Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

Occasionally he glanced out of the window, squinting across the quad to relieve the strain of the dim light on his eyes. The green was usually empty. High Street, so busy during the day, was eerie late at night; when the sun had gone down, when all the light came from pale streetlamps or from candles inside windows, it looked like another, parallel Oxford, an Oxford of the faerie realm. On cloudless nights especially, Oxford was transformed, its streets clear, its stones silent, its spires and turrets promising riddles and adventures and a world of abstraction in which one could get lost forever.

On one such night, Robin glanced up from his translation of Sima Qian’s histories and saw two black-clad figures striding briskly towards the tower. His stomach dropped.

Only when they reached the front steps, when the lights from inside the tower shone against their faces, did he realize it was Ramy and Victoire.

Robin sat frozen at his desk, unsure what to do. They were here on Hermes business. They had to be. Nothing else explained the attire; the furtive glances; the late night trip to the tower when Robin knew they had no business being there, because he’d seen them finish their papers for Professor Craft’s seminar on the floor of Ramy’s room just several hours before.

Had Griffin recruited them? Certainly, that was it, Robin thought ruefully. He’d given up on Robin, so he’d gone for the others in his cohort instead.

Of course he wouldn’t report them – that was not in question. But should he help them? No, perhaps not – the tower was not wholly empty; there were researchers still on the eighth floor, and if he startled Ramy and Victoire, he might attract unwanted attention. The only choice seemed to be to do nothing. If he pretended never to notice, and if they succeeded in whatever it was they wanted, then the fragile equilibrium of their lives at Babel would not be disturbed. Then they could maintain the thin veneer of deniability Robin had lived with for years. Reality was, after all, just so malleable – facts could be forgotten, truths suppressed, lives seen from only one angle like a trick prism, if only one resolved never to look too closely.

Ramy and Victoire slipped through the door and up the stairs. Robin trained his eyes on his translation, trying not to strain his ear for any hint of what they might be doing. Ten minutes later, he heard descending footsteps. They’d got what they’d come for. Soon they’d be back out the door. Then the moment would pass, and the calm would resume, and Robin could consign this to the back of his mind with all the other unpleasant truths he hadn’t the will to untangle—

A shrieking, inhuman wail pierced the tower. He heard a great crash, then a bout of cursing. He jumped up and dashed out of the lobby.

Ramy and Victoire were trapped just outside the front door, ensnared in a web of glistening silvery string that doubled and multiplied before his eyes, new strands lashing around their wrists, waists, ankles, and throats with every passing second. A smattering of items lay scattered at their feet – six silver bars, two old books, one engraving stylus. Items Babel scholars regularly took home at the end of the day.

Except, it appeared, Professor Playfair had successfully changed the wards. He’d achieved even more than Robin had feared – he’d altered them to detect not only which people and things were passing through, but whether their purposes were legitimate.

‘Birdie,’ gasped Ramy. Silver webs tightened around his neck; his eyes bulged. ‘Help—’

‘Hold still.’ Robin yanked at the strands. They were sticky but pliable, breakable; impossible to escape alone but not without help. He freed Ramy’s neck and hands first, then together they pulled Victoire out of the web, though Robin’s legs became entangled in the process. The web, it seemed, gave only if it could take. But its vicious lashing had ceased; whatever match-pair triggered the alarm seemed to have calmed. Ramy pulled his ankles free and stepped back. For a moment they all regarded each other under the moonlight, baffled.

‘You too?’ Victoire finally asked.

‘Looks like it,’ said Robin. ‘Did Griffin send you?’

‘Griffin?’ Victoire looked bewildered. ‘No, Anthony—’

‘Anthony Ribben?’

‘Of course,’ said Ramy. ‘Who else?’

‘But he’s dead—’

‘This can wait,’ Victoire interrupted. ‘Listen, the sirens—’

‘Damn it,’ said Ramy. ‘Robin, lean this way—’

‘There’s no time,’ said Robin. He couldn’t move his legs. The strings had ceased multiplying – perhaps because Robin was not the thief – but the web was now impossibly dense, stretching across the entire front entrance, and if Ramy came any closer, he feared, they’d both be trapped. ‘Leave me.’

They both began to protest. He shook his head. ‘It has to be me. I haven’t conspired, I have no idea what’s going on—’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Ramy demanded. ‘We’re—’