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

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.’