The Betrayals(12)

‘Magister Dryden, of course. Forgive me.’ But the flicker of embarrassment is gone in a second, replaced by something colder. ‘Yes, I should have recognised you.’

Her heart thumps. ‘What?’

‘I believe I saw your picture in the papers when you were elected. Quite the coup, an unknown woman in charge of the grand jeu.’

She lets her breath out, slowly, at the thought of his having seen that blurry, badly posed photograph, accompanied by headlines like Brainy little lady beats the odds or What a treat for the scholars! But she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I was fortunate.’

‘Fortunate!’ he says. ‘You certainly were.’ He turns his head sharply to the window, craning sideways as if he’s watching something at the base of the clock tower. She should be glad that he’s so uninterested, that she is free to look at him without worrying that he’ll look back; but a fierce, deep anger rises until she could scream. She forces herself to take an inventory of him, as though he’s an object. He is good-looking, of course, but he’s starting to go to seed; his beauty is dog-eared, well-thumbed, as if he’s used it once too often. The blond of his hair is dull – not exactly grey, but beginning to fade – and there’s a flush in his cheeks that will eventually be the fine red-veining of a drunkard. Good.

‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘If there’s nothing more—’

She shouldn’t have said anything. He can’t let her go like that, of her own accord: he swings back to her, his whole body this time, and suddenly the famous smile is there as if he’s asking for her vote. ‘Magister Dryden,’ he says. ‘Forgive me. I’m afraid the hotel was somewhat primitive, and I didn’t sleep well … It’s an honour to meet you.’

She says nothing.

‘I’m Léo Martin.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Minis— ex-Minister for Culture.’

She doesn’t move. ‘I know.’

‘Really?’ He drops his hand with an ease that suggests he’s used to being snubbed; although she imagines him storing it away, for later. ‘I didn’t think you were allowed newspapers, here.’

‘The Magisters are. If they choose.’

‘And you do choose …? I see. Well, I congratulate you. So many people think Montverre is an ivory tower. I’m glad it isn’t. Although I hope it will be a retreat for me, at least.’

‘Retreat from what?’ She shouldn’t have asked. She bobs her head, avoiding his gaze.

‘Oh, you know,’ he says, in a tone which suggests he doesn’t think she does. ‘Politics.’ His smile turns into a grin that is meant, she imagines, to be endearing. ‘Real life.’

She is practiced in keeping her face blank. She nods, and glimpses his disappointment that she hasn’t responded to his charm. It gives her a secret twinge of satisfaction. He should know better than to think the grand jeu is a refuge from life; if anything, it’s the other way around. But she has more important things to do than explain that to him. ‘I do hope you’ll enjoy your studies,’ she says. ‘The Magister Scholarium has asked me to tell you that if you need guidance I will try to find time to help you. If I can.’

His eyes flicker, but all he says is, ‘Thank you.’

‘You know where the library is, of course. If there is anything else you need, please let one of the servants know.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

She starts to leave.

‘I wonder … have we met before? There’s something about your voice.’

She turns back to him. The light catches in a smear on one lens of her spectacles, but she resists the urge to clean them on her sleeve. ‘No, I don’t believe we have.’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Magister. I’ll be interested to see what you can do.’ A fractional pause; then, as she takes a breath to answer him, he waves a hand at her. ‘Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure the grand jeu is calling.’

Such casual dismissal. It would be perverse to insist on staying; she doesn’t want his attention. But it takes all her willpower to drop her gaze and turn away.

As she does, he whistles that scrap of melody again, and with a jolt she recognises it. The Bridges of K?nigsberg. She shoots a glance at him over her shoulder, but he’s looking out of the window again.

‘Goodbye,’ she says. She feels herself relax, but just as she pauses to shut the door after herself, he stops whistling mid-bar.

‘By the way,’ he says, with a smile, ‘Your being the first female Magister Ludi … I’m curious if you could tell me – would you translate it as “master” or “mistress”?’

She’s walking in a dream. She looks down at her feet and suddenly the ground is black and white. She raises her head, blinking. She has come out of the Magisters’ Entrance into the courtyard. In front of her the pattern of black and white is tinged blue by the afternoon shadows, turning it to watered milk and charcoal. It’s nothing like the pattern the moonlight left on the floor of the Great Hall a few days ago: and yet, in its stark clarity, it recalls exactly the sense of a board waiting for the first move. She can’t shake that feeling out of herself; ever since that night it’s been lurking, prickling in her thumbs like the promise of a storm. She tells herself – has been telling herself – that it’s merely anxiety about her Midsummer Game, the early creep of understandable nerves: it’s her first, and she hasn’t started work on it yet. That her imagination becomes overactive at night, especially when she walks the corridors, watching the moon slide from window to window, until she ends up in the Great Hall as if summoned there by some silent bell. That anyone, staring into that pale geometry of light on stone, would feel watched; that the sensation of a hostile gaze from the darkness was nothing but the silence and chill of a night in the mountains … But it felt like an omen. And now Léo Martin is here, under the same roof as her, whistling the theme from the Bridges of K?nigsberg.