Not that they stayed in the Middle of the Middle for long. The Servants had kept climbing at a steady rate and they had gone through the second skylock an hour after the first. This passage was not marked by any combat, and indeed Arthur might not even have known they’d gone through it if it hadn’t been for Suzy calling out that she could see the hole in the sky.

The Top Shelf was warmer still, almost tropical. Arthur would have found it unpleasant, save that he had been so cold before, he welcomed any heat. But given that it was still night, he figured it must get very warm during its day, depending on what kind of sun or suns it had.

“I hope it’s soon,” shouted Suzy. “Can you see any­thing below?”

Since passing through the second skylock, the Servants had leveled off, lending hope that their destination was close.

“I espy campfires below,” called out Ugham. Arthur couldn’t see the Newnith or the Servants who carried him, but he sounded quite close. Craning his neck, Arthur looked around to see if he could pick up the campfires too, though all he’d previously spotted were a few stars high above. He’d watched them for a while to see if they moved, but they hadn’t.

“I see them!” shouted Fred. “Guess that’s Friday’s Dawn and the Gilded Youths.”

Arthur turned to where he thought Fred was flying and caught sight of a whole bunch of tiny twinkling orange-red lights below them and a mile or more ahead.

“What do they need campfires for?” shouted Arthur. “It’s hot up here and they don’t need to eat!”

“Tradition!” yelled Suzy. “Or tea, maybe. What’s a camp without a fire anyhow? Oh, I see other lights.”

Arthur squinted ahead. There were pallid white dots beyond and above the crescent-shape of the campfires.

“That must be Binding Junction,” called out Fred. “The High Guild’s headquarters.”

A minute later the Servants began to glide down, affirm­ing Fred’s guess. They swooped low enough above the camp to see the actual fires, passing only fifty feet or so above the many Denizens who were sitting or standing around them. Strangely, no alarm was raised or even any notice given to the outsiders’ appearance.

Perhaps they just don’t look up, thought Arthur. I guess they know the Winged Servants control the sky at night ....

Binding Junction lay ahead, a dim silhouette. As far as Arthur could tell, it was a fortress with four corner towers and one large central tower, or keep. The Servants were heading for this, and indeed almost before Arthur could prepare himself, he and his friends were being dropped on the battlements of this huge, square tower.

“Thanks,” grunted Arthur as he tried to stand upright. Every muscle and joint in his arms and legs ached, and it was very hard to straighten out.

The Servants bowed, and one of them—who might or might not have been One Who Survived the Darkness—rapidly signed at Fred. Then all of them were gone, off into the night, which Arthur now noted was tinged to the east with the first faint colorful hints of a rising sun.

“They’re in a hurry,” said Fred. “Daylight’s coming.”

Arthur nodded and stretched again, biting back a shriek of pain. Suzy had no such compunction and let out a series of yells as she massaged her own shoulders.

Arthur stopped stretching and looked around to see if the noise had attracted any unwanted attention. The bat­tlements were deserted as far as he could see. There was an open staircase in one corner, pale lamplight spreading from its entrance. Ugham was already there, looking down the steps.

“Guess we’d better go find a representative of the High Guild of ... what was it ... Binding and something else?” Arthur suggested.

“Restoration,” said Fred. “Remember, they’ve got a reputation for being tricky.”

“I only need them to supply a sorcerer to do one spell,” said Arthur. “We won’t be staying long.”

“What do you want the sorcerer to do?” Suzy asked as they started down the steps, Ugham leading the way with Arthur close behind. There were candles—or candle equivalents, since they looked the part but just glowed without a visible flame—stuck in iron sconces every few yards. There was also a shabby carpet tacked on the stone steps, which made the descent slippery and forced Arthur to concentrate for a few steps before he could answer.

“I want them to turn the speck of the Architect’s gold foil into a kind of compass,” he finally said. “To point to other bits of the same gold foil, which were used in the Will. Apparently something separated from a larger whole is still sorcerously part of the bigger lot. Scamandros told me about it.”

“So it will lead us to the Will?” asked Fred.

“I hope so.”

“But you could have done that with the Key,” said Suzy. “You don’t need a—”

She stopped talking suddenly. Arthur didn’t need to turn around to know that Fred had elbowed her in the stomach.

“If they can’t do it here, I will use the Key,” said Arthur quietly. “But not until then.”

“Someone comes!” warned Ugham. He pressed him­self back against the wall and leveled his spear, just as a

Denizen hurried around the curve of the stair, almost spit­ting himself.

“Oh!” exclaimed the Denizen, stepping quickly back down. He was over six feet tall and handsome, save for an oddly short nose and flat face, so he was probably quite important. This impression was aided by his black velvet robes, which were embroidered with a complex scene showing Denizens working a huge book press, ten times their own height. The embroidery was so fine it looked almost like an illustration printed on the fabric. He also wore a stiff paper hat like a bishop’s miter, though more triangular, its two longest edges marked like a ruler, with five divisions marked by strange numerals.

“Ugham,” said Arthur, with a gesture. The Newnith shortened his grip on his spear, bringing it back to his side, at the ready.

“I do beg your pardon,” said the Denizen. He bowed twice and wrung his ink-stained hands together. “Am I correct in assuming that I address Lord Arthur, Rightful Heir to the Architect?”

“Yes, I’m Arthur.”

“The High Guild welcomes you to Binding Junction, Lord Arthur.” The Denizen performed yet another (and even lower) bow, so low even his flattened nose almost scraped the steps above where he stood. “I am Master Binder Jakem, First Pressmaster, 1,000th in precedence within the House and, with the absence of Lady Friday’s Noon, in authority over the High Guild of Binding and Restoration. I apologize for not being ready to receive you when you alighted above, but we only just received word of your arrival—”

“Who from?” asked Suzy.

Jakem ignored her and continued. “But in any case, we naturally wish to do whatever we can to make your visit enjoyable. Perhaps you might like to take a tour of the presses? Or begin with a cup of tea in our ... though I say it myself ... charming executive tearoom?”

“A cup of tea would be good,” said Arthur. “But I haven’t got time to waste, so if along with a cup of tea you can provide your best sorcerer, that would be better still.”

“A cup and sorcerer, ha-ha!” replied Jakem.

Nobody laughed, and the Denizen’s hand-wringing increased.

“Just my little joke. Naturally, I am the most accom­plished of us in sorcerous arts, though I must confess in a somewhat narrow field related to our work. But please, follow me to the executive tearoom, and pray do tell me what it is that you require, Lord Arthur.”

Arthur explained what he wanted as Jakem led the way, out of the tower stair and along a stone-walled corridor that was hung with tapestries depicting Denizens sewing, gluing, and pressing books, as well as chiseling tablets of stone and casting type from molten metal, pre­sumably lead.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, Lord Arthur,” said Jakem. “Linking objects that were once together is a sim­ple matter of rebinding and falls within our purview.”

He opened a door and led the way down another cor­ridor, this one draped in white sheets like a painter’s drop covers. This white-wrapped passage led to a chamber whose walls were also draped with sheets, some of them splashed with paint. Apart from the drop cloths, the room looked very comfortable, with half a dozen armchairs richly upholstered in a plum-colored material adorned with pictograms in gold thread. Numerous cushions that together traversed the full spectrum of a rainbow were piled on the chairs, and in the middle there was a table carved from a single block of gold-flecked stone with a silver tray and tea service on it.

“The renovations are not yet complete!” said Jakem crossly. “I do apologize, Lord Arthur. Would you care to take tea in the Lower Common Room instead?”

“Here will do,” said Arthur. “Provided you fix up that spell on the gold leaf right away.”

“Of course, of course,” said Jakem. “Please, do sit down. Shall I pour?”

Arthur and the others sat down, save for Ugham, who stood between Suzy’s and Fred’s chairs. Jakem snapped his fingers and the teapot jumped and let forth a burst of steam. He then poured cups for everyone, handed the small cups delicately balanced on saucers around, took one him­self, and sat down on the chair nearest the corridor entrance.

“This is a special blend, imported from the Secondary Realms, not made in the Lower Reaches.” Jakem sniffed at the steam from his cup. “Ahh! Delightful. But I understand your impatience, Lord Arthur.”

He set the cup and saucer down on the arm of his chair and stood.

“I shall just fetch the few tools I need,” he said, quickly stepping back into the corridor. As he reached it, he shouted three words in an unknown language, words that Arthur felt vibrate in his chest. Words of sorcery and power.

With that shout, the white sheets whipped back to reveal open space, the real walls some twenty or thirty feet away. The ceiling above was also revealed as a huge slab of green-painted bronze, because it was the top plate of an enormous book press, with Arthur and his friends sitting right in the middle, on top of the bottom plate.

“Caught!” shouted Jakem, wringing his hands again, this time in glee.

“What are you going on about?” asked Arthur wearily. “We’ll just walk out.”

The press wasn’t moving, and though he couldn’t see directly above the plate, he could see one of the arms of the press about thirty feet up, with ten Denizens there standing ready to push the arm, walking around a circular gallery like an internal verandah. He knew there would be a giant screw above the plate and that by pushing the arms clock­wise or counterclockwise the Denizens could open or close the press. But it wouldn’t be a quick process.

“Not from the Architect’s own press, made for the bind­ing of very difficult things!” crowed Jakem. “And not when you’re drugged by ghowchem tea, for good measure!”

Arthur frowned and his hand fell to the Key at his side.

“The Key won’t help you either.” Jakem laughed. “Not if we press you very slowly, so it does not react to a sharp threat! We have had particular advice on that!”

Arthur frowned again. His arm did feel strangely heavy, and it was true that the Key was quiescent, not leaping into his hand or turning into its rapier form.

“Start the press down!” ordered Jakem. “Half-speed!”
Chapter Eighteen

“I had heard the High Guild was treacherous,” said Arthur.

He sat up straighter in his chair, which took considerable effort. It felt like he had a sack of cement tied to his chest and back.

“We are merely pragmatic,” said Jakem.

“And knowing that,” said Arthur, “I didn’t drink the tea.”

With a gasp, he stood up. The gasp was echoed by Jakem.

“I bet my friends didn’t either,” added Arthur. He wasted no effort by looking around as he said that, and he heard no answer. But even if they hadn’t drunk the tea, the others would probably be held silent and in place by the powers of the press.

“You can’t get up!” protested Jakem. “The press was made by the Architect! It has never failed to hold recalci­trants!”

“This was made by the Architect too,” said Arthur. He took a step and drew the Key, willing it to take its sword form. For a moment he thought it wouldn’t work, then the baton slowly lengthened and shimmered, transforming into a thin silver blade, the graceful quillons of the hilt wrapped around Arthur’s fist.

“Stop the press,” ordered Arthur. He took another step, directly towards Jakem. It hurt to walk, with every muscle in his legs, back, and arms feeling like they were being twisted by the fingers of a sadistic masseur. But he had kept going before, when he had no air to breathe, when only his determination kept him moving. This was only pain, not lack of breath.

“But you can’t!” protested Jakem. “You simply can’t be walking out!”

Arthur did not reply. He took another step and snarled with the effort. His arms and legs were shaking, but he forced himself on. Only four more steps and he would be clear of the base plate—and within striking distance of Jakem, if the Denizen didn’t flee.

“Perhaps we have been a little overhasty,” said Jakem. Three more steps.

“We were ordered to, you see,” said Jakem. “We have to follow orders.”

Arthur gritted his teeth together. It was only two more steps but he couldn’t lift his foot, it was just too hard.

Instead, he slid his right foot forward and let out a sound that to him sounded like a moan of pain, but to Jakem sounded like a growl of anger.