The Betrayals(25)

She inserts it, rinses her hands, gets dressed. She bundles her ragged plait into her cap; she doesn’t have time to brush it or pin it properly. Nor does she have time to empty her bladder or brush her teeth. She splashes her face with one swift movement and hurries out into the passage. It is only as she crosses the courtyard and climbs the stairs to the Capitulum that she has time for resentment. Her body is normally trustworthy, warning her in advance with a familiar ache, holding on to the first moderate gush of blood until she visits the lavatory. Today it is treasonous.

The meeting – the first Council of Serotine Term – has already started. She straightens her shoulders and walks through their sudden silence to her seat beside the Magister Scholarium. He waits until she has sat down before he gestures to the Magister Cartae to continue.

The Magister Cartae gives a fussy, multi-syllabic cough. ‘My dear Magister Ludi,’ he says, ‘good morning. Did you perhaps lose track of time in inspiration? What a pity that your genius must be bound by the humdrum routines of bureaucracy.’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she says. ‘I was unavoidably detained.’ She wonders how often they have to apologise for their bodies.

The Magister Cartae waves his hand. ‘As I was saying …’ He peers down at his notes as though he has entirely lost his train of thought. ‘Yesterday I received a letter from the Minister for Culture,’ he goes on. ‘He sent us greetings and thanked us for our hospitality towards Mr Martin, but his primary point … Well.’ He brings a sheet of notepaper closer to his face. ‘“We are keen to examine ways in which Montverre might increase its contribution, not merely as a beacon of academic achievement but also as a crucial influence on developing minds. It gives me great pleasure to know that the traditions imbibed at Montverre are carried through into our Civil Service, and indeed the very highest levels of government, and I continue to wonder how we might ensure that every scholar who graduates is of the greatest possible service to our country.”’

There is a silence. The Magister Corporeum scratches his ear. ‘Well,’ he says, and grimaces. ‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’

The Magister Cartae sighs. He smooths his top lip; she suspects that before he came to Montverre he had a moustache, and he still pets the ghost of it. ‘I think perhaps the Minister for Culture is suggesting that we bear in mind our duty to keep the game, and its players … pure.’

‘And what does that mean?’ She should have taken a breath before she said it.

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the context of this discussion,’ the Magister Cartae says, with a tilt of his head. ‘While you were – unavoidably detained – we were discussing this week’s edition of the New Herald. Very concerning, the report on Christian infiltration—’

‘The New Herald is pure propaganda! It’s not worthy of serious consideration.’ The Magister Scholarium stirs, but she can’t stop herself. ‘Next you’ll be saying the Game of the Bloody Cross isn’t a forgery. Or that Christians are cannibals.’

‘I don’t think we can dismiss the government’s very real concerns about the compatibility of the older faiths with modern, enlightened—’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Now they’re all looking at her. ‘Christianity and Judaism – and Islam, come to that – have never been in conflict with the grand jeu. Not in themselves.’ She stutters and goes on before anyone can bring up the Renaissance popes. ‘There’s no reason to exclude them – just because the Party has got a bee in its bonnet—’

‘I find it very hard to believe that you are so relaxed about the survival of Montverre.’

It takes her a moment to understand that it’s not a non sequitur; and by then it’s too late to answer.

‘Magister …’ the Magister Religionis says, leaning towards her, one crumple-skinned hand stroking the air as if it’s an animal. ‘I understand your concerns. We all do. They do you credit.’ He doesn’t look at the Magister Cartae, who snorts. ‘We don’t want to persecute Christians. But these days Montverre has a political role. There is more and more pressure on us to pull our weight. Not to be complacent in our privilege, or encourage parasites. To waste spaces on scholars who can never repay their debt to society—’

‘Who are barred from the Civil Service, you mean.’

He smiles gently, as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘And as you know, my dear Magister, it is perfectly possible to become a great player of the grand jeu without attending Montverre. Those who are truly talented, truly called, will still find a way to study it.’

She bites her lip. Her insides are being wrung out like a wet cloth. The back of her neck is sticky. ‘It isn’t that easy,’ she says.

‘You are yourself a shining example,’ the Magister Religionis says. ‘Evidence that the grand jeu is open to everyone, regardless of their sex or race or religion. If a young woman of no education can become Magister Ludi—’

‘All right,’ she says. ‘I understand.’ There are things she could say: that she was hardly of no education, that the grand jeu was in her blood, that everyone knows that when they found out she was a woman they tried to repeal her election. But her throat is tight, and the battle is already over.