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

‘Anyhow, here’s a list of texts I need from the library.’ Griffin reached into his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. ‘You might have some trouble finding the Arabic volumes – I’ve transliterated the titles for you, which will get you to the right shelf, but then you’ll have to identify them on your own. But they’re in the Bodleian, not the tower, so you won’t have to worry about someone wondering what you’re up to.’

Robin took the note. ‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Really?’ Robin couldn’t suppress it anymore. He expected callousness from Griffin, but not this blank pretence of ignorance. His sympathy evaporated, along with his patience; now the resentment, which he’d kept simmering for a year, rushed to the fore. ‘You’re sure?’

Griffin cast him a wary look. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘We’re not going to talk about last time?’ Robin demanded.

‘Last time?’

‘When the alarm went off. We sprang a trap, we sprang a gun—’

‘You were fine.’

‘I was shot,’ Robin hissed. ‘What happened? Someone messed up, and I know it wasn’t me, because I was right where I was supposed to be, meaning you were wrong about the alarms—’

‘These things happen.’ Griffin shrugged. ‘The good thing is that no one got caught—’

‘I was shot in the arm.’

‘So I heard.’ Griffin peered over the table, as if he could see Robin’s wound through his shirt sleeve. ‘You seem quite all right, though.’

‘I had to stitch myself together—’

‘Well done, you. Smarter than going to the college nurse. You didn’t, did you?’

‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Griffin.

‘Keep my—’

‘I don’t see why we’re labouring the point. I made a mistake, you got away, it won’t happen again. We’re going to stop sending people in with you. Instead you’ll drop off the contraband outside on your own—’

‘That’s not the point,’ Robin hissed once more. ‘You let me get hurt. Then you left me out in the cold.’

‘Please don’t be so dramatic.’ Griffin sighed. ‘Accidents happen. And you’re fine.’ He paused, considering, and then said more quietly, ‘Look, if this will make you feel better, there’s a safe house on St Aldate’s we use when we need to hide out for a bit. There’s a basement door by the church – it looks rusted shut, but you’ve only got to look for where the bar’s installed and say the words. It leads to a tunnel end that got overlooked when they did the renovations—’

Robin shook his arm at Griffin. ‘A safe house doesn’t fix this.’

‘We’ll be better next time,’ Griffin insisted. ‘That was a slip-up, that was my fault, we’re adjusting for it. So calm down before someone overhears.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘Now. I’ve been out of town for months, so I need to hear what’s been going on at the tower, and I’d like you to be efficient about it, please.’

Robin could have hit him then. He would have, if it would not have attracted stares, if Griffin were not so clearly already in pain.

He was getting nothing out of his brother, he knew. Griffin, like Professor Lovell, could be astonishingly single-minded; if something did not suit them, they simply failed to acknowledge it, and indeed any attempt to procure acknowledgment would only end in more frustration. He had the fleeting impulse simply to stand up and walk away, if only to see Griffin’s expression. But that would grant no lasting satisfaction. If he turned back around, Griffin would mock him; if he kept walking out, he would only have severed his own ties to Hermes. So he did what he did best, with father and brother both – he swallowed his frustrations and resigned himself to letting Griffin set the terms of the conversation.

‘Not much,’ he said after a calming breath. ‘The professors haven’t been travelling abroad recently, and I don’t think the wards have changed since last time either. Oh – something terrible happened. A graduate fellow – Anthony Ribben—’

‘Sure, I know Anthony,’ Griffin said, then cleared his throat. ‘Knew, I mean. Same cohort.’

‘So you’ve heard?’ Robin asked.

‘Heard what?’

‘That he’s dead.’

‘What? No.’ Griffin’s voice was oddly flat. ‘No, I just meant – I knew him before I left. He’s dead?’

‘Lost at sea sailing back from the West Indies, apparently,’ said Robin.

‘Terrible,’ Griffin said blandly. ‘Just awful.’

‘That’s all?’ Robin asked.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘He was your classmate!’

‘I hate to tell you, but these incidents aren’t uncommon. Voyages are dangerous. Someone goes missing every few years.’

‘But it’s just . . . it feels wrong. That they won’t even give him a memorial. They’re just carrying on like it never happened. It’s . . .’ Robin trailed off. Suddenly he wanted to cry. He felt foolish for bringing this up. He didn’t know what he had wanted – some kind of validation, perhaps, that Anthony’s life had mattered and that he could not be so easily forgotten. But Griffin, he should have known, was the worst person from whom to seek comfort.