Page 8 of Brave Truth

Half an hour later, they’d found Cammie and Hypatia in the sitting room. The two women were in the middle of a lengthy debate, rotating through three languages in the process. Claudio’s German was good enough these days that he could follow that, and the English. He’d picked up a fair bit of Arabic from both of them, but it was often still beyond him, especially when they were going at that kind of speed and barely pausing for breath.

The two of them made a fascinating pair. Hypatia was half-Egyptian, with a rather aquiline nose. Cammie was a bit shorter with medium brown skin and riotous curls. Both of them were gesturing broadly and in the same sort of patterns, punctuating particular points for emphasis.

He caught enough that he could manage a couple of signs to get Cammie to realise they’d turned up, and she abruptly came up short, swapping into English. “Claudio. Just the man.”

“That tone, Cammie, makes people who know you wary,” Orion handed Claudio a glass of brandy.

“Also, people who don’t know me!” Cammie agreed brightly. “Claudio, would you have an hour— no, better plan on three— to consult sometime soon? The next fortnight, ideally.”

“Who, where, what about?” He was pretty sure of some of it, but getting Cammie to spell it out was both informative and amusing.

“Giles’ house or the Academy if you want to come up to Oxford. Giles and Pen and me. She’s been refining her ideas about randomisation, but we’re seeing just enough insufficient randomisation to wonder why. We’d like your eyes.”

“And you like having a new puzzle.” Mind, cryptography gave Cammie plenty to work with. Claudio rummaged in his jacket pocket for his diary and pulled it out. “Um. I’m not actually on call next Monday, so there’s a decent chance my afternoon might stay free?”

“Let me know if you’re needed elsewhere, but that should do nicely. It’s easier to work with Pen’s schedule now she doesn’t need to juggle tutorials and lectures. And Edmund’s got things he needs to be doing, so he won’t be a distraction.” Cammie looked pleased. “Giles was asking about you the other day.”

“That, Cammie, is not subtle. Glad to come round; you have only to ask.” Claudio put his diary back after making a note on the Monday.

“Ask, and hope you’ve got a bit of spare time.” She held up both hands. “I know, I’m just as bad.”

“You, Cammie, are juggling your work, helping train Pen, and doing whatever cryptography someone’s asked you to do. And keeping up with a toddler daughter who has found her feet and could compete in the Olympic dash. Also a husband who’s constantly bouncing from air field to air field. You have no room to throw stones from glass houses.” She laughed, and Claudio let it settle. “What were you and Hypatia arguing about?”

“Oh, that’s a different problem entirely,” Hypatia picked it up smoothly, twisting a little to lean against Orion where he’d settled on the sofa with her. “You remember that article from two months ago, the one about varieties of rose?” Claudio nodded. “We were going through some arguments in the literature about whether you could use rose varieties for encoding. There’s an awful lot of them, and plenty have specific aspects associated with them.”

It was indeed an interesting question. Claudio settled back in his chair to ask about it, and that occupied them until they went in to supper, a good half hour later.

Chapter 6

Thursday, February 23rd

By the end of February, Matthew felt like he was at least somewhat familiar with the world he was now in. Again. Things had changed, given ten years and a war and people doing everything they could to forget the war. He was on a different timescale than all of them, and he kept stumbling through places that pinched.

His family, for example. He went back to London for Sunday dinner every fortnight. That brought home how much had and hadn’t changed, in every possible way. The streets looked different after the bombing and the bits of rebuilding. The meal was different, given rationing didn’t exactly allow for a roast. And while he had missed his family, he found it had been a lot easier to think fondly of them when he was in Germany with limited leave home than it was when he was a theoretically quick portal trip away.

His mother’s fussing apparently took the form of wanting to match make for him, tutting all the time over the missed opportunities. He knew she missed Donald, as much as Matthew did, but that didn’t help here. They weren’t interchangeable. They never would be. And given Matthew’s preferences, any sort of marriage would not only be a lie, but would be awful for whatever woman was involved.

Matthew was not entirely opposed to the idea of a marriage for mutual convenience, with some woman who preferred women as strongly as he preferred men. But that would be the sort of match that would not result in children. He was sure he’d not be capable even if he’d wanted to. Or rather, if he’d any desire for it, he’d be a different man. He’d been sure of that from at least the middle of his Schola days, when he’d found all of what fantasies he’d had firmly focused on young men.

Being around Claudio Warren every week, on a predictable schedule, had certainly brought some of that rushing back. Rushing being decidedly the word, if he let himself linger on it too long. It was entirely inappropriate, and besides that, it would not get the necessary work done.

But he’d had a couple of dreams of being back at school, in the viewing stands for the bohort. The dreams awoke all the old memories of watching the easy way Warren played, the comfort he’d had in his own body when all Matthew felt was awkward. And the way he had of being engaging and charming.

To be fair, the man hadn’t lost that. Warren made things go smoothly in the weekly meetings, as Matthew had taken them on. Not that he agreed to everything.

Warren was as fully capable of arguing his particular need as ruthlessly as anyone in the room, and as stubbornly. But he did it with a sort of exquisite courtesy, as if he were making it clear that they were duelling with honour and dignity. Even if they were fighting for keeps. He wasn’t a pushover; he held to his principles. It reminded Matthew of the best of the arguments he’d sat in on at Nuremberg. The ones about the meaning of it, about how to document and bring some small justice out of shattered bits of the world.

Being back in Trellech again was both comforting and unsettling. He’d known Albion’s capital well before the war. It had been spared the bombing of the Blitz almost completely. Not that many German bombers had known to target it, but also everyone just ignored Wales. This time, it had actually been an advantage. The problem was that the changes in Trellech weren’t entirely visible.

Shops had closed. People he’d known were gone, but in ways he couldn’t always ask about. Sometimes he’d known a name and could check the library archives. But how did you find out about that woman who had the garden on the other side of the street from your usual walk in the old flat, with the lovely tabby cat? She could have moved nearer to some relative and be living in happy contentment.

A routine helped, though. Establishing his own patterns, even when he couldn’t figure out anyone else’s. Now, Matthew went down to Urania’s Apples on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes on Saturdays, depending on which musicians were playing. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he went to the central library.

Friday evenings he usually set things to rights in his flat. He had a cleaning lady who did her work while he was in the office and disappeared again. And he sent his laundry out, so there wasn’t too much to deal with there. That still left a bit to be done. On Saturdays when it was not raining, he took himself somewhere for a ramble. He’d picked up rather a useful book that mapped out a range of walks with the pubs marked, grouped by length. When it rained, he went to the museum. Sundays, he watched the apprentice league bohort, and now he had a decent sense of the various teams and key players.

Now and again he might go round to the Boar’s Head, the House club, to catch up with people there. Or he’d see people from his Schola year at some lecture or event or a supper out. One of those a month, maybe. He didn’t want to feel entangled or trapped in the pattern.

It was a more comfortable routine than Nuremberg had been. Not that it was difficult to manage. The comforts were more practical as well. His bed had actual padding beyond what cushioning charms he’d managed. The heating and plumbing were reliable. There was a lack of leaks and draughts. Food was rationed, but within that, it was fairly reliably available, rather than trusting that the Americans would ship in sufficient supplies to keep everyone fed.