The Betrayals(15)

Felix said, ‘Reckon you can knock him off his perch this year?’

I took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. ‘If I get the right partner for the joint game. I’m thinking of asking Paul.’

‘It should be a walkover. It’s not like anyone’s going to want to work with Carfax, even if he’s the best player. He’ll get stuck with one of the no-hopers at the bottom of the list.’ He paused. ‘I hope it’s not me.’

‘Find someone else, quickly, and it won’t be.’

‘Right. Yes.’

It shouldn’t have bothered me, that Felix called him the best. I mean, he is the best, at the moment. But it galls me even to write the words. Damn him. I am going to be top of the class this year. I swear it. Whatever it takes.

And one day, I promise, I am going to see Carfax de Courcy cry.

Third day of Serotine Term

First grand jeu lesson today, but we didn’t do much. Magister Holt told us about our joint games, which are due in at the end of this term. I caught Paul’s eye as Magister Holt was speaking, and he gave me a look to ask if I was up for partnering him, and I gave him a thumbs-up, so hopefully that’s that sorted out.

Afterwards, as I was picking my exercise book off the floor (Felix had sent it flying in his eagerness to sprint downstairs for lunch), Magister Holt said, ‘Mr Martin, I’d like to speak to you, if I may.’ Everyone else was already pushing out of the classroom door, and the Magister waited for them to leave before he shut it and gestured to me to sit down. For a moment I thought he was going to stand on the dais and address me from there, but he stood staring at the diagrams of notation on the wall and didn’t say anything.

‘Yes, Magister?’ I said, in the end.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘On your coming second in the class. No doubt you’re pleased.’

I said, ‘Yes, I am. Naturally.’ There was such a long silence that I had time to wonder why, if congratulations were in order, he hadn’t kept Carfax behind, to congratulate him; but then, of course, they’d be surprised if a de Courcy wasn’t at the top of the class.

‘How would you say you were getting on, Mr Martin?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘At Montverre. You are the first of your family to come here, I believe.’

I thought about making some crack about having crawled to the top of the rubbish heap, but I didn’t. ‘That’s right, Magister.’ I was hoping I could leave it at that, but he was giving me the Magister Ludi look, which makes you squirm until you’ve come up with a better answer. ‘I’m – all right, I suppose. Glad to be doing OK.’

‘Do you feel at home here?’

‘Does anyone?’

That got a smile out of him, but only for a second. ‘Please, Mr Martin,’ he said, ‘don’t imagine that I am trying to make you feel uncomfortable. But I …’ He sighed and went back to looking at the notation charts. I dug my hands into my armpits to stop myself fidgeting. ‘When we marked the games, at the end of last term, I must say I was very impressed with your progress.’

I said, ‘Thank you,’ but he hadn’t finished.

‘You have certainly developed a great vocabulary, a sophisticated grasp of the grand jeu, a facility with the idiom,’ he said, with a glance at me to acknowledge my interruption. ‘But I don’t think I would have awarded you quite those marks, if the rest of the masters hadn’t insisted.’

I said, ‘Oh.’

‘Not that your game was in any way deficient. Not at all. But there is … how shall I put this? I worry that there is something … inauthentic. That what you produce is a very clever imitation of what you think the grand jeu should be, rather than a true game. Do you understand what I mean?’

I think I said, ‘Not entirely, Magister.’

‘You are intelligent. Very intelligent.’ He paused, but this time I didn’t thank him, and I don’t think he expected me to. ‘You have assimilated the culture of Montverre, the practice of the grand jeu … You produce, let us say, a flawless imitation of a Montverre scholar, complete with flawless, accomplished games. And yet there is something …’ He plucked at his ear. ‘I hesitate to say – cold, but … insincere, perhaps. There is something missing.’

I cleared my throat. ‘What is that?’

He gave a rueful laugh, as if this was some intellectual problem we were trying to solve together. ‘I’m not exactly sure. But I think I would know it if I saw it. And without that, I think you will never be more than a competent player. Extremely competent – but only competent.’

There was a pause. I was trying not to let anything show on my face. I said, ‘Are you saying, Magister, that I play the game as if it’s a game?’

I thought he’d tell me not to be impertinent. But he said, ‘No, Mr Martin. I’m saying you play the game to win.’

I stood up and swept my books into my arms. I nearly knocked them all on to the floor and had to scramble to catch them. ‘Well, thank you, Magister,’ I said. ‘Next time I will do my best to lose.’

He held up his hand. ‘Don’t get angry, Mr Martin. I’m telling you this because I think you have promise.’

It took an effort not to reply. I stared at the diagrams of notation and tried to estimate how often I’d used each symbol in my last game.