The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2) (40 page)

“You know
Jahan and Rukhsana
?” said Karimov, clearly surprised.

“I have read it, yes. Naturally I took it to be a fable. Are you saying that such a thing as the Simurgh exists?”

“There are many forms of existence, monsieur. I would not say that it was this one or that one, or any other. Possibly one we know nothing about.”

“I see. And you said nothing about this to Delamare?”

“That is correct. It is my belief, based on what I observed during my interview with him, that he knows a great deal about the men from the mountains, and he did not wish me to know that he did. It makes me afraid that he will have me arrested and imprisoned, or worse, and that is why he was keeping me trapped in this city. When I learnt about your situation, monsieur, I felt it was my duty to tell you what I knew.”

“I’m very glad you did.”

“May I ask in turn what Monsieur Delamare wants with you?”

“He believes I am his enemy.”

“And is he correct?”

“Yes. In the matter of Tashbulak and the rose oil, especially. I think he wants to use it for some evil purpose, and if I can stop him, I will. But first I need to know more about it. You found someone who was trading in it, for example. Is there much trade in this oil?”

“Not very much. It is extremely expensive. It was used somewhat in the old days, when people believed in shamans who could enter the spirit world. But now not so many believe that.”

“Is it used for anything else? Do people take it for pleasure, for example?”

“There is not much pleasure to be had, Monsieur Polstead. The pain is extreme, and the visual effects are more easily obtained with other drugs. I think there are some doctors who use it to relieve various chronic conditions, both physical and mental, but it is so expensive that only the very rich can afford it. It was only the learned investigators at Tashbulak who had any interest in it, and much of their work was secret.”

“Have you ever visited the station at Tashbulak?”

“No, monsieur.”

Malcolm rowed on. The silence over the lake was profound, the air stifling, almost as if all the oxygen had been withdrawn.

After some time Karimov said, “Where are we going?”

“You see that castle?” Malcolm said, pointing to a crag on the shore not far ahead of them. At the summit stood a building whose massive towers bulked against the skyline only dimly, because there was no light from moon or stars.

“I think so,” said Karimov.

“That marks the border with France. Once we’re past that, we should be safe, because Geneva has no jurisdiction there. But—”

Between the
b
and the
t
of that word, the entire sky came alight, and then fell dark again. Then came another flash, even brighter, and this time Malcolm and Karimov saw the forked and many-branched lightning stab its way to the ground at the same moment as they felt the first drops of rain, heavy gouts that slammed hard into their faces. Only after both men had turned their collars up and pulled their hats on more tightly did the thunder arrive, with a deafening crack that seemed to split their heads open. It rolled around the lake, rebounding from the mountains and making Malcolm’s head ring with its force.

Already a wind was rising. It stirred the water up into waves, and then flung them into spray that lashed Malcolm’s face even more fiercely than the rain. He’d done some lake sailing in the past, and he knew how suddenly storms could arrive, but this was exceptional. There was no point in trying to get past the castle on the headland: he hauled the boat to starboard and rowed as hard as he could for the nearest shore, seeing his way by flashes of lightning as the huge whips of incandescence lashed the ground and threw a garish light over the mountains. The thunder followed close behind it now, loud enough to shake the little boat, or so they felt. Asta had crawled inside Malcolm’s greatcoat and was lying there, warm and relaxed, with a perfect confidence that transmitted itself to him, which he knew was her intention, and he blessed her for it.

The little
Mignonne
was bobbing this way and that in the chaos, and shipping water fast. Karimov was using his fur hat to scoop out as much as he could. Malcolm hurled all the strength of his arms and his back into the labor, digging the oars deep into the water and straining every muscle to keep the boat from being tossed or blown further back on the lake.

When he looked over his shoulder, he could see little but darkness and deeper darkness, but the deeper darkness was looming high above them now. It was forest, growing right down to the shore. He could hear the wind in the pines, even behind the deafening drumming of the rain and the monstrous crashing explosions of thunder.

“Not far!” Karimov shouted.

“I’ll go straight in. See if you can grab a branch.”

Malcolm felt a shock and a grinding sensation as the
Mignonne
’s wooden hull met a rock. There was no avoiding it: he could hardly see anything, and there was no sandy beach for the boat to land on gently. Rocks, and more rocks, and after one final lurch and scrape, she was immobile. Karimov was trying to stand up and find a branch to seize, but he kept losing his balance.

Malcolm held on to the gunwale and stepped over the side, thigh-deep before his feet found anything solid. The rocks were tumbled and irregular, but at least they were large and they wouldn’t roll under his weight and break an ankle.

“Where are you?” Karimov called.

“Nearly ashore. Keep still. I’ll tie us up as soon as I can.”

He felt his way towards the bow, and then found the painter. When he’d untied it in the boathouse, he’d noticed how old and worn it was, but it had been good manila cord when it was made, and it might have a little strength still. Asta climbed up onto his shoulder and said, “Up and to your right.”

He reached in that direction and found a low-hanging bough, which felt solid enough to trust, but it was too far for the painter.

“Karimov,” he called. “I’ll hold the boat steady while you get out. We’ll just have to feel our way to the bank, but we’re wet enough already. Get everything you need and go carefully.”

A lightning flash, very close, threw a sudden searchlight on them. The bank was only a yard or two beyond the bow, thick with bushes, and rising steeply out of the water. Karimov gingerly put his left leg overboard and felt around for something solid.

“I can’t reach….I can’t find any rock—”

“Hold on to the boat and put both legs down.”

Another lightning flash. Malcolm thought, What’s the drill for surviving a storm if you’re in a forest? Avoid tall trees, to begin with; but if you couldn’t see anything…The lightning had set off another of his spangled-ring episodes. The little thing twisted and scintillated in front of the lashing darkness all around, just at the moment when his hand found a branch low enough for the rope to reach.

“Here!” he shouted. “This way. Here’s the bank.”

Karimov was floundering towards him. Malcolm found his hand and gripped it tight, and pulled the older man along towards the bushes and then out of the water.

“Got everything you need?”

“I think so. What do we do?”

“Keep together and climb up away from the water. If we’re lucky, we’ll find somewhere to shelter.”

Malcolm hauled his rucksack and suitcase out of the boat and lugged them over the rocks and up into the undergrowth. It felt as if they were at the base of a steep slope, maybe even at the foot of a cliff….There might be an overhanging rock, if they were lucky.

They had only been climbing for a minute when they found something even better.

“I think—here’s a…just over this big rock…”

Malcolm shoved his suitcase ahead of him and reached down to pull Karimov up.

“What is it?” said the Tajik.

“A cave,” said Malcolm. “A dry cave! What did I tell you?”

The officers took Olivier Bonneville to the nearest police station and requisitioned the interview room. Strictly speaking, the CCD had no formal relations with the police force in Wittenberg, or anywhere else in greater Germany; but a CCD badge worked like a magic key.

“How dare you treat me like this?” Bonneville demanded, of course.

The two agents took their time settling onto the chairs on the other side of the table. Their dæmons (vixen and owl) were watching his with unpleasant vigilance.

“And what have you done with that dæmon?” Bonneville went on. “I’ve been pursuing him, on the express orders of
La Maison Juste,
all the way from England. You’d better not have lost him. If I find that—”

“State your full name,” said the agent who’d first seen him. The other man was taking notes.

“Olivier de Lusignan Bonneville. What have you done with—”

“Where are you staying in Wittenberg?”

“None of your—”

The interrogator had long arms. One of them reached out before Bonneville could move, and slapped his face hard. The hawk dæmon screamed. Bonneville hadn’t been hit since his elementary school days, having learnt very young that there were better ways than violence to make life miserable for his enemies, and he wasn’t used to shock and pain. He sat back and gasped.

“Answer the question,” said the agent.

Bonneville blinked hard. His eyes were watering. One side of his face was bright red and the other was dull white. “What question?” he managed to say.

“Where are you staying?”

“A guesthouse.”

“Address?”

Bonneville had to think hard to remember. “Friedrichstrasse seventeen,” he said. “But let me advise you—”

That long arm shot out again and seized him by the hair. Before Bonneville could resist, his head was slammed facedown on the table. His dæmon screamed again and flew up flapping wildly before tumbling down.

The agent let go. Bonneville sat up trembling, with blood streaming from a broken nose. One of the agents must have rung a bell, because the door opened and a policeman came in. The note-taking man stood up and spoke to him quietly. The policeman nodded and went out.

“You don’t advise me,” said the interrogator. “I hope that alethiometer’s not been damaged.”

“I’m not likely to damage it,” said Bonneville thickly. “I read it better than anyone else; I know everything about it; I treat it with the utmost care. If it’s damaged, it wasn’t damaged by me. It’s the property of
La Maison Juste,
and I read it on the specific instructions of the Secretary General, Monsieur Marcel Delamare.”

To his annoyance, he couldn’t keep his voice steady or stop his hands from shaking. He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face. His nose hurt abominably, and his shirtfront was drenched with blood.

“That’s curious,” said the interrogator. “Seeing as it was Monsieur Delamare himself who reported it missing and gave us your description.”

“Prove it,” said Bonneville. His disordered mind was beginning to pull itself together, and in the mist of pain and shock he could just make out the shape of a plan.

“I still don’t think you’ve got this the right way round,” the interrogator said, smiling. “I ask, and you answer. Any minute now I’m going to hit you again, just to remind you. You won’t see where that one’s coming from either. Where’s Matthew Polstead?”

Bonneville was baffled. “What? Who the hell is Matthew Polstead?”

“Don’t tempt me. The man who killed your father. Where is he?”

Bonneville felt as if his mind was coming loose from his body. His dæmon, now on his shoulder again, gripped tightly with her claws, and he knew what she meant at once.

“I didn’t know him by that name,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been looking for him. What have you done with that dæmon I caught? He was going to lead me to that Polstead man.”

“The polecat or whatever he is is nicely tied up next door. I take it he’s not Polstead’s dæmon. Whose is he?”

“The girl who’s got my father’s alethiometer—he’s hers. If the Geneva reader’s found out that much, then I have to say I’m surprised. He’s not usually that quick.”

“Reader? What d’you mean, reader?”

“Alethiometer reader. Look, I can’t concentrate with this bleeding. I need to see a doctor. Get me fixed up, and I’ll talk to you.”

“Trying to make conditions now? I wouldn’t if I was you. What’s that girl’s dæmon got to do with Polstead? And how come the dæmon’s running around without her? Creepy, that’s what that is. Unnatural.”

“Come on, there are aspects of this that are confidential. What security clearance have you got?”

“You’re asking me questions again. I did warn you about that. You know you’ve got another clout coming any second now, I’d say.”

“That won’t help,” said Bonneville, who had managed to control the shaking of his voice by this time. “I don’t mind telling you what I’m doing, since we’re on the same side, but as I say, I need to know the level of your security clearance. If you tell me that, I might even be able to help you.”

“Help us with what? What d’you think we’re doing? We been looking for you, boy. We got you now. And why the fuck should we help you?”

“There’s a bigger picture. D’you know
why
you’ve been looking for me?”

“Yeah. ’Cause the boss told us to. That’s why, you bit of jelly.”

Bonneville’s eyes were beginning to close. The blow must have bruised his cheekbones or his eye sockets or something, he thought, but don’t show pain, don’t be distracted. Stay calm.

He said steadily, “There’s a connection between my father, what my father was doing, and his death, and this man Polstead, and the girl Lyra Belacqua. Right? Monsieur Delamare has given me the job of finding out more about it because I can read the alethiometer and because I’ve already discovered a good deal. To start with, the connection involves Dust. Got it? You understand that? You know what that means? My father was a scientist, as they call them now. An experimental theologian. He was investigating Dust, where it comes from, what it means, the threat it holds. He was killed and all his notes were stolen, and so was his alethiometer. The girl Belacqua knows something about it, and so does that Polstead man. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m doing. That’s why you’d be much better advised helping me than wasting our time with this sort of thing.”