“And this is it, the famous oil?” said Delamare.
“So I was told, sir. All I can do is tell you what the merchant said to me.”
“Did he approach you? How did he know you were interested?”
“I had gone to Akchi to look for it. I asked among the merchants, the camel dealers, the traders. Finally a man came to my table and—”
“Your table?”
“Trade is done in the teahouses. One takes a table and makes it known that one is ready to trade silk, opium, tea, whatever one has. I had assumed the character of a medical man. Several dealers came to me with this herb, that extract, oil of this, fruit of that, seeds of the other. Some I bought, to maintain my character. I have all the receipts.”
“How do you know this is what you wanted? It could be anything.”
“With respect, Monsieur Delamare, it is the rose oil from Karamakan. I am happy to wait for my payment until you have tested it.”
“Oh, we shall, we shall certainly test it. But what was it that convinced you?”
The visitor sat back in his chair with an air of weary but well-guarded patience. His dæmon, a serpent of a sandy-gray color with a pattern of red diamonds along her sides, flowed over his hands, in and out, through and through his fingers. Delamare caught an air of agitation, strongly subdued.
“I tested it myself,” said the visitor. “As the dealer instructed, I put the smallest possible drop on the end of my little finger and touched it to my eyeball. The pain was instant and shocking, which was the reason the dealer had insisted we leave the teahouse and go to the hotel where I was staying. I had to cry out with the shock and the pain. I wanted to wash my eye clear at once, but the dealer advised me to remain still and leave it alone. Washing would only spread the pain further. This is what the shamans do, those who use the oil, apparently. After I suppose ten or fifteen minutes, the worst of it began to subside. And then I began to see the effects described in the poem of Jahan and Rukhsana.”
Delamare had been writing down the visitor’s words as he spoke. Now he stopped and held up his hand. “What poem is this?”
“The poem called Jahan and Rukhsana. It relates the adventure of two lovers who seek a garden where roses grow. When the two lovers enter the rose garden after all their trials, guided by the king of the birds, they are blessed with a number of visions that unfold like the petals of a rose and reveal truth after truth. For nearly a thousand years, this poem has been revered in those regions of Central Asia.”
“Is there a translation into any of the European languages?”
“I believe there is one in French, but it is not thought to be very accurate.”
Delamare made a note. “And what did you see under the influence of this oil?” he said.
“I saw the appearance of a nimbus or halo around the dealer, consisting of sparkling granules of light, each smaller than a grain of flour. And between him and his dæmon, who was a sparrow, there was a constant stream of such grains of light, back and forth, in both directions. As I watched, I became convinced that I was seeing something profound and true, which I would never afterwards be able to deny. Little by little that vision faded, and I was sure the rose oil was genuine, so I paid the dealer and made my way here. I have his bill of sale—”
“Leave it on the desk. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Just as well for you. The town where you bought the oil—show it to me on this map.”
Delamare stood to fetch a folded map from the table and spread it open in front of the traveler. It showed a region about four hundred kilometers square, with mountains to the south and north.
The visitor put on a pair of ancient wire-rimmed spectacles before staring at the map. He touched it at a point near the western edge. Delamare looked, and then turned his attention to the eastern side, scanning up and down.
“The desert of Karamakan is just a little further to the southeast than this map shows,” said the traveler.
“How far from the town you mentioned, from Akchi?”
“Five hundred kilometers, more or less.”
“So the rose oil is traded that far west.”
“I had made it known what I wanted, and I was prepared to wait,” said the traveler, taking off his glasses. “The dealer had come to find me especially. He could have sold it at once to the medical company, but he was an honest man.”
“Medical company? Which one?”
“There are three or four of them. Western companies. They are prepared to pay a great deal, but I managed to acquire this sample. The bill of sale—”
“You shall have your money. A few more questions first. Who sealed this bottle with wax?”
“I did.”
“And it has been in your possession all the way?”
“Every step.”
“And does it have a lifetime, so to speak, this oil? Does its virtue fade?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who buys it? Who are the customers of this dealer?”
“He doesn’t only sell oil, monsieur. Other products also. But ordinary ones, you understand, herbs for healing, spices for cooking, that sort of thing. Anyone would buy those. The special oil is used mainly by shamans, I believe, but there is a scientific establishment at Tashbulak, which is”—glasses on, he peered at the map again—“like the desert, just off this map. He has sold oil to the scientists there a small number of times. They were very keen to obtain it, and they paid promptly, though they did not pay as much as the medical companies. I should say there was such a place, until recently.”
Delamare sat up but not sharply. “There was?” he said. “Go on.”
“It was the dealer who alerted me to this. He told me that when he last traveled to the research station, he found the people there in a state of great fear because they had been threatened with destruction if they did not stop their researches. They were packing up, making preparations to leave. But between leaving Akchi and arriving here, I have heard that the establishment has been destroyed. All those who were still there, whether scientific staff or local workers, have either fled or been put to death.”
“When did you hear this?”
“Not long ago. But news travels quickly along the road.”
“And who was it who destroyed the place?”
“Men from the mountains. That is all I know.”
“Which mountains?”
“There are mountains to the north, to the west, and to the south. To the east, only desert, the worst in the world. The mountain passes are safe, or used to be, because the roads are well trod. Maybe not so anymore. All mountains are dangerous. Who knows what sort of men live there? The mountains are the dwelling place of spirits, of monsters. Any human beings who live among them will be fierce and cruel. Then there are the birds, the oghâb-gorgs. There are stories told about these birds that would terrify any traveler.”
“I am interested in the men. What do people say about them? Are they organized? Have they a leader? Do we know why they destroyed the station at Tashbulak?”
“I understand it was because they believed the work there was blasphemous.”
“Then what is their religion? What counts as blasphemy for them?”
The merchant shook his head and spread his hands.
Delamare slowly nodded and tapped his pencil on a small pile of folded and stained papers. “These are the expenses you incurred?” he said.
“They are. And of course the invoice for the oil. I would be grateful—”
“You shall be paid tomorrow. Are you staying at the Hotel Rembrandt, as I recommended?”
“I am.”
“Stay there. A messenger will bring you your money before very long. I would remind you of the contract we signed so many months ago.”
“A
h,” said the traveler.
“Yes, ah, indeed. If I learn that you’ve been talking about this business, I shall invoke the confidentiality clause and pursue you through every court till I have recovered all the money you’re being paid and a great deal more besides.”
“I remember that clause.”
“Then we need say no more. Good morning to you.”
The visitor bowed and left. Delamare put the bottle of oil into a desk drawer and locked it, then turned over in his mind the news the merchant had told him. But there was something about the way the man had looked at him while talking about it, something surprised, maybe skeptical, maybe doubtful. It had been hard to read. In fact, Delamare knew quite a lot already about these men from the mountains, and his purpose in asking about them was to find out how much was known by others.
No matter. He wrote a swift note to the Rector of the College of Theophysical Research, and then brought his attention back to the project that was occupying most of his time: a forthcoming congress of the entire Magisterium, of a kind that had never happened before. The oil, and what had happened at Tashbulak, would be at the center of their deliberations, though very few delegates would know that.
* * *
* * *
Malcolm was detained most of that day by college business, but as the afternoon clouded over, he locked his door and set off for Godstow. He was keen to tell Lyra about the meeting at the Botanic Garden and everything he’d learnt from it, and not just to warn her: he wanted to see her expression as she absorbed all the implications of what had happened. Her emotions came and went so vividly that it seemed to him that she was more in tune with the world than anyone else he’d known. He didn’t know quite what he meant by that, and he wouldn’t have said it to anyone, least of all her; but it was enchanting to see.
The temperature was falling, and there even seemed like a hint of snow in the air. When he opened the kitchen door at the Trout and went in, the familiar warmth and steam enveloped him like a welcome. But his mother’s face, as she looked up from the pastry she was rolling, was tense and anxious.
“You seen her?” she said at once.
“Seen Lyra? What d’you mean?”
She nodded towards the note Lyra had left, which was still in the middle of the table. He snatched it up and read it quickly, then again slowly.
“Nothing else?” he said.
“She left some of her things upstairs. Looks like she took what she could carry. She must’ve gone out early, before anyone else got up.”
“Did she say anything yesterday?”
“She just looked preoccupied. Unhappy, your dad thinks. But she was trying to be cheerful, you could see that. She didn’t say anything much, though, and she went to bed early.”
“When did she go?”
“She left before we got up. That note was on the table. I thought she might have come to you at Durham, or Alice, maybe….”
Malcolm ran upstairs and into the bedroom Lyra had been using. Her books, or some of them, were still on the little table; the bed was made; there were a few items of clothing in one of the drawers. Nothing else.
“Fuck,” he said.
“I wonder…,” said Asta from the windowsill.
“What?”
“I just wonder if she and Pantalaimon both went. Or if she thought he’d gone and went after him. We know they weren’t…they didn’t…they weren’t very happy together.”
“But where would he have gone?”
“Just to go out on his own. We know he used to do that. That’s when I saw him first.”
“But…” He was baffled and angry, and far more upset than he could remember being for a long time.
“Though she’d always know that he’d come back,” Asta said. “Perhaps this time he just didn’t.”
“Alice,” he said at once. “We’ll go there now.”
* * *
* * *
Alice was drinking a glass of wine in the Steward’s parlor after dinner.
“Good evening, Dr. Polstead,” said the Steward, rising to his feet. “Will you take a glass of port with us?”
“Another time with pleasure, Mr. Cawson,” Malcolm said, “but this is rather urgent. May I have a quick word with Mrs. Lonsdale?”
Alice, seeing his expression, stood up at once. They went out into the quad and spoke quietly under the light by the Hall steps.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
He explained briefly and showed her the note.
“What’d she take with her?”
“A rucksack, some clothes…Not a clue otherwise. Had she come to see you in the last day or so?”
“No. I wish she had. I’d have made her tell me the truth about her and that dæmon.”
“Yes…I saw there was something wrong, but it wasn’t something I could bring up in conversation, with urgent things to talk about. You knew they weren’t happy, then?”
“Not happy? They couldn’t stand each other, and it was awful to see. How’d she get on at the Trout?”
“They saw the state of mind she was in, but she didn’t say anything about it. Alice, you did know she and Pantalaimon could separate?”
Alice’s dæmon, Ben, growled and pressed himself against her legs.
“She never spoke about it,” said Alice. “But I thought there was something different about them after they come back from the north. She was like someone haunted, I used to think. Shadowed, kind of thing. Why?”
“Just a feeling that Pan might have left, and she went off to try and find him.”
“She must’ve thought he’d gone a long way. If he was just out for a scamper in the woods, he’d have been back before morning.”
“That’s what I thought. But if you hear from her, or hear anything about her…”
“Course.”
“Is there anyone else in the college she might have spoken to?”
“No,” she said decisively. “Not after the new Master as good as chucked her out, the bastard.”
“Thanks, Alice. Don’t stand about in the cold.”
“I’ll tell old Ronnie Cawson that she’s missing. He’s fond of her. All the servants are. Well, the original servants. Hammond’s got some new buggers that don’t talk to anyone. This place en’t the same as it used to be, Mal.”
A quick embrace, and he left.
* * *
* * *
Ten minutes later he was knocking on Hannah Relf’s door.
“Malcolm! Come in. What’s—”
“Lyra’s vanished,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “She was gone before Mum and Dad were up this morning. Must’ve been pretty early. She left this note, and no one’s got a clue where she’s gone. I’ve just been to ask Alice, but—”
“Pour us some sherry and sit down. Did she take the alethiometer with her?”
“It wasn’t in her bedroom, so I suppose she must have done.”
“She might have left it there if she was intending to come back. If she thought it would be safe.”
“I think she felt safe there. I was going to talk to her this evening, tell her about the business at the Botanic Garden…I haven’t even told you yet, have I?”
“Does that concern Lyra?”
“Yes, it does.”
He told her about the meeting, and what he’d learnt from it, and the men from the CCD.
“Right,” she said. “Definitely Oakley Street business. Are you seeing her again?”
“Lucy Arnold—yes. And the others. But, Hannah, I was going to ask—would you be able to look for Lyra with your alethiometer?”
“Yes, of course I could, but not quickly. She might be anywhere by now. What is it, twelve hours or so ago when she left? I’ll gladly start looking, but it’ll only give me a general idea at first. It might be eas
ier to ask why she’s gone, rather than where.”
“Do that, then. Anything that’ll help.”
“The police? What about telling them she’s missing?”
“No,” he said. “The less attention they pay to her, the better.”
“I think you’re probably right. Malcolm, are you in love with her?”
The question took him utterly by surprise. “What on earth—where did that come from?” he said.
“The way you talk about her.”
He felt his cheeks flaring. “Is it that obvious?” he said.
“Only to me.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all. Completely forbidden, by every kind of moral and—”
“Once, yes, but not anymore. You’re both adults. All I was going to say was don’t let it affect your judgment.”
He could see that already she regretted having asked about it. He’d known Hannah for most of his life, and he trusted her completely; but as for her final piece of advice, he thought it was the least wise thing he’d ever heard her say.
“I’ll try not to,” he said.
Lyra soon fell into a comfortable enough way of life with Giorgio Brabandt. He wasn’t overscrupulous as far as cleaning was concerned; she gathered that his last girlfriend had been a zealot for scrubbing and polishing, and that he was glad to live a little more casually. Lyra swept the floors and kept the galley sparkling, and that satisfied him. Where cooking was concerned, she had learnt a few things in the Jordan kitchens, and she could make the sort of hefty pies and stews that Brabandt liked best: he had no taste for delicate sauces or fancy desserts.
“What we’ll do if anyone asks who you are,” he said, “is we’ll say you’re my son Alberto’s gal. He married a landloper woman and they live down Cornwall way. He en’t been on the water for years. You can be called Annie. That’ll do. Annie Brabandt. Good gyptian name. As for the dæmon…Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
He gave Lyra the forward cabin, a cold little place until he put a rock oil stove in there. Wrapped up in bed at night, with a naphtha lamp beside her, she pored over the alethiometer.
The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) Page 19