The Betrayals(10)

‘I saw—’ She sees his eyebrows go up. She takes a deep breath, folds her hands in her lap, and starts again. ‘Excuse me, Magister … A moment ago I was looking out of the window from the top corridor, and I saw a car drive in. And I thought I saw Léonard Martin getting out. He had quite a lot of luggage with him.’ She is trying so hard to keep her voice low that she sounds like an automaton.

‘Ah, yes,’ the Magister Scholarium says. ‘Yes, indeed. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that.’ He glances down at the page in front of him, hesitates and puts the lid on his fountain pen. ‘You’re quite right, it was Mr Martin you saw. He’s going to be staying with us for a little while. To study the grand jeu. I wondered whether you could possibly—’

‘Staying with us? Here?’

‘Indeed.’ He smiles at her and raises his hand to cut her off. ‘Now, I know it’s unusual.’

‘Magister.’ She clears her throat. ‘We don’t take guests. Of any kind. Let alone—’

‘I think you’ll find there is a precedent. Arnauld spent nearly two years here, as a guest, before he was elected Magister Ludi. In the past we have sometimes offered hospitality to those wishing to expand their understanding – foreign scholars, players …’

‘Léonard Martin is not a player,’ she says, struggling for control. ‘He’s Minister for Culture.’

‘Not any more, as I understand it.’

‘What?’

He sits back with a sigh, as if his bones ache. ‘I believe the announcement is in today’s papers. Mr Martin has resigned from government and intends to devote his life to studying the grand jeu. The Chancellor himself wrote to me on his behalf to ask if we could possibly support him in that – it having been Mr Martin’s deepest wish to return, ever since he studied here.’

‘That’s nonsense.’ She leans forward. She has to keep her fists clenched or she’ll reach out and smash something. ‘I beg your pardon, Magister, but it is. Léo Martin has shown himself to be a cynical pragmatist of a politician. To allow him here – into the heart of the grand jeu—’

‘He was a Gold Medallist, I seem to recall.’

‘I know that. But since then …’ She stops, trembling on the edge.

‘And I am assured that his political career is over. He will be devoting his time here to scholarship. Remind me, was there some personal connection …?’

‘It’s not that!’

He blinks. ‘But then – forgive me – what is it?’

‘It’s sacrilege.’

He goes very still. They stare at each other, and for a moment she can feel the weight of the grand jeu on her side, the tradition of the school, the stone of the very walls ranged behind her. She swallows.

‘Very well, then,’ he says. He gets up and walks to the window, drawing the casement shut with a sharp click. ‘Tell me, Magister. What do you suggest?’ The warmth has left his voice.

There’s a silence. ‘I suggest sending him away.’

‘Perhaps you would help me draft a letter to the Chancellor, to explain.’

‘This is no place for someone like him.’

‘Someone, you mean, with power?’

She opens her mouth and closes it again.

‘Someone,’ the Magister Scholarium goes on, ‘with friends in government? Someone whose connections could replace me with a puppet of the Party? Or you? Who could rescind the school’s privileges? Perhaps even shut it down?’

‘No one could shut down the school.’

‘You would gamble with the very future of Montverre – of the grand jeu, no less – because you have a personal dislike of a man who may not be one of us?’ He raises his voice as she takes a breath to speak. ‘No, I concede, he is not a Magister or a scholar, he will perhaps feel himself to be an outsider – but what do we lose by welcoming him? By all accounts he is a charming, erudite, intelligent man. He will be an honoured guest until he gets bored – which may be very soon – whereupon he will leave of his own accord, with happy memories and a renewed affection for the school. You honestly think that is a worse alternative than refusing the Chancellor’s … request? Which, I may add, was hardly presented as such.’ He clenches his fist and brings it down, slowly, on to the windowsill.

She bites her tongue until her mouth floods with the taste of salt. ‘They want to use the grand jeu for their own ends,’ she says. ‘They call it our “national game”.’

‘It is our national game.’

‘Not in the way they mean it.’

‘Magister—’ He breaks off and turns to look at her. ‘Your scruples do you credit. Truly. But we cannot avoid politics. Not even here.’

‘Surely we have an obligation to—’

‘We do what we can. And what we must.’ He opens his arms, and there’s something despairing in the droop of his hands. ‘Very well, Magister. What shall I do? If I send him away, I run the risk of far, far graver consequences – for myself, for you and the other Magisters, for the scholars. I remember how strongly you felt about having a Party member on the Entrance panel, and the problems we’ve had with accepting Christians … We are, I would venture to say, privileged; we’re partly funded by the state, and yet we have more autonomy than the Civil Service or the legal profession. We were lucky to be exempt from the Culture and Integrity Act. For as long as the Party’s input is merely advisory, I am grateful. It might be much worse. But what is your advice? Should I stand on principle? Please. Tell me.’