‘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 puts 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.