The Betrayals(92)

When I left my room I was only thinking that I’d go out for a breath of fresh air. But when I passed the archway onto the courtyard I could see the lights still burning in the Capitulum, so I knew they were still at it. And somehow I found myself walking down the Factorum corridor, past the music rooms and the Magisters’ quarters, and then turning right into the Old Wing. I could have paused at any of the windows to breathe the air coming off the mountain, but I didn’t. I carried on walking, until I was in the gallery that leads to the Capitulum staircase.

I hovered in the doorway, looking up, but all I could see was the curve of the stairs, disappearing into darkness. I couldn’t hear anything, either. Once I think I heard someone raise his voice, and thought it might have been Magister Holt, but then it was quiet again.

I sat down on a windowsill and shut my eyes. My stomach was churning. The clock chimed.

It must have been about half an hour later when I heard voices. I leapt up but there wasn’t anywhere to go, so I stood near a window with my hands in my pockets, ready to pretend I was mid-step. There’s no rule against taking an evening constitutional in the corridors. And I couldn’t bring myself not to listen. At first I heard the Magister Historiae say something indistinct, and then, ‘… pity, we expected better things of him, especially considering—’

‘Arrogance,’ another Magister said. ‘He must have thought he was a dead cert. I personally don’t feel sorry for him. It’s unusual, but I think we’ve made the right decision.’

‘After five hours, I should hope so!’ someone else said, and there was laughter. It was funny to hear the Magisters laughing together, like they were scholars. I was in luck: when they emerged from the tower they turned left, without seeing me.

I was tingling with excitement. They must have been talking about Berger. And they thought he was arrogant, did they?

Then Magister Holt came through the doorway and said, over his shoulder, ‘… not sure it was the right …’

‘What else could we do?’ The Magister Scholarium paused next to him, sighing. ‘Let’s look on the bright side,’ he added, in a weary sort of way. ‘We have a most worthy winner. And such promise! What can we expect from him next year?’

Behind them, the Magister Cartae was hobbling down the last few stairs, breathing heavily. They moved aside to let him pass, and then the others came down after him, hurrying or yawning or muttering darkly about having missed dinner. But Magister Holt didn’t move, and neither did the Magister Scholarium.

‘Edward,’ the Magister Scholarium said, finally, ‘I understand how you feel. But it is an enormous accolade that under your tutelage a second-year has achieved this much.’

‘That’s kind of you. I merely wish—’

They stopped, staring at me. I must have made a noise. I cleared my throat. ‘I was only,’ I said, and then I couldn’t finish the sentence. I gestured at the far doorway. ‘I’ll …’

‘The results will be on the noticeboard tomorrow morning,’ Magister Holt said. His voice was icy.

‘Yes. I – sorry – I didn’t mean to earwig.’

‘Whatever you overheard,’ the Magister Scholarium said, ‘it would be an offence punishable by expulsion if you disclosed it to anyone before the official announcement. Now make yourself scarce, young man.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Magister.’

I walked away. Then, when I got out of sight, I broke into a run.

Carfax was in his cell, I could hear him moving about. I knocked on the door. At first he said, ‘Go away,’ but I carried on. Finally he wrenched the door open so violently I nearly fell into his arms. ‘What do you want? Martin?’

‘Who else would it be?’ When he didn’t invite me in I shoved him gently to one side. I would’ve sat on the bed but there were shirts piled on it. His trunk was open and half full, and the Auburn Mistress was leaning against the head of his bed in her case. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be back until next term.’

‘What? Now?’

‘If I’m quick I can catch the last train from Montverre, and then I can get the sleeper home. I won’t take all this,’ he added, following my gaze, ‘I’m getting it ready for them to send on.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but now? Term ends in three days, why on earth would you—’

‘I have to.’ He didn’t meet my eyes. ‘Move, will you? You’re in my way.’

‘You’re mad. Hey – Carfax – the marks are out tomorrow!’

‘I know.’ He didn’t shout it, exactly, but it made me stop arguing.

‘What’s happened?’ I said. He glanced at the desk, and I followed his gaze. There was a curl of flimsy blue paper on top of his notebook. A telegram. He saw me see it, and stepped across to block my view. ‘Is it your sister, again?’

He bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he said, at last. ‘She … I have to go home. She’s not well.’

I had to take a deep breath. ‘You can go tomorrow, can’t you? She’s probably exaggerating. You know what women are like.’ I shouldn’t have said that: I saw his eyes narrow. ‘I don’t mean it like that – only that one night won’t make a difference – please.’