‘I was just pointing it out. Burner sympathies run in your family,’ Dario said. ‘I’m sure they’re keeping a close eye on you, Guillaume. Feeling nervous yet?’

‘Maybe you’re nervous,’ Jess said. ‘Where are you in the class ranking now, Dario? Number ten?’

‘And where are you? In my shadow. As usual.’

‘Rankings change. I’m in for the long run, not the sprint.’

‘Yes, of course, you would be a runner,’ Dario said, and Jess felt cold inside. Dario had resources, and he valued whatever dirt he could dig on all of them … but he relaxed as Dario went on. ‘You would be a runner because you don’t have the stomach for a gentleman’s fight.’

‘Your version of a gentleman’s fight means a knife in the back, so no, I don’t fight like a gentleman,’ Jess said. ‘I fight to win. Want to play?’ He gestured at the Go board, eyebrows raised. Dario pushed back from the dice table, gave him a long and measured look, and then shrugged.

‘Why not. Portero’s almost bankrupt, anyway.’

Portero’s faint ‘No I’m not!’ was generally ignored. Danton, released, pushed away and towards the back of the room, where he sat beside Glain. Dario stood up, stretched, and settled into the chair across from Jess … all without breaking the steady, measuring stare.

‘I’ll take red,’ Dario said. That wasn’t a surprise.

What did surprise Jess was how acutely smart Dario Santiago was at the game. Jess was good, he knew he was, but it felt almost as if Dario could see directly into his mind. Every clever move he made, it seemed Dario had seen it two moves before. Jess thought he could almost feel the young man’s intelligence at work. Dario had left his ego to one side, which made it an interesting match indeed.

They worked in silence. No barbs. Jess became aware that others had moved to observe. Even Thomas gradually stopped fiddling with his bits of metal and stood motionless as he watched.

Gradually, Jess became aware of vulnerability in Dario’s approach. It was subtle, and Dario played fast and fierce to draw Jess’s attention away from it, but at last, Jess had him. He heard an indrawn breath from the crowd around them as he sprang the trap; one single stone placed in exactly the right place, and Dario’s strategy collapsed. Now, Jess was the aggressor, Dario the defender, and as Jess played through the moves in his head, there was no possibility that Dario would win.

Dario came to the same conclusion. Jess saw the flash of recognition go over his face, followed by a swift wave of anger … and then it was gone, and Dario played it out to the bitter end until he’d no more moves to make.

Then he rose to his feet, bowed slightly to Jess, and said, ‘Well played.’

Jess stood as well and bowed in turn. ‘Well matched.’

They stared at each other for a moment, and Jess had the feeling that for the first time, Dario was actually seeing him … not as an obstacle, or a victim, but as someone worthy of notice. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.

Dario must not have, either, because he smiled an entirely too brilliant smile. ‘Doesn’t make us friends.’ He turned on his heel and walked from the room. His usual acolytes fell in behind him, but some cast glances back, as if recognising that the balance of power seemed to have undergone a subtle shifting.

Thomas clapped a large hand on Jess’s shoulder. Not gently. ‘That was impressive,’ he said, and sank down in the chair that Dario had vacated. ‘How did you learn to play this game?’

‘My brother taught me,’ Jess said. ‘So he could beat me at it.’

‘I’m surprised he could.’

‘I didn’t say it turned out the way he planned.’ Jess swept the board. ‘Let’s play.’

They were twenty postulants when he went to bed, yet somehow, when Jess woke the next morning, there were twenty-one in Ptolemy House. He’d adjusted to sharing schedules with Dario, and the advantage of taking his bath in the evening before bed meant that he could go straight to breakfast and be there first.

But not today.

Today, there was a girl there that he’d never seen, writing in her personal journal. When she saw him, she put her pen and book away.

She was pale-skinned, with lustrous brown hair pinned up tight in a style he hadn’t seen since leaving England, and she was wearing an English dress too heavy for Alexandrian weather. He was struck by the shape of her, trim and smoothly curved, and by her eyes, which were a striking light brown. She looked intelligent and guarded … and deathly tired.

Jess stopped. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t think what question to ask first. She spared him by offering her hand. ‘Morgan Hault,’ she said. Her palm was warm and soft, but her fingers seemed cold. Nerves, he thought. ‘They said I could eat here.’

‘Are you visiting someone?’

‘No, I just arrived. I’m a postulant.’

Jess cocked his head and considered that as he reached for a fresh, hot roll – benefits of coming early, the food was much better at this hour. ‘How’s that possible? Our class was formed weeks ago.’

‘And I was supposed to be in it,’ Morgan said. She chose a pear and took a small bite. ‘I was delayed. Fighting around Oxford.’

He recognised the accent then. Oxford. She must have had a devil of a time getting out. She was thinner than she should have been; that, too, would have been a souvenir of the war with the Welsh. Food was getting scarce, last he’d heard. And hadn’t there been a siege?

She finished off the pear quickly. He silently handed her a bread roll, which she bit into with sudden ferocity, and made a delighted sound in the back of her throat as she chewed.

‘Bread must have been scarce,’ he said for her. ‘Fruit too, I’d imagine.’

She swallowed as she nodded. ‘Everything was scarce,’ she said. ‘Is there any meat?’

He silently indicated the section at the end that held fish and fowl. No pork, and he missed bacon, but it wasn’t a common dish in this part of the world. She loaded a plate and found a table. He brought her a cup of Egyptian coffee, which she tried politely. She clearly didn’t care much for it.

‘I’m Jess Brightwell,’ he said. ‘From London.’

‘Any other of our countrymen here?’

‘There was, but he’s already packed off home. First rule of Ptolemy House, don’t get attached. We’ve lost twelve students already.’ Her wide-eyed look spoke volumes, and he shrugged, feeling suddenly like an old, wise veteran. ‘Wolfe is a very tough proctor.’

‘I’ve heard stories. Is he as bad as they say?’

‘You’ll see. How are you on history?’

‘Fairly good. I’m still working on memorising the core collection on the Codex.’

‘Memorising the Codex?’ She’d caught him by surprise with that one, and he took a bite of his bread to cover it. Chewing and swallowing allowed him time to consider. ‘Why would you do that?’

She smiled. ‘I come from a war zone, Mr Brightwell. The Codex doesn’t always function as it should. I’d think you’d know, as an aspiring librarian, to plan for the times it fails.’

He’d never considered it, not for a moment. The Codex was simply there, available, a living document mirrored from the original in the Library. Had been all his life. It was how he located books and loaded them into blanks; it was how everyone did it. Why would the Codex not work?

And yet, clearly, that was possible. Even Khalila had that blind spot; she’d never so much as mentioned it, and Jess knew she wasn’t studying for it. Quizzing them on the contents of the Codex they all took for granted was exactly the kind of nonsense that Wolfe would pull.

‘Interesting,’ Jess said, and tried not to show the new girl how much she’d just taught him about his own assumptions. ‘I suppose that might be useful. When did you leave Oxford?’

‘Almost a month ago,’ she said. ‘It was a long, hard journey to get to safety.’ Morgan took another bite of bread, then followed it with some spiced chicken. ‘I need sleep. And a new wardrobe. Is it always this hot?’