. “He will decide what, if anything, in the chest we need to see or hear about.” He ushered Maddie out the door. Frank glanced back through the door at his grandson, still motionless in front of the chest, and then closed the door.

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