The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

‘You’re right, that was the wrong word,’ Emile says. ‘But there were irregularities with your appointment, I believe. Outside interference. Under the circumstances, the Capitulum will agree that it should be annulled.’

  ‘I’m Magister Ludi.’ For the first time in her life, she hears the foreignness of the words.

  ‘I’m afraid not. As it turns out, you won’t ever have been.’

  She opens her mouth, but her throat has tightened so that she can’t answer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Claire.’ The Magister Scholarium’s hand twitches, as though he wants to reach out to her. ‘I have no choice. For the good of Montverre – for the scholars – the game—’ She stares at him. He has the grace to stammer, but he goes on. ‘It’s desperately unfortunate – but if this is the sacrifice we must make.’

  ‘You’re sacrificing me,’ she says. ‘And in return you get …?’

  The Magister rubs his forehead, leaving red traces on the papery skin. Then he takes a step closer to her, turning his back on the other two men. ‘Claire,’ he says, and his voice is soft, as though they’re alone. ‘You know they want to shut Montverre down. They’ve been trying for months, looking for an excuse. But they’re being reasonable. They’ve agreed that if you go, we can stay here. That we can retain our exemptions. Otherwise … it’s finished.’

  Dettler coughs.

  ‘And why me?’ But the answers to that are easy: because she’s a woman, because it’s easy, because walking out of her Midsummer Game has made it even easier. Because the Party membership will rub its hands and gloat. And because they can replace her with another Magister Ludi, one that the government will choose. It’ll still be the end of Montverre; but a slower death. She says, ‘And what if I refuse?’

  ‘You can’t refuse,’ Dettler says, abruptly, as though he’s lost patience. ‘It’s not your decision. We’re not asking you, we’re telling you.’ He adds, to Emile, ‘I still think a completely fresh start in the capital—’

  Emile raises a hand, and Dettler falls silent. ‘It will be to your advantage if you leave quietly,’ Emile says. ‘I want this done with the minimum of fuss. Please,’ he goes on, forestalling her, ‘this isn’t a fight you can win. Even without today’s display, we would have ample justification for your removal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seditious comments, professed hostility to our democratically elected government, evidence that you tried to corrupt the scholars under your care …’

  ‘Corrupt them? What on earth?’

  ‘A moment.’ He reaches towards the desk and pulls the pile of papers towards him. ‘You think the Party is made up of “thugs and parasites”, is that correct? Not to mention suggesting that our esteemed Prime Minister is – ahem – a “bigoted, bitter old man”? And I believe that you have consistently insisted on teaching Christian values. For example, did you – where was it? oh yes – ask your class to assess the influence of Palestrina on the development of the grand jeu?’ He gives her a glintingly unsympathetic smile. ‘Men have faced imprisonment for less, you know.’

  ‘I have every right to—’

  ‘Not when you are charged with educating impressionable young men. Not since the Unity Bill. Didn’t you have a memorandum about that? And I won’t even ask about aiding an undesirable to evade the police, which is a capital crime.’ She only just has time to realise he’s talking about Simon Charpentier before he goes on. ‘Perhaps it would be best to bow out gracefully, my dear. Or things could become … complicated.’

  ‘You can’t. This isn’t—’ But she stops. Fair. Allowed. Right. None of those words is an argument, any longer. ‘How did you …? How dare you?’

  Emile ruffles the papers, flicking each corner with his thumbnail. ‘Oh, well, you know,’ he says. ‘We have friends everywhere.’ He lowers his hands a little, tilting the pages so that she can see.

  Léo’s handwriting. Dear Emile.

  She reaches out to take the letters; but when she has them in her hand, the words blur. If she is shocked, she doesn’t feel it. It is inevitable, so obvious she should have known it all along. All these months Léo has been spying on her, in spite of his denials. This was only to be expected. He has always been a liar and an opportunist. She has always been a fool.

  She passes the pages back to Emile. Her hand is entirely steady. She says, ‘I see. Thank you.’ Then she turns and walks out, determined to be out of sight before she feels anything.

  38: Léo

  He can’t stay still. There’s too much blood in his veins, too much electricity in the connections of his brain. He hears the clock strike above him. Surely explaining herself to the Magister Scholarium can’t take this long; surely she’ll come soon? Unless she doesn’t want to see him. The possibility makes him cringe inside. If, after all, he said something wrong, if she’s having second thoughts … But he only has to close his eyes to see her face, dazed and radiant, as open as a clear sky: she loves him, she’s always loved him. It gives him a shiver of happiness and disbelief. He was so vain, ten years ago, to take it as his due, to think it was a game that he’d won. Now he feels incredulous. She loves him.

  But where is she? He wants to go and look for her, but he’s afraid that they’ll miss each other. It’s absurd to agonise like this, he’ll see her soon, but he can’t wait. He paces from the window to the wall and back again.

  Footsteps come up the stairs. He leaps towards the door and opens it. ‘At last,’ he says, ‘I’ve been waiting.’

  It’s Emile. He smiles widely and steps inside. ‘Have you?’ he says, with a smoothness that doesn’t give anything away. ‘How clever of you.’

  ‘Emile.’ His heart sinks.

  Emile shuts the door. ‘I hope you’re recovered,’ he says. ‘After your … what was it? A brainstorm? Bilious attack? The runs?’

  ‘It wasn’t serious.’

  ‘No,’ Emile says, ‘I didn’t imagine that it was.’ That smile is still on his face, as if they’re sharing a joke. He saunters over to Léo’s desk and leans against it, surveying the piles of books, cigarettes and chocolates. ‘I must congratulate you. I never considered such a direct form of sabotage.’

  ‘It wasn’t sabotage.’ He tries to summon the memory of that giddy moment when he found himself on his feet. Had he meant to stop her? Well, yes, but only because he thought she’d plagiarised Carfax’s game, not for any other reason. Certainly not to please Emile: and yet Emile is looking at him as if that’s exactly what he thinks. ‘Look,’ Léo says, ‘you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I felt ill, that’s all.’

  Emile laughs. For once, it sounds as if he’s genuinely amused. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘Not sabotage? The way you substituted Carfax’s game by mistake, I suppose.’

  He blinks. How does Emile know that? Did he piece it together from overheard snippets at the time, or from something Carfax said, or Léo himself? Or is it simply that these days it’s Emile’s business to know things? It doesn’t matter. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘that was a mistake, too,’ and there’s hardly a hitch in his voice. ‘I have every respect for the Magister Ludi. I would never try to undermine her. It was a … misunderstanding.’

  Emile narrows his eyes, his smile fading. ‘I don’t follow,’ he says. ‘You must know it’s precisely what we needed.’

  ‘That’s not …’ He fumbles for a cigarette packet and pulls one out. Where is Claire? Why hasn’t she come? He doesn’t want to think about the moment when she turned away and left the Great Hall. Something in Emile’s expression makes him remember a row of men on the back bench, balancing programmes and notebooks, scribbling furiously; when he ran past them, they were craning to look, their eyes gleeful. ‘It’s nothing. She was taken ill. Or rather – it’s my fault.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Emile holds out his lighter but he doesn’t let go of it, so Léo has to twist it out of his grip.

  He lights his cigarette, more deliberately than he needs to. He has to stop talking; nothing he can say will make a difference
. He humiliated Claire, and it doesn’t matter why. Oh, if only he’d known, if only he hadn’t … ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I came to give you some good news.’

  He doesn’t want to ask. For a second he thinks he hears footsteps – is it Claire? Surely this time – but as he turns his head to listen, Emile starts to speak again.

  ‘I know you’re sentimental about this place,’ Emile says. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that it’s staying as it is. Dettler had grand plans – a school in the capital, a whole new institution – but I always thought it was more trouble than it was worth. Far better to keep it here, with its august traditions and so on. There’ll be a few minor changes to the financial structures, perhaps. A bit more quid pro quo … But the Old Man doesn’t want to see Montverre dismantled.’

  Léo stares at him. A school in the capital. Was that what Pirène was hinting at, at New Year? The thought makes him shudder. If he’d only known … At last he says, ‘You’re leaving us alone?’

  Emile raises his eyebrows at the word ‘us’; but he only nods.

  Léo turns away because he doesn’t want Emile to see his expression. Relief pools in his knees, his gut. He hadn’t realised the damage he might have done. Of course Montverre is strong enough to weather a storm. A tempest. It isn’t made of glass, after all. He forces himself to speak. ‘That is good news.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to hear it,’ Emile says, but he has a sly smile, as if he hasn’t quite finished.

  ‘I’m surprised. I thought you hated the place.’

  ‘Who says I don’t? I’m happy for it to stay here, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. Good.’ A silence. No footsteps. Léo must have been imagining it. All the same, he wants to get rid of Emile; she’ll come soon … ‘Well,’ he says, ‘thanks, but if that’s all—’

  ‘One other thing,’ Emile says. His smile widens. ‘We’re appointing you Magister Ludi.’

  He must have misheard. Assistant to, perhaps – or Magister of something else, maybe they’re creating a post for him, who knows why? He swallows. ‘What?’

  Emile laughs softly. ‘You’re the new Magister Ludi. Congratulations.’

  ‘But there’s – Claire – Magister Dryden.’

  ‘There were irregularities with her appointment. You may remember that the shortlist was badly managed. The school will issue a full apology, of course, to everyone involved.’

  ‘You’re getting rid of her?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone will protest, after this morning’s embarrassment. It came at the perfect moment to demonstrate her inadequacy. Couldn’t have fallen better.’ Emile adds, with a glint, ‘Not that it was sabotage on your part, of course.’ Silence. He turns his hand over in a graceful gesture, almost a contrevure. ‘I should hope you’re pleased.’

  Léo remembers Pirène’s advice before an important session in the House: keep breathing. ‘What will happen to her?’

  ‘She has agreed not to make a fuss. For the sake of the greater good.’

  There’s a sharp, hot pain in Léo’s fingers. He’s let his cigarette burn right down. He flicks it aside, shaking the sting from his knuckles. ‘And I’ll replace her. Does she know that?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why? Why me? There must be others.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. You’ve proved yourself over the last few months. First your letters, then this morning … I’ve spoken to the Old Man, and he’s prepared to overlook your previous aberration. It’s worth a lot to us, to have someone here we can rely on. Help us implement the changes.’ A pause. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’

  ‘What makes you think you can trust me?’

  ‘Léo, we’re making you Magister Ludi. The least you can do is accept with some fucking grace.’

  As if he doesn’t have a choice. He inhales slowly. He says, ‘Magister Ludi,’ not meaning anything, simply putting the words into the air as if he’s never heard them before. The room is so still that every sound is clear: outside a bird takes to flight with a clatter of wings, a breeze rattles the window, footsteps scrape suddenly on stone, fade to nothing down the stairs. He can’t think straight. Magister Ludi.

  After everything, he could be Magister Ludi. He stares ahead of him, past Emile, as if his younger self is standing in the corner of the room. His pulse thuds uncomfortably in his temples. It was what he dreamt of, for two whole years. The life he thought he’d have – that he should have had. Not a politician; a grand jeu player. Finally living up to his early promise. The youngest ever Gold Medallist.

  He remembers, abruptly, the moment when he knew he’d won the Gold Medal. His name on the noticeboard. Léonard Martin, Gold Medallist, Reflections. He’d always told himself that he didn’t care, that he didn’t even pause, only scanned the rest of the names for Carfax’s; but it wasn’t true, was it? It would have been inhuman not to feel his heart leap. For a split second he was the happiest he’d ever been, full of fierce delight and triumph. He’d done it. And when his gaze slid down the list, did he care, would he have swapped his success for Carfax’s? No. Yes. He didn’t want Carfax to fail, of course he didn’t, he genuinely submitted Red because it was brilliant … but was there a pulse of satisfaction, even a tiny one, when he saw?

  If there was, does it matter? He would have given his Gold Medal up like a shot. If he’d had the choice. But he didn’t. He hadn’t done it deliberately, but he couldn’t stop himself wanting to win the Gold Medal.

  And he wants to be Magister Ludi. He does. He shuts his eyes, and for a moment he’s in the Great Hall, standing in the middle of the terra, and the tense avid silence is for him.

  It could happen. He doesn’t even have to do anything.

  He opens his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  Emile opens his mouth and hesitates. ‘Why not?’ he says, at last.

  ‘Because you have no right to offer it to me.’

  Emile makes a fussy little gesture, as if he’s plucking invisible strings. ‘Really, my dear chap,’ he says, ‘why so squeamish? You’ve done it before, after all. Pushed a de Courcy aside to get ahead. I don’t— oh, I see.’ He chuckles. ‘That’s it, is it? It wasn’t your fault, Léo. He did himself in because he was weak. If he couldn’t handle failure, he shouldn’t have been here.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s a game, Léo. Some people win, some people lose. Don’t let guilt stand in your way.’

  ‘It isn’t guilt. The Magister Ludi—’

  ‘Do you remember when a servant threw herself off the Square Tower?’ he asks, cutting Léo off. ‘In our second year. It must have been about the time Carfax cut his throat, as I recall.’

  ‘What has that got to do with this?’

  ‘I knew her a little. Actually, quite well. We had a few nice times together. Then she told me she was pregnant. Obviously it wasn’t my problem, and frankly I doubt I was the only one, but – well. At the time, I felt to blame. But the point is, she would have done it anyway. It wasn’t my responsibility. I could have let it ruin my life. But I didn’t. That’s our way, isn’t it? We have to be strong enough not to be dragged down.’

  Léo clenches his jaw. Emile is so matter-of-fact: as if this is something they have in common, having driven someone to suicide. With a sudden incredulous relief he remembers that Carfax didn’t die – or rather, that it wasn’t his Carfax and not his fault. For a fraction of a second he almost tells Emile the truth. ‘That’s not why,’ he says instead. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Carfax.’

  ‘Then why are you being so …’ Emile stops. ‘Oh,’ he says, rolling his eyes, ‘please tell me it isn’t that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Claire Dryden? Really? My dear boy, I thought your taste had improved since Carfax. But I suppose … each to their own. Does the de Courcy blood hold some particular attraction?’

  Léo wants to hit him. ‘I don’t want to fuck the Magister Ludi,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want to be the Magister Ludi, eithe
r. Now, will you go, please?’

  There’s a pause. A veil of smoke hangs in the dead air. Faint voices rise from somewhere below, laughing as though it’s a normal day. Emile stands up straight and brushes a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘You’re doing yourself an enormous disservice.’

  Léo doesn’t answer. It’s true, of course.

  ‘If you don’t want to be Magister Ludi, someone else will.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘You idiot,’ Emile says. ‘You’re throwing away the greatest opportunity of your life, for nothing.’

  ‘Not for nothing.’

  ‘You want to commit political suicide? I can’t help you if you do.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to.’

  ‘Stop being such a prig, Léo.’ Emile steps towards him. His cheeks are blotchy, and his hands in his pockets are pulling the fabric taut. ‘You’ll do the fucking job, and be grateful.’

  ‘Why do you care so much?’ But as soon as he says it, he knows the answer. Because Emile has told everyone in the Ministry – and the Chancellor, the Old Man, and everyone else – that he’s the one who can manage Léo. He thinks Léo will be tractable and naïve – or that he’s already so unscrupulous that he’d sabotage Claire’s game without a second thought, out of self-interest. Emile thinks that this arrangement will give him control of Montverre. The grand jeu itself. How long has he been machinating for this? And perhaps it never even occurred to him that Léo might refuse. ‘No,’ Léo says, before Emile can answer. ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘You can’t make me,’ he says, and almost wants to laugh. They’re two grown men, for pity’s sake.

  Emile takes a deep breath; it seems to last for ever. Then he crosses to the window. The colour in his face has spread to his chin and his jowls, but when he speaks his voice is softer. ‘Simon Charpentier,’ he says. ‘Someone helped him evade the police. It doesn’t matter,’ he continues, raising his hand, ‘I don’t care whether you helped him or not. If I say it was you, it was you. Your girlfriend was a Christian, wasn’t she?’