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Finally, a glowering man standing next to the press gestured Edmund over. “Hey, Logan!” He then peppered a few choice expletives between orders for “Logan” to take his place at the press.

Edmund staggered his way over there, keeping his head down and hat pulled low.

The man’s nose wrinkled, and he gave a few more curses under his breath. But he let Edmund take his place, walking away from the press without a glance back. Apparently, getting off his shift was more important to the man than making sure his fellow worker was alert enough to properly do his job.

Edmund studied the press for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what he was expected to do. One man fed paper into the press while someone else inked the plates. Another person caught and stacked the finished papers.

Yet, at this station, a canister of grease waited. Ah, so Edmund was the grease man, the low man in the pecking order who greased the moving parts, ran errands, and stuck his hand in the press to clear jams if necessary. In other words, one of the more dangerous jobs.

Tonight, at least, the printing press appeared to be running smoothly. Edmund quickly figured out his job, and any lapses were dismissed due to his supposed drunken state. He kept an eye on the windows and door, but he didn’t see any signal from Jalissa to indicate that the real Logan had woken and was making his way to the Sentinel to take his shift.

Finally, one of the other press operators gestured from him toward the boiler room. “Fetch more paper.”

Just the opening Edmund had been waiting for. With a nod, he set off toward the back room that contained the boiler. He hadn’t seen any reams of paper or extra ink lying around the printing floor, so there must be a storage room somewhere. It seemed odd to store paper next to the boiler, but it was probably better than having it underfoot.

Yet when Edmund stepped into the boiler room, the stifling, muggy air almost instantly sticking his shirt to his skin, he spotted a staircase going down into a basement. Now that made more sense.

Light shone from the basement, so Edmund had no need of a lantern as he strolled down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he found the basement well-lit by gas lamps, even though there were no windows, not even small ones set high in the wall at street-level like many of these buildings had.

Stacks upon stacks of paper reams filled most of the space, along with barrels of ink and stacks of blank engraving plates.

But the space wasn’t as big as it should have been, given the size of the building above. Edmund wound his way through the clutter. As he neared the other side, he could make out a door set in an otherwise empty brick wall. Light shone around the door, though it was firmly closed.

Edmund dropped onto his stomach and peered through the inch gap at the bottom of the door.

The boots of two men were visible inside the room. One of them was moving about, but the other stood next to the legs of some machine.

Edmund twisted his head, trying to find an angle to see more.

That was a printing press. But it wasn’t one of the massive, industrial steam-powered presses like the two in the room above. No, this was an older, hand-operated model. It worked in near silence, and any small clatter it made was covered by the noise of the other presses.

But what were these two men printing down here?

Edmund shifted, first to one side of the door, then the other, to see each side of the small room. The left side of the room appeared to hold more barrels of ink and reams of paper, though the paper wasn’t the same color and texture as the reams of paper in the main part of the basement.

On the right side of the room were stacks upon stacks of what appeared to be the finished product. Edmund squinted at something at floor level, crumpled and forgotten in the corner by the wall.

An Escarlish banknote. He couldn’t see the denomination, but he didn’t have to.

These weren’t spies. They were counterfeiters. That was where the rest of the money to fund the Sentinel had come from. They had used legitimate money to buy the items they would need, obscuring it among purchases for the newspaper, and then they had printed the rest.

And they must be very good. Edmund hadn’t heard about counterfeit money turning up in Aldon, though he had been out of the kingdom more than he had been in it for the past four years. He knew more about what had been happening in Tarenhiel and Kostaria than in Escarland.

Carefully pushing to his feet, Edmund tiptoed away from the door and headed back the way he’d come. He couldn’t linger too much longer, otherwise someone might come down looking for him.

On his way out, he grabbed as many reams of paper as he could carry, staggering up the stairs with them hiding his face.

When he re-entered the printing floor, he swept a glance across the room, taking in the bustle. Nothing appeared to have changed, except that the worker feeding the paper was down to his last ream and casting frequent glances over his shoulder.

Yet…there under the door, a tiny sprig of green waved frantically.

Time to get out of here.

When Edmund reached the press, he dropped the reams of paper at the worker’s feet.

The worker jumped back, cursing.

Edmund hunched, mumbling and grunting. Dropping to his knees to hide his movement, he slipped a leather waterskin from his shirt, uncapping it. With a great show, he gagged, then heaved, squeezing the waterskin at the same time.