The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Indeed.’ He smiles at her and raises his hand to cut her off. ‘Now, I know it’s unusual.’

  ‘Magister.’ She clears her throat. ‘We don’t take guests. Of any kind. Let alone—’

  ‘I think you’ll find there is a precedent. Arnauld spent nearly two years here, as a guest, before he was elected Magister Ludi. In the past we have sometimes offered hospitality to those wishing to expand their understanding – foreign scholars, players …’

  ‘Léonard Martin is not a player,’ she says, struggling for control. ‘He’s Minister for Culture.’

  ‘Not any more, as I understand it.’

  ‘What?’

  He sits back with a sigh, as if his bones ache. ‘I believe the announcement is in today’s papers. Mr Martin has resigned from government and intends to devote his life to studying the grand jeu. The Chancellor himself wrote to me on his behalf to ask if we could possibly support him in that – it having been Mr Martin’s deepest wish to return, ever since he studied here.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’ She leans forward. She has to keep her fists clenched or she’ll reach out and smash something. ‘I beg your pardon, Magister, but it is. Léo Martin has shown himself to be a cynical pragmatist of a politician. To allow him here – into the heart of the grand jeu—’

  ‘He was a Gold Medallist, I seem to recall.’

  ‘I know that. But since then …’ She stops, trembling on the edge.

  ‘And I am assured that his political career is over. He will be devoting his time here to scholarship. Remind me, was there some personal connection …?’

  ‘It’s not that!’

  He blinks. ‘But then – forgive me – what is it?’

  ‘It’s sacrilege.’

  He goes very still. They stare at each other, and for a moment she can feel the weight of the grand jeu on her side, the tradition of the school, the stone of the very walls ranged behind her. She swallows.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he says. He gets up and walks to the window, drawing the casement shut with a sharp click. ‘Tell me, Magister. What do you suggest?’ The warmth has left his voice.

  There’s a silence. ‘I suggest sending him away.’

  ‘Perhaps you would help me draft a letter to the Chancellor, to explain.’

  ‘This is no place for someone like him.’

  ‘Someone, you mean, with power?’

  She opens her mouth and closes it again.

  ‘Someone,’ the Magister Scholarium goes on, ‘with friends in government? Someone whose connections could replace me with a puppet of the Party? Or you? Who could rescind the school’s privileges? Perhaps even shut it down?’

  ‘No one could shut down the school.’

  ‘You would gamble with the very future of Montverre – of the grand jeu, no less – because you have a personal dislike of a man who may not be one of us?’ He raises his voice as she takes a breath to speak. ‘No, I concede, he is not a Magister or a scholar, he will perhaps feel himself to be an outsider – but what do we lose by welcoming him? By all accounts he is a charming, erudite, intelligent man. He will be an honoured guest until he gets bored – which may be very soon – whereupon he will leave of his own accord, with happy memories and a renewed affection for the school. You honestly think that is a worse alternative than refusing the Chancellor’s … request? Which, I may add, was hardly presented as such.’ He clenches his fist and brings it down, slowly, on to the windowsill.

  She bites her tongue until her mouth floods with the taste of salt. ‘They want to use the grand jeu for their own ends,’ she says. ‘They call it our “national game”.’

  ‘It is our national game.’

  ‘Not in the way they mean it.’

  ‘Magister—’ He breaks off and turns to look at her. ‘Your scruples do you credit. Truly. But we cannot avoid politics. Not even here.’

  ‘Surely we have an obligation to—’

  ‘We do what we can. And what we must.’ He opens his arms, and there’s something despairing in the droop of his hands. ‘Very well, Magister. What shall I do? If I send him away, I run the risk of far, far graver consequences – for myself, for you and the other Magisters, for the scholars. I remember how strongly you felt about having a Party member on the Entrance panel, and the problems we’ve had with accepting Christians … We are, I would venture to say, privileged; we’re partly funded by the state, and yet we have more autonomy than the Civil Service or the legal profession. We were lucky to be exempt from the Culture and Integrity Act. For as long as the Party’s input is merely advisory, I am grateful. It might be much worse. But what is your advice? Should I stand on principle? Please. Tell me.’

  There’s a silence. She looks down. Her hands are so tightly interlaced that the veins in her wrists are standing out. She says, hardly loud enough to be heard, ‘It will be a distraction for the scholars.’

  ‘You will have to make sure they weather it.’

  She nods, once.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve seen reason.’ He sits down and fumbles with his pen. ‘I think it would be useful for you to speak to Mr Martin as soon as possible. He has been given a room under the clock tower. He should be there now … He will be interested in meeting you, I’m sure. And during his stay, from time to time, you should offer him guidance and help with the grand jeu, if he wants it. Tactfully.’

  ‘Yes.’ She ignores the cold lurch of her insides.

  ‘Thank you.’ He sighs and runs his hands over his forehead. The movement pushes his cap up over one eyebrow, so that it sits at a jaunty, incongruous angle. A tuft of white hair escapes and sticks out sideways. ‘I know you will be able to put your feelings aside in the service of the school.’

  She gets to her feet. ‘Thank you, Magister.’

  He smiles at her with a vague benevolence that tells her his mind has already gone back to his work. At least, she thinks so until she reaches the door; then he says, unexpectedly, ‘Magister?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You may not like him, or what he represents. But please remember that there are always voices that speak against an outsider. There were many, for example, who spoke against you.’

  There are no mirrors at Montverre. That is, not officially: although among the third-years ‘scab-face’ means a new, naïve scholar who hasn’t got the nerve to break the rules, and the Magister Cartae had perfectly smooth cheeks from the day he arrived, without the nicks and grazes you’d expect as he grew used to shaving by touch. It must be the only rule that affects Magister Dryden less than the men; she can still remember her first day as Magister Ludi, and the way the Magister Domus’ expression turned from sympathy to surprise when she said, ‘I’m a woman, for God’s sake, I don’t need a mirror.’ She almost laughed. But now it’s different; now she bends over a basin of water, suddenly desperate to scry her own face. The room is too dim for her to make out more than shadowy eyes and mouth. A swirl of soap scum marbles the surface. She leans closer to her reflection, imagining how she might look to someone else; then, with a hiss of frustration, she crosses to the window and empties the basin on to the grass below. She turns back into the room, catches her wrist on the casement, and drops the basin with a clang. She stares at it as it rolls to a halt against the wall. In the bare room – bed, chair, closet, washstand – the stranded basin draws the eye: already the tidy austerity of her life is disrupted, ruined. She shuts her eyes and tries to summon the silence of the grand jeu, that empty waiting that wipes out everything but the present moment. She fails.

  The clock chimes three. It brings to mind the Minister for Culture – former Minister for Culture – in his rooms beneath the clock tower. Her skin crawls at the thought that he’s so close, within the call of the bell; but he’ll be here for a long time, so she’d better get used to it. She gnaws at her lower lip. She doesn’t have any choice. Sooner or later she’ll have to talk to him. Better to get it over now, before she has too much time to think.

  She picks up the basin and p
uts it back on the washstand. Then she goes down the little wooden staircase into her study and collects the books she’ll need for her tutorial with Grappier at half past three, and the dusty reading glasses she only uses for Artemonian notation. When she puts them on the world looms up in front of her, so close she takes an involuntary step backwards. Never mind. If she goes now she can be brisk, on her way to the top classroom to see Grappier, polite but unable to linger. She pulls her cap down over her forehead until her hairpins dig into her scalp. Blinking at the over-magnified world – willing away the incipient headache – she hurries out into the corridor and turns left, towards the clock tower.

  The door is open. He is standing at the window, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that dances just out of reach, mocking her with its familiarity. She pauses, unsure whether to go in: is this his territory, or hers? Some remnant of good manners takes over, and she knocks lightly on the doorframe. He looks round, his lips pursed. ‘Come in.’

  She is suddenly breathless. It’s ridiculous not to have planned what to say; even more ridiculous that the idea that she’s going to have to speak comes as a shock. She steps forward, but no words come.

  ‘I’m not sure this room will be suitable,’ he says, over his shoulder. ‘Does that bloody clock strike all night?’

  ‘I—’ She stares at him. This is not what she was expecting; even if her face means nothing to him, surely he should be suave, smiling, the politician she has always imagined him to be. ‘Yes. Every hour.’

  ‘Well, then, it won’t be—’ He stops, checks himself. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought …’

  She doesn’t understand; then she does. He took her for a servant. He read the subtle shape of her body before he noticed the white gown, and drew his own conclusions. There was no need for the glasses, after all; he’s not even observant enough to realise she’s a Magister as well as a woman. ‘I’m Magister Dryden,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Montverre.’

  ‘Magister Dryden, of course. Forgive me.’ But the flicker of embarrassment is gone in a second, replaced by something colder. ‘Yes, I should have recognised you.’

  Her heart thumps. ‘What?’

  ‘I believe I saw your picture in the papers when you were elected. Quite the coup, an unknown woman in charge of the grand jeu.’

  She lets her breath out, slowly, at the thought of his having seen that blurry, badly posed photograph, accompanied by headlines like Brainy little lady beats the odds or What a treat for the scholars! But she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I was fortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate!’ he says. ‘You certainly were.’ He turns his head sharply to the window, craning sideways as if he’s watching something at the base of the clock tower. She should be glad that he’s so uninterested, that she is free to look at him without worrying that he’ll look back; but a fierce, deep anger rises until she could scream. She forces herself to take an inventory of him, as though he’s an object. He is good-looking, of course, but he’s starting to go to seed; his beauty is dog-eared, well-thumbed, as if he’s used it once too often. The blond of his hair is dull – not exactly grey, but beginning to fade – and there’s a flush in his cheeks that will eventually be the fine red-veining of a drunkard. Good.

  ‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘If there’s nothing more—’

  She shouldn’t have said anything. He can’t let her go like that, of her own accord: he swings back to her, his whole body this time, and suddenly the famous smile is there as if he’s asking for her vote. ‘Magister Dryden,’ he says. ‘Forgive me. I’m afraid the hotel was somewhat primitive, and I didn’t sleep well … It’s an honour to meet you.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘I’m Léo Martin.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Minis— ex-Minister for Culture.’

  She doesn’t move. ‘I know.’

  ‘Really?’ He drops his hand with an ease that suggests he’s used to being snubbed; although she imagines him storing it away, for later. ‘I didn’t think you were allowed newspapers, here.’

  ‘The Magisters are. If they choose.’

  ‘And you do choose …? I see. Well, I congratulate you. So many people think Montverre is an ivory tower. I’m glad it isn’t. Although I hope it will be a retreat for me, at least.’

  ‘Retreat from what?’ She shouldn’t have asked. She bobs her head, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he says, in a tone which suggests he doesn’t think she does. ‘Politics.’ His smile turns into a grin that is meant, she imagines, to be endearing. ‘Real life.’

  She is practiced in keeping her face blank. She nods, and glimpses his disappointment that she hasn’t responded to his charm. It gives her a secret twinge of satisfaction. He should know better than to think the grand jeu is a refuge from life; if anything, it’s the other way around. But she has more important things to do than explain that to him. ‘I do hope you’ll enjoy your studies,’ she says. ‘The Magister Scholarium has asked me to tell you that if you need guidance I will try to find time to help you. If I can.’

  His eyes flicker, but all he says is, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You know where the library is, of course. If there is anything else you need, please let one of the servants know.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  She starts to leave.

  ‘I wonder … have we met before? There’s something about your voice.’

  She turns back to him. The light catches in a smear on one lens of her spectacles, but she resists the urge to clean them on her sleeve. ‘No, I don’t believe we have.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Magister. I’ll be interested to see what you can do.’ A fractional pause; then, as she takes a breath to answer him, he waves a hand at her. ‘Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure the grand jeu is calling.’

  Such casual dismissal. It would be perverse to insist on staying; she doesn’t want his attention. But it takes all her willpower to drop her gaze and turn away.

  As she does, he whistles that scrap of melody again, and with a jolt she recognises it. The Bridges of Königsberg. She shoots a glance at him over her shoulder, but he’s looking out of the window again.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she says. She feels herself relax, but just as she pauses to shut the door after herself, he stops whistling mid-bar.

  ‘By the way,’ he says, with a smile, ‘Your being the first female Magister Ludi … I’m curious if you could tell me – would you translate it as “master” or “mistress”?’

  She’s walking in a dream. She looks down at her feet and suddenly the ground is black and white. She raises her head, blinking. She has come out of the Magisters’ Entrance into the courtyard. In front of her the pattern of black and white is tinged blue by the afternoon shadows, turning it to watered milk and charcoal. It’s nothing like the pattern the moonlight left on the floor of the Great Hall a few days ago: and yet, in its stark clarity, it recalls exactly the sense of a board waiting for the first move. She can’t shake that feeling out of herself; ever since that night it’s been lurking, prickling in her thumbs like the promise of a storm. She tells herself – has been telling herself – that it’s merely anxiety about her Midsummer Game, the early creep of understandable nerves: it’s her first, and she hasn’t started work on it yet. That her imagination becomes overactive at night, especially when she walks the corridors, watching the moon slide from window to window, until she ends up in the Great Hall as if summoned there by some silent bell. That anyone, staring into that pale geometry of light on stone, would feel watched; that the sensation of a hostile gaze from the darkness was nothing but the silence and chill of a night in the mountains … But it felt like an omen. And now Léo Martin is here, under the same roof as her, whistling the theme from the Bridges of Königsberg.

  She crosses the courtyard and steps through the doorway into the soft seasonless hush of the library. Here and there second- and third-years are bent over their boo
ks, brows furrowed in concentration; as she walks past, one of them moves his hand unconsciously back and forth as he plots a move, testing the weight of the gesture in the air. She almost pauses to glance over his shoulder at the page in front of him, but today she has no appetite for teaching. She makes her way through the high bookshelves to the staircase, and up the stairs. In daylight, this is her territory – her hunting ground, where everything she could possibly need hides in an index or a footnote – but after the clock strikes midnight she’s glad to leave with the last scholars, while the bleary-eyed attendant extinguishes the lamps. No one has been allowed here alone since the London Library was destroyed: but even if she could, she wouldn’t. On bad days it’s too easy to imagine losing control, dropping a match, and the dance of flame-shadows on the plaster ceiling … She passes the attendant’s desk now, and nods to him. Then she turns aside, fumbles for the key, and unlocks the narrow door of the Biblioteca Ludi, her own private library.

  It smells of dust. After she’s locked the door behind her she crosses to the windows, stepping over boxes and piles of books, and pushes the casement open as far as it will go. From here she can look out over the road and the valley: somewhere out of sight is Montverre village, and beyond that the foothills and the fertile flood-plain, and somewhere, miles and miles beyond that, is home. But it’s not her home any more. She swings round, turning away from the view as if she’s afraid someone is looking back at her. She takes a deep breath, frowning at the tight-packed bookshelves, the untidy floor, the draped cobweb in the corner of the ceiling that hangs so thickly she could have mistaken it for a detail in the plaster.

  Once, perhaps, the Biblioteca Ludi was the secret heart of the school, a priceless collection of texts on the grand jeu that were too precious to be looked at by mere scholars. There are books that are unique, illuminated in gold and lapis, chained to their shelves against the far wall; others are handwritten by the Grand Masters, or the sole surviving copies of ancient codices, or contemporary notes from witnesses of classic games. But it’s been years – generations – since anyone catalogued what’s here. Since then the shelves have accumulated piles of dark-bound volumes, labelled tersely with names that even she doesn’t recognise, and tiny octavo notebooks crammed with Artemonian notation, and portfolios of unlabelled notes in cramped illegible writing. Some Magister of the last century decided to keep not only his games but his research material: the floor is cluttered with boxes of sheet music, mathematical and scientific journals, books of philosophy and verse … And scattered among the dubious treasures chosen by her great-great-grandfathers are things that she is almost sure must have been left by mistake: a pipe, a Latin dictionary, a scholar’s essay. The last time she was here she found a dingy copy of a thirty-year-old Gambit next to a first edition of Philidor; she imagined Magister Holt leaving it there absent-mindedly while he searched for something else, his lumpy rheumatic fingers brushing gently along the spines. After she was appointed she spent hours exploring, like a priestess taking possession of her domain, but it palled before she had got halfway around the room. Now she has neither the desire nor the arrogance to organise the collection: she treats it as a sort of hiding place, a tomb.