The Betrayals(101)
‘Excuse me, sir?’ One of the servants pushes a programme into Léo’s hand. ‘The seats reserved for Party members are here, to your right.’
‘I’m a Gold Medallist,’ Léo snaps. He is unwashed and unshaven, and his eyes are gritty. The summoning bell is still ringing but he is one of the last people to sit down; he could kick himself for oversleeping.
‘Oh – I see.’ The servant hesitates and ushers him to the front bench. Léo lowers himself down next to the Magister Historiae. The Magisters and Gold Medallists are clearly expected to sit on a bare wooden bench without complaint, but on his right, the Party members are sitting on bottle-green cushions with tassels. Most of the guests had arrived by yesterday evening, but he can see Dettler, Vouter, and Taglioni, who must have been brought up this morning in the black automobiles in the courtyard. Dettler is sitting next to Emile; they seem to sense his gaze, and Emile smiles and raises a languid hand. Léo gives them a nod. Later he’ll have to talk to them; the thought is like a splinter under his thumbnail.
The bell’s note dies away, and nothing comes to fill its place. It’s clever, this part of the ritual: you get so used to the incessant peal that when it falls silent it’s as if some fundamental part of the world has changed.
His heart is still beating uncomfortably hard. Harder than ever. He hasn’t been to the Quietus since he’s been back at Montverre; he’s swerved away from the prospect of being stuck with his thoughts, unable to run away. Now he can feel his muscles tensing. He tilts his head back and stares up at the vaulted ceiling, trying to distract himself; but abruptly he remembers the morning when Carfax took him up to the attic above, the soft heat and the shadows. I think I’d kill myself. Oh, what a fool he was to say that – and less than two months later Carfax was dead … He shuts his eyes. The audience is still murmuring and chuckling. He wants to get up and throttle them all, one by one.
Don’t they know they’re supposed to shut up? Magister Dryden will be getting ready, composing herself in an anteroom.
On the other side, to his left, is the bank of benches where the visiting professors and masters are sitting. They’ve come from all over Europe, arriving by dribs and drabs in the last week. Now they at least are attentive, a few waiting with folded hands, a few flicking back and forth in the programme to examine a move. Léo’s own programme lies in his lap, but he doesn’t open it. He wants to see Magister Dryden’s grand jeu unfold in front of him without preconceptions. He wants to see her interpret every move, otherwise he might as well go home and read it later in the special edition of the Gambit. He closes his eyes. Behind him, the Magister Cartae murmurs something to his neighbour, and laughs under his breath.
Then, like a draught of cool air, silence spreads across the room, deepening until you can hear a sigh or the twitch of a toe. Even the Party members have gone quiet. He sits up straight, blinking, and his heart hesitates and catches up with itself.
He’d meant to watch the doorway for her entrance, but she’s here already; she must have entered quietly, soft-footed on stone, so it’s only the power of her presence that shut up the muttering audience. She’s performing without notes, so her hands are empty, hanging by her sides with a sort of neutral grace. Is he imagining the scent of incense and smoke in the air? He bites his lip: perhaps she’s wearing his perfume, perhaps not, but it doesn’t mean anything. In her white robe and cap, with the light slanting down from the high windows, she looks taller and slimmer than ever; her face is smooth and serene, and he thinks suddenly of the old war memorial outside the Town Hall at home, a young soldier in pale marble. You can say what you want, but she has the knack of commanding a space. She looks every inch the Magister Ludi – well, she is Magister Ludi – and even the people who want to despise her are leaning forward, attentive in spite of themselves … She steps up to the line of the terra. But before she crosses it, she looks round, taking in the audience, her head held up.
And flinches.
She was looking directly at him. A moment, a flicker, and her eyes moved, so that for a moment he thinks he imagined it – but there’s a tinge of rose along her cheekbones, and a second later it’s as if red light floods across her skin, her cheeks and forehead crimson. She bows to her left, to the guests, to her right, the Party members – a shallower obeisance, on that side – and finally to the Magister Scholarium; when she straightens he can see a sheen of sweat on her temples that wasn’t there before. Then she steps into the terra and lowers her head, taking the traditional moment for private contemplation. The folds of her gown quiver: she’s trembling. He swallows, and his mouth is so dry it makes a faint clicking noise. She didn’t know he was going to be here … But why would his presence put her off? Why would he make her more nervous than, say, Dettler, or Emile? He looks down at the fabric of his trousers and counts to five, to give her time to recover. Maybe women players are simply more fragile, more sensitive … Or maybe it’s because, out of everyone, she cares most what he thinks of her game. And she’s wearing the scent he bought her. He tries not to feel a pulse of pleasure.
But when he looks up, she’s composed herself. The colour is fading from her cheeks, like the last rays of a sunset. She looks straight ahead, the resolute serenity back on her face; and then she moves into the gesture of ouverture as though she’s opening a door to a kingdom.