The Rose Field, page 47
“Do you still love her?”
“Yes, in a complicated way.”
“Why complicated?”
“I’m not in love with her, not as I used to be. It’s unusual, or so I’ve discovered. Remaining close friends, I mean. Often there are jealousies and betrayals and resentments and unhappinesses…One person falls out of love before the other, that’s what it amounts to. But with us it was just a gradual, gentle sort of change. We stayed fond of each other without jealousy…We were lovers for maybe six months. It was a time of enormous growing up for me. I was so grateful to her that, well, it seemed natural for us to be close friends. She’s part of my life. I was very lucky.”
Lyra was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “I think she was too, probably. Thank you for telling me that. I wouldn’t ever have guessed…Did you notice how astonished I was that time at Jordan when you opened the door and came into her room?”
“Honestly, no, I didn’t. I was so struck by Asta’s reaction to Pan.”
“Oh, yes: she’d seen him alone and thought he’d stolen something. The murdered man’s wallet. He realized that in the same moment. He was thrown by that, and I was thrown by the thought of Dr. Polstead being close to Mrs. Lonsdale…and Alice was so embarrassed. You must have thought I was half-witted.”
“Never.”
Silence again for half a minute.
“I wonder where she is now,” Lyra said. “Alice, I mean.”
“I worry about that.”
“When we get back, we’ll make sure she’s safe.”
He moved a little, and pulled the big coat more tightly around them both. Lyra was aware of his body, the boy’s body that had learned to make love with Alice, the man’s body that lay beside her now, strong and competent and warm. Was that all? Not thrilling and intoxicating and beautiful? No, not…Not like Will, she thought. That moment in the little wood, in the world of the mulefa, when they kissed for the first time. Nothing like that would ever happen again.
They lay so still that she thought Malcolm must be asleep now. But Asta was purring, so she was still awake; and the grass was awake too, with a light wind moving through and making it whisper in response; and the air, as she’d felt earlier, was full of fields of intention and purpose and memory.
She felt so light that if only she let go of her body, she’d be carried away into the air, among all those fields, as insubstantial as a filament of down. She wanted to let go, but she didn’t want to; it was cold up there; she was warm and safe in Malcolm’s coat, in Malcolm’s arms. She remembered herself sleeping close to Asta, holding her in the same way. What did that mean? Only lovers let that happen. Did she love Malcolm? She was moved by what he’d told her. She thought well of Alice too, because of it. What kindness, and what good sense for them both to know that they were lovers only for a brief time, and to remain friends! And no, she wasn’t in love with Malcolm, but…
First the red building. Later everything else. She fell asleep.
* * *
—
Pan and Tilda flew along the northern edge of the Tien Shan range, without risking the heights where the oghâb-gorgs terrorized every living thing. The effort, for Pan, was extreme; he had to cling to the branch of cloud-pine without resting for a single second. Tilda Vasara said little as they flew. She was intent on covering the vast distance as quickly as possible, because she had caught some impression of anxiety and urgency from her sisters, and she felt bound to these short-lived humans, to Pan and Lyra and to Malcolm and Asta, because of the impulse that had drawn her, twenty years before, to the island in the flood, to the boy and the sleeping baby. To a witch, of course, twenty years were like the blink of an eye, but some things were still more important than others.
They flew down to sleep in the high mountains just north of the desert. Pan was nearly crazy with the desire to sleep, and Tilda was troubled by several thoughts that assailed her as they turned their course south over the heights. Her dæmon, the tern, skimmed alongside them and tried time and again to urge her to land, to sleep, to rest.
“The dæmon will fall,” he said in their language. “He can’t hold on for much longer. Land, Tilda, fly down, find a cave or any shelter at all. You’ll kill him, and then the girl will die too.”
She didn’t reply; she was exhausted, and she knew he was right.
“Going down to rest,” she called, and Pan heard her and nodded. He had no strength to call back.
It was towards the end of a murky night; the peaks ahead of them and to east and west were covered in snow, and the dim light that clung to them was all Tilda had to see by. She flew in a wide circle, heading down towards what looked like a glacier. Mindful of the dæmon’s weariness, she didn’t spend much time looking for a comfortable valley: there was little chance of that anyway.
She found a narrow gully in a massive rock face on the western side of the glacier, and made for that. As soon as her feet touched the ice, Pan fell off the pine branch.
“I told you to hold tight,” she said quietly.
“I did.”
“Come to me.”
She knelt beside him and opened her arms. All the taboos had evaporated; there were no rules in the empire of the oghâb-gorgs. He crept painfully to her breast and she embraced him, and she was warm, and like Lyra, he fell asleep.
* * *
—
Olivier Bonneville was awake before the guard kicked him, so he was able to squirm aside and avoid the worst of it.
“What’s that for? What are you doing?” he shouted, clutching the thin blanket to himself at the end of the bed.
“Time to get up. We’re moving. Don’t hang about.”
“What? Where? What’s going on?”
The guard spat on the floor and went out, leaving the door open. A sour light leaked in from the corridor; there was no daylight yet, and the cell was thick with cold gray-black stuffy air. Bonneville hauled himself to his feet, shivering, and felt around for his trousers. His socks, still damp from the day before, hung over the bed rail. He grimaced as he pulled them on.
“What next?” he muttered. “Did you hear what they’re doing?”
His dæmon shook her tail and stretched her wings. Bonneville could see that her left wing was not yet healed. She said nothing.
“No, of course you didn’t. You heard what he said, though? Moving on?”
A shadow fell through the doorway, and a strong whiff of cologne preceded the brigadier, who stood there tapping a swagger stick against his leg.
“Hurry,” he said.
“Why? What’s happening?”
“You’re moving on.”
“Where?”
“East. That’s all I know. Come on, get dressed. Don’t waste time.”
“My clothes are damp. I can’t put them on quickly. This is ridiculous.”
“I can call for the sergeant and a couple of men to help you, if you like.”
Bonneville said nothing and went on struggling. Tap, tap, tap went the swagger stick. The hawk dæmon raised her wings again, which only emphasized her weakness. The brigadier looked at his watch.
“Where are you taking me?” said Bonneville, trying to maneuver one of the socks over his cold foot.
“Not taking you anywhere. Well, I’m not. I’d leave you to rot here. The President wants you to go with him.”
“But where?” said Bonneville, trying to sound impatient, but inwardly delighting.
Someone called from further down the corridor. The brigadier called back in the same language. Bonneville pulled up the sock and felt the flesh of his leg shrinking away from it.
“Hurry, boy!”
“Where are my possessions? Where is the rucksack you stole from me?”
“You haven’t got any possessions. You dressed yet?”
Well, Delamare will have the alethiometer, and I’ll soon get that back, Bonneville thought. He stood up. “Let me have a coat. And my shoes. If I die of cold, the President will hold you responsible.”
The brigadier indicated the way out with his swagger stick. Bonneville tried to saunter out, but he was shivering too much to make it look convincing.
The sergeant, or whatever he was, took hold of Bonneville’s arm and tugged him forward, nearly dislodging the hawk dæmon from his shoulder.
“Careful, you ugly fool! Where do they find shitheads like you? Do they breed them in the mountains?”
The sergeant looked at the brigadier and received a nod in response, so he punched Bonneville hard on the side of his head. This time his dæmon did fall. The sergeant’s dog dæmon growled as her wings fluttered in his face, and Bonneville snatched her up before they could fight.
“Enough of that, boy. Keep quiet and do as you’re told,” said the brigadier.
“I demand to speak to the President!”
This time the swagger stick came into action. The brigadier lashed at Bonneville’s arm, and the boy cried out in pain.
No one said anything else. All Bonneville could do was stumble out of the corridor, out of the lobby, out of the building, and into the back of a motor van, where he fell clumsily onto the cold metal floor as they slammed and locked the door behind him. The engine was already running, and within seconds the van was moving, and Bonneville was able to cry without anyone seeing his tears. Except his dæmon, and she didn’t count.
Twenty-Nine
Kilkenny Aflame
Alice Lonsdale slept in one of the staff bedrooms at the Savoy. She shared it with two other women, who were congenial enough, and they all worked different shifts, so they didn’t see much of one another anyway. None of her old friends knew where she was, but she’d managed to let Malcolm’s parents have her address, and the name she was passing under: Cathy Hood.
And on the morning when Lyra woke up among the gryphons, after the death of the sorcerer Sorush, Alice found a postcard in her staff locker. It showed a picture of Port Meadow, and before she turned it over she knew it was from Brenda Polstead.
It said:
Dear Cathy, I hope you’re well. Our old friend Dr. Ralph is going to be in London on Wednesday and would love to see you and say hello. The Egyptian kiosk at one if poss. Love from me and Reg—Brenda.
Wednesday was that very day. Brenda knew how to spell Dr. Relf’s name as well as Alice did, and the Egyptian kiosk was a coffee stall on the Embankment not far from Cleopatra’s Needle; they called it that because Reg had told them about the old man who ran it, saying he was so ancient and wrinkled he might be a mummy himself.
So Alice found her supervisor and made a change to her lunch hour, and at five to one she was sitting on a bench under one of the trees in the Embankment Gardens, from where she could see the river and the obelisk, and a little way along, the coffee stall. The day was gray and damp, and threatening rain.
Hannah Relf arrived only a minute or so after Alice. She was wearing a heavy coat and a dark blue beret, and carrying a Harrods shopping bag. Alice jumped up as soon as she saw her, but then remembered what she was doing, and looked around carefully to see if anyone was watching; she knew she was an amateur at this game, and made herself move slowly and casually.
They exchanged a kiss. Alice was moved by Hannah’s warm embrace.
“Let’s find somewhere indoors,” said Hannah. “It’s going to rain soon.”
“There’s a little café just up that way,” said Alice. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you.”
“I want to know everything that’s happened. But I’ve got a task for you, and I need to explain…”
Alice noticed how Hannah unobtrusively scanned everyone in the street, and how as they approached the café she put her hand in Alice’s arm and steered them firmly past it before suddenly turning back and into the entrance. As she turned, her eyes flicked across the sidewalk and the roadway, taking everything in.
Once they were sitting at a corner table with bowls of soup in front of them, Alice quietly told Hannah about her arrest, and the prison camp, and her escape.
“Brenda told me you’d been to see them,” Hannah said. “She knew she’d be safe telling me, but she swore she wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“Oh, I trust them. But it’s been like living in a, I don’t know, a different country now. Suspecting everyone.”
“We have to.”
“You said you had a task,” Alice said.
Hannah put the Harrods bag on her lap. “I want you to take this and give it to someone personally. Don’t put it through a letter box or give it to a secretary.”
She handed Alice a package the size of a small book, wrapped in brown paper and securely taped. It bore the name David Ferguson, and an address in Battersea.
“Here’s the point,” said Hannah. “The package is a sort of decoy. If by chance anyone does see you, they’ll think that’s the important thing. The real message you need to take to David Ferguson is in four sentences I want you to memorize. Say them as you hand the package to him, and make sure you get the wording absolutely right.”
“What are they?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Now, tell me about the Savoy.”
Alice told her what she was doing, and how she’d found the job, and all she could about the way she was living now. Hannah was curious about everything, and particularly interested in the internment camp Alice had escaped from. She listened avidly.
“ORD, and Brytsec,” she said. “There’s a power struggle between those two. The officer who interrogated you was ORD, you say?”
“Very proud of it too. Flaunting his what’s-names—things on his shoulders.”
“Epaulettes.”
“That’s it. He was more proud of being ORD than Brytsec, I could see that.”
“Interesting.”
Hannah was concentrating hard on everything Alice was saying, as if she was making mental notes. Then she said, “How long have you got? When do they expect you back at work?”
Alice looked at the little clock over the counter and said, “I’ll have to go in about ten minutes. What was it I had to remember?”
“Ready? Don’t write it down. Just keep it in your head.”
“I will.”
“Here goes: Kilkenny aflame is a nine-days’-wonder. Beyond the marshes all the cats are redeemed in flags and banners. Total harvest lies laid out and stripped of circumlocution. Enter the ice-bound belvedere.”
Alice blinked.
“Don’t worry,” said Hannah. “I’ll go through them again till you remember. Kilkenny aflame…”
They were speaking quietly, under the noise of the coffee machine and the clatter of plates and cutlery and the usual chatter of a busy café. Hannah spoke each phrase separately. Alice’s hearing was good; she heard every word clearly, and repeated them several times until she had them accurately. Then she went through them as a whole for Hannah to check.
“…Total harvest is laid out—”
“Lies.”
“Sorry. Total harvest lies laid out…”
She got to the end with no more mistakes.
Hannah nodded sternly. “Say it to yourself over and over till you’re simply unable to make a mistake.”
“Can I write it down to help?”
“No. Not at all.”
“No point in asking what it means?”
“None whatsoever, my dear. Find David Ferguson, hand him the package, speak those words, and then go back to the Savoy and forget all about it.”
Alice looked for her purse, but Hannah shook her head.
“Well, it’ll make me feel a bit useful, anyway,” Alice said. “Give my love to Reg and Brenda. You haven’t heard anything from Malcolm, I suppose? Or Lyra?”
“I wish I had. I’m anxious about everything, Alice. All we can do is carry on.”
“Anything else I can do, you know where I am.”
Hannah paid the bill, they left the café, embraced on the pavement, and Alice hurried back to work.
* * *
—
She came out of the hotel at half past five, caught a bus along the Embankment as far as Albert Bridge, and crossed over into Battersea. The tide was in and the river was high, and busy with traffic: cargo barges, a couple of river buses, a police launch cruising slowly up towards Westminster. Alice had only been to London once in her life before she was a prisoner on the run, but she was beginning to know her way around now and enjoy the vastness, the anonymity, the busy-ness. And she loved the river, the same one that flowed through Oxford, though much bigger here, whose waters had carried her and Malcolm and the baby Lyra so many years before. It had been wild then, but it was gentle now, the same river, mild and decorous.
The first thing she’d bought when she got there as an adult was a detailed map, and she consulted it now as she stood at the Battersea end of the bridge. Aland Street was tucked away in a maze of small roads south of the park, and it took her the best part of half an hour to find it, a small house in a shabby terrace with nothing to distinguish it from the neighbors except the number in tarnished brass numerals on the door.
She knocked and waited. She waited long enough to knock again. This time she heard a door closing somewhere inside, and then footsteps came to the front door. It was opened by a thin man in shirtsleeves looking as if he’d been busy at something and wanted to get back to it.
“David Ferguson?” said Alice.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I need to know for certain.”
He looked at her coldly, and his eyes flicked to left and right along the street. “You’d better come in,” he said, and stepped aside.
She followed him in. He shut the door and took a wallet out of his back pocket, opening it to show her a card bearing his picture. It called him Captain Ferguson and said he worked for the Ministry of Agriculture.
