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Bartholomew pulled his attention away from Wynewyk when he realised Paxtone was being inconsistent. ‘Believing knives retain their sharpness when they point north is hardly scientific,’ he pointed out. ‘Ergo, it is not unreasonable to assume you invoke charms–’

‘There is a wealth of difference between a natural phenomenon that hones metal, and magic,’ countered Paxtone curtly. ‘I am not superstitious.’

‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Powys, struggling to bring his amusement under control. ‘Do you sharpen your knives by leaving them pointing northwards at night?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I use a whetstone.’

‘Well, I suppose you would,’ said Shropham. ‘You use yours for cautery, and I imagine slicing into a man’s entrails with blunt blades would be unpleasant for all concerned. You, of all people, will want to be assured of a keen edge.’

‘Shropham has won this debate, Paxtone,’ said Warden Powys, before Bartholomew could inform them that he was not in the habit of slicing into entrails with sharp knives – at least, not as long as other viable options were available. ‘His empirical test nullifies your contention.’

‘Good steel needs less whetting than cheaper metal,’ said Wynewyk kindly, seeing Paxtone’s vexed expression. ‘So, perhaps we should conduct a series of experiments using different alloys. Personally, I think the debate is still in progress.’

‘I did not mean to cause trouble, Paxtone,’ said Shropham, eyeing his colleague uncomfortably. ‘You are almost certainly right – I must have mis-aimed my knife. I would not have mentioned the matter at all, but it is my job to prepare the quills for the students’ examinations, and–’

‘You take things too seriously, Shropham,’ said the Warden, flinging a comradely arm around his Fellow’s shoulders. ‘You are a scholar, so you are supposed to be argumentative – there is no need to apologise because you question someone else’s ideas. Look at Bartholomew – he does it all the time, even to medical theories that have been accepted as proven fact for hundreds of years.’

Bartholomew watched the three King’s Hall men walk away, and supposed his attempts to be uncontroversial had not been as successful as he had hoped.

‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Wynewyk, seeing his dismay. ‘He was only trying to make Shropham feel better – he does not really think you are an incurable nihilist. Incidentally, the Saturday Debate has been postponed for an hour because Langelee needs to finish something. He would not say what, but he has been in his office all morning. Perhaps he is devising a way to reclaim the Stanton Cups.’

‘I hope not. He is not subtle, and any plan he develops is almost certain to be violent.’

Wynewyk looked alarmed. ‘Do you think he would consider hurting someone, then?’

‘To reclaim valuable heirlooms for his College? Yes, of course! You know what he is like as well as I do. He is an avid player of camp-ball, for a start – and the only purpose of camp-ball is to legitimise a lot of thumping, punching and kicking.’

Wynewyk crossed himself. ‘Do not be late for the debate, Matthew. Our Master has been in an odd mood all week, and I would hate to see this violence unleashed on you.’

When Bartholomew arrived home, he was unimpressed to find his students involved in a quarrel about Risleye’s lost essay. It had still not been found, and Risleye wanted to search his classmates’ possessions. They were outraged by the notion, and had presented a united front against him.

‘If you were innocent, none of you would mind,’ Risleye was shouting. He was near tears.

‘It does not exist,’ jeered Tesdale provocatively. ‘You only claimed it was stolen, so you would be excused from handing it in.’

‘Lies!’ howled Risleye. ‘But I will recover it, no matter what it takes. I will come at night, while you are all sleeping, and look then.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ ordered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine the commotion that would ensue should Risleye attempt what he threatened. He was almost certain to be caught, and the resulting rumpus would wake the entire College. ‘You cannot have forgotten all these brilliant ideas so soon. Write them out again.’

‘And make sure you keep them safe this time,’ gloated Tesdale, delighted that Risleye had effectively lost the argument.

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘I cannot believe how petty you have all become of late. What is wrong with you?’

‘It is not me,’ objected Risleye. ‘It is them. I am not the one who made the book explode–’

‘But you knew about it, and did nothing to stop us,’ countered Valence. ‘Complicity is–’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Bartholomew, supposing he would have to find ways to keep them away from each other until the disputation started, to give tempers a chance to cool. ‘You are like a lot of children. Risleye, go to Yolande de Blaston and collect the forceps I left behind last week. Meanwhile, Tesdale can scrub that stain off the workbench in the storeroom.’

‘Scrub?’ echoed Tesdale, appalled by the prospect of physical labour. ‘Me? Let Valence do it – he is more junior than I.’

‘But it is my birthday,’ objected Valence. ‘I need to cut up the cake I bought, to distribute to my friends during this afternoon’s debate.’ He shot Tesdale a look that said he would not be getting any.

Bartholomew ignored them both. ‘The rest of you can visit patients and report back to me on their health. Valence, you can have Isnard.’

‘Not Isnard!’ groaned Valence. ‘He will want to sing to me again. I cannot imagine why Brother Michael let him back into the Michaelhouse Choir, because he cannot carry a tune.’

‘None of them can,’ said Tesdale. ‘But they think that if they bellow at the top of their lungs, no one will notice. And it is true, by and large. I never realised before that something can simply be too loud to hear. Why is that, sir? Is there a physiological–’

‘The cleaning materials are in the kitchen,’ interrupted Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that lazy Tesdale was trying to sidetrack him in order to avoid the chore he had been set. ‘You had better make a start, or you will miss the debate.’

Shooting each other resentful glances, the students shuffled past him, rolling their eyes or grimacing when he allocated them particularly awkward or garrulous customers. He did not care. The sick would appreciate the attention, and it would do his pupils no harm to learn that life as a physician was not all interesting diseases and challenging wounds.

‘Is that a cake?’ asked Michael, arriving just as the last pupil had been dispatched to see Chancellor Tynkell. The lad would not have a pleasant time of it, as Tynkell had an aversion to any form of personal hygiene. Bartholomew often wondered how Michael, who was fastidious, could bear to spend so much time in the man’s pungent company.

‘Edith gave it to me,’ he said, moving to prevent the monk from unwrapping it. ‘I am going to take it to the debate, for the Fellows to share. The students have one of their own, apparently.’

Michael pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Edith’s cakes are wasted on our colleagues. Clippesby is too fey to appreciate what he is eating, while Suttone is getting fat and should avoid rich foods.’