The Rose Field, page 16
“What? Really? I thought I did too, but—”
“I think he was with those gryphons.”
“ ‘Those’? I only saw one, and only for a second. How many were there?”
“A dozen. Maybe more.”
Lyra felt dizzy. She tried to listen, as if Pan might still be calling, but heard nothing that sounded even vaguely like his voice. And now this: it was too much to take in. The sound of the police car engines was diminishing among the normal city noise; the turtledoves were still purring in the garden, as if nothing had happened; cicadas shrilled among the leaves overhead.
“Do you think the police were looking for you?” said Asta.
“They might have been. They took Mr. Ionides, and they must have known he was guiding me…Asta, till things are safer, shall we pretend that you’re my dæmon? Pan did that for a girl he’d met who’d lost her dæmon—they pretended—I found her in the dead city and she told me about it…”
“Good idea. It would be safer for both of us. We need to tell each other everything that’s happened. Now, let’s be practical. Have you got any money?”
“Yes, I have. Thanks to Farder Coram. Oh, Malcolm knew him, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And we need to rescue Mr. Ionides.”
“You call him ‘Mister’? Why?”
“Respect. He’s very important.”
“From what I’ve seen and heard of him, I agree. Have they all gone now, the police or whatever they were?”
Lyra stood up carefully and looked around. The garden was just as it had been when she arrived; only the gravel path was a little disturbed where the vehicles had skidded to a halt. The gryphons seemed to have come and gone in a moment. The mother and child had left, but an elderly couple were strolling slowly arm in arm, and a man in Arab dress was sitting down on the bench and opening a newspaper.
“I think we could try now,” said Lyra.
“What will your name be?”
“Ah. Well, for the moment I’m Queen Tatiana Iorekova of Novaya Zemlya. That was Farder Coram’s idea too. I’ve got a document to prove it, signed and sealed by Mustafa Bey, no less. What about you?”
“I’ve never had to do this before…Something beginning with A.”
“Atalanta.”
“Too long. Make it Afra. Can you feel if Pan’s in danger?” said Afra-Asta.
“I used to think I probably could, because I’d be afraid. But I’m afraid almost all the time since he left. Are you afraid for Malcolm?”
“No, strangely enough. But I don’t think he’s in danger.”
“Not even…” Lyra looked up involuntarily.
“No. I think the gryphons took him for some other reason than to harm him. And if I was right and I did hear Pan, they must be looking after him too.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Lyra.
With the dæmon padding elegantly beside her, Queen Tatiana Iorekova stepped out of the bushes and onto the shaded lawn. Together they moved through the garden, easy and confident, the glass of courage and the mold of calm.
* * *
—
The gryphon who had seized Malcolm in his claws soared high above the city, gripping him so tightly by the shoulders that Malcolm thought he might faint with pain before he fell a thousand feet to the earth below. On the whole he’d rather be unconscious at that point anyway, he thought, but then the gryphon probably wasn’t going to let go, so he might as well put the pain out of his mind and take in what information he could.
First, this creature wasn’t alone. Ahead and to each side there were six others at least, and possibly more behind.
Second, he had definitely heard a voice calling his name, and though it wasn’t impossible that these creatures could speak, the voice sounded as if it came from someone small.
Third, they weren’t going to fly a long way. They were making for a range of hills, a long low plateau, to the southeast of the city, and Malcolm saw some of the other gryphons stop beating their wings and start to glide, losing height as they made for the nearest slope.
Soon the one who was carrying him began to do the same. The powerful rise-and-fall ceased, and that was a relief to Malcolm’s shoulders; instead, they sailed steadily downwards to sweep up again as the foothills of the plateau began to rise below, and then the great wings beat again, this time to slow their forward movement and prepare to land.
The ground seemed to come up with alarming speed, but the gryphon had calculated perfectly, hovering for a few seconds a foot or so above the ground for Malcolm to drop before flying a few feet further on and landing himself. Why himself? Malcolm had no idea, but the great creature seemed to him male rather than female. Others—perhaps a dozen or so altogether—were already standing nearby, easing their wings, or stretching out their lion legs and flexing their muscles.
Again Malcolm had to remind himself: he’d seen strange things before. He wasn’t hallucinating. As if to confirm that it was true, a little spot of light began to sparkle and flutter in the corner of his vision. He welcomed it and sat down on a rock to steady himself.
And then that voice again—“Malcolm! Malcolm!”—and bounding towards him over the rough grass was a dæmon—Pantalaimon!—his warm brown fur and white throat and chest very clear in the level afternoon light.
“Pan! Is that you?”
“Yes—me—is Lyra with you?”
“No. She—I’d just found her in that garden—but when these—what are they?”
“Gryphons—”
“When they came down, she ran towards some trees—Asta was with her.”
“Then we’re lucky to be separators already.”
“That occurred to me too.”
“You’re bleeding—”
Malcolm felt his shoulder. The gryphon’s claws had penetrated his skin in more than one place, but not deeply; it was still the wound in his hip that troubled him most.
“But, Pan, what do you know about…?”
He spread his hands wide, looking all around, shrugging in wonderment. The great creatures were talking, some of them, their eagle throats and lion chests uttering deep harsh growls that rose and fell in every way like human speech. The vivid sunlight shining on their feathers brought out a thousand different colors, from the blackest purple to the most dazzling snowy-white and every kind of rainbow-glint in between. Soon Malcolm’s private aurora was winding and shimmering as if part of this gryphon blaze had come loose to make its own way through the air.
Pan could see that Malcolm was preoccupied by something interior. He sat still, close by, and said nothing, and presently the little gryphon Gulya flew down beside him.
He held up a paw: hush. Gulya was gazing at Malcolm, whose eyes were closed, and who was sitting upright facing the sun, his gold-red hair glowing in the clear light. The battered old canvas rucksack lay on the grass beside him. Pan could see something he’d never noticed before: a scatter of freckles over Malcolm’s nose and cheeks, and a sheen of gold where the stubble was growing around his jaw.
Gulya leaned forward and whispered, “Come with me.”
Pan followed as Gulya led him towards the largest gryphon. He’d been with them now for long enough to know the proper form of behavior, and the names of the most important among them.
“My greetings to you, Prince Keshvād. I am here for you to command.”
The gryphon prince was gazing at Malcolm, as Gulya had done. “Who is that man?” said the prince.
“His name is Malcolm. He is a learned man, a great scholar, a famous craftsman. He can dispute with philosophers and work with wood and metal. And glass,” Pan added recklessly.
“What is he doing now?”
“He is seeing a vision, great prince.”
“A vision of gold?”
“Very likely, great prince.”
“He is not the human you were looking for. Why did my servant pick him up and not her?”
“As far as I could see, great prince, my Lyra escaped from a band of soldiers and fled among some trees. Perhaps your servant couldn’t reach her. And this man—well, yes, he does look as if he’s made of gold. But he is a human being, a man like many others. He is a great friend to me and to Lyra, and he will be glad to pay his respects to you and your nation.”
“He has no dæmon.”
“His dæmon fled with my Lyra. This sometimes happens.”
“Her Majesty my mother Queen Shahrnavāz will want to see him. We shall fly him to Damāvand today and tonight. You will come too.”
Pan remembered what happened the only time he tried to argue with a gryphon’s decision: Gulya had had to save his life. These creatures were intensely proud and passionate. He wasn’t going to try it again. He bowed his head to Prince Keshvād and moved away to speak quietly with Gulya.
“Why will the Queen want to meet Malcolm?” he said.
“He is treasure.”
“Treasure? You mean—well, what do you mean?”
“He is gold. Didn’t you know that? Look at him. He has the scent of gold.”
Pan felt a little lurch of dismay. They believed that. He said, “But what will she do with him?”
“Keep him in her treasury.”
“I must tell him about this—”
“It will make no difference. He will be her treasure.”
“He’ll be a prisoner!”
“He will be treated with honor and respect. He will be the most valuable being the Queen has ever received into her treasury.”
“But she can’t just…How does she know about him anyway?”
“We have always known this man was coming.”
Pan’s head was spinning. “And…how far away is Damāvand?”
“Very far. South of the Caspian Sea. Sacred mountain.”
Pantalaimon felt nothing but despair. He rocked back and forth without knowing he was doing it; a little keening sound came from his throat.
“Leave me,” he said to Gulya when he found his voice again. “I want to speak to Malcolm.”
Gulya seemed unaware that Pan or Malcolm would regard his fate as anything but a great honor. As she flew away, Pan tore at the grass in rage, but only for a moment, because Malcolm was sitting up and looking around.
Pan bounded over and leapt onto the rock beside him. “Awake now?”
“I wasn’t asleep. I was watching something.”
“Well, listen, because we’re in trouble. The gryphons have a queen, who is all-powerful. And they’re going to take you to her, because she wants to put you in her treasury, because you’re made of gold. Or you have the scent of gold, or something. Don’t laugh, whatever you do. They’re so proud, so impulsive, so passionate. They won’t be denied. I’ll make them take me too, to speak for you. I think the best thing to do would be for you to be just as proud, just as touchy, to make demands. Behave like a prince yourself—they understand that sort of thing.”
“Gold? Made of gold?”
“Your hair, your skin. You don’t understand how much it hypnotizes them.”
Malcolm wiped his hand over his head and blew out his cheeks.
“But what about Lyra?” he said.
“If she’s got Asta with her…”
“I’m happier to know that, I must say.”
“We’ll have to stay together. I’ll be—I don’t know—your servant or something.”
Malcolm didn’t seem very pleased at the idea.
“What were you doing in Aleppo anyway?” Pan went on.
“Looking for Lyra. What else? Oh, spying too, investigating things like Thuringia Potash. We’d only just got there. But mainly looking for Lyra.”
Pan glanced around. There was a purposeful order to the way the gryphons were moving; it seemed as if they were going to set off quite soon.
He called: “Gulya! Gulya!”
The little gryphon heard and flew to his side at once.
“Here is what we’re going to do,” Pan said. “I shall go with Malcolm at all times. We must have a comfortable flight and human food. Fruit, bread, cooked meat at least. You must all treat Malcolm with the utmost respect. And me too because I’m his servant.”
“But—”
“That is what will happen, Gulya. If Queen Shahrnavāz learns that we have been badly treated, what punishment will she order for you?”
“No, no, Pan, please don’t do that. Of course you will be well looked after, very well looked after, I promise.”
“What did you mean just now when you said you had always known this man was coming?”
“He is the man of gold. We know it from always. He is part of the future that lived in the past.”
“That’s correct,” said Malcolm. “Now tell me, do your people speak in words alone or in pictures as well?”
Pan was puzzled, but Gulya seemed to understand.
“We understand both,” she said, “but when we have something eternal to say, we use pictures.”
“How can you—” Pan began, but stopped at once when Malcolm gave him a warning glance.
“Tell your companions, your fellow gryphons,” Malcolm said, “that I am not only gold of flesh but gold of knowledge, and that I have true gold of that kind to give to you all, which I shall do when I speak to Her Majesty Queen Shahrnavāz. That is why I have come among you. Furthermore, my attendant Pantalaimon must be free to remain with me or to go anywhere he needs at all times.”
“Yes,” said Gulya. “And you are a philosopher and a craftsman? An artificer?”
“My companion has told you that?”
“Yes.”
“My companion always speaks the truth,” said Malcolm.
His tone was calm and steady, and conveyed an impression of powerful authority.
Gulya bowed her head. “I shall return when we are ready to leave,” she said, and flew away.
Malcolm turned to Pan. “You told them I was a philosopher? And a craftsman?”
“Well…You are, aren’t you?”
Malcolm just looked at him. Pan felt like curling up in shame, but he recovered after a few moments and said, “What did you mean by speaking in pictures? She knew what you meant, but I don’t.”
“I wanted to know whether they had a metaphorical understanding as well as a literal one.”
“And…what did she mean about something eternal, having something eternal to say?”
“The same thing. Something eternal—something outside time. Language uses time, all kinds of time, but pictures only have the present. Clearly the gryphons understand the difference. I wonder if they make pictures themselves, physical things, or have any craft or art at all. I’m curious about the way they apprehend things.”
“When you say ‘apprehend,’ do you mean—like the language thing—seeing in pictures? Ideas in pictures, I mean, like the alethiometer?”
“Yes…Did Lyra have it with her when she left?”
“Oh, she’d never leave that behind. It’s been everywhere with us. Look, I think we’re going to ride on Prince Keshvād’s back.”
Malcolm stood up and slung the rucksack over his shoulder. Prince Keshvād was circling in the air above them. Most of the others were already aloft, but two were circling with Prince Keshvād, like guards or attendants.
Prince Keshvād glided down and landed close by, and then (Malcolm found himself thinking in the language of heraldry) lay couchant, in the attitude of the Sphinx, so Malcolm and Pan could climb up on his back. It was so broad and deep that there was plenty of room to lie and make themselves comfortable, just where the lion fur ended and the eagle feathers began; and then the immense wings spread wide and high, and the two travelers felt beneath them the working of the gryphon’s mighty frame and the beating of his muscles as they soared up into the sky and east towards the summit of Mount Damāvand, a thousand miles away.
* * *
—
Despite her boast about the document signed by Mustafa Bey, Lyra felt uneasy about the thought of using it so soon, and so close to the great merchant himself. It would be useful several hundred miles away; in Aleppo it would merely be embarrassing.
Well, she would have to be cunning. Before anything else, she and Asta had to find out where Ionides had been taken, and then think of how to rescue him. Before the night in al-Khan al-Azraq she would have reached for the alethiometer automatically, but now…For a moment the Myriorama came to mind, but she didn’t know it well enough, and there wasn’t time to learn it as well as use it, even if…
“Those soldiers,” she said to Asta, “they must have been some kind of authority…If not police, then…Did you see any sign on the van? Any word or symbol, anything at all?”
“Yes, actually. In among the camouflage colors on the driver’s door there was a little crest, something like that. I thought it was strange to see it there, because I half recognized it. It was a picture of a little lamp, a Roman sort of lamp, with a flame at the tip. Like when Malcolm was at school, there was a thing called the League of St. Alexander—”
“The Office of Right Duty!”
“Is that what they call it now?”
“Yes, I think so. There were some officers on the ferry from King’s Lynn, when I was escaping. Same badge…Well, that’s who they are, then. That’s interesting.”
“Did they try to arrest you on the ferry?”
“They would have done, but I fooled them. I don’t think I could try the same trick here, though.”
They came to the gate, and stopped to look out along the street. It was the hottest part of the afternoon, but the traffic was moving briskly, and there were still throngs of people on the sidewalks.
“There’s a policeman at the crossing,” said Asta.
She had jumped up on the stone gatepost so as to see. Lyra moved closer.
The man wasn’t directing traffic, just keeping an eye on everything around. Before she felt too nervous to do it, Lyra set off quickly to speak to him, aware of Asta leaping down and keeping pace.
