The Betrayals(54)

‘We’ve all seen you in your shirt, Carfax, remember?’ He carried on grumbling, but I spoke over him. ‘Let’s go somewhere. Let’s go up to the Astronomy Tower. I want to be outside. Come on.’

‘Now?’

‘I’ve got some cigarettes in my room. I’ve been saving them all term.’

I thought he was going to refuse. We’ve been enemies for so long, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. I wondered myself why I’d suggested it. After all, he’s still the same person who made fun of my games in front of the whole class. He’s still an arrogant bastard. And he probably thinks I’m still … well, whatever he’s always thought of me. But he glanced back at his desk, at his trunk, at the empty room; then he nodded and pushed past, obviously expecting me to follow.

So we went up to the Astronomy Tower. As we were climbing the stairs I thought it was a stupid idea. It was perishing cold, and a long way up, and if we’d been caught we’d have been in trouble. But then we came out on the top, and there was nothing around us but battlements and snow and the night sky.

We hunched down in the corner and smoked and talked about the grand jeu and made fun of the others, and agreed that we were the best players ever and he’d be Magister Ludi when I was Magister Scholarium, or the other way round. It was freezing; the air made me cough when it hit the back of my throat, especially when I laughed.

When we’d finished our cigarettes he got to his feet and held out his hand to help me up. Bits of me had gone numb and I held on to him for longer than I meant to, steadying myself. I didn’t care how cold I was; I would have said anything to stay there for ever.

I didn’t. Say anything. Nor did he. We went down the staircase in silence. But when I glanced back at him he was smiling.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.

Chapter 15





16: the Rat


She knows that the black ones are going to leave. For days before they go the air of Montverre is disturbed, the silent spaces between bells muddied by noise and bustle. She stays in her nest during the day, knotted in her blankets, but even there the sounds of their footsteps and laughter lap at her like flotsam on a tide. These are the times that scare her the most, the beginnings and endings: this is when the world is most unpredictable. Is that a human way to think? Perhaps. Perhaps a rat would have no concept of time past or future, wouldn’t feel the change in the air as the voices rise and recede. Perhaps she is already losing her grip on her rat-self. There are words in her head that should not be there: Afraid. Sorry. Simon. She endures them as if they’re a contagion. Soon they will be gone, the way the black ones will be gone, and her mind will be quiet again. But they’re heavy, like stones. When she moves her head she can feel them thunking against her skull, hard enough to hurt. Simon. The only remedy is to lie still.

It’s night. She is thirsty. Her jug is empty. She has been waiting for too long, hoping each day that she’d hear the grumble of the bus coming up and down the road, taking the black ones away in batches. It hasn’t come. Tomorrow. But tomorrow is too far off, and she’s thirsty.

A rat would not be afraid. (The word again: afraid.) A rat would get what it needed – careful, not afraid. Or would it? Isn’t that what a human would do? A rat, above all, wouldn’t need to think …

She uncurls herself. It’s cold. As soon as the air hits her skin she starts to shiver. She hesitates before she wraps herself in a blanket; it’s worth it for the warmth, but it will slow her down, if she has to run. Then she creeps out on to the narrow staircase, down and through the cluttered storeroom – stiff-jointedly high-stepping over the mouldering brooms and buckets – and out of the window, pushing the jug along the windowsill before she clambers out. Her hands almost slip as she inches along the sill and she lands clumsily, scraping her back down the wall as she falls into the next room along, the jug cradled in the crook of her arm. Her defences have never seemed so elaborate, or so fragile. The blanket has caught on an uneven corner of stone and rips when she pulls it. She stops and listens, in case someone has heard her. Quiet.

She eases her way out into the corridor and along, to the room where a row of man-size porcelain bowls gleam in the snow-and-moonlight. Each one has nubbed levers and pipes at the end; she knows – she has always known, although she doesn’t remember how – that they spit water if she turns them. Risking the noise of the pipes, she drinks until she gasps, then fills her jug. The water is so cold it makes her teeth ache.

There’s a noise in the corridor. She slides into a cubicle, but she has left the jug on the floor, in full view. If she leaves it behind she will have to steal another one, so she waits, hoping the footsteps will pass.

They come closer, echoing. She presses herself against the wall.

‘Hello?’

A pause.

‘Is someone …? Hello?’ He steps towards the cubicle. She could swing the door closed, but the latch is broken and if he tried to batter it down he could. And … is there a part of her, the human, word-burdened part of her, that doesn’t want to hide? She stands still, wedged between the china hole-chair and the wall, while he tilts his head to see through the gap.

‘Hello.’

There is something about the angle of his face or his eyebrows which makes an unfamiliar impulse tug at her mouth. She has only seen him once before but she would recognise him out of all the black ones with their interchangeable human faces. Why?