Master Kael seized the wooden mallet and the beveled hickory shooting stick, moving around the four corners of the iron chase with rapid, rhythmic blows: CLACK, CLACK. The wooden quoins wedged tight against the iron frame. It locked the two thousand single lead letters into a single, rigid printing form that rang like a solid block of bell-metal when tapped with a knuckle.
“Ink the form!” Kael ordered.
Apprentice Olla took the two leather ink-balls, dipped them into the black mixture of boiled linseed oil and vine-lampblack on the ink-stone. Then they began rocking them across the surface of the type with a steady, circular motion. The black varnish caught the raised gothic faces with a wet, hissing rasp, turning the dull gray lead into lines of glistening, razor-sharp jet.
Kael laid a sheet of heavy, damp linen-rag paper onto the paper-tympan, lowered the parchment-covered frisket to protect the white margins. Then it spun the iron crank to roll the bed beneath the heavy bronze platten.
“Pull, Sile!” Kael barked.
Sile Rook stepped forward, planted his heavy cart driver boots against the oak floor-stops. Then it hauled the eight-foot ash lever downward until the iron stops struck the frame with a deep, shuddering CLUNK. The entire room groaned under the three-ton crushing squeeze. The floorboards bowed beneath their feet. And the scent of heated oil and wet paper burst into the cold air.
