The Rose Field, page 5
“I found the doc,” said the orderly.
“Ah, good, good. Doctor, have you examined this man?”
“Of course I have.” Dr. Osman was irritated; he had been going to take his wife to the opera, and this delay would make him late. His lemur dæmon looked sulky.
“Has his wound been dressed?” the governor demanded.
“Yes, yes.”
“Then why is he still bleeding?”
“It’s a serious wound. I’d be surprised if he lives to eat his breakfast. Now can I—”
“No. See to this wound at once. Dress it again, and better. And then see about a blood transfusion.”
“A blood transfusion? Here?”
“If he loses any more blood—”
“Impossible. We can’t do that. We haven’t got the equipment, we haven’t got the staff, we haven’t got the blood. What’s it matter anyway? Who is he?”
“An English archaeologist.”
“Too bad. He shouldn’t be traveling here, should he. Looting, no doubt. Serve him right.”
“I want you to arrange for him to be transferred to the Memorial Hospital. Immediately.”
“They won’t accept him. You remember we tried before with the murderer who blew his own legs off. Sent back three times, because they wouldn’t allow an armed guard on duty with him, and you wouldn’t let him go without one. As if he was likely to run away.”
“A very different case. This man is not a criminal, he doesn’t need a guard, and I do not want him to die here. Kindly do as I ask. Dress his wound and arrange for him to be taken to the hospital.”
The doctor’s dæmon snarled at the governor’s, who raised her wings in protest.
“At once,” the governor added. “And, you,” he added to the orderly, “clean this floor. Then get him ready for the ambulance.”
Muttering, taking off his coat and gloves, the doctor set about dressing the prisoner’s wound. To judge by the look of it, the previous dressing had been put on by the orderly. The governor winced. The orderly fetched a mop and a bucket while the governor gazed down at the prisoner’s broad face, the damp curls of his hair like gold coins, and the too-tight prison pajamas.
“Where are his clothes?”
“In there,” said the orderly, jerking his thumb at a row of steel lockers.
The governor tried to open the only one that was closed, and found that it opened anyway, because the lock was bent out of position. Inside he found a bundle of bloodstained clothes and a rucksack.
“Has anyone checked this rucksack?” he asked.
“Yeah, me. That’s where his papers were.”
The governor knew better than to ask what else had been in there; if it was valuable, the orderly would have stolen it already. The rucksack itself was battered, dusty, faded. One of the buckles had been replaced with another that didn’t match the remaining two.
“I thought you said the papers were in his pocket.”
“Can’t remember.”
The orderly knocked against the bed frame with the handle of his mop, and the prisoner groaned.
“Be careful,” snapped the governor, and bent forward to look more closely. The prisoner was frowning in his sleep. His brow was damp, and his dæmon was twitching and extending her claws, no doubt because of a dream.
The governor emptied the rucksack onto the cleanest-looking bed. It contained nothing but a spare shirt and underclothing, socks, a book in some foreign language, a paper bag containing strips of dried meat, a small flask of some kind of liquor, a copy of an English-language magazine called The Economist, and that was it. No archaeology.
“He must have another bag, another case, something else…Are you sure this was all he had with him?”
“Far as I know.”
The governor turned to the clothes in the locker, and found nothing in the pockets but a handkerchief. The man seemed to have hardly any possessions at all. Of course, anything interesting or valuable would have been taken by the soldiers who found him, or the police who’d brought him to the prison, or the admission staff.
After another look at the prisoner, the governor went back to his office and read through the papers again.
“Martin Peters,” he said aloud. “Dr. Martin Peters.”
His dæmon said, “He’s in a bad way.”
“Well, we’ll have to wait and see. Nothing more we can do now.”
The governor drummed his fingers on the desk, looked at his watch, tidied the Englishman’s papers again, strolled to the window, which was one of very few in the administration buildings that had a view of the street, and failed to see an ambulance anywhere in the dense traffic.
“I bet he hasn’t contacted the hospital,” said his dæmon.
“But why wouldn’t he? I gave him an order.”
“He’d say that medical matters were his concern, not yours.”
The governor sighed. “Have we ever dealt with a more idle and uncooperative staff? Mulish. Not a single one of them with any—”
The medical orderly opened the door and came in without knocking. “He’s dead,” he said.
“What?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear me? I said he’s dead.”
“What, Peters? The Englishman?”
“Him in the bed down there.”
“What happened? Did he say anything? Did he wake up?”
“I dunno what happened. Nothing happened. I was finishing off the floor and I suddenly noticed his dæmon was gone. So that’s it, innit. He’s dead.”
The governor pushed past him angrily and set off at a run. When he reached the staircase he stopped and said, “Why am I running?”
“Because you think he might not be dead,” said his dæmon.
“Well…hmm.”
It was because the man was an archaeologist, that was all. The governor had been looking forward to some civilized conversation.
He went on downstairs quite carefully. There would be reports to write, forms to fill in, information to seek. It was curious, though, the man’s situation. He must have been attacked, but why conceal the wound? He was possibly involved in smuggling antiquities, as the doctor had said so cynically. That was not impossible, if reckless at the present time. And his documents—forged, no doubt.
Pity. The governor would have liked the chance to interrogate the man, because he was convinced that his own method of gentle friendly inquiry was more effective than the robust techniques that were officially approved. He might have prevented, or even solved, a major crime.
The infirmary was more dismal than before because the afternoon light was fading fast. The man’s body lay just as it had done earlier, eyes closed, arms by his sides, head resting on the greasy pillow. The dæmon had gone. What form had she had? The governor tried hard to remember. Cat? Could have been.
He looked under the bed, but only for the sake of form. The floor was newly washed, but patchily, and not rinsed properly. There was nothing else to see.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he said to his dæmon, who was perching on the iron frame at the end of the bed, uttering little soft whimpers of fear.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Oh, come on, we’ve seen a dead body before—”
“His eyes are open.”
They were, and looking at him.
The governor uttered a yelp of terror and leapt backwards, stumbling and then falling back onto the next bed.
“What’s the matter?” said the orderly, who had just come in.
It was galling to know that the fool must have seen his undignified sprawl on the bed. The governor struggled up and turned to face him.
“Where’s his dæmon, damn you?” he shouted.
The orderly blinked and shrugged. There was the hint of a smirk on his face. “Told you, she’s gone. Vanished, like they do.”
“Look! He’s not dead, you shit-brained ape! She must be around! Must be close! Find her! Don’t stand there goggling like a frog—damn you, look for her!”
The orderly, as frightened as the governor now, backed away just as he’d done, and bent to pick up his fluttering, cackling hen dæmon.
“I swear it—she en’t here—I looked all over—”
“You lying mongrel! Get out and search the whole wing! Now!”
The governor was conscious that the man on the bed, whoever he was, had heard and seen everything. He wasn’t dead. And yet he had no dæmon. The ancient fear of the uncanny, older than history, probably even older than language, had the governor’s heart in its grip.
The man on the bed was opening his mouth. He wanted to say something, but his throat was parched. The governor looked around quickly, found a dirty cup, and filled it from the shower in the corner. Mastering his fear, and admiring his own resolution in doing so, he helped the Englishman sit up and held the cup to his lips.
“Merci,” the man said.
“Vous êtes Français?”
The prisoner seemed to consider. “Non,” he said. “Anglais.”
“That was what I thought,” said the governor, in English. “And your name?”
The man swallowed more of the water, which was faintly brown and smelled of some strong disinfectant. “Peters,” he said. “Martin Peters. Where am I? Who are you?”
“I am the governor of this prison, Mr. Peters. Dr. Peters. We have examined your papers.”
“Why am I in a prison?”
“There are civil disturbances in the city. It was felt that you would be safer here than in the hospital.”
“Am I a prisoner, then?”
“Never mind that. When I examined you earlier, there was no doubt that you were alive. Your dæmon was present. Now she has vanished; my staff and I are puzzled, to say the least.”
“Oh, has she gone? I thought so. Why does my hip hurt so much?”
“You were shot. Don’t you remember that?”
“No. The last thing I remember was going down a staircase in an empty house.”
“Where was this house?”
“In Antalya.”
“That’s a long way away.”
“Was there a train? Did someone put me on a train?”
He was trying to sit up. The governor, overcoming his reluctance to touch such an unnatural being, put another pillow behind him, first turning it around to put the cleaner surface on top.
“You were found on a train, certainly, but—”
“Why did they bring me to a prison?”
“Please don’t concern yourself about that. This is the infirmary. You’re having the best of care.”
The wounded man looked around. The governor could see quite well what he thought of the place.
“The best care we can manage to give you,” the governor enlarged. “These are difficult times.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“We have them safe. They are soaked in blood, of course.”
“I would like to have them, and washed, if possible. Can someone clean them for me?”
“Yes, we shall do that. But—”
“And then I shall leave.”
“It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid. There are procedures to be followed, higher authorities to be consulted, assurances to be sought. Regrettably this is not a hotel, Dr. Peters. It is a prison, which, however, we do try to make civilized and not too unpleasant. While you are here—”
“No, no, wait. If I am a prisoner, I need to know what offense I’m supposed to have committed, and I need to talk to a lawyer. If I can’t do that, I shall leave.”
The governor was saddened. Furthermore, he could still not quite believe he was talking to a man who was dead. There was a little hum of fear in his head that wouldn’t go away.
“It will all be sorted out without difficulty,” he said in his most soothing voice. “I guarantee that I and my staff will do everything we can to see you on your way as soon as possible, and in a much-improved state of health. I simply cannot allow a man with a wound like yours to risk traveling at this time. A few days’ rest, some nourishing food, some dedicated medical care—”
“I’m too weak to argue,” murmured Malcolm.
“And there is the difficulty caused by—by the absence of your, er, your dæmon…You know how people…And the staff here are frankly very likely to be alarmed…They are credulous peasants, most of them. Of course I shall give orders, and they will be obeyed, but…”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Has this ever…Forgive me, but has such a thing ever happened to you before?”
“It’s not an unknown phenomenon. You are wearing a military uniform. You have seen battle, I take it?”
“Well, not recently, but what has that to do with…”
Malcolm was fully conscious now. Despite the pain, he was thinking quite clearly.
“You haven’t encountered post-traumatic cytokinesis?” he said.
Of course the governor hadn’t. “Oh, so this is a case of…I see. That does explain it. Still alarming, of course, to those unused to it…”
“My dæmon will return stage by stage. There’s really nothing to be alarmed about. In the meantime I would be grateful for a cleaner bed, and for someone medically qualified to attend to my wound.”
“Ah. Well, there I’ve thought ahead. You seem to have lost so much blood that I thought a transfusion might be necessary. We can’t do it here, obviously, so I’ve sent to the Memorial Hospital for advice and assistance, and they should…They might get back to us quite soon.”
“And a cleaner bed?”
“Mm. On thinking about it…Let me see what I can do.”
The governor left his prisoner there in the dusty gold half light and bustled away. Being unable to stay awake, Malcolm closed his eyes and fell asleep.
* * *
—
Asta, his dæmon, had never found it difficult to escape from enclosed spaces. The military prison might as well have been made of mist. While the governor was talking to that part of herself called Malcolm, Asta was stepping silently from shadow to shadow in the heart of Küçüklü. She and Malcolm had discussed this as they lay in the infirmary pretending to sleep, and it was clear to them both that Malcolm wasn’t going to be able to move for some time; so the big ginger cat dæmon pressed herself into the darkness by the door, and as soon as the orderly came in, she slipped past his legs and out of the room. Ten minutes later she had discovered what she wanted to know.
Three
Towards Aleppo
When Lyra woke up under the sheepskins, it was to find the sun not yet risen, the stars not quite all absorbed back into the sky. The air was very cold. From where she lay she could see the sleeping form of Abdel Ionides, and the camels slumbering on their folded legs, and the outline of the ruins of Madinat al-Qamar stark and still against the horizon.
She’d have liked nothing more than to lie there half-asleep, clutching the dream of Pan to her breast, but there were private things she wanted to attend to before Ionides awoke. The cold was piercing, and her hand throbbed unmercifully, but she felt clean and empty and calm, and she knew the secret of the red building.
She wrapped herself up again and watched the dawn take over the sky.
There were no birds to sing in that wilderness; the only sounds that came to her were a subdued occasional snuffle from one of the camels and the quiet breathing of Ionides. The air was still, so there was not even the whisper of sand grains shifting over one another.
She thought again about what had happened in the moon-washed forum, and then deep in the treasury, and afterwards when she spoke to Nur Huda beside the fountain. It felt now as if everything she’d done and said in the City of the Moon had taken place in a state of delirium. She sent her blessings to Nur Huda and her little jerboa dæmon, to guard her and wish her well on her journey home, and although she felt a helpless little sob from part of herself, knowing that the alethiometer was gone forever, there was also a curious relief…A sob from part of herself? How many parts did she have? Was Pan aware of what she’d done? He was a part of herself too, or she was a part of him. Perhaps he wasn’t far away. Perhaps he was waiting in the desert near Aleppo. She, or part of herself, was also feeling a distinct excitement, a tingle of expectation and hope. And there was that dream…And the warning, if it was a warning, about something called the alkahest…There were so many things to find out!
Dawn was coming, and it came quickly: unlike the gradual reluctant sunrise of the high latitudes, it seemed to arrive between two blinks of an eye. The camels were shifting. Ionides must have heard them, because he turned over and sat up smoothly. Lyra saw his dæmon scamper up the rock beside him and stretch herself in the first rays of the sun.
“You awake, Miss Silver,” he said, not as a question. “You beat me to it. How was your visit to Madinat al-Qamar? Did you find news of your dæmon, I venture to ask?”
As he spoke, he rose to his feet and flicked out his blankets, laying them over the rock, brushing them free of sand. His voice was as clear as that of an actor on a stage: not loud, just brightly audible.
“No,” she said.
“Ah.”
While he went behind the rock, presumably to empty his bladder, Lyra took off the shirt she’d been wearing and changed it for another, carefully transferring the alethiometer needle from one pocket to the other. Then she tried to tidy her hair. She was aware of how wild she must look, not that she was concerned very much about that; but something had lightened in her. She longed for a shower.
She crouched by the fire, which Ionides had banked against the night, and began to move pieces of wood around, hoping to rouse it into flame.
“Miss Silver! What you doing? This is my job. You employ me to make fires, to cook, all that, not to sit like a pasha watching while you put this one out!”
