The Betrayals(81)

‘Don’t be so na?ve!’ He takes hold of Charpentier again, trying not to lose his temper. He doesn’t want to think about how he knows – what he knows, or why – or his own part in it; it’s only important that Charpentier listens, that whatever happens he doesn’t get into that van. Léo tries not to think about Throckmorton, who is already beyond help. ‘You can’t go. Look …’ He hesitates. The urge to shake him is so strong he can feel the muscles in his forearms twitching. ‘All right, you don’t trust me. Why should you? But think. Don’t you read the newspa— no, of course not. But you know how things are, out there. You must have heard. So please. Please don’t let them take you away.’

Charpentier stares at him, his mouth open. His eyes slide to the window and back to Léo’s face. He looks frozen, stuck, like a rabbit watching a weasel dance. For a moment Léo thinks he’s not going to listen. But then doubts flicker across his face; he seems to crumple. ‘But … where do I go? I can’t stay here. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Hide.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Anywhere!’ He manhandles Charpentier to the end of the corridor. On one side, there’s a door to the Scholars’ Tower; on the other, a narrow staircase leads down into the murk of the cellars. He shoves Charpentier towards the stairs. ‘Find somewhere out of sight. If they look for you I’ll say I saw you run off. I’ll leave some food in my room and the door unlocked. Just go.’

‘But—’

‘Go.’

Charpentier gives him one last look of appeal, as though he’s hoping this was all a joke. Then – as Léo is raising his hand to give him another shove – he scuttles down the steps into the shadows. His suitcase bumps against his legs. There’s the sound of his footsteps disappearing, and then nothing.

Léo is sweating. Outside, the policemen are waiting. Someone calls distantly, someone laughs. What has he done? Aided a fugitive from the state. If he’s still being watched – if anyone gets wind of it … And he’ll have to go on helping; now he’s taken responsibility, the kid’s life is in his hands. He’s an idiot. And all on a hunch, he doesn’t even know that the danger is real, maybe he’s overreacting from months of exile …

No. He does know. He refuses to look again at the van, and Throckmorton’s shabby, patient feet. Instead he puts his hands in his pockets and whistles a few bars of a song. Magister Dryden isn’t here; he’d do best to go to the library, and try again later … But as he leaves he can’t stop himself turning back to stare at the dark archway and the steps beyond, and there’s an odd quietness in the air, as though something has been swallowed alive.





26: the Rat


The Rat knows that something has changed before she knows what it is. As if there are invisible strings which extend through the corridors and halls and empty spaces, and now they tremble, brushed by a distant, clumsy hand. She lifts her head halfway through a gulp of water, suddenly uneasy; she wakes for no reason, as if someone has called her name. Not that she has a name: she is the Rat.

Something has changed. There is something new, now, haunting the places that should be hers. Along with the scents of earth and pine, the elusive promises of spring, there is … something else. Perhaps her senses are sharper than she knows, and she sees the swirl of dust in a shaft of moonlight, hears a footstep, catches the vibration of air, all unconsciously: or it may be simply that something deeper has shifted. She finds herself looking around as if her own shadow has detached itself from her heels and slipped away, become her enemy, her rival, her friend.

But as time goes on, there are clearer signs. A sink gleaming with moisture when all the others are dry. A trace of vapour on a windowpane, evaporating as she watches. She trails her hand along the sill and there’s one place where the stone is warmer: someone sat here, his head against the glass, staring down into the courtyard. Someone who disappeared moments ago, just before she arrived. There is no more food missing from the storeroom, no blankets stolen from the linen cupboard with the broken lock; nonetheless she is sure, almost sure … It makes her uneasy. Someone else might betray her, alert the servants: she has nightmares of grey-clad figures, throwing open doors, calling to one another, shining torches into dusty corners. She has been free, because she’s invisible, but if the balance tips … A cold, shivery feeling prickles in her toes, her scalp, and between her shoulder blades. If someone discovers her … She has been a rat for so long that she can’t imagine what would happen: only that it would be bad. Not sharp teeth, or trap, or poison, but worse. Human worse.

She will be careful. She will be even more careful than she normally is. But her unease makes her awkward, unratlike. Her feet make more noise than they should. She runs out of breath faster. She’s slowed down by thoughts rattling around in her head. They hurt. Like fragments of bone that have broken off, with sharp edges. She has to stop and wrap her arms around herself, trying to remember what it feels like to be safe.

For three days she hides. She has gone without food for longer than that, and this time she has some hoarded crusts and fruit. She stays in her nest, curled on her blankets, only venturing out for water. For the first days and nights she isn’t even hungry: her stomach feels like a bunched drawstring bag. When she finally drops off to sleep she has vivid labyrinthine dreams. The last one sweeps her sideways and down, like a current of water in a pipe. Then it spits her onto the floor.