The Betrayals(48)

There were three seconds of relative silence. Then someone said, with perfect, Montverre-trained timing, ‘Oooooh, who stole his mammy’s tit?’

He must have heard, even outside in the corridor. And he must have heard the burst of laughter. It didn’t last that long, and after it died down we were a little more subdued, as if after all some of it had been bravado; but that roar of exclusion, of amusement at his expense … It made it abundantly clear that he’s never going to fit in. If he would join in the laugh once. Or pretend he didn’t care …

I got up a few minutes later. Emile raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Dicky tummy,’ I said. ‘Working this hard has completely ruined my digestion.’ Felix started to argue, so I added, ‘Trust me, you really don’t want me to stay.’

I went up to my room, but I didn’t go in. I walked along to Carfax’s cell, and raised my hand to knock. But I couldn’t. There was a strip of light under the door. Maybe he’d heard me approach, because I saw a shadow cross it and then stay still, as if he was on the other side, listening. I still didn’t knock, though. I stood there for a long time. I tried to imagine what I’d say to him, but all the words were flat and empty. And even if I dredged up some kind of excuse or consolation, I knew how he’d react: disdain, contempt, faint bewilderment. He probably hadn’t even noticed that I’d smirked along with the others. And then I remembered how he’d made the others laugh at me, last year, and how he never apologised for that.

Now the game’s handed in, we’re back to where we were. We were civilised adults, doing a job that had to be done. We’re not friends.

I thought I’d be triumphant, tonight. Full of relief. Euphoric. But I feel terrible.

Chapter 13





14: Léo


A few days before the end of term Léo finds himself in the Magister’s corridor. He hasn’t planned it; he doesn’t know where it’s sprung from, this sudden heart-quickening impulse. The last couple of weeks have slipped through his hands like a string of leaden beads, each day too heavy to hold but gone in an instant, followed by the next. It’s easy to be numb, absorbed in intellectual pursuits, essays, the games and theses and reading lists that the Magister – true to her word – has been leaving in his pigeonhole. This is how he felt in his third year here, as a scholar. The Gold Medal meant nothing, as though it had gone to someone else: now he was numb, conscientious, stoical. Nothing happened, nothing hurt. Or not much. He made his way carefully through the treacherous landscapes of his mind, treading lightly, avoiding the quicksand. The grand jeu was a path, that was all, and he kept his gaze on his feet. Now he’s doing the same thing. He navigates between the archive, and the library, and the refectory, and his cell, without pausing. He answers Emile’s letters mechanically, refusing to reread them. Every envelope, safely sent off, buys a week of safety, another week of not having to glance behind when a servant comes too close, or keep a brown glass bottle of emetic beside his bed, or check his pillow for needles. It’s worth it. And in a peculiar way it gives him something to think about: how to explain the intricate animosity between the Magister Cartae and the Magister Motuum, or the Magister Scholarium’s tacit avoidance of politics, or the bubbling over-confidence of the scholars who’ve got family in the Party? At meals he glances from face to face, letting his attention flit from one conversation to another. It’s like trying to see the currents in clear water. He’s good at it. It keeps his mind off the other things: the ache of missing the Ministry, the physical strength it takes not to turn his head and gaze at the Magister Ludi …

Mostly, his attempts not to think about her have been successful. That Sunday afternoon in the library, after she left, he was too dazed to do anything but sit and stare into space; he didn’t realise he was gritting his teeth until he staggered to his feet at the sound of the clock chiming, and felt the tension like a metal band around his temples. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep that night, either, but he lay in bed watching the stars come and go in the black sky, like blown drifts of sand. And the next day, passing Magister Dryden in the corridor, he was in control enough not to stare, although he wanted to. How had he not realised? He should have seen the resemblance. Maybe he did see it; but he thought it was because he was back at Montverre, a sly trick of the brain. After Carfax died, Léo saw him everywhere – walking down the street, gesturing to a waiter in a restaurant, laughing outside the scrapyard gates in a collarless shirt and flat cap. He learnt not to react, not to flinch or say Carfax’s name or even stare too long. If he had to see ghosts, at least he’d keep it to himself. That was years ago, and it hadn’t happened for a long time; but when he saw Magister Dryden that night in the corridor it was the same sick welter, the world lurching backwards on its spin as though his mind was betraying him again … If only someone else had mentioned it, if only she hadn’t told him herself. He winces at the recollection of her expression – pity, how dare she – and the way he didn’t have the presence of mind to do anything but look at her. That face.

Even later, he didn’t let himself examine his feelings too closely. But the next time he replied to Emile, he found himself writing: She is, of course, isolated and, one assumes, lonely. Her politics – as one might expect from a woman who has apparently never encountered real life in any of its manifestations – are liberal and soft, resisting change and clarity, based on a sort of kindly instinct which doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Surprising, given her abrasive manner, but I suppose this is merely an example of feminine contradictions! Of all the Magisters, I’d guess that she is the most opposed to the Party, but perhaps more because of misplaced idealism than self-interest. Her influence is small, I suspect, but it might be enough to prove awkward if the Council were not whole-heartedly supportive of any new measures. I can’t comment on her skills as a teacher – the scholars murmur about being taught by a female, and one can’t exactly blame them, given her lack of formal education, but otherwise seem content enough to concede her authority. In fairness I should mention that she does have a certain charisma. He put down his pen before he wrote another sentence that he’d have to cross out. It was all true; so why did belittling her make him queasily triumphant, as if he’d squashed a mosquito? He folded the paper and shoved it into the envelope without bothering to sign off. His eyes went to the past papers on the desk, the mimeographed slip of essay questions on top. Time to get back to work. But all that afternoon he had a sense of someone at his shoulder, a censorious ghost that disappeared when he looked at it head-on.