The Betrayals(23)

He said, ‘Perfect.’ I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not, but he didn’t say anything else and when I opened the door he’d gone.

So I guess that’s the way we’ll do it, then. Obviously it involves a certain amount of effort – I was going to write, unnecessary effort: but frankly anything that means I don’t have to look at his face is worth every moment.

You know, what I hate most about him is the person he makes me into.

Seventh day of Serotine Term

Just got back from leaving my notes for the joint game in Carfax’s pigeonhole. I’ve been thinking about surrealism and dreams – something weird and disjointed, a kind of beautiful monstrosity – Shakespeare, Purcell, ‘a change came o’er the spirit of my dream’, a recurring motif that develops into something else … I don’t know, all very vague ideas at the moment. Different from my usual stuff where I plot it all precisely and make sure everything is clever and harmonious … I have to admit I’m thinking about how to do ‘authentic’, because I really want to do well this term. It galls me to try to placate Magister Holt, especially now, but I imagine it’s the politic thing to do. (Curse him.) Anyway, I reckon it could work. Assuming Carfax doesn’t deliberately sabotage it or insist we do something deadly dull. No doubt he’ll come up with some complex, esoteric idea about maths and music to make me sweat. All served up with the usual de Courcy arrogance, and technically perfect, of course. (Curse him, too.)

On my way back I came past Jacob’s room. He was loitering outside, looking helplessly from side to side as if he was trying to cross a busy road. As soon as he saw me he called, ‘Martin! Come in here,’ and steered me into his bedroom. (I thought about making some crack about most people buying me a drink first, but didn’t.) ‘Listen!’ he said, and hissed at me when I started to ask what we were listening for, so we stood there in silence for a couple of minutes. ‘Can you hear it?’

‘Hear what, Jacob?’

‘The crying!’

I listened again. ‘Er, no,’ I said.

‘Oh, bugger,’ he said, ‘it’s stopped. It did this last time.’

‘Right,’ I said. His cap was standing up like a mushroom, and he’d got ink stains on his face. ‘Are you having a funny turn? Do you want me to call the Magister Domus?’

‘Oh, forget it,’ he said, and collapsed on to the bed. ‘You all think it’s a bloody joke. I tell you, every time the east wind blows, there’s a child’s voice in here, sobbing its heart out.’

‘Jacob—’ I was going to laugh at him, but he looked genuinely pathetic. ‘It’s most likely someone practising the violin. Coming through the pipes or something.’

‘Never mind,’ he said, waving me away. ‘You think I’m crazy. They refused to move me, you know. I should’ve said there was a smell of drains.’

‘You think so? Rather than ghostly wailing? Ah, the magic of hindsight.’

‘Go away,’ he said, which was ungrateful considering he’d frogmarched me in there to begin with. When I left he was turning his head from side to side compulsively, like a caged bird.

Actually, as I went out I wondered if I did hear something.

Ninth day of Serotine Term

I woke up early this morning and found myself checking my pigeonhole before breakfast. He’d replied. It was a single sheet of paper covered with tiny symbols and a lot of lines. For a second I thought it was Artemonian notation, but I didn’t recognise any of the ideograms, and none of the transition marks were the same. It looked a bit like a spider’s web, if a spider had made prolific, drunken notes at every junction. It was unreadable. After breakfast I went straight up to his room and banged on the door. There was a scuffling sound before he told me to come in, and I had the impression he’d only just got dressed. His hair was all over his face and his gown was inside out.

‘Thanks for your contribution,’ I said. ‘That is, I assume it was from you.’

He sat down at his desk, facing me. ‘So, what did you think?’

‘I think it’s illegible.’ He didn’t answer. I pulled the page out of my pocket and flattened it on the desk in front of him. ‘What notation is this meant to be, exactly?’

He reached out and rotated the page through ninety degrees. ‘It’s a variation of Artemonian.’

‘A variation? What kind of variation?’

‘I find it useful for sketches. The Imaginists developed it from Artemonian and Occidental ideograms, with some influences from Mandarin and Persian. My grandfather used it for the Fireseed—’ He stumbled on the word but went on before I could say anything. ‘I suppose I’ve put a personal emphasis on some aspects, but—’

I said, ‘You write your sketches in the family dialect of Artemonian?’

There was a pause. I mastered the urge to grab him by the collar. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you think I’m going to waste my time on your particular brand of de Courcy mumbo-jumbo, you’ve got another think coming. Put it into classical.’

‘What?’ For the first time he looked as if I’d said something unexpected. ‘Do you have any idea how many pages that would take up, in classical notation?’

I didn’t, obviously, as I had no idea what it said. ‘I don’t care.’