Babel, page 22
Even the thefts became routine. Babel’s professors seemed wholly unaware that anything was being stolen at all. The Hermes Society took silver only in amounts small enough to mask with some accounting trickery, for the virtue of a humanities faculty, Griffin explained, was that everyone was hopeless with numbers.
‘Playfair would let entire crates of silver disappear if no one checked him,’ he told Robin. ‘Do you think he keeps tidy books? The man can barely add figures in two digits.’
Some days Griffin did not mention Hermes at all, but instead spent the hour it took to reach Port Meadow and back inquiring about Robin’s life at Oxford – his rowing exploits, his favourite bookshops, his thoughts on the food in hall and in the Buttery.
Robin answered cautiously. He kept waiting for the ball to drop, for Griffin to spin this conversation into an argument, for his own preference for plain scones to become the proof of his infatuation with the bourgeoisie. But Griffin only kept asking, and gradually it dawned on Robin that perhaps Griffin just missed being a student.
‘I do love the campus at Christmastime,’ said Griffin one night. ‘It’s the season when Oxford leans most into the magic of itself.’
The sun had set. The air had gone from pleasantly chilly to bone-cuttingly cold, but the city was bright with Christmas candles, and a light trickle of snow floated down around them. It was lovely. Robin slowed his pace, wanting to savour the scene, but Griffin, he noticed, was shivering madly.
‘Griffin, don’t . . . ’ Robin hesitated; he didn’t know how to ask politely. ‘Is that the only coat you have?’
Griffin recoiled like a dog rising on its hackles. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just – I’ve got a stipend, if you wanted to buy something warmer—’
‘Don’t patronize me.’ Robin regretted instantly that he’d ever brought it up. Griffin was too proud. He could take no charity; he could not even take sympathy. ‘I don’t need your money.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Robin, wounded.
They walked for another block in silence. Then Griffin asked, in an obvious attempt at an olive branch, ‘What’s on for Christmas?’
‘First there’ll be dinner in hall.’
‘So endless Latin prayers, rubber goose, and a Christmas pudding that’s indistinguishable from pig slop. What’s really on?’
Robin grinned. ‘Mrs Piper has some pies waiting for me in Jericho.’
‘Steak and kidney?’
‘Chicken and leek. My favourite. And a lemon tart for Letty, and a chocolate pecan dessert pie for Ramy and Victoire—’
‘Bless your Mrs Piper,’ Griffin said. ‘The professor had some frigid crone named Mrs Peterhouse in my time. Couldn’t cook to save her life, no, but always remembered to say something about half-breeds whenever I was in earshot. He didn’t like that either, though; I suppose that’s why he let her go.’
They turned left onto Cornmarket. They were very near the tower now, and Griffin seemed fidgety; Robin suspected they would soon part ways.
‘Before I forget.’ Griffin reached into his coat, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and tossed it at Robin. ‘I got you something.’
Surprised, Robin pulled at the string. ‘A tool?’
‘Just a present. Merry Christmas.’
Robin tore away the paper, which revealed a lovely, freshly printed volume.
‘You said you liked Dickens,’ said Griffin. ‘They’d just bound the serialization of his latest – you might have already read it, but I thought you’d like it all in one piece.’
He’d bought Robin the three-volume set of Oliver Twist. For a moment Robin could only stammer – he hadn’t known they were exchanging gifts, he hadn’t bought anything for Griffin – but Griffin waved this off. ‘That’s all right, I’m older than you, don’t embarrass me.’
Only later, after Griffin had disappeared down Broad Street, coat flapping around his ankles, would Robin realize this selection had been Griffin’s idea of a joke.
Come back with me, he almost said when they parted. Come to hall. Come back and have Christmas dinner.
But that was impossible. Robin’s life was split into two, and Griffin existed in the shadow world, hidden from sight. Robin could never bring him back to Magpie Lane. Could never introduce him to his friends. Could never, in daylight, call him brother.
‘Well.’ Griffin cleared his throat. ‘Next time, then.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ He was already walking away, snow filling in his footsteps. ‘Watch your window.’
On the first day of Hilary term, the main entrance to Babel was blocked off by four armed policemen. They appeared to be engaged with someone or something inside, though whatever it was, Robin could not see over the crowd of shivering scholars.
‘What’s happened?’ Ramy asked the girls.
‘They’re saying it was a break-in,’ said Victoire. ‘Someone wanted to pilfer some silver, I suppose.’
‘So what, the police were here at precisely the right time?’ asked Robin.
‘He set off some alarm when he tried to get through the door,’ said Letty. ‘And the police, I think, came quickly.’
A fifth and sixth policeman emerged from the building, dragging the man Robin assumed was the thief between them. He was middle-aged, dark-haired, bearded, and dressed in very grimy clothes. Not Hermes, then, Robin thought with some relief. The thief’s face was contorted in pain, and his moans floated over the crowd as the police pulled him down the steps towards a waiting cab. They left a streak of blood on the cobblestones behind them.
‘He’s got about five bullets in him.’ Anthony Ribben appeared beside them. He looked like he might vomit. ‘Nice to see the wards are working, I suppose.’
Robin balked. ‘Wards did that?’
‘The tower’s protected by the most sophisticated security system in the country,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s not just the Grammaticas that are guarded. There’s about half a million pounds’ worth of silver in this building, and only spindly academics around to defend it. Of course the doors are warded.’
Robin’s heart was beating very quickly; he could hear it in his eardrums. ‘By what?’
‘They never tell us the match-pairs; they’re very private about it. Playfair updates them every few months, which is about as often as someone attempts a theft. I must say, I like this set much better – the last set tore gaping wounds in the trespasser’s limbs using ancient knives rumoured to be from Alexandria. It got blood all over the inside carpet; you can still see the brown spots if you look carefully. We spent weeks guessing which words Playfair used, but no one’s been able to crack it.’
Victoire’s eyes followed the departing cab. ‘What do you think will happen to him?’
‘Oh, he’ll probably be on the first ship to Australia,’ said Anthony. ‘Provided he doesn’t bleed out on the way to the police station.’
‘Routine pickup,’ said Griffin. ‘In and out – you won’t even see we’re there. The timing’s a bit tricky, though, so be on call all night.’ He nudged Robin’s shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
Robin blinked and glanced up. ‘Hm?’
‘You look spooked.’
‘I just . . . ’ Robin deliberated for a moment, then blurted, ‘You know about the wards, right?’
‘What?’
‘We saw a man break in this morning. And the wards, they triggered some sort of gun, and it shot him full of bullets—’
‘Well, of course.’ Griffin looked puzzled. ‘Don’t tell me that’s news to you. Babel’s got ridiculous wards – didn’t they rub that into your faces during the first week?’
‘They’ve updated them, though. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, they can tell when a thief’s walking through now—’
‘The bars aren’t that sophisticated,’ Griffin said dismissively. ‘They’re designed to discriminate between students, their guests, and strangers to the Institute. What do you think would happen if the traps sprang on a translator who needed to take some bars home overnight? Or someone bringing his wife to the faculty without first clearing it with Playfair? You’re completely safe.’
‘But how do you know?’ Robin sounded more petulant than he’d intended. He cleared his throat, tried to deepen his voice without being obvious about it. ‘You didn’t see what I saw, you don’t know what the new match-pairs are—’
‘You’re in no danger. Here – take this, if you’re worried.’ Griffin rummaged in his pocket, then tossed Robin a bar. Wúxíng, it read. Invisible. It was the same bar he’d used the first night they met.
‘For a quick getaway,’ said Griffin. ‘If things really do go wrong. And you might need to use it on your comrades regardless – it’s hard to get a chest that size out of the city unseen.’
Robin slid the bar into his inner pocket. ‘You could be less flippant about all this, you know.’
Griffin’s lip curled. ‘What, now is when you’re scared?’
‘It’s just . . . ’ Robin considered for a moment, shook his head, then decided to say it. ‘It just feels like – I mean, I’m the one who’s always at risk, while you’re just—’
‘Just what?’ Griffin asked sharply.
He’d strayed into dangerous territory. He knew, from the way Griffin’s eyes flashed, he’d wandered too close to where it hurt. A month ago, when their relationship was more precarious, he might have changed the subject. But he couldn’t hold his silence now. He felt irritated and belittled just then, and with that came a hot desire to hurt.
‘Why aren’t you coming on this one?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t you use the bar yourself?’
Griffin blinked slowly. Then he said, in a tone so level it must have been forced, ‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t dream in Chinese.’ His expression did not change, nor did his tone, but the condescending fury seeped through his words nonetheless. Watching him speak then was uncanny. He looked so like their father. ‘I’m your failed predecessor, you see. Dear old Papa took me out of the country too early. I’ve got a natural ear for tones, but that’s it. My fluency is largely artificial. I don’t have memories in Chinese. I don’t dream in it. I’ve got the recall, I’ve got the language skills, but I can’t reliably make the bars work. Half the time they do nothing at all.’ His throat pulsed. ‘Our father got it right with you. He left you to ferment until you were literate. But he brought me here before I’d formed enough connections, enough memories. What’s more, he was the only person I ever spoke Mandarin with, when my Cantonese was far better to begin with. And that’s lost now. I don’t think in it, and I certainly don’t dream in it.’
Robin thought of the thieves in the alley, of Griffin’s desperate whispers as he tried to make them disappear. What would he do if he’d lost his own Chinese? The very idea filled him with horror.
‘You get it,’ Griffin said, watching him. ‘You know how it feels for your native tongue to slip away. You caught it in time. I didn’t.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Robin. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Griffin said drily. ‘You didn’t ruin my life.’
Robin could see Oxford now through Griffin’s eyes – an institution that never valued him, that had only ever ostracized and belittled him. He imagined Griffin coming up through Babel, trying desperately to win Professor Lovell’s approval, but never able to get the silver to work consistently. How awful it would have felt to reach for flimsy Chinese from a barely remembered life, knowing full well that it was the only thing that gave him value here.
Small wonder Griffin was furious. Small wonder he hated Babel with such vehemence. Griffin had been robbed of everything – a mother tongue, a motherland, a family.
‘So I need you, darling brother.’ Griffin reached out, ruffled his hair. His touch was so forceful it hurt. ‘You’re the real thing. You’re indispensable.’
Robin knew better than to respond.
‘Keep an eye on your window.’ There was no warmth in Griffin’s eyes. ‘Things are moving fast. And this one’s important.’
Robin swallowed his objections and nodded. ‘Right.’
One week later, Robin came back from dinner with Professor Lovell to find the scrap of paper he’d been dreading wedged under his window.
Tonight, it read. Eleven.
It was already 10.45. Robin hastily threw on the coat he’d just hung up, grabbed the wúxíng bar out of his drawer, and dashed back out into the rain.
He checked the back of the note for other details as he walked, but Griffin had included no further instructions. This wasn’t necessarily a problem – Robin assumed this meant he should simply let whatever accomplices showed up in and out of the tower – but the hour was surprisingly early, and he realized belatedly that he hadn’t brought anything with him – no books, no satchel, not even an umbrella – that would justify a late-night trip to the tower.
But he couldn’t fail to show at all. As the bells struck eleven, he dashed across the green and yanked the door open. This was nothing he hadn’t done a dozen times before – open sesame, close sesame, and stay out of the way. As long as Robin’s blood was stored in those stone walls, the wards shouldn’t sound.
Two Hermes operatives followed him through and disappeared up the stairs. Robin hung around the foyer as usual, keeping an eye out for nocturnal scholars, counting down the seconds until it was time to leave. At five past eleven, the Hermes operatives hurried downstairs. One of them carried a set of engraving tools, the other a chest of silver bars.
‘Well done,’ whispered one. ‘Let’s go.’
Robin nodded and opened the door to let them out. The moment they stepped foot over the barrier, an awful cacophony split the air – a screaming, a howling, the grinding of metal gears in some invisible mechanism. It was a threat and a warning, the hybrid of ancient horror and the modern capacity for spilling blood. Behind them, the panels in the door shifted, revealing a dark cavity within.
Without another word, the Hermes operatives dashed towards the green.
Robin hesitated, trying to decide whether to follow. He might get away – the trap was loud, but seemed slow-acting. He glanced down and saw both his feet were planted squarely on the university’s coat of arms. Suppose the ward was only triggered if he stepped off?
One way to find out. He took a deep breath, then dashed down the stairs. He heard a bang, then felt a searing pain in his left arm. He couldn’t tell where he’d been hit. The pain seemed to come from everywhere, less a singular wound and more a burning agony that spread through his entire arm. It was on fire, it was exploding, the whole limb was going to fall off. He kept running. Bullets fired into the air behind him. He ducked and jumped at random; he’d read somewhere this was how to dodge gunshots, but had no idea if it was true. He heard more bangs, but felt no corresponding explosions of pain. He made it down the length of the green and turned left onto Broad Street, out of sight and out of range.
Then the pain and fear caught up with him. His knees shook. He took two more steps and collapsed against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit. His head swam. He couldn’t outrun the police if they came. Not like this, not with blood dripping down his arm and black creeping at the edges of his vision. Focus. He fumbled for the bar in his pocket. His left hand was slippery, dark with blood; the very sight set off another wave of vertigo.
‘Wúxíng,’ he whispered frantically, trying to concentrate, to imagine the world in Chinese. He was nothing. He was formless. ‘Invisible.’
It didn’t work. He couldn’t make it work; he couldn’t switch modes to Chinese when all he could think about was the awful pain.
‘Hey there! You – stop!’
It was Professor Playfair. Robin flinched, prepared for the worst, but the professor’s face creased into a warm, concerned smile. ‘Oh, hello, Swift. Didn’t realize that was you. Are you quite all right? There’s a ruckus on at the building.’
‘Professor, I . . . ’ Robin hadn’t the faintest clue what to say, so he decided it was best just to babble. ‘I don’t – I was near it, but I don’t know if . . . ’
‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Professor Playfair. ‘The wards are meant to shoot the intruder, you know, but the gears seem to have stuck after last time. Might have still hit him, though – did you see anyone with a limp, anyone who looked like they were in pain?’
‘No, I didn’t – I was almost to the green when the alarms went off, but I hadn’t turned the corner.’ Was Professor Playfair nodding in sympathy? Robin hardly dared believe his luck. ‘Is it – was there a thief?’
‘Perhaps not. Don’t you worry.’ Professor Playfair reached out and patted him on the shoulder. The impact sent another horrible wave of pain through his whole upper body, and Robin clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. ‘The wards get finicky sometimes – perhaps it’s time to replace them. Pity, I liked this version. Are you all right?’
Robin nodded and blinked, trying his hardest to keep his voice level. ‘Just scared, I suppose – I mean, after what we saw last week . . . ’
‘Ah, right. Awful, wasn’t it? Nice to know that my little idea worked, though. They wouldn’t even let me test it out on dogs beforehand. Good thing it wasn’t you it malfunctioned on.’ Professor Playfair barked out a laugh. ‘Might have pumped you full of lead.’
‘Right,’ Robin said weakly. ‘So . . . so glad.’
‘You’re fine. Have a whisky with hot water, that’ll help with the shock.’
‘Yes, I think . . . I think that sounds nice.’ Robin turned to go.
‘Didn’t you say you were on your way in?’ Professor Playfair asked.
Robin had this lie ready. ‘I was feeling anxious, so I thought I’d get a head start on a paper for Professor Lovell. But I’m a bit shaken up, and I don’t think I’ll do any good work if I start now, so I think I’d rather just head to bed.’
‘Of course.’ Professor Playfair patted his shoulder again. It felt more forceful this time; Robin’s eyes bulged. ‘Richard would say you’re being lazy, but I quite understand. You’re still only in your second year, you can afford to be lazy. Go home and sleep.’
