The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (18 page)

Back up to the Botley Road, still busy with traffic, and then Lyra went across and set off for the river. She kept her hood up and her head down, and before long she came to the path through the trees and the old wooden bridge that Dick had mentioned. To left and right the slow river extended, upstream through Port Meadow and downstream towards the Oxpens and the murder spot. There was no one in sight. Lyra crossed the bridge and continued on the muddy path between water meadows, and came to the canal, where a line of boats was moored, some with smoke coming out of their tin chimneys, one with a dog that barked furiously until she came closer, when it must have sensed something wrong: it turned and skulked down to the other end of the boat, whining.

A little further along, Lyra saw a woman pegging out some washing on a line strung the length of her boat, and she said, “Good morning, lady. I’m looking for Giorgio Brabandt, of the
Maid of Portugal.
D’you know where he might have moored?”

The woman turned to her, half-suspicious of any stranger and half-mollified by Lyra’s correct use of the term of respect for a gyptian stranger.

“He’s further up,” she said. “At the boatyard. But he’s moving on today. You might have missed him.”

“Thanks,” said Lyra, and walked on fast before the woman noticed anything wrong.

The boatyard extended along an open space on the other side of the canal, under the campanile of the Oratory of St. Barnabas. It was a busy place; there was a chandlery, where Malcolm had gone twenty years before to look for some red paint; there were workshops of different kinds, a dry dock, a forge, and various pieces of heavy machinery. Gyptians and landlopers were working side by side, repairing a hull or repainting a roof or fitting a tiller, and the longest of the boats tied up, and by some way the most richly decorated, was the
Maid of Portugal.

Lyra crossed the little iron bridge and walked along the quay till she came to the boat. A large man with sleeves rolled up over his tattooed arms was kneeling in his cockpit, reaching down into the engine with a spanner. He didn’t look up when Lyra stopped beside the boat, but his black-and-silver keeshond dæmon, ruffed like a lion, stood up and growled.

Lyra approached the boat, steady, quiet, watchful.

“Good morning, Master Brabandt,” she said.

The man looked up, and Lyra saw Dick’s features—larger, older, coarser, and stronger, but unmistakably Dick. He said nothing, but scowled and narrowed his eyes.

Lyra took the neckerchief out of her pocket and held it carefully in both hands, opening them to display the knot.

He looked at it, and his expression changed from suspicious to angry. A dull red suffused his face. “Where’d you get that?” he said.

“Your grandson Dick gave it to me about half an hour ago. I went to see him because I’m in trouble and I need help.”

“Put it away and come aboard. Don’t look around. Just step over the side and go below.”

He wiped his hands on an oily rag. When she was inside the saloon, he came through to join her and shut the door behind him.

“How’d you know Dick?” he said.

“We’re just friends.”

“And did
he
put this trouble in your belly?”

For a moment Lyra didn’t know what he meant. Then she blushed. “No! It’s not that kind of trouble. I take better care of myself than that. It’s that…my dæmon…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. She felt horribly vulnerable, as if her affliction had suddenly become gross and visible. She shrugged and opened her parka and spread out her hands. Brabandt looked at her from head to foot, and his face lost all its color. He took a step backwards and clutched the door frame.

“You en’t a witch?” he said.

“No. Just human, that’s all.”

“Dear God, then what’s happened to you?” he said.

“My dæmon’s lost. I think he’s left me.”

“And what d’you think I can do about it?”

“I don’t know, Master Brabandt. But what I want to do is get to the Fens without being caught and see an old friend of mine. He’s called Coram van Texel.”

“Farder Coram! And he’s a friend o’ yourn?”

“I went to the Arctic with him and Lord Faa about ten years ago. Farder Coram was with me when we met Iorek Byrnison, the king of the bears.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Lyra Silvertongue. That’s the name the bear gave me. I was called Lyra Belacqua till then.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did.”

For a moment she thought he was going to slap her for being insolent, but then his expression cleared as the blood came back to his cheeks. Brabandt was a good-looking man, just as his grandson had said, but he was perturbed now, and even a little frightened.

“This trouble o’ yours,” he said. “When did it come on you?”

“Just this morning. He was with me last night. But we had a terrible quarrel, and when I woke up, he was gone. I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered the gyptians, and the Fens, and Farder Coram, and I thought he wouldn’t judge me badly, he’d understand, and he might be able to help me.”

“We still talk about that voyage to the north,” he said. “Lord Faa’s dead and gone now, but that was a great campaign, no doubt about it. Farder Coram dun’t move much from his boat these days, but he’s bright and cheerful enough.”

“I’m glad of that. I might be bringing him trouble, though.”

“He won’t worry about that. But you weren’t going to travel like this, were you? How d’you expect to go anywhere without a dæmon?”

“I know. It’ll be difficult. I can’t stay where I am, where I was staying, because…I’ll bring trouble on them. There’s too many people coming and going there all the time. I couldn’t hide for long, and it wouldn’t be fair to them, because I think I’m in danger from the CCD as well. It was just luck I heard from Dick that you were in Oxford, and I thought maybe…I don’t know. I just don’t know where else to go.”

“No, I can see that. Well…”

He looked out through the window at the busy waterfront, and then down at his big keeshond dæmon, who returned his gaze calmly.

“Well,” Brabandt said, “John Faa come back from that voyage with some gyptian children what we’d never’ve seen again else. We owe you that. And our people made some good friends among the witches, and that was something new. And I got no work on for a couple of weeks. Trade en’t good at the moment. You bin on a gyptian boat before? You must’ve bin.”

“I sailed to the Fens with Ma Costa and her family.”

“Ma Costa, eh? Well, she wouldn’t stand no nonsense. Can you cook and keep a place clean?”

“Yes.”

“Then welcome aboard, Lyra. I’m on me own at the moment, since me last girlfriend took a run ashore and never come back. Don’t worry—I en’t looking for a replacement, and in any case, you’re too young for me. I like my women with a bit o’ mileage on ’em. But if you cook and clean and do my washing, and keep out o’ sight of any landlopers, I’ll help you in your trouble and take you to the Fens. How’s that?”

He held out his oily hand, and she shook it without hesitation.

“It’s a bargain,” she said.

At the very moment when Lyra was shaking the hand of Giorgio Brabandt, Marcel Delamare was in his office at
La Maison Juste,
touching a little bottle with the point of a pencil, pushing it sideways, turning it around. The weather was clear, and the sunlight fell across his mahogany desk and sparkled on the little bottle, which was no longer than his little finger, capped with a cork, and sealed with a reddish wax that had dripped halfway down the side.

He picked it up and held it to the light. His visitor waited quietly: a man of Tartar appearance but in shabby European clothes, his face gaunt and sunburned.

“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.”