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

‘Got rid of them.’ Griffin tapped another bar in his belt. ‘A daisy-chain riff on the word explode. The Latin explōdere is a theatre term – it refers to driving an actor off the stage by clapping one’s hands. From there we get the Old English meaning “to reject or drive away with loud noise”. It’s not until the modern English that we get a detonation.’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘My Latin’s better than my Chinese.’

‘So that didn’t destroy the door?’

‘No, it only makes a sound so awful it drives all listeners away. I got them all running to the second floor, and then I crept up here and locked the doors behind me.’

‘Then what made that hole?’

‘Just black powder.’ Griffin hauled Robin along. ‘Can’t rely on silver for everything. You scholars always forget that.’

They searched every cell in the hall for Victoire. Most were empty, and Robin felt a growing dread as they moved down the doors. He did not want to look; he did not want to see the blood-streaked floor – or worse, her limp body lying where they’d left it, a bullet wound through her head.

‘Here,’ Griffin called from the end of the hallway. He banged on the door. ‘Wake up, dear.’

Robin nearly collapsed with relief when he heard Victoire’s muffled response. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Can you walk?’ Griffin asked.

This time Victoire’s voice was clearer; she must have approached the door. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, I’m all right.’ Victoire sounded confused. ‘Robin, is that—?’

‘It’s Griffin. Robin’s here too. Don’t fret, we’re going to get you out.’ Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like an improvised hand grenade – a ceramic sphere a quarter the size of a cricket ball with a fuse sticking out one end.

It seemed rather small to Robin. ‘Can that blow through iron?’

‘Doesn’t have to. The door’s made of wood.’ Griffin raised his voice. ‘Victoire, get against the far corner and put your head between your arms and knees. Ready?’

Victoire yelled her assent. Griffin placed the grenade at the corner of the door, lit it with a match, and hastily dragged Robin several paces down the hall. The bang came seconds later.

Robin waved the smoke from his face, coughing. The door hadn’t blasted apart – any explosion that large would have surely killed Victoire. But it had made a hole at the bottom just large enough for a child to crawl through. Griffin kicked at the charred wood until several large pieces fell away. ‘Victoire, can you—’

She crawled out, coughing. Griffin and Robin seized her by each arm and pulled her through the rest of the way. When at last she slid free, she clambered to her knees and threw her arms around Robin. ‘I thought—’

‘Me too,’ he murmured, hugging her tight. She was, thank God, largely unharmed. Her wrists were somewhat chafed, but free of cuffs, and there was no blood on her, no gaping bullet wounds. Sterling had been bluffing.

‘They said they’d shot you.’ She pressed against his chest, shaking. ‘Oh, Robin, I heard a gunshot—’

‘Did you—?’ He couldn’t finish the question. Immediately he regretted asking; he didn’t want to know.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I thought – since they had us anyhow, I thought . . .’ Her voice broke; she looked away.

He knew what she meant. She had chosen to let him die. This did not hurt as much as it should have. Rather, it clarified things; the stakes before them, the insignificance of their lives against the cause they’d chosen. He saw her begin to apologize, and then catch herself – good, he thought; she had nothing to be sorry for, for between them only one had refused to break.

‘Which way is the door?’ Victoire asked.

‘Four floors down,’ said Griffin. ‘The guards are all trapped in the stairwell, but they’ll break through soon.’

Robin glanced out of the window at the end of the hall. They were quite far up, he realized. He’d thought they were in the city gaol on Gloucester Green, but that building was only two storeys high. The ground looked so far away from where they stood. ‘Where are we?’

‘Oxford Castle,’ said Griffin, pulling a rope out from his satchel. ‘North tower.’

‘There’s not another staircase?’

‘None.’ Griffin nodded to the window. ‘Break the glass with your elbow. We’re climbing.’

Griffin descended first, then Victoire, and then Robin. Climbing down was far harder than Griffin made it look; Robin slid too quickly down the last ten feet as his arms gave out, and the rope left searing burns on his palms. Outside, it was apparent Griffin had caused much more than a simple diversion. The entire north front of Oxford Castle was ablaze, and flames and smoke were quickly spreading through the building.