Page 148 of Babel

Robin waved the smoke from his face, coughing. The door hadn’t blasted apart – any explosion that large would have surely killed Victoire. But it had made a hole at the bottom just large enough for a child to crawl through. Griffin kicked at the charred wood until several large pieces fell away. ‘Victoire, can you—’

She crawled out, coughing. Griffin and Robin seized her by each arm and pulled her through the rest of the way. When at last she slid free, she clambered to her knees and threw her arms around Robin. ‘I thought—’

‘Me too,’ he murmured, hugging her tight. She was, thank God, largely unharmed. Her wrists were somewhat chafed, but free of cuffs, and there was no blood on her, no gaping bullet wounds. Sterling had been bluffing.

‘They said they’d shot you.’ She pressed against his chest, shaking. ‘Oh, Robin, I heard a gunshot—’

‘Did you—?’ He couldn’t finish the question. Immediately he regretted asking; he didn’t want to know.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I thought – since they had us anyhow, I thought...’ Her voice broke; she looked away.

He knew what she meant. She had chosen to let him die. This did not hurt as much as it should have. Rather, it clarified things; the stakes before them, the insignificance of their lives against the cause they’d chosen. He saw her begin to apologize, and then catch herself – good, he thought; she had nothing to be sorry for, for between them only one had refused to break.

‘Which way is the door?’ Victoire asked.

‘Four floors down,’ said Griffin. ‘The guards are all trapped in the stairwell, but they’ll break through soon.’

Robin glanced out of the window at the end of the hall. They were quite far up, he realized. He’d thought they were in the city gaol on Gloucester Green, but that building was only two storeys high. The ground looked so far away from where they stood. ‘Where are we?’

‘Oxford Castle,’ said Griffin, pulling a rope out from his satchel. ‘North tower.’

‘There’s not another staircase?’

‘None.’ Griffin nodded to the window. ‘Break the glass with your elbow. We’re climbing.’

Griffin descended first, then Victoire, and then Robin. Climbing down was far harder than Griffin made it look; Robin slid too quickly down the last ten feet as his arms gave out, and the rope left searing burns on his palms. Outside, it was apparent Griffin had caused much more than a simple diversion. The entire north front of Oxford Castle was ablaze, and flames and smoke were quickly spreading through the building.

Had Griffin done this all himself? Robin glanced sideways at his brother, and it was like seeing a stranger. Griffin became new in his imagination every time he encountered him, and this version was most frightening, this hard, sharp-edged man who shot and killed and burned without flinching. It was the first time he’d ever connected his brother’s abstract commitments to violence with its material effects. And they were awesome. Robin didn’t know if he feared him, or admired his sheer ability.

Griffin tossed them two plain black cloaks from his satchel – from a distance, they’d look vaguely like the constables’ cloaks – then shepherded them along the side of the castle towards the main street. ‘Move quickly and don’t look behind you,’ he muttered. ‘They’re all distracted – be calm, be fast, we’ll be out of here just fine.’

And for a moment, it did seem like escape really could be that easy. The whole of the castle square looked deserted; all sentries were preoccupied with the flames and the high stone walls cast plenty of shadows in which to hide.

Only one figure stood between them and the gate.

‘Explodere.’ Sterling Jones lurched towards them. His hair was burned, his princely face scratched and bloody. ‘Clever. Didn’t think you had the Latin to pull it off.’

Griffin put a hand out before Robin and Victoire as if shielding them from a charging beast. ‘Hello, Sterling.’

‘I see you’ve reached new heights of destruction.’ Sterling gestured vaguely at the castle. In the dim lamplight, with blood coating his pale hair and white-grey dust all over his coat, he looked quite deranged. ‘Wasn’t enough for you to kill Evie?’

‘Evie chose her fate,’ Griffin snarled.

‘Bold words from a killer.’

‘I’m the killer? After Burma?’

‘She was unarmed—’

‘She knew what she’d done. So do you.’

There was history here, Robin saw. Something beyond belonging to the same cohort. Griffin and Sterling spoke with the intimacy of old friends caught in some complicated tangle of love and hatred to which he was not privy, something that had brewed over many years. He didn’t know their story, but it was obvious that Griffin and Sterling had been anticipating this confrontation for quite some time.

Sterling raised his gun. ‘I’d put your hands up now.’

‘Three targets,’ said Griffin said. ‘One gun. Who are you aiming at, Sterling?’

Sterling had to realize he was outnumbered. He seemed not to care. ‘Oh, I think you know.’