The Betrayals(89)
She bends her head over the third-years’ Practical Criticism papers, trying to decipher Andersen’s left-handed scrawl. At least the Tempest is almost finished. She’s almost sure that no one will see past her careful edits to a game written by a second-year – even a genius of a second-year – and that they will admire her careful mastery, the balance of storm and (as it were) teacup. It will be good enough, because it has to be. And no one could accuse her of not trying: she’s forced herself to the work, like an ancient priestess preparing an annual rite. No, not like, that’s what she is – as if Midsummer itself depends on her game, and without it the world will stop on its axis, singeing under the heat of a stationary sun.
The clock strikes. Suddenly she realises she’s late for the final Council of the year, when the Gold Medal is decided. At least it won’t be as painful as a normal Council, as there won’t be anything else on the agenda. Every year since she’s been here, the Gold Medal has hung on one vote; it’s traditional for every Magister to fight for his preferred candidate, but as soon as the final decision has been taken they swap glances and smiles, as if the whole thing has been merely a game. She has often thought that Martin would revel in it. As Magister Ludi, she introduces the top three games to the rest of the Magisters, refreshing their memories. ‘Like a judge’s summing-up,’ the Magister Scholarium said to her in her first year, ‘don’t underestimate the power you have.’ Before she has always begun clearly, guiding the others towards an understanding of which game she is advocating; but this year – is it Martin’s influence, somehow? – she is determined not to give them that advantage. She has prepared a cool, detached, logical analysis, which hides its judgements like broken glass in water: she knows how they’ll vote, so she’ll sway them subtly with a double-bluff. She’ll use ‘audacious’ instead of ‘original’, ‘elaborate’ instead of ‘complex’, and they’ll assume she’s trying to hide her distaste and vote in favour. She wonders how she took so long to understand how to get her own way.
She grabs her notes from the desk drawer and hurries to the Capitulum.
Or maybe it’s easier than previous years because she doesn’t care as much. That’s the trick. Out of Andersen and Bernard, she favours Andersen; but it won’t be the worst injustice in the world if Bernard wins … The word injustice conjures up an empty desk, Charpentier trudging out into the forest. Suddenly she’s filled with incredulity at the Magisters’ earnest faces, at herself standing in front of them with her notes. Charpentier’s body may be swinging from a tree, and they’re assessing the weight of a transition here and the arc of a movement there, as if being human was about marks on a page. She takes a breath, forcing herself to concentrate. She can see that the Magisters are nonplussed. When she has finished – at last – they shuffle and turn pages, reluctant to speak first. Then the Magister Cartae heaves a sigh and says, ‘Well, the choice seems clear. I propose that the Gold Medal goes to Andersen.’
‘I agree,’ the Magister Historiae says. A ripple of nods goes around the table. In the silence, they all look from side to side, uneasy at the lack of contention: then, as one man, they look at her.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I suppose … perhaps that’s for the best, after all.’ The hint of regret in her voice is enough, she thinks, to prevent the Magister Cartae changing his mind.
‘Well, then, gentlemen,’ the Magister Scholarium says. ‘It seems that we have reached a unanimous decision.’ He scratches his head. ‘Er … Thank you.’
No one moves; she’s the first to get up. But once she’s on her feet, it’s as though she’s snapped the threads that were holding them all in place. They stand up raggedly, passing remarks about the weather and the exams. She overhears the Magister Corporeum murmur, ‘I don’t believe it. Last year that took hours …’
She is collecting her papers when the Magister Cartae says, ‘May I have a quick word, Magister?’ and waves at her.
She clenches her jaw; she was so close to getting away. ‘Yes?’
‘I invigilated one of your exams this week, and I couldn’t help noticing that some of the questions were … inappropriate. I took the liberty of warning the scholars, but perhaps, in future …’ Next to him, the Magister Historiae coughs into his fist.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You quoted Lawrence O’Reilly, I believe. Cardinal Lawrence O’Reilly.’
‘There is absolutely no reason why a quotation from a Christian should be inappropriate. The grand jeu evolved from the liturgy. It can coexist with older forms of worship, you know. It isn’t in conflict.’
A few other Magisters look round: she has spoken too loudly, too clearly. The only person who doesn’t look uncomfortable is the Magister Cartae. Belatedly she realises that he expected her to react exactly as she did. ‘An interesting viewpoint … But you must have read the guidelines.’ He gives her a lipless smile. ‘The guidelines, Magister? They were issued some weeks ago. No? Perhaps you should check your pigeonhole more often. I drafted them myself – after some consultation with our friends in the Ministry for Culture, of course.’
She stares at him. His smile stretches like a wire, thinner and thinner. She wonders what it would take to snap it.