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

‘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.’