The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  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.

  He turns to the Magister Historiae. ‘… over three days,’ he says, as if the interruption came from her. ‘A triptych of commissions. Short, of course, to appeal to the uneducated audience. Liberty, Prosperity, Victory. I have hopes that the Prime Minister himself will be there.’ He glances up as if he’s surprised she’s still standing there. ‘Such a pity you turned it down, my dear. A Festival like this does so much for national pride. Wonderful to get the grand jeu to a wider audience. It may well influence Ministry for Culture thinking in the longer term …’

  She doesn’t trust herself. If she says anything, she won’t be able to stop. Outside in the corridor the air is cooler, and a breeze is blowing in through an open window at the far end. It smells of pine and earth, with an acrid edge. She doesn’t pause to breathe it in; she wants to get away from the others as quickly as possible. Forget it. It’s done. That was her last duty as Magister Ludi. Now she’s free for two weeks. She’s not even expected to attend dinner in the refectory; her meals will be brought to her on a tray. She’s on retreat, preparing herself for the Midsummer Game, like an acolyte fasting before a rite.

  Martin is standing at the far end of the passage, looking out at the high pasture. He has his hands in his pockets, his hair over his face: for a moment he could be ten years younger. There’s nowhere to go; she’ll have to walk past him. But she stops. Why is he here? To eavesdrop outside the Capitulum, the way he did ten years ago? Before he – but her mind skirts away from the thought, because it ends with Aimé’s death. A sharp pain jabs into her skull, above her eye socket. She kneads it away and walks towards him.

  ‘Magister,’ he says, turning away from the window. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ But she already knows: he was waiting for her. Was expecting to wait much longer … His eyes go to the hand at her forehead and she drops it with an effort.

  ‘I wanted to say – before you go into purdah—’

  She starts walking again. He takes it as an invitation to accompany her. She speeds up until he’s bobbing in her wake.

  ‘How did it go?’ he says, with a cocktail-party brightness.

  ‘Fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. The right person won, then? I know it isn’t always—’ He stops, swallows, pushes his hair off his face.

  ‘It isn’t always the case,’ she says. ‘No. Sometimes the wrong person wins.’

  There’s a silence. He bites his lip. There’s no need for her to say any more. But she can’t stop herself. He’s one of them; he’ll betray Montverre, the grand jeu, and her, without thinking twice. He already has. The Red game. Everything else. She says, ‘I know what you did to my brother.’

  There’s a split second – a heartbeat – and then he looks up at her. ‘You mean … How do you know about that?’ He tries to hold her gaze, but his eyes flicker. ‘Did he – he can’t have told you?’ Such outrage in his voice – and something else, not quite shame. It makes her want to – what? Slap him? Touch him, anyway. But if she touches him, who knows what will happen? She doesn’t trust herself. If she lets slip that she has his diary – or anything else, anything worse, she is afraid of what she might say … It’s dangerous, this urge to dance on the edge. Almost irresistible.

  ‘Don’t pretend—’ Her voice breaks. Stupid, treacherous voice. ‘Don’t pretend it was because you thought – that it was for his benefit. You wanted to win, didn’t you? You would have done anything to win. And then …’

  She wants him to defend himself. But he squints at the floor, as though he’s admitting that even his diary is slippery and blurred, full of half-truths and self-deception. After a second he repeats, without raising his head, ‘And then …?’

  ‘Then …’ But her throat closes. She can’t say it. She doesn’t know what to say.

  She hesitates. Then she strides away. She turns the corner at the end of the corridor. On her left, the windows look out on the courtyard. As she walks past them, a movement catches her eye and she stops.

  There’s a motorcar in the centre of the black-and-white tiles. For a second, time has looped over on itself and she’s back at the beginning of Serotine Term, full of disbelief at Martin’s arrival; then she jolts back into the present moment. He’s not down there, he’s in the corridor behind her. If this is a repeating melody, it’s in a different key, or with a single note silenced. Instead, the man poking his legs out of the shining Rolls-Royce is corpulent and dark-suited. A grey-robed servant steps forward to help him up, obscuring her view, and two others busy themselves with a leather-strapped trunk. Then they retreat – struggling under the weight of the trunk as they lug it to the Magisters’ Entrance – and the car’s engine starts with a cough before it turns in a wide U and crawls towards the gatehouse. Two men are left, one a spotty youth looking up at the towers with amiable disinterest, the fat one with his head bowed. On the other side of the courtyard, the Magister Historiae and the Magister Cartae emerge from a doorway. They hurry over to the men in suits and shake their hands. A welcoming murmur drifts upwards.

  She leans forward. Her breath mists the glass and evaporates almost instantly. Are they guests, arriving for the Midsummer Game two weeks early? The school will be full of outsiders – grand jeu masters, government officials, well-known amateurs, reporters from the grand jeu magazines – but the festival only lasts for a day, long enough for the Midsummer Game and lunch but short enough for them to catch the evening train back to the capital. Why are these men here now? She dislikes them already, and not only because of their loud voices and the smell of petrol fumes creeping through the cracks in the window frame. She draws back, turns to leave, and almost stumbles into Léo Martin. He’s been looking over her shoulder; now he ducks sideways to let her past, grimacing briefly, before his gaze goes back to the men in the courtyard. He says, ‘Is that …? Surely not.’

  ‘What? Who?’ She looks down. The Magisters have moved away; now she has a clear view of the men in suits.

  ‘That’s Emile Fallon,’ he says.

  Emile Fallon. She feels her stomach lurch. For a moment she can’t think clearly: would she recognise his name, if she had never read Martin’s diary? Has she ever seen a photo of him? The easiest thing is to stare down at him and keep her expression blank. He seems older than Martin, with a bulging belly and a double chin, although his hair is still dark and slicked close to his skull. He glances up at the window and nods to them like an actor acknowledging his audience. He has a sly, close-mouthed smile. Instinctively she turns her back. It’s to hide her face, not to look at Martin, but he seems to take it as a question.

  ‘He was in my year, when I was a scholar,’ he says. ‘He works for the Ministry for Information, these days. You wouldn’t know him, he’s not … it’s all pretty hush-hush. He must have been invited to the Midsummer Game. Why has he turned up so early?’

  She doesn’t respond. The thought of Emile here, again … She focuses on her face, keeping the muscles still. She has already revealed too much of herself. Remember. She’s never heard of him. She isn’t meant to know who he is.

  Martin raises his hand. In spite of herself she glances over her shoulder. Emile is waving with a languid motion, like seaweed in a tide. Then he reaches into his jacket and takes out a gold cigarette case. He lights a black-and-gold Sobranie, still smiling up at the window. He flicks the match away. She c
an feel his attention on them both, like a cobweb clinging to her cheeks.

  ‘I suppose he’s come to settle in …’ Martin trails off. He was friends with Emile, years ago. Perhaps they’re still friends. Why not? Swapping intelligence between their ministries. Having lunch on the tax-payer. Evidence of the old boy network flourishing, the way it was always meant to. And yet he doesn’t look exactly pleased.

  ‘I must go,’ Magister Dryden says.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and his eyes narrow. ‘Listen – I wanted to say, I know you’re angry with me, but please listen.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Yes, there is. I’ve been trying to find you. You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘What happened – I was drunk, I didn’t mean to insult you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says.

  ‘It does to me. Is it because of your brother, that you—’ He stops, as though she’s interrupted him. But she hasn’t; at least, not aloud. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘For everything. I’ve already said I’m sorry. Can’t we go back?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Goodbye, Mr Martin.’ She refuses to make space as she slides past him; her robe brushes his jacket and he’s the one to step sideways.

  She walks away, expecting every moment to hear his voice. But it doesn’t come, and when she throws one last look behind her, he’s gone. It ought to give her some satisfaction, to have dismissed him so easily.

  Emile is still in the courtyard, alone, now. As she watches, he blows out smoke through rounded lips. An O floats up, dissipates. Then he throws the cigarette butt away. He doesn’t bother to stub it out before he drifts towards the Magisters’ Entrance. It sits like an insect on a white tile, a narrow black-and-gold hornet, smoking.

  She looks round for a grey-clad servant to hurry across the court and pick it up. But no one comes. The fag-end sits there. The thread of smoke unreels and unreels, as if it’ll go on for ever.

  29

  First day, fourteenth week Seventh day thirteenth week

  It’s late. My head’s going round and round, like I’m drunk. But I have to get this down as exactly as possible. I don’t want to forget a single detail.

  They were meant to announce the marks this evening, before dinner. But they didn’t. They put a notice up that said, Due to unforeseen circumstances, the Gold Medal and other marks will be announced early tomorrow morning.

  I didn’t wait around, after that. I didn’t go to dinner, either. The idea of food made my stomach turn – let alone having to listen to the others while they complained and speculated. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Magisters; it was like I could hear them still arguing, on the edge of audibility, in high, scratchy voices like a bad recording. I couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign that it was taking so long. I always knew Red would be controversial – it takes everyone a while to come round to genius, after all – but they should have decided by now. I kept thinking, surely if they were going for Berger’s latest offering it would have been a quick decision? Or not. Maybe not. Giving the Medal to a second-year would be pretty contentious – especially for Red, which will be contentious anyway – but maybe too contentious, maybe it was stupid to hope … I was so restless I couldn’t even sit down. The only thing I wanted to do less than stay still was run into Carfax; I was so wound up I knew I’d give myself away. So I paced round my room for ages, tidied my papers, etc., etc. (I buried the Tempest right at the bottom just in case, don’t want Carfax to turn up and see it hadn’t been handed in, it’d spoil the surprise). I heard a group of the others come back from dinner – Felix shouted, ‘I can’t bear the suspense!’ and I had to bite my tongue to stop myself yelling back, ‘You’ll have got something between forty-one and forty-five, now relax,’ – but when it all went quiet again I still couldn’t settle down. There was no breeze and it was hot in my room. I was only in shirtsleeves but I was drenched in sweat.

  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.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ He crossed to the desk, looked down at the telegram for a few seconds and then crumpled it into a ball. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You can’t. Carfax, you can’t.’ I sounded like a kid. ‘You have to stay for the marks, tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s not important. They can send me a letter.’ He gave me a crooked smile. ‘If you’ve done better than me, you’ll have to wait and gloat next term. It won’t kill you.’

  I exhaled through my teeth. I didn’t know until that moment that I was going to tell him. I perched on his desk, deliberately getting in his way, and crossed my arms. ‘And what if I haven’t?’ I said. ‘What if I came here because I overheard the Magisters talking after the meeting, and I happen to know for a fact that you’ve done rather well? So well, in fact,’ I went on, watching his face, ‘that you’re the first second-year ever to win the Gold Medal?’