Gutenberg's Apprentice by Alix Christie

He squared his shoulders and turned to the archbishop. “A new invention, by your leave. A great technique born in the golden city of the Mainz archdiocese.” He held the grammar up as if it were a chalice until the archbishop reached out his hand.
    “With this technique, Your Grace, I can make many copies of a book, each one identical.” Dietrich took the little volume and laid it open on his knees. “This is a grammar—as you see.”
    Gutenberg glanced at Peter and mouthed silently, The leaf . Peter dug into his pouch and produced the Donatus page. “If I might approach?” the master asked, and Dietrich nodded.
    Gutenberg stepped on the dais, raised the printed leaf, and laid it next to the same page, bound now into a book. “As you can see, there is not a single difference you’ll detect—and most of all no slips or errors, as we encounter all too frequently from scribes.”
    Dietrich peered; his pale and bulging eyes moved slowly back and forth. “So it would seem.” His face remained impassive, but Peter thought he saw a look of shock, or at the very least surprise, in those veiled eyes. The archbishop beckoned Rosenberg, and Gutenberg resumed his seat.
    They sat on tenterhooks as those two whispered, Rosenberg intent, explaining something. The consultation seemed to stretch from minutes into hours, or maybe it was just the slowing down of time in that long moment in which Peter understood. They all knew—every one of them—while he and the whole crew had been locked down. The master had kept shooting off his mouth, while they’d been sworn to silence. Gutenberg sat there with his head high, and Peter felt a blaze of fury on behalf of Fust. His father had a fortune riding on this secret, which apparently was not as secret as he thought. Doubtless Gutenberg had waved the little book at half the Elder clans in Mainz in search of funds, Peter thought, before he’d seduced Fust.
    Finally the master started fidgeting. He did not like to wait. His mouth worked until he said beneath his breath, “The psalm.” In the rustling that ensued as Peter drew it out, the archbishop and his vicar both looked up.
    “I hoped”—the master smiled, a little sheepishly, and stood, the psalm secreted in his hands behind his back—“that with my new technique I might be of some service to you too.”
    He spread the double sheet on which the scribe had written out the canticles of Moses and Isaiah, in sharp black letters with two blazing gold and red initials. “It seems to me,” he smiled, “the pope would be well pleased with this technique. A little gift made in this way in your archdiocese—a fine pontifical in gauge of your respect and love, and by the way, a nice distraction from the tithe.”
    Dietrich opened his pink mouth and smiled. “You never cease to surprise me, Johann.”
    “I learned my lessons well.” As all men knew, the pope required a tenth part tithe from every diocese to fund his Jubilee. The rumor was that Dietrich refused, along with the archbishops of Cologne and Trier.
    “And for the love I bore your godfather”—the archbishop smiled—“I might agree.” He waved at Rosenberg to take the sheet. “But there’s another task we must consider first.”
    The master tensed and waited.
    “You’ve heard perhaps that there are new monks at St. Jakob’s.” Dietrich sat back, tenting his white hands. “There is a push among the Benedictines for reform.” There was no movement in the room beyond the scratching of the scribe as they all waited for him to make his meaning clear. “Reform, of course, is something everyone supports.” He smiled blandly. “And so we ought to do our best to help this new congregation.” He signaled Rosenberg to carry on.
    “His Grace has authorized a revised missal, which some among the Benedictines feel essential,” the vicar started. “A new and standard text based on a strict interpretation of the Rule, replacing all the variations that have sown