The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (32 page)

There it was again, that rustling, and a visible movement—immediate nausea. He made it to the washbasin before he threw up. But he nearly had it! So nearly! He rinsed his mouth out with a glass of water and sat down again.

The problem was…The question was…Whose viewpoint was seeing it? Whose eyes were there to see through? No one’s. The point of view was unanchored, and consequently it lurched all over the place. If it kept still, there’d be no nausea….But there were no eyes there. No camera. There was no reason for the viewpoint to be in
this
spot rather than
that.

All right: try
not
seeing. Try listening instead, or smelling, or both. They didn’t depend on a viewpoint in the same way. Bonneville made his mind’s eye see nothing but darkness, and focused instead on the other two senses.

That was better at once. He could hear a light wind through bushes, and the occasional brush of an animal’s feet against dead leaves, but not dry ones; and he could smell damp, and a larger and more distant river smell, and hear the little murmur of water as the ripples of a wake ran along the bank.

Then more. He could hear the wide night all around. And sounds coming over water from some way off: a large oil engine, the splash of a bow wave, distant voices. The cry of an owl. More rustling in the undergrowth.

He sat perfectly still, eyes closed, looking into a profound blackness. The owl cried again, closer. The vessel was moving away to his right. Then a whiff of something animal, very close.

Startled, he looked, and for a fraction of a second he saw the girl’s dæmon outlined against the darkness of a wide river, and no girl. She was nowhere in sight. The dæmon was alone. Quickly he closed his mind’s eye again, before the sickness could strike, but he was triumphant. He let it all fade and sat there blinking and smiling, jubilant.

That was why he couldn’t see her! She and her dæmon were separated! And the new method: now he knew how that worked. It wasn’t the person it was drawn to: it was the dæmon. So many discoveries!

And the fact that he could see photograms of her in Delamare’s apartment, as he’d done, was due to the presence of her dæmon in each one.

And now he knew that her dæmon was traveling alone, along a great river. It only remained to discover which one, and that wouldn’t take long.

An excellent evening, all told.

Malcolm’s eyes were giving him trouble. The spangled ring, which he thought of as his personal aurora, had been trembling just out of sight for days; not continuously, but for longer than usual, and never quite appearing. It was as if the world was being projected by a magic lantern on a screen that wasn’t quite securely fastened. Asta too, although she couldn’t see the ring as he could, was aware of something uneasy in their vision.

They reached Geneva late on a windy afternoon, when the skies were dark with both the approaching evening and a threatening storm. The city was busy, because the Magisterial Congress was just coming to an end. In truth, Malcolm had no need to go through Geneva, and doing so could even have been called reckless; but it would be useful to learn what had been discussed. Besides, he knew that Simon Talbot was attending the congress, and he wanted to find him if he could.

He planned to leave the city by train, but he arrived by bus, because bus stops were less often watched by the authorities than railway stations. He and Asta got off in a dreary suburb, an area of small factories, market gardens, timber yards, and the like. The road ran along the lakeshore for a short way, and in the rapidly gathering dark they could see the lights across the water on the fashionable side of the city, and the great snow-covered mountains beyond, ghostly under the moonless sky. There was a yacht club or something of the sort over there, and in the blustery air they could hear the tapping of the rigging wires against the masts, like a thousand Swiss clocks.

They walked on a little way. Malcolm stopped and rubbed his eyes.

“I can feel it too,” said Asta.

“It’s as if the damn thing snapped and all the spangles got blown everywhere. If it doesn’t make its mind up, we’ll have to lie down, but I’d much rather not.”

“Talbot.”

“That’s right. I want to…Wait a minute.” He was peering at the rusty padlocked gate of a large house behind a stone wall.

“What is it?” she said, and jumped up to his shoulder.

“Something there…”

It was nearly dark. Something was moving or fluttering on the gate. He thought at first it was a leaf caught in a spider’s web, and next that it might have been some kind of glowworm, but then it resolved into something familiar: the spangled ring itself. It was flickering in the semi-darkness, over the heavy padlock, and it drew him towards itself as if it were reeling in a fish. He went willingly. Asta couldn’t see it herself, but she felt the old excitement that came to him.

He reached out towards the twisting, shimmering vision. He wanted to pick it up and hold it in the palm of his hand, knowing that of course he couldn’t; but as he touched the padlock, the shackle slipped out of the body with a smooth click, as if it had been recently oiled. The lock hung loose on the hasp.

“Well,” said Asta. “Got to go in there now.”

They looked in both directions and saw no one. Malcolm removed the padlock and opened the gate, with the spangled ring still flickering in the center of his vision. The gate creaked, but moved easily enough through the weeds that clogged the gravel. The house itself was tall and entirely dark, the windows boarded up, ivy climbing the walls. Its main entrance faced the lake. Malcolm closed the gate, and they made their way towards the building.

“Very un-Swiss, all this neglect,” Malcolm said. “Can you see that?”

He was pointing past the house towards the trees at the bottom of the garden, right on the shore.

“Boathouse?” said Malcolm.

“I think so. Yes.”

It was just a dark rectangle to his human eyes, but the spangled ring encircled it with brilliance and certainty. They followed the path down towards it, where the gravel was thick with grass and weeds. At least they made no noise as they walked along it.

The door of the boathouse was padlocked, but the wood in which the hasp was set was soft and rotten. Malcolm pulled it away easily, and they stepped inside, Asta first for safety, because Malcolm’s vision was now almost totally occupied by the shimmering dazzle of the scotoma.

“Don’t move,” said Asta. “Just stay there by the door. I’ll see for you. There’s a boat here, some kind of dinghy or small yacht…it’s got a mast…and there are oars. There’s a name…
Mignonne.
”

Malcolm felt his way down the wall until he was kneeling on the wooden planking, and then reached out into the dark until his hand met the little boat’s gunwale. He felt it sway slightly as a ripple passed under the gates, and then he felt another little movement as Asta jumped aboard.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Just exploring. It’s bone-dry inside. No leaks. How are you seeing now?”

“It’s clearing a bit. What about the mast and the rigging?”

“Can’t tell what’s here and what isn’t….It all seems in good shape, though.”

The spangled ring was getting larger now, and drifting towards him in the way it had. The rest of his vision was returning to normal. He could see the boat dimly against the light from the water outside.

“Well,” he said. “Nice to know you,
Mignonne.
”

He ran his hand along the gunwale and stood up to let Asta lead the way out. Since the wood holding the hasp was perished, he put a stone on the ground against the door to keep it shut. Asta jumped up to his shoulder again and looked all around.

“It led us here,” she said as they went back up the path towards the road.

“Of course it did.”

“I mean, it was blatant.”

“Rude to ignore it,” he said.

Rucksack on his back, small suitcase in hand, he set off towards the city, with Asta padding tirelessly ahead.

The Magisterial Congress was holding its final plenary session. The discussions had been rigorous and exhaustive, but a spirit of unity and concord prevailed, and the election of members to the new representative council had proceeded smoothly and effectively. It was almost a miracle, as more than one delegate remarked to another, how everything had gone so well, without a whisper of rancor or jealousy or suspicion. It was as if the Holy Spirit had possessed the entire gathering. The Prefect of the Secretariat of the Holy Presence, whose efficient staff had organized everything, was widely praised.

The name of the first President of the High Council, as it was going to be called, had taken everyone by surprise. A series of votes had been carried out under conditions of the strictest security, and the winner was announced with great solemnity to be St. Simeon Papadakis, the Patriarch of the Sublime Porte.

It was a surprise, because the Patriarch was so…old. But immensely holy, as everyone agreed; a very spiritual man, he seemed to be illumined by a divine light; photograms, once carefully printed, confirmed the fact. There could be no better representative of the sanctity of the entire Magisterium than this modest and kindly man, so wise, so learned, so…spiritual.

The news of his election was announced at a press conference, and subsequently much discussed at, among other places, the Café Cosmopolitain. Malcolm knew from earlier visits that it was the first place to go for political and diplomatic gossip. When he arrived, he found the place crowded with visitors, clerics, foreign correspondents, embassy officials, academics, and delegates to the congress, with their entourages. Some were waiting for a train; some were continuing agreeable expense-account conversations that had begun over lunch with representatives of the press, or news agencies, or possibly even spies. The congress would have profound and lasting effects on international relations, certainly including the balance of power in Europe. Naturally the world wanted to know all about it.

Malcolm had been a journalist several times, on previous missions, and he played the part well. As he looked around the Cosmopolitain, there was nothing to distinguish him from a dozen others, and before long he saw the person he was looking for, in conversation with a man and a woman whose faces he recognized: they were literary journalists from Paris.

Malcolm made for their table and stopped, pretending to be surprised. “It’s Professor Talbot, isn’t it?” he said.

Simon Talbot looked up. There was a slight risk that he’d recognize Malcolm, who was, after all, a Scholar of his own university; but Malcolm was ready to take that chance, and in any case, he knew that he had done, said, or published nothing that was likely to catch Talbot’s attention.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Talbot, agreeably. “I’m afraid I don’t know you, sir.”

“Matthew Peterson,
Baltimore Observer,
” Malcolm said. “I don’t want to interrupt you, but…”

“I think we had finished,” said the Frenchman. His colleague nodded and closed her notebook. Talbot leant across to shake hands with them both, smiling warmly, and gave them each one of his cards.

“May I?” said Malcolm, indicating a vacant chair.

“By all means,” said Talbot. “I don’t know your journal, Mr. Peterson. The
Baltimore
…?”

“
Observer.
It’s a monthly specializing in literary and cultural matters. We have a circulation of eighty thousand or so, mostly across the Atlantic. I’m the European correspondent. I was wondering how you regarded the outcome of the congress, Professor.”

“Intriguing,” said Talbot, with another ready smile. He was a slim, dapper man of forty or so, with eyes that could seemingly twinkle at will. His voice was light and musical, and Malcolm could see how he would shine in a lecture room. His dæmon was a blue macaw. He went on: “I daresay many people will be surprised to hear about the elevation of the Patriarch to this new position, to this, ah, ultimate authority, but having spoken to him, I can testify to the simple goodness he embodies. It was a wise decision, I think, to entrust the leadership of the Magisterium to a saint rather than to a functionary.”

“A saint? I’ve seen him referred to as St. Simeon. Is that a courtesy title?”

“The Patriarch of the Sublime Porte holds the title of saint ex officio.”

“And the President of the new council will really be the first leader of the entire Church since Calvin renounced the papacy?”

“Undoubtedly. That’s why the council was created.”

Malcolm was making “shorthand notes” as Talbot spoke. In fact, he was writing random words in the Tajik alphabet.

Talbot lifted his empty glass and put it down again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. “May I buy you a drink?”

“Kirsch, thank you.”

Malcolm waved at a waiter and said, “Do you think a single leader is the best form of government for the Magisterium to adopt?”

“In the flux of history, every kind of leadership emerges and then vanishes again. I wouldn’t presume to say that one was better than another. Those terms are the currency of journalism, shall we say, rather than scholarship.” His smile became especially charming. A scowling waiter took Malcolm’s order, and Talbot lit a cheroot.

“I’ve been reading
The Constant Deceiver,
” said Malcolm. “It’s had a big success. Were you expecting a response like that?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Far from it. But I think perhaps it struck a note that resounded, among younger people especially.”

“Your exposition of universal skepticism is very powerful. Is that the reason for its success, d’you think?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to say.”

“I’m intrigued, you see, to find someone so closely associated with that position praising someone for his simple goodness.”

“But the Patriarch
is
good. You have only to meet him.”

“Shouldn’t there be some sort of caveat?”

The waiter brought their drinks. Talbot leant back comfortably and puffed at his cheroot. “Caveat?” he said.

“For example, you might say that he’s a transparently good man, but goodness itself is a problematic idea.”

A loudspeaker crackled into life and announced in three languages that the Paris train would be leaving in fifteen minutes. A number of people finished their drinks, stood up, put on their coats, and looked around for their luggage. Talbot sipped his kirsch and looked at Malcolm as if he were a promising pupil.

“I think my readers are capable of detecting irony,” he said. “Besides, the article I shall write for the
Journal of Moral Philosophy
will be couched in rather more nuanced terms than I might use if I were writing for the
Baltimore Observer,
shall we say.”

The twinkle that accompanied that shaft of would-be scholarly wit suddenly reduced it to mere vulgarity. Malcolm was interested to see that Talbot didn’t realize it.

“What did you think of the quality of debate at the congress?” he said.

“Very much what one might expect. Most of the delegates were men of the cloth, and their preoccupations were naturally clerical—matters of ecclesiastical law, liturgy, that sort of thing. Though there were one or two speakers who impressed me with their breadth of vision. Dr. Alberto Tiramani, for example, who, I think, is the head of one of the bodies represented at the congress. Certainly a subtle intellect. Something not often combined, as I’m sure you’ll have noticed, with a striking clarity of utterance.”

Malcolm wrote busily for a moment or two. “I read an article recently,” he said when he’d finished, “which made an interesting comparison between your remarks about veracity and the arbitrary nature of language, on the one hand, and the swearing of oaths to tell the truth in courts of law, on the other.”