‘What happened?’ Robin asked Vimal.
‘Gave a folk etymology instead of a real one.’ Vimal shook his head dramatically. ‘Tried to link canards to canaries, you see, except canaries aren’t related to canard ducks – they’re from the Canary Islands, which are named after dogs—’
The rest of his explanation eluded Robin.
Professor Playfair pulled a glass vial out of his inner pocket – the vial, Robin assumed, that contained Wright’s blood. He placed it on the table and stomped down. Glass shards and brown flecks scattered across the floor. Wright began howling. It wasn’t clear what the breaking of the vial had actually done to him – all four limbs seemed intact, as far as Robin could tell, and there was no fresh blood – but Wright collapsed to the floor, clutching his midriff as if he’d been impaled.
‘Horrific,’ said Letty, awed.
‘Positively medieval,’ Victoire agreed.
They had never witnessed a failure before. They could not tear their eyes away.
It took a third graduate fellow to pull Wright to his feet, drag him to the front door, and fling him unceremoniously down the steps. Everyone else watched, mouths hanging open. Such a grotesque ceremony seemed unbefitting of a modern academic institution. Yet this was utterly appropriate. Oxford, and Babel by extension, were, at their roots, ancient religious institutions, and for all their contemporary sophistication, the rituals that comprised university life were still based in medieval mysticism. Oxford was Anglicanism was Christianity, which meant blood, flesh, and dirt.*
The door slammed shut. Professor Playfair dusted off his gown, hopped down from the table, and turned around to face the rest of them.
‘Well, that’s taken care of.’ He beamed. ‘Happy exams. Congratulations all.’
Two days later Griffin asked Robin to meet him at a tavern in Iffley, nearly an hour’s walk from the college. It was a dim, noisy place. It took Robin a moment to find his brother, who was sitting slouched near the back. Whatever he’d been up to since their last meeting, he apparently hadn’t been eating; he had two steaming shepherd’s pies before him and was wolfing one down with no fear of scalding his tongue.
‘What is this place?’ Robin asked.
‘I get supper here sometimes,’ said Griffin. ‘The food’s awful but there’s a lot of it, and importantly, nobody from the university ever comes out here. It’s too close to the – what did Playfair call them? The locals.’
He looked worse than he’d been all term – visibly exhausted, hollow-cheeked, and whittled down to a sharp, lean core. He gave off the air of a shipwreck survivor, of someone who’d travelled long distances and barely made it out alive – though of course he wouldn’t tell Robin where he’d been. His black coat, hanging off the chair behind him, reeked.
‘Are you all right?’ Robin pointed to Griffin’s left arm. It was wrapped in bandages, but whatever wound lay beneath was clearly still open, because the dark stain over his forearm had spread visibly since Robin had sat down.
‘Oh.’ Griffin glanced at his arm. ‘That’s nothing, it’s just taking forever to close up.’
‘So it’s something.’
‘Bah.’
‘It looks bad.’ Robin chuckled, and what came next sounded more bitter than he’d intended. ‘You should suture it. Brandy helps.’
‘Ha. No, we’ve got someone. I’ll have it looked at later.’ Griffin pulled his sleeve over the bandages. ‘Anyhow. I need you ready next week. It’s very touch-and-go, so I don’t yet have a good idea of the time or day, but it’s a big one – they’re expecting a massive shipment of silver in from Magniac & Smith, and we’d love to get a crate during the unloading. It’ll take a large distraction, of course. I might need to store some explosives in your room for quick access—’
Robin recoiled. ‘Explosives?’
‘I forgot you scare easily.’ Griffin waved a hand. ‘It’s all right, I’ll show you how to set them off before the day, and if you plan it well enough then no one will get hurt—’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘No, that’s it, I’m done – this is absurd, I’m not doing this.’
Griffin arched a brow. ‘Where’s all this coming from?’
‘I’ve just seen someone expelled—’
‘Oh.’ Griffin laughed. ‘Who was it this year?’
‘Wright,’ said Robin. ‘They crushed a vial of his blood. They threw him out of the tower, locked him out, cut him off from everything and everyone—’
‘But that won’t happen to you; you’re too brilliant. Or am I keeping you from your revision?’
‘Opening doors is one thing,’ said Robin. ‘Setting explosives is quite another.’
‘It’ll be fine, just trust me—’