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

‘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.’

Professor Playfair gave him a last cheerful nod and strolled off towards the tower, where the alarms were still wailing. Robin took a deep breath and hobbled away, striving with all his might not to collapse on the street.

Somehow he made it back to Magpie Lane. The bleeding still had not stopped, but after wiping his arm with a wet towel, he saw to his relief that the bullet had not lodged in his arm. It had only grazed a notch into the flesh above his elbow, about a third of an inch deep. The wound looked reassuringly small when he wiped the blood away. He didn’t know how to dress it properly – he imagined it might involve a needle and thread – but it would be foolish to go and seek the college nurse at this hour.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, trying to remember what useful advice he’d picked up from adventure novels. Alcohol – he needed to disinfect the wound. He rummaged around his shelves until he found a half-empty bottle of brandy, a Christmas gift from Victoire. He dribbled it over his arm, hissing from the sting, then swallowed down several mouthfuls for good measure. Next he found a clean shirt, which he ripped up to make bandages. These he wrapped tightly around his arm using his teeth – he’d read that pressure helped stanch the bleeding. He didn’t know what else he ought to do. Should he simply wait, now, for the wound to close up on its own?

His head swam. Was he dizzy from blood loss, or was that only the brandy at work?

Find Ramy, he thought. Find Ramy, he’ll help.

No. Calling on Ramy would implicate him. Robin would die before he jeopardized Ramy.

He sat against the wall, head tilted towards the roof, and took several deep breaths. He just had to get through this night. It took several shirts – he’d have to go to the tailor, make up some story about a laundry disaster – but eventually, the bleeding was stemmed. At last, exhausted, he slumped over and fell asleep.

The next day, after wincing through three hours of class, Robin went to the medical library and rooted through the stacks until he found a physician’s handbook on field wounds. Then he went to Cornmarket, bought a needle and thread, and hurried home to suture his arm back together.

He lit a candle, sterilized the needle over the flame, and after many fumbled tries, managed to thread it. Then he sat down and held the sharp point above his raw, wounded flesh.