The Betrayals(21)

She crosses her arms over her chest. ‘So? What are you doing here, then?’

‘I – I was – it’s been a long time, I wanted to see if …’ He shakes his head. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I haven’t touched anything.’

‘You can’t wander about like this.’

‘Why not?’

She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t answer immediately. She runs her plait through her hand, letting it whisper against her skin. At last she says, ‘Has it changed?’

‘What?’

‘The school. Since you were here.’

‘I—’ He stares at her and she glances away. He’d never met her before he came back here, and yet … No. He’s never known anyone called Dryden. He’s so tired that his brain is playing tricks on him. He tightens his grip on the base of the lamp. ‘In some ways. Hardly any of the Magisters are the same.’

‘There was an influenza epidemic here, a few years before I was elected.’

‘Yes. I heard about that. A very bad business,’ he adds, with a politician’s automatic gravity. Not that he cared much, at the time: Montverre seemed so far away that the list of deaths was no more than a number.

She twists the rope of her hair, pulling it forward so that it lies across her cheek. In this light, her face could be anyone’s: especially now, with her eyes turned away, her gaze searching the window as if she can see beyond their reflections in the glass. ‘What was it like?’ she says. ‘When you were here before?’

‘It was—’ He stops. His head is spinning and his throat is tight. He’s done enough remembering tonight. He shrugs. ‘Much the same as when you were here, I imagine.’

There’s a fractional pause; then she says, ‘What?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ He turns aside, stuttering.

‘Sorry? What for?’ There’s a strange, warning note in her voice.

‘I forgot I was talking to – that you didn’t come here – that you’re a—’ What’s wrong with him? He’s blethering.

‘You’re sorry I’m a woman?’ She laughs, shortly.

He opens his mouth, on the verge of saying, Yes, exactly. It’s true; she shouldn’t be here at all, let alone Magister Ludi. He can still remember the day she was elected, and the aide who brought him the Beacon, grimacing as he put it down on Léo’s desk. ‘What a balls-up,’ he’d said. ‘Goes to show Montverre can’t be trusted to run its own affairs.’ When Léo put down his pen and dragged the paper closer to read the headline, the aide added, ‘At least we didn’t get a crosser or a Commie. The Minister did something right. But honestly, we should’ve stepped in before they got to that shortlist. Blind submissions, give me strength! Everyone knows what that’s supposed to mean. Next time …’ Léo stared at that blurry photo, furious. How could they have let it happen? Someone who hadn’t even studied at Montverre, chosen faute de mieux, because the others were even more unelectable. He could have thrown something.

But he doesn’t say so; partly because he’s too tired, and partly because his own promotion came soon afterwards, when the Minister for Culture stepped down. He takes a breath. ‘It’s unusual, in the world of the grand jeu. How did you even learn to play?’

‘My family. I lived with my cousins for a while, in England. They were good players.’

‘They must have been.’ He smiles. ‘Do you ever wonder what your games would be like if you’d been a man?’

‘No.’

He waits, but she doesn’t say anything else. ‘No,’ he says, eventually. ‘Well. It’s a waste of time to speculate, I suppose.’ Something makes him glance at the door to the classroom, and the rank of frosted windows. He can just make out the milky pallor of moonlight on the other side. ‘I dare say it wouldn’t have suited you here, anyway. It’s very competitive. A lot of ambition, rivalry, and so on. Not a suitable place for a woman. That is, I’m sure you do a very good job as Magister Ludi.’

‘Good night, Mr Martin,’ she says, turning away. ‘Please return to your rooms without waking anyone, won’t you?’

He watches her go. She doesn’t have a lamp, but she knows her way. She brushes the wall with her fingertips as she turns the corner towards the staircase. He catches himself thinking that she’s doing it deliberately, to show that Montverre is hers, and clenches his jaw. He shouldn’t let her get under his skin – she’s only a woman, why should he care if she loathes him? – but she’s not like any other woman he knows. It’s as if she’s forgotten who she’s supposed to be; and he can’t help being drawn into her world, where he’s not only alien but inferior. Perhaps she would have fitted in as a scholar, after all.

He leaves it a long time before he follows her down the stairs and into the Magisters’ wing. There’s no sign of her. He’s glad. He goes back to his rooms without pausing. The clock strikes three as he walks along the corridor. When he finally gets to his bedroom he’s too cold to undress. He crawls under the blankets as he is, in shirt and trousers, and within seconds he’s asleep.





7


Fifth day of Serotine Term