“What about the girl? I thought she could do it.”
“She’s better than most. I admit that. But she hasn’t got the strength. You need a kind of power, stamina, force, and I guess girls haven’t got it.”
“Why do you think she has the alethiometer that your father had?”
“I don’t have to think it. I just know it. It’s a stupid question. It’s like asking how I worked out that this tablecloth’s white. You don’t have to work it out.”
“All right. Now tell me why the Patriarch Papadakis was killed.”
“It was bound to happen. As soon as Delamare arranged for him to head this new High Council, the poor old bastard was doomed. See, Delamare had it all worked out from the start. The only way he could be the single unchallenged leader was to set up a structure where there was a leader. The Magisterium hasn’t had that since, I don’t know, hundreds of years ago, but as soon as there was a single leader, all Delamare had to do was have him killed in circumstances that led to panic, then step in and calm that panic with some emergency regulations, and modestly offer himself. He’s in charge now for life. Unlimited powers. You got to admire that sort of resolution. I could handle him, but no one else can.”
“In that case, why are you on the run?”
“What the fuck d’you mean? I’m not on the run,” Bonneville blustered. “I got a secret mission from Delamare himself.”
“They’re looking for you. There’s a reward, didn’t you know?”
“How much?”
“More than you’re worth. Someone will betray you in the end. Now tell me about the roses. What did they do with the sample of oil?”
“They analyzed it. The oil from that place has got various properties that they haven’t got to the bottom of yet. They need a larger sample. I got hold of a tiny amount—I know a girl in the Geneva laboratory, and in exchange…Well, she gave me a piece of blotting paper with a few drops on it. I found out one thing straightaway. It protects against the nausea in the new method. With enough of it, you could use the new method and never suffer the ill effects. But I only had that little bit.”
“Go on. What else?”
“You know what they mean by Dust?”
“Of course.”
“With the oil, they can see that. And lines of power. Or fields. Maybe fields. The girl in the lab said it was a field. And they could see not just chemicals and kinds of light but human interactions. If Professor Zitski had touched this specimen but not that one, he showed up somehow, because they could check it against the other things he’d touched. And Professor Zotski would have his mark on it too, if he had. If Zotski had been thinking about the thing, or he’d ordered how the experiment was to be set up, he’d show up in the field.”
“And what was Delamare’s reaction to this?”
“You’ve got to understand, he’s not a simple man. He’s got layer on layer of complexity, he’s subtle, he seems to contradict himself and then you see he’s thought several moves ahead….The new High Council, that’ll let him do things he wasn’t able to before. He’s going to send an expedition to this rose place, Lop Nor, wherever. Not for trade, though. I mean armed. They’re going to capture it. He’s going to control it all. He’s not going to let anyone else have the oil.”
“What do you know about this armed expedition? Who’s commanding it?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” said Bonneville. He was sounding impatient, bored, and Malcolm could see that he needed the constant attention of a listener to stop him losing concentration and becoming irritated.
“Want some more coffee?”
“All right.”
Malcolm signaled to the waiter. Bonneville’s dæmon had shut her eyes and let him return her to his shoulder.
“This girl in the laboratory,” Malcolm said. “In Geneva.”
“Nice body. Too emotional, though.”
“Are you still in contact with her?”
Bonneville thrust his right forefinger into and out of his closed left fist several times. Malcolm knew what the boy wanted then: the sexual admiration of an older man. He let a slight smile into his expression.
“She’ll find things out for you?”
“She’ll do anything. But there’s no oil left, I told you.”
“Have they tried to synthesize it?”
Bonneville’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you’re trying to recruit me as a spy,” he said. “Why should I tell you anything?”
The waiter came back with their coffee. Malcolm waited till he’d gone, and then said, “The circumstances haven’t changed.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore. Bonneville gave an elaborate shrug.
“I’ve told you plenty. Now you tell me something. How did that girl Belacqua get hold of my father’s alethiometer?”
“As far as I know, it was given to her by the head of her father’s college in Oxford. Jordan College.”
“Well, how did he get hold of it?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“So why did he give it to her?”
“I know nothing about it at all.”
“How do you know her anyway?”
“I used to teach her.”
“When? How old was she? Did she have the alethiometer then?”
“She was about fourteen, fifteen. I taught her history. She never mentioned the alethiometer. I certainly never saw it. I had no idea she had it until recently. Is that why Delamare wants to find her?”
“He’d like the alethiometer, certainly. He’d be glad to have a second one. Then he could play me off against the other readers. But that isn’t why he wants to find her.”
“Well, why does he?”
Malcolm could see the temptation playing over Bonneville’s expression. He knew something that Malcolm didn’t, and the pleasure of telling it was too strong to ignore.
“You mean you don’t know?” he said.
“There are a lot of things I don’t know. What is it in this case?”
“I don’t know how you failed to know this. Obviously your sources aren’t up to much.”
Malcolm sipped his coffee and watched Bonneville’s knowing smirk broaden. “Obviously,” he said. “Well?”
“Delamare is her uncle. He thinks she killed his sister, her mother. He must have been in love with his sister, if you ask me. Obsessed with her, anyway. He wants to punish her, Silvertongue, Belacqua, whatever her name is. Wants to make her pay.”
Malcolm was profoundly surprised. He’d had no idea that the Mrs. Coulter he’d once met, in Hannah Relf’s little house on a winter afternoon just before the great flood, had any siblings at all. But why should she not? People did. And did Lyra know about this brother, this uncle? He wanted to talk to her urgently, now, this minute. And he had to show no reaction. He had to feel no reaction. He had to feel no more than mildly interested.
“Does he know where she is?” he said. “Have you told him?”
“Your turn,” said Bonneville. “Tell me about my father. Who killed him?”
“I told you. No one killed him. He drowned.”
“I don’t believe you. Someone killed him. When I find out who that was, I’ll kill him.”
“Have you got the nerve to do that?”
“No question. Tell me about his dæmon. You said something about his dæmon.”
“She was a hyena. She’d lost a leg because he mistreated her. He beat her savagely. I heard it from a man who saw him doing it. He said it made him sick to see it.”
“You think I’ll believe that?”
“It’s of no interest to me whether you believe it or not.”
“Did you ever see him?”
“Only once. I saw his dæmon, and she frightened me. She came out of the bushes in the dark and looked at me and pissed on the path I was walking on. Then he ca
me out and saw what she was doing, and laughed. They went ahead further into the wood, and I waited for a long time before I dared go on. But I never saw him again.”
“How did you know his name?”
“I heard people talking about him.”
“Where was this?”
“In Oxford during the flood.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re boasting, and you’ve got far less control over the alethiometer than you think you have. You read it in a state of confusion and seasickness, and guesswork. I don’t trust you an inch, because you’re a slippery, vicious little brat. But I’ve given my word. I won’t tell Menotti or the others where you are. Unless you try something against me, in which case I won’t bother with them; I’ll find you and kill you myself.”
“Easy to say.”
“Easy to do.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“An archaeologist. The best advice I can give you is to crawl back to Delamare and apologize fulsomely. Then stay put.”
Bonneville sneered.
“Is your mother still alive?” Malcolm said.
A flush came into the boy’s cheeks. “Never you fucking mind,” he said. “She’s got nothing to do with you.”
Malcolm watched him and said nothing. After a minute Bonneville stood up.
“I’ve had enough,” he said.
He picked up his dæmon and squeezed out past the next table. Malcolm smelled the cologne he was wearing and recognized the scent as one that a number of young men seemed to be affecting: a citrus-based product called Galleon. So Bonneville was conscious of fashion, and wanted to be attractive, and perhaps was; it was another fact that might be useful. The young man was holding himself gingerly, as if his ribs still hurt. Malcolm watched him out of the café and away past the fountain to be lost in the crowd.
“D’you think he knows about Lyra and Pan not being together?” said Asta.
“Hard to say. It’s the sort of thing he’d boast about, if he did.”
“He’ll kill her if he finds her.”
“Then we must find her first.”
The ferry didn’t reach Smyrna till late in the following afternoon. During the day Lyra hardly moved, staying in her wicker chair and stirring only to fetch some coffee and bread, thinking about what she should do next, and looking through the little notebook, the clavicula. The name Kubiček had pointed to was that of a Princess Rosamond Cantacuzino, and it was the rose in her name that decided it. Lyra set off for her house as soon as she left the boat.
The princess lived in one of the great houses further along the waterfront. The city was a famous center of trade; in earlier times, merchants had made enormous fortunes from buying and selling carpets, dried fruit, grain, spices, and precious minerals. For the sake of the cool breezes in summer, and the views of the mountains, the richest families had long settled in splendid mansions along the palm-shaded corniche. The Cantacuzino house stood back from the road, behind a garden whose neatness and complexity of planting spoke of great wealth. Lyra thought that great wealth would help a lot if you’d lost your dæmon; you could pay for well-guarded privacy.
And thinking that, she wondered if she’d ever get inside the house to meet the princess. She almost quailed. Why did she want to meet her, anyway? Well, to ask for advice about the rest of her journey, obviously. And if Kubiček had her on his list, there must have been at least one occasion when she’d agreed to be helpful to those like herself. Courage! Lyra thought.
She walked through the gate and along a gravel path between symmetrical beds of tightly pruned roses whose buds were just beginning to show. A gardener at work in a far corner looked up and saw her, and straightened his back to watch as she made, with all the confidence she could assume, for the marble steps up to the entrance.
An elderly manservant answered the bell. His crow dæmon gave one hoarse croak as soon as she saw Lyra, and the old man’s hooded eyes flickered with a moment’s understanding.
“I hope you can speak English,” Lyra said, “because I have little Greek and no Anatolian. I have come to present my compliments to Princess Cantacuzino.”
The servant looked her up and down. She knew her clothes were shabby, but she also remembered Farder Coram’s advice, and tried to imitate the way the witches bore themselves: supremely at ease in their ragged scraps of black silk, as if they wore the most elegant couture.
The butler inclined his head and said, “May I tell the princess who is calling?”
“My name is Lyra Silvertongue.”
He stood aside and invited her to wait in the hall. She looked around: heavy dark wood, an elaborate staircase, a chandelier, tall palms in terra-cotta pots, the smell of beeswax polish. And cool, and quiet. The sound of traffic on the corniche, the stir of the air in the outside world, were all hushed behind the layers of wealth and custom that hung like heavy curtains all around.
The butler returned and said, “The princess will see you now, Miss Silvertongue. Please follow me.”
He’d come from a door on the ground floor, but now he began to climb the stairs. He moved slowly, wheezing a little, but his posture was soldierly and upright. On the first floor he opened a door and announced her, and Lyra walked past into a room flooded with light, overlooking the bay and the harbor and the distant mountains. It was very large, and it seemed full of life: an ivory-colored grand piano covered in a dozen or more silver-framed photograms, many modern paintings, crowded white-painted bookshelves, and elegant light-colored furniture, all made Lyra like it at once. A very old lady sat in a brocaded armchair near the great windows, dressed all in black.
Lyra approached her. She wondered for a moment if she ought to curtsy, but decided immediately that it would look ridiculous, and simply said, “Good afternoon, Princess. It’s very good of you to see me.”
“Is that how you were brought up to address a princess?” The old woman’s voice was dry, astringent, amused.
“No. That didn’t form part of my lessons at all. I can do several other things quite well, though.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Bring that chair forward and sit down. Let me look at you.”
Lyra did as she was told and looked back calmly as the old woman scrutinized her. The old woman was both fierce and vulnerable, and Lyra wondered what her dæmon had been, and whether it would be polite to ask.
“Who were your people?” said the princess.
“My father’s name was Asriel, Lord Asriel, and my mother was not his wife. She was called Mrs. Coulter. How did you know…I mean, why did you say were? How could you tell they weren’t alive?”
“I can tell an orphan when I see one. I met your father once.”
“Did you?”
“It was at a reception in the Egyptian embassy in Berlin. It must have been thirty years ago. He was a very handsome young man, and very rich.”
“He lost his wealth when I was born.”
“Why was that?”
“He wasn’t married to my mother, and there was a court case—”
“Oh! Lawyers! Have you any money, child?”
“None at all.”
“Then you will be of no interest to lawyers, and all the better for it. Who gave you my name?”
“A man in Prague. He was called Vaclav Kubiček.”
“Ah. A very interesting man. A scholar of some repute. Modest, unassuming. Did you know of him before you went to Prague?”
“No, not at all. I had no idea there could be anyone else who…I mean, without…He was very helpful to me.”
“Why are you traveling? And where are you going?”
“I’m going to Central Asia. To a place called Tashbulak, where there’s a botanical research station. I’m going there to find out the answer to a puzzle. A mystery, really.”
“Tell me about your d�
�mon.”
“Pantalaimon…”
“A good Greek name.”
“He settled in the form of a pine marten. He and I discovered we could separate when I was about twelve. We had to. At least, I had to keep a promise, which meant leaving him behind and going into a place where he couldn’t come. Nothing…Almost nothing has ever felt worse. But after a while we found each other again, and I think he forgave me. And we were together after that, though we had to keep our separating very secret. We didn’t think anyone could do it except witches. But for the last year or so we’ve been quarreling. We couldn’t stand each other. That was horrible. And one day I woke up and he’d just gone. So I’m searching for him, really. I’m following clues…little things that don’t make rational sense….In Prague I met a magician who gave me a clue. And I’m relying on chance. It was by chance that I met Mr. Kubiček.”
“There’s a great deal you’re not telling me.”
“I don’t know how long you’ll be interested for.”
“You don’t suppose my life is so full of fascinating events that I can pass up the chance to listen to a stranger in the same depleted condition as I am myself?”
“Well, it might be. Full of fascinating events, I mean. I’m sure there’s no shortage of people who’d like to meet you, or friends who could come and talk. Perhaps you have a family.”
“I have no offspring, if that’s what you mean. No husband. But in another sense I am smothered by family; this city, this country are full of Cantacuzinos. What I have instead of a family is—yes, I have a handful of friends, but they are embarrassed by me, they make allowances, they avoid painful subjects, they’re full of kindly understanding, and as a result conversation with them is a kind of purgatory. When Mr. Kubiček came to see me, I was nearly dead with boredom and despair. Now the people who come here through him and through two or three other people of our sort in other places are the most welcome of guests. Will you take some tea with me?”
“I would love to.”
The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) Page 45