The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (54 page)

“There you are,” said Bud. “The name of every product they make contains the letters
T
and
P.
And Cartwright thought they were funding the terrorists? The men from the mountains?”

“He saw the initials on the trucks they came in.”

“They’re after the roses.”

“Of course they are. That explains a lot. Anita, could I see that story of yours? I’d like to read about the background.”

She shook her head. “Most of my files went up with the apartment,” she said. “All that work.”

“Could that have been the reason for bombing the place?”

She looked at Bud. He nodded reluctantly. “One of them,” he said.

“I’m so sorry. But for now I’d better follow Lyra’s trail.”

“I told Lyra to seek out a guy in Aleppo called Mustafa Bey. He’s a merchant. He knows everyone and everything. It’s likely that she’ll go to him first if she gets there. I would. Anyway, you’ll find him at Marletto’s Café.”

Bud bought Malcolm some clothes to replace the blood-soaked ones, and a stick to help him walk, and went with him to the railway station, where he was going to take the express for Aleppo.

“What’ll you do with the safe house?” Malcolm asked.

“The police are there already. Someone reported the sound of the shots. We got out just in time, but we won’t be able to use it again. It’ll all be in my report to Oakley Street.”

“Thanks, Bud. I owe you a lot.”

“Say hello to Lyra, if…”

“I’ll do that.”

As the train left, Malcolm settled himself painfully in the air-conditioned comfort and took out the battered copy of
Jahan and Rukhsana
from Hassall’s rucksack, in an attempt to take his mind off the pain in his hip.

The poem told the story of two lovers and their attempts to defeat Rukhsana’s uncle, the sorcerer Kourash, and gain possession of a garden where precious roses grew. It was highly episodic; the story had many turns and byways, and brought in every kind of fabulous creature and outlandish situation. At one point Jahan had to harness a winged horse and fly to the moon to rescue Rukhsana, who had been imprisoned by the Queen of the Night, and at another Rukhsana used a forbidden amulet to overcome the threats of the fire fiend Razvani, and further elaborations followed each adventure, like little vortices of consequence spinning away from the main flow. In Malcolm’s view the story was almost insufferable, but the whole thing was redeemed by the poet’s rapturous descriptions of the rose garden itself, and the physical world as a whole, and of the pleasures of the senses that were enjoyed by those who reached it in a state of knowledge.

“Either it means something,” Malcolm said to Asta, “or it means nothing.”

“My bet is on something,” she said.

They were alone in the compartment. The train was due to stop in an hour’s time.

“Why?” he said.

“Because Hassall wouldn’t have burdened himself with it unless it meant something.”

“Maybe it only meant something close and personal to him, and there’s no other significance.”

“But we need to know about him. It’s important to know why he valued that poem.”

“Maybe it’s not the poem so much as this particular book. This edition. Even this copy.”

“As a code book…”

“Something like that.”

If two people each had a copy of the same book, they could send messages to each other by looking for the word they wanted and writing the page number, the line number, and the number of the word in the line, and if the book was unknown to anyone else, the code was practically unbreakable.

Alternatively, the particular copy could itself carry a message if the letters or words wanted were indicated in some way, by a pencil dot or something similar. The trouble with that method was that the message was equally readable by the enemy, if it fell into their hands. It was hardly secret at all. Malcolm had spent some time looking for such marks, and several times had thought he’d found some, only to conclude that they were flaws in the cheap coarse paper rather than anything intended.

“Delamare is Lyra’s uncle,” said Asta.

“So what?”

Sometimes he could be very slow. “Kourash is Rukhsana’s uncle. He’s trying to capture a rose garden.”

“Oh! I see. But who’s Jahan?”

“Oh, really, Mal.”

“They’re lovers.”

“It’s the essence of the situation that matters.”

“It’s a coincidence.”

“Well,” she said, “if you say so. But you were looking for a reason to find this book important.”

“No. I already think it’s important. I was looking for a good reason why. An accidental coincidence or two is just not convincing.”

“On its own. But when there are lots of them…”

“You’re playing devil’s advocate.”

“There’s a good reason for the devil’s advocate. You have to be skeptical.”

“I thought you were being credulous.”

They were fencing. They often did, with him arguing X and her arguing Y, and then in a flash they’d change sides and argue the opposite, and eventually something would emerge that made sense to them both.

“That place she’s looking for,” Asta said, “that dead town: Why d’you think dæmons live there? Is there somewhere like that in the poem?”

“Damn it, actually there is. Rukhsana’s shadow is stolen, and she has to get it back from the land of the zarghuls.”

“Who are they?”

“Devils who eat shadows.”

“Does she get it back?”

“Yes, but not without sacrificing something else…”

They sat in silence for a while.

“And I suppose…,” he began.

“What?”

“There’s a passage in which Rukhsana is captured by the enchantress Shahzada, the Queen of the Night, and Jahan rescues her….”

“Go on.”

“The thing is that he tricks her by tying her silk sash in a clever knot that she can’t undo, and while she’s trying to do that, he and Rukhsana escape.”

He waited. Then she said, “Oh! The fairy of the Thames and the box she couldn’t open!”

“Diania. Yes, the same kind of thing.”

“Mal, this is…”

“Very similar. I can’t deny that.”

“But what does it
mean,
for things like that to turn up? It might be just a matter of temperament whether you find it meaningful.”

“That would make it meaningless,” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t it be true whether you believe in it or not?”

“Maybe refusing to see is the mistake. Maybe we should make a commitment. Decide. What happens at the end of the poem?”

“They find the garden and defeat the sorcerer and get married.”

“And live happily ever after…Mal, what are we going to do? Believe it, or not? Does it mean what it seems to mean? And what does
mean
mean anyway?”

“Well, that’s easier,” he said. “The meaning of something is its connection to something else. To us, in particular.”

The train was slowing down as it moved through the outskirts of a town on the coast.

“It wasn’t going to stop here, was it?” said Asta.

“No. It might just be slowing down because they’re working on the next track or something.”

But it wasn’t that. The train slowed down even further, and entered the station at a crawl. In the fading afternoon light Malcolm and Asta could see a dozen or so men and women gathered around a platform from which someone had been giving a speech, or perhaps saying a ceremonial farewell. A man in a dark suit and a wing-collared shirt was stepping down, hands were being shaken, embraces bestowed. Clearly he was someone important enough for the railway company to change their schedules for. A porter in the background picked up two suitcases and came to put them on the train.

Malcolm tried to move, because his leg was stiffening, but the pain was relentless. He couldn’t even stand up.

“Lie down,” said Asta.

The train began to move once more, and Malcolm felt a great resignation settle over him like falling snow. The strength was draining out of him minute by minute. Maybe he’d never move again. His body was failing, and the sensation drew him back twenty years to that dreadful mausoleum in the flood where he’d had to go to the very edge of his strength to save Alice from Gerard Bonneville….Alice would know what to do now. He whispered her name, and Asta heard and tried to respond, but she was dazed with pain as well, and when he fainted, so did she. The ticket inspector found her unconscious on his breast. A pool of blood was gathering on the floor.

Alice Lonsdale was sorting some linen, putting aside those sheets and pillowcases that could be mended, and tearing up for dusters and cleaning rags those beyond help, when Mr. Cawson the Steward opened the door and came in.

“Alice,” he said, “the Master wants to see you.” He looked serious, but then he never looked lighthearted.

“What’s he want me for?” said Alice.

“He’s seeing all of us. Collections for servants, I expect.”

Collections
was the term for an annual meeting between student and tutor at which the student’s progress was assessed.

“Has he seen you yet?” said Alice, hanging up her apron.

“Not yet. You heard anything from young Lyra?”

“No, and I’m worried sick, I don’t mind saying.”

“She seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. The Master’s in the Bursar’s office, because they’re redecorating his.”

Alice had no particular anxiety about seeing the Master, though she had never cared for him, and since hearing how he’d treated Lyra, she detested him thoroughly. She knew she did her job well, and had enlarged the duties she’d originally been engaged to carry out to such an extent that in the Bursar’s view, and in the Steward’s, and certainly in that of the old Master too, she was essential to the smooth running of the college. In fact, two or three other colleges had taken the revolutionary step of appointing housekeepers of their own, in imitation, thus breaking a centuries-old Oxford habit of employing only male senior servants.

So she was confident that whatever Dr. Hammond wanted to see her about, it wouldn’t be dissatisfaction with her work. In any case, that would have been a matter for the Domestic Bursar, not the Master. Curious.

She knocked on the door of the Bursar’s secretary, Janet, and went in. Janet’s dæmon, a squirrel, immediately scampered across to greet Ben, Alice’s dæmon, and Alice felt a little shiver of apprehension, without knowing why. Janet, a slight, pretty woman in her thirties, was looking anxious, and kept glancing at the Bursar’s office door. She put her finger to her lips.

Alice came closer. “What’s going on?” she said quietly.

Janet whispered, “He’s got a couple of men with him from the CCD. He hasn’t said they are, but you can tell.”

“Who else has he seen?”

“No one.”

“I thought he was seeing all the servants.”

“No, that’s what he told me to tell Mr. Cawson. Alice, do be—”

The office door opened. The Master stood there himself, with a bland smile of welcome.

“Mrs. Lonsdale,” he said. “Thank you so much for coming. Janet, could we have some coffee?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, more startled than Alice, more nervous.

“Do come in,” said Dr. Hammond. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work, but I thought we might have a chat.”

Alice went in as he held the door. There were two men in there with him, as Janet had said, both seated. Neither of them stood up, or smiled, or offered to shake hands. Alice could project a beam (that was how she thought of it) of intense coldness when she wanted to, and she did then. The men didn’t move or change their expressions, but she knew the beam had reached its target.

She sat down in the third chair in front of the desk, between the two strangers. Alice was slim, she could move with great elegance, she was not beautiful—she would never be that, nor pretty, nor conventionally attractive—but she could embody an intense sexuality. Malcolm knew that. She let it show now, just to disconcert them. The Master went behind his desk and sat down, making a meaningless remark about the weather. Still Alice hadn’t said a word.

“Mrs. Lonsdale,” Hammond said, having settled himself, “these two gentlemen are from a government agency concerned with matters of security. They have a few questions to ask, and I thought it would be better all round for the college if it happened quietly here in my presence. I hope everything is well with you?”

“Mr. Cawson told me you were seeing all the servants. He said it was just an internal matter. Domestic. He obviously didn’t know about these two policemen.”

“Not policemen, Mrs. Lonsdale. Civil servants, perhaps? And as I say, I thought it best to maintain a certain discretion.”

“In case I wouldn’t come if I heard they were here?”

“Oh, I’m sure you know where your duty lies, Mrs. Lonsdale. Mr. Manton, would you like to begin?”

The older of the two men was sitting on Alice’s left. She looked at him just once, and saw a blandly good-looking face, a neat gray suit and a striped tie, and the body of a man too interested in weight lifting. His dæmon was a wolf.

“Mrs. Lonsdale,” he said. “My name is Captain Manton. I—”

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Captain isn’t a name; it’s a rank. Captain in what, anyway? You look like a secret policeman. Is that what you are?”

As she spoke to him, she looked directly at the Master. He returned her gaze with no expression at all.

“We don’t have secret police in this country, Mrs. Lonsdale,” the man replied. “Captain is my rank, as you observe. I’m an officer in the regular army, seconded for security duties. My colleague here is Sergeant Topham. We’re interested in a young woman you know. Lyra Belacqua.”

“Belacqua’s not her name.”

“I believe she goes by the nickname Silvertongue. But legally that is not her name. Where is she, Mrs. Lonsdale?”

“Fuck off,” said Alice calmly. Her eyes were still on the Master’s face, and his expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. However, a delicate pink was beginning to show in his cheeks.

“That attitude isn’t going to help you,” said Manton. “At this moment in time, in this informal setting, it’s just bad manners. But I should warn you—”

The door opened, and Janet came in with a tray.

“Thank you, Janet,” the Master said. “Just leave it on the desk, if you would.”

Janet couldn’t help looking at Alice, whose gaze was still fixed on the Master.

Alice said to the agent, “Yes? You were going to warn me about something?”

A tiny frown appeared on Hammond’s forehead, and he glanced at Janet. “Just leave the tray,” he said.

“I’m still waiting,” said Alice. “Someone was going to warn me about something.”

Janet put the tray down. Her hands were shaking. She crossed to the door, almost tiptoeing, and went out. Hammond sat forward and began to pour the coffee.

“That really wasn’t very wise, Mrs. Lonsdale,” said Manton.

“I thought it was quite clever.”

“You’re putting your friend in danger.”

“I don’t know how you work that out. Am
I
in danger?”

The Master passed one cup to Manton, another to his colleague. “I think it would really help, Mrs. Lonsdale,” he said, “if you simply answered the questions.”

“Alice? May I call you Alice?” said Manton.

“No.”

“Very well. Mrs. Lonsdale. We’re concerned about the well-being of the young woman—young lady—who used to be in your care at Jordan College. Lyra Belacqua.”

He said the name firmly. Alice said nothing. Hammond was now watching, narrow-eyed.

“Where is she?” said the other man, Topham. It was the first time he’d spoken.

“I don’t know,” said Alice.

“Are you in contact with her?”

“No.”

“Did you know where she was going when she left?”

“No.”

“When did you last see her?”

“A month, maybe. I don’t know. You’re from the CCD, aren’t you?”

“That’s neither here nor—”

“I bet you are. I ask that because some of your thugs came here, came to this college, to her room, the last day I saw her. Got themselves let into a place that ought to have been safe. Made a right mess of it. So you’ll have a record of that date. That’s when I last knew where she was. As far as I know, you might have taken her yourselves since then. She might be locked up in one of your filthy dungeons right now. Have you looked?”

She was still staring at Hammond. The pink had left his cheeks, which were now becoming pale.

“I believe you know more than you’re telling us, Mrs. Lonsdale,” said Manton.

“Oh, is that what you believe? And is it true because you believe it?”

“I think you know more than—”

“You answer my question, and I might answer yours.”

“I’m not playing a game, Mrs. Lonsdale. I have the authority to ask questions, and if you don’t answer them, I’ll arrest you.”

“I thought a place like Jordan College was safe from this sort of bullying interference. Was I wrong, Dr. Hammond?”

“There used to be a concept known as scholastic sanctuary,” said the Master, “but that’s long out of date. In any case, it only offered protection to Scholars. College servants have to answer questions here, just as they do outside. I really advise you to answer, Mrs. Lonsdale.”

“Why?”

“Cooperate with these gentlemen, and the college will make sure you have legal representation. But if you adopt an attitude of truculent hostility, there’s little I can do to help.”

“Truculent hostility,” she said. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’ll ask you again, Mrs. Lonsdale,” said Manton. “Where is Lyra Belacqua?”

“I don’t know where she is. She’s traveling.”

“Where is she going?”

“Dunno. She never told me.”

“Well, you see, that’s one thing I don’t believe. You’re very close to that young woman. Known her all her life, so I understand. I don’t believe she’d just take off on a whim and never tell you where she was going.”

“On a whim? She left because your thugs were chasing her. She was afraid, and I don’t blame her. There used to be a time when there was justice in this country. I don’t know if you remember it, Dr. Hammond. Maybe you were somewhere else. But in my lifetime it used to be that you had to have cause to arrest someone, and—what did you call it?—
truculent hostility
wasn’t cause enough.”

“But that’s not what the problem is,” said Manton. “You can be as truculent as you like; it makes no difference to me. I’m not interested. If I arrest you, it won’t be because of your emotional attitude but because you refuse to answer a question. I’ll ask you again—”

“I’ve answered it. I’ve told you I don’t know where she is.”

“And I don’t believe you. I think you do, and I’m going to make damn sure you tell me.”

“And how are you going to make damn sure? You going to lock me up? Torture me? What?”

Manton laughed. Topham said, “I don’t know what lurid stories you’ve been reading, but we don’t torture people in this country.”

“Is that true?” Alice asked Hammond.

“Of course. Torture is forbidden under English law.”

Before any of them could react, Alice stood up and went swiftly to the door. Her dæmon, Ben, usually self-contained and even languid, was quite capable of ferocity, and he snarled and snapped at the dæmons of the two CCD men to keep them back while Alice opened the door and went out into Janet’s office.

Janet looked up from her desk in alarm. The Bursar, Mr. Stringer, had arrived and was standing beside her, sorting through some letters. Alice had time to say, “Janet—Mr. Stringer—witnesses—” before Topham caught hold of her left arm.

Janet said, “Alice! What—”

The Bursar stared in astonishment, and his dæmon fluttered from one shoulder to the other. A moment later, Alice swung her right hand round and slapped Topham’s face hard. Janet gasped. Ben and the other two dæmons were snarling, biting, grappling, and Topham kept a tight grip on Alice’s arm, and then spun her round and slammed the arm up behind her back.

“Tell people!” Alice cried. “Tell the whole college. Tell people outside! I’m being arrested for—”

“That’s enough,” said Manton, who had come to join Topham, and who now took hold of Alice’s other arm, in spite of her struggles.

“This is what happens now in this college,” Alice said, “under that man. This is what he allows. This is the way he likes to—”

Manton shouted to drown her voice. “Alice Lonsdale, I’m arresting you for obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty—”

“They’re trying to find Lyra!” Alice shouted. “That’s who they really want! Tell everyone—”

She felt her arms pulled backwards and tried to go with it, but then the click of a lock and a hard metal edge digging into her wrists told her she was pinioned. She fell still. No point in fighting handcuffs.

“Dr. Hammond, I must protest—” the Bursar began, as the Master came out of the inner office.

Topham had slipped a chain around Ben’s neck, attached to a long, stout stick wrapped in leather. It was humiliating for the dæmon, and he fought furiously, snarling and tearing and snapping. Topham was good at this, trained, practiced, and ruthless. Ben had to submit. Alice knew, though, that Topham would have a hard time when he tried to take the chain off.

Hammond said to the Bursar, “Raymond, this is a sad and quite unnecessary business. I do beg your pardon. I was quite clearly wrong to think we could deal with it tactfully.”

“But why is it necessary to use this degree of force? I’m absolutely appalled, Master. Mrs. Lonsdale is a college servant of long standing.”

“These men en’t ordinary police, Mr. Stringer,” Alice said. “They’re—”