The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (24 page)

Marcel Delamare sat through every word, patient, attentive, and inscrutable. His owl dæmon did close her eyes once or twice, but only to ponder, not to sleep.

They broke at seven for a service of Vespers, followed by dinner. There was no formal seating arrangement; groups of allies seated themselves together, while those with no acquaintance among the other delegates, or those who realized the small influence their own organization could wield, sat wherever they could find space. Delamare watched it all, observing, counting, calculating, but at the same time greeting, exchanging a word here or a joke there, being prompted by a murmur from his dæmon when it would be wise to lay a friendly hand on a shoulder or a forearm, and when a silent twinkle of complicity would be more effective. He paid particular though unobtrusive attention to the representatives of the large corporations who were sponsoring (in the most ethically conscious and, again, unobtrusive way) some aspects of the arrangements: medical insurance, that sort of thing.

When he sat down to eat, it was between two of the least powerful and most timid delegates there, the aged Patriarch of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople and the Abbess of the Order of St. Julian, a tiny body of nuns who by a historical fluke had come to manage a large fortune in stocks and shares and government bonds.

“What did you make of the arguments today, Monsieur Delamare?” said the Abbess.

“All very well put, I thought,” he said. “Cogent, honest, from the heart.”

“And where does your organization stand on the matter?” said the Patriarch Papadakis: St. Simeon, by courtesy.

“We stand with the majority.”

“And which way will the majority vote, do you think?”

“They will vote with me, I hope.”

He could assume a pleasant tone when he needed to, and the gentle jocularity of his expression made it clear to his neighbors that this was a jest. They smiled politely.

The candlelight on the long oak tables, the aroma of roast venison, the chink of cutlery on fine porcelain plates, the heady glow of the crimson wine and the golden wine, the unobtrusive swift skill of the servants—it was all very pleasing. Even the Abbess, who lived frugally, found herself approving of these arrangements.

“The Secretariat of the Holy Presence is certainly looking after us very well,” she said.

“You can always rely on—”

“Delamare, there you are,” said a loud voice, emphasized by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Delamare knew who it was before he turned to look. Only one man interrupted so readily and so rudely.

“Pierre,” Delamare said blandly. “Can I help?”

“We haven't been told about the arrangements for the final plenary session,” said Pierre Binaud, the Chief Justice of the CCD. “Why's that been left off the schedule?”

“It hasn't. Ask someone from the Office of Ceremonial and they'll explain.”

“Hmm,” said Binaud, and he left, frowning.

“I do beg your pardon,” Delamare said to the Abbess. “Yes, the Secretariat: we can always rely on Monsieur Houdebert, the Prefect. He has a perfect knowledge of how to make events like these move with unruffled serenity.”

“But tell me, monsieur,” said the Patriarch, “what do you make of the recent troubles we've been having in the Levant?”

“I think you're very wise to use the word
troubles,
” said Delamare, filling the old man's water glass. “More than anxieties but less than alarms, hmm?”

“Well, from the viewpoint of Geneva, perhaps…”

“No, I don't mean to downplay their importance, Your Serenity. They are indeed troubling. But it's just this sort of trouble that makes it important for us to speak with one voice, and act with one purpose.”

“That's what has been so difficult to achieve,” said the Patriarch. “For us in our eastern churches, to feel that we have the authority of the entire Magisterium behind us would certainly be a blessing. Things are getting harder, you know, monsieur. There is more discontent than I have ever known among our people, in their cities and markets and villages. A new doctrine seems to be arising that holds a great attraction for them. We try to confront it, but…” He spread his old hands helplessly.

“That is precisely what the new representative council will be perfectly placed to deal with,” said Delamare with warm sincerity. “Believe me, the effectiveness of the Magisterium will be greatly magnified. Our truth, of course, is eternal and unchangeable, but our methods have been hampered over the centuries by the need to consult, to advise, to listen, to placate….It is
action
that your situation cries out for. And the new council will deliver that.”

The Patriarch looked solemn and nodded. Delamare turned to the Abbess.

“Mother, what is the feeling among your sisters about your place in the hierarchy?” he said. “May I help you to some more wine?”

“How kind. Thank you. Well, we don't have views, really, Monsieur Delamare. It's not our place to have opinions. We are here to serve.”

“And very faithfully you do it. But you know, ma'am, I didn't say ‘views.' I said ‘feeling.' You can argue someone out of their views, but feelings go much deeper and speak more truly.”

“Oh, that is certainly true, monsieur. Our place in the hierarchy? Well, I suppose our
feeling
about that would be one of modesty. And—and gratitude. Humility. We don't presume to feel discontented with our lot.”

“Quite right. I hoped you'd say that. No—I
knew
you'd say it. A really good woman would say nothing else. Now”—he dropped his voice a little and leant towards her—“suppose a representative council were to emerge from this congress. Would it please your holy sisters if their abbess were to have a seat on that council?”

The good lady was speechless. She opened her mouth twice and closed it again; she blinked; she blushed; she shook her head, and then stopped, and almost nodded.

“You see,” Delamare went on, “there's a particular kind of holiness that I think is underrepresented in the Magisterium. It's the kind that serves, as your holy sisters do. But serves with a true modesty and not a false one. A false modesty would be ostentatious, don't you think? It would seek to turn away emphatically from public distinctions and offices while privately lobbying to get them. And then allow itself to be dragged into them, protesting volubly about its unworthiness. I'm sure you've seen that cast of mind. But true modesty would accept that there is a place that one could fill, that one's talents are not illusions, that it would be wrong to turn away from a task if one could do it well. Don't you think?”

The Abbess was looking warm. She sipped her wine and coughed as she swallowed too much at once. Delamare tactfully looked away till she recovered.

“Monsieur, you speak very generously,” she said in what was nearly a whisper.

“Not generous, Mother. Merely
juste.
”

Her dæmon was a mouse with pretty silver fur. He had been hiding on her shoulder, out of sight of Delamare's owl dæmon, who, sensing their nervousness, had not looked at him once. But now he appeared, just a face and whiskers, and the owl slowly turned and bowed her head to him. The mouse just gazed with bright button eyes but didn't retreat. Presently he crept around onto the Abbess's other shoulder and made a little bow to Delamare's dæmon.

Delamare was talking to the Patriarch again, reassuring, flattering, explaining, sympathizing, and inwardly reckoning: two more votes.

As the first day of the Magisterial conference drew to an end, some of the delegates withdrew to their rooms to read, or to write letters, or to pray, or just to sleep. Others gathered in groups to talk over the day's events; some with old friends, some with new acquaintances who seemed to be agreeable, or of like opinions, or better informed about the politics that lay behind the gathering.

One such group sat with glasses of brantwijn near the great fireplace in the Salon des Étrangers. The chairs were comfortable, the spirits unusually smooth, the room skillfully lit so that chairs were grouped in pools of illumination, with dimmer areas between, isolating each group in a way that reinforced its identity and made it comfortable to be in. As well as money, the Secretariat of the Holy Presence had gifted and experienced designers.

The group by the fire had assembled almost by accident, but they soon found themselves in a state of warm agreement, almost complicity, in fact. They were discussing the personalities who had made the most impact during the day. The Prefect of the Secretariat, naturally, as their host, was one of these.

“A man of calm authority, he seems to me,” said the Dean of the Court of Faculties.

“And much experience of the world. Do you know how much property the Secretariat owns?” said the Preceptor of the Temple Hospitalers.

“No. Is it a great deal?”

“I understand they command funds reaching into the tens of billions. Much due to his skill in the world of banking.”

Murmurs of admiration went around the little group.

“Someone else who made an impression, I think,” said the Chaplain of the Synod of Deacons, “perhaps in a different way, was Saint, Saint…the Patriarch of the…of the…of Constantinople. A very holy man.”

“Indeed,” said the Dean. “St. Simeon. We are lucky to have him among us.”

“He's led his organization for fifty years, no less,” said a man none of the others recognized. He was a dapper Englishman, wearing a faultlessly cut tweed suit and a bow tie. “With increasing wisdom, no doubt, but perhaps in recent years a little lessening of strength. Moral authority undiminished, of course.”

Nods of assent. The Dean said, “Very true. I'm afraid I don't recognize you, sir. Which body do you represent?”

“Oh, I'm not a delegate,” said the Englishman. “I'm reporting on the congress for the
Journal of Moral Philosophy.
My name is Simon Talbot.”

“I think I've read something of yours,” said the Chaplain. “A very witty piece about, er…about, umm…about relativism.”

“How very kind,” said Talbot.

“It's the younger men who hold the future,” said a man in a dark suit, who was an executive of Thuringia Potash, one of the corporate sponsors, a powerful pharmaceutical company. “Such as the Secretary General of
La Maison Juste.
”

“Marcel Delamare.”

“That's it. An extraordinarily able man.”

“Yes, Monsieur Delamare is a remarkable man. He seems very keen to promote this idea of a council,” said the Preceptor.

“Well, frankly, so are we,” said the Thuringia Potash executive. “And I think it would do well to include your Monsieur Delamare in its ranks.”

“A clarity of mind, a vigor of perception,” murmured Simon Talbot.

All in all, Marcel Delamare could be pleased with his day's work.

The Café Cosmopolitain, opposite the railway station in Geneva, was a long, rectangular, low-ceilinged room, badly lit, not very clean, the only decoration on the smoke-brown walls being placards of chipped enamel or faded paper advertising aperitifs or spirits. There was a zinc-topped bar along one side and staff apparently chosen for their freedom from the constraints of courtesy and competence. If you wanted to get drunk, it would do as well as anywhere else; if you wanted an evening of civility and fine cuisine, you were in the wrong place.

But it had one great advantage. As a center for the exchange of information, it was unmatched. The presence within a few hundred meters of a news agency, not to mention several government bodies as well as the cathedral, and of course the railway, meant that journalists or spies or members of the detective police could practice their various trades at the Cosmopolitain with great ease and convenience. And with the Magisterial Congress now under way, the place was crowded.

Olivier Bonneville sat at the bar and ordered a dark beer. His hawk dæmon murmured into his ear, “Who are we looking for?”

“Matthias Sylberberg. Apparently he knew Delamare at school.”

“Surely a man like that wouldn't come to a place like this?”

“No, but the people he works with would.” Bonneville sipped his beer and looked around.

“Isn't the man over there a colleague of Sylberberg's?” said his dæmon. “The fat man with the gray mustache who's just come in.”

The man was hanging his hat and coat on a hat stand near the mirror, and turning to greet the two men at a table beside it.

“Where did we see him before?” said Bonneville.

“At the opening of the Rovelli show at Tennier's gallery.”

“So we did!”

Bonneville turned away from the bar and sat with his elbows on it behind him, watching the bald man sit with the two others. The newcomer snapped his fingers at one of the surliest waiters, who nodded briefly at his order and swept away.

“Who are the other two?” Bonneville murmured.

“I don't remember seeing either of them. Unless the one with his back to us is Pochinsky.”

“Pochinsky, the art man?”

“The critic, yes.”

“I suppose he could be….Yes, you're right.”

The man's face became visible briefly in the mirror as he turned to move his chair.

“And the fat man is called Rattin.”

“Well remembered!”

“It's a pretty tenuous connection.”

“The best we have at the moment.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Introduce ourselves, of course.”

Bonneville finished the beer, put his glass on the bar, and set off confidently across the crowded room just as the surly waiter was approaching the men's table. He contrived to trip as someone moved a chair unexpectedly, and lurched against the waiter, who would have dropped the tray had Bonneville not caught it adroitly.

Exclamations of surprise and admiration from the three men—a snarl from the waiter—a flurry of arm waving and shoulder shrugging from the man who had apparently set it all off by moving his chair.