The Rose Field, page 53
Securing the safety of the roads was what preoccupied her most to begin with. She had traveled herself, as far as Tangier to the west and Kyoto to the east, and her powerful memory as well as her efficient manner had ensured that the assassination had provoked less disturbance and anxiety than anyone expected among the agents, the dealers, the brokers, and the carriers who together made up the Mustafa Bey trading empire. A week’s alarm, and then calm descended again.
She made sure that the assassin’s background was thoroughly investigated, and any associates found and arrested. She contacted the representatives of the Magisterium, including some who had refused all dealings with Mustafa Bey, and let them know that new management was in charge now; and found out all that could be known about the progress of the army under Marcel Delamare.
She had been closely watching some changes that had failed to attract the attention of Mustafa Bey, in particular the road and railway building and the other transport developments in the western provinces of the Golden Empire. Her late chief had taken a strong interest in his own new bus routes west of the Caspian Sea, but had overlooked, she thought, the great prizes to be won in Central Asia for whoever found the best solution to the problems of desert travel in the modern age.
She also gave considerable thought to the question of what sort of organization she was in charge of. Under Mustafa Bey it had a thousand different faces and ten thousand different interests in a hundred thousand different towns and villages and caravansaries, with a thousand thousand small deals being made every day. It was beyond the capacity of a single human memory to take in, even that of Dr. Sharadze, and it had only worked because Mustafa Bey, by some perhaps supernatural means, transfused through every branch of this complex tree the life-giving sap of trust associated with his name. Dr. Sharadze realized that she could not supply that precious liquid herself, so she would have to act very quickly to replace it with something else: a structure that was not only immensely robust, but above all, with a line of authority that was easy to understand at any point, and with the means to enforce it. And that would involve a profound reformation of the medium of exchange.
So the Mustafa Bey Company came into legally attested being, with as its brandmark a picture of the late chief, drawn 457 times before the artist got the proper balance of wisdom, kindness, shrewdness, decisiveness, and visionary optimism into the image, which was to be reproduced on every document and piece of packaging the company generated.
Dr. Sharadze also set about modernizing the communications inside the company. Marletto’s Café was all very well in an age of camel-paced transport and personal interaction, but times were changing. Soon a splendid new building was being planned, one that would unfortunately require the construction of a wide new circulatory traffic system and the demolition of the block containing Marletto’s. Dr. Sharadze became intensely interested in this scheme, in its size and scope, and she made arrangements to visit other urban centers on both sides of the Caspian Sea, where she wanted to speak to architects, engineers, and geologists about their plans for developing what she was already calling the Mustafa Bey Freeway. It was while she was examining some drawings for this and other projects, in the new office in Samarkand, that Dr. Sharadze was interrupted by a visitor.
“Thank you,” she said to the architect. “I shall be in touch very soon.”
The man gathered his papers and left.
Tamar Sharadze turned to the visitor. “Pervani? Leila Pervani? How do you do. You’ll realize that our dear late chairman had an immense capacity for detail; you’ll forgive me for not yet being on top of it all. Your business concerns what, in fact?”
“I was Mustafa Bey’s agent in Sinkiang,” said Leila. “I sent him regular reports about the progress of different enterprises between Urumqi and the Aral Sea. I heard, of course, about the awful murder, and I wanted to express my condolences as well as make sure that his successors were fully informed about conditions west of the Golden Empire…I was so sorry to hear about his death.”
Tamar Sharadze had seldom been in the presence of someone quite so much more beautiful than she was. She watched impassively as Leila Pervani artlessly dabbed her eyes, she noticed how Leila glanced at the royal-blue butterfly dæmon on her lapel, and she waited for the visitor to compose herself.
“I’m extremely busy,” she said finally, without any tone of regret. “Thank you for your sympathy. I’m sure you understand. Did you have a particular message for Mustafa Bey?”
“I thought it would interest him to know that the army of the Magisterium, under the command of President Marcel Delamare, has advanced to the eastern end of the Tien Shan range.”
“So far, already?”
“It seems as if they intend to cross Lop Nor on their progress to the south.”
Tamar Sharadze narrowed her eyes and nodded. She said nothing.
Leila Pervani went on, “The way is clear now, you understand, for the Karamakan project to go ahead.”
“You spoke to Mustafa Bey about this?”
“Oh, yes. It was something he was particularly keen on promoting.”
“He discussed it with you?”
“At length. You’ll understand, I don’t know who you are, exactly, and how much I need to explain…”
“Of course. I was Mustafa Bey’s chief of staff in Aleppo and further west. Now I am acting Chief Executive Officer. Whatever you have been used to saying to him, you may safely say to me.”
All Tamar Sharadze in fact knew about Karamakan was that Mustafa Bey had some small dealings with suppliers in that region. She knew nothing about a “project.” But she had studied with experts the art of extracting information, and this Pervani was clearly emotionally affected by the events of the past days.
“The Thuringia Potash Company is deeply involved,” the visitor began. “As you know, they’re no longer exclusively concerned with mining…”
Tamar Sharadze reached for a pencil. The office they were sitting in was rented, and she didn’t know where everything was, but she could find a pencil and paper. She wrote as Leila Pervani continued to explain, and a long, complicated, intriguing story began to unfold: rich with possibility, laced through and through with the implication of inexhaustible profit, studded with gemlike particles of recognizable likelihood, and fictitious in every sentence. Soon Tamar Sharadze sent for some more paper.
“Oh, and one more thing,” said Leila Pervani as she got up to leave.
“Yes?”
“I wondered where these came from.” She laid a freshly printed banknote on the desk.
“Where did you get that?” said Tamar Sharadze, as if interested. She turned it over. It was for a small denomination, and the picture of Mustafa Bey, as recently approved for use throughout his business, was prominent amid the decorative and calligraphic flourishes.
“I was given it among the change when I bought some shoes. It’s new, isn’t it? I hadn’t seen one like it before.”
Tamar Sharadze nodded and pushed the note back across the desk. She said, “We felt that the system of exchange used across Mustafa Bey’s wide range of businesses could be simplified and standardized, as it were. A thousand different transactions made by barter every day—increasingly difficult to keep track, no standard rate of exchange—it simply doesn’t work these days. When Mustafa Bey himself was in charge, things were different, of course. But now the world is moving in a modern direction, and money must move with it.”
“And all so swiftly done.”
“It had been felt for some time that a project of this kind would be necessary. Preparations were in place already before Mustafa Bey’s unfortunate death.”
“I understand,” said Leila Pervani, folding the note into her purse. “So I expect I’ll see many more of these.”
“I hope you will.”
Tamar Sharadze’s smile was final and dismissive. During the whole of their interview, Leila Pervani’s serpent dæmon had been watching the small sapphire-colored butterfly on the lapel of Sharadze’s midnight-blue jacket, and was interested to see that he did not move a millimeter.
* * *
—
Olivier Bonneville was not used to horses; he had been taught to ride during his military service, but hadn’t taken to it. The horse he stole from the camp above Tashbulak, however, was docile and willing, and he remembered enough about harnessing it to get the saddle on the right way and loosen and tighten the right straps. With his wounded dæmon safely inside his coat, he mounted, after three attempts, and urged the horse to move forward and out onto the grassy slopes of the foothills.
The bulk of the army was some way off to the east, under the command of one of Delamare’s senior officers, and guided by Abdel Ionides. Delamare remained with a small body of guards and engineers, led by Colonel Schreiber; they would move straight towards the red building once they had a signal that Lop Nor had been successfully crossed.
So no one saw Olivier Bonneville set off on his stolen horse. No one, that is, except Pantalaimon, together with Dilyara and her dæmon. They had gathered on the roof of the storage area, around the canvas chair from which Dilyara had seen Brynmor Strauss emerge from the desert some days before. Strauss was asleep down below, with Cariad close at hand; Dilyara wasn’t sure if they’d ever wake up. Pan had come to like her very much, for her quick intelligence and solid kindness, and he joined her on the roof to watch the sunrise, and just to talk.
He was telling her about Lyra and his search. She listened carefully, asking questions only occasionally if she didn’t understand. He found himself imitating the way Lyra would explain something, getting things in the best order, leaving out everything irrelevant.
She was watching him as he stood on the rim of a skylight, but after a few minutes he noticed a very slight movement on the horizon behind her. It was so small and so far away that at first he didn’t think anything of it, but then he found himself trying to focus on it, and losing concentration on his story.
“Dilyara, can you see something moving over there? On the horizon?”
She turned, shading her eyes against the rising sun. “Little thing,” she said. She reached down for the binoculars she kept under the chair. “Ah,” she said. “Horse. I think it was camel but no, it is horse. Young man riding.”
She held the binoculars for Pan to look through. He put his face close to one of the eyepieces and tried, but the focus wasn’t right, and then he lost his balance on the skylight, and then they tried again, this time with Pan standing on the wooden arm of her chair; and finally the image swam into clarity.
“Bonneville!” he said, startling himself.
“What you say?”
“I know him. He’s the man who’s hunting Lyra! He must be going towards the red building—the place Dr. Strauss came back from…I can’t let him get too far ahead. Dilyara, I’ve got to follow him. Thank you—thank you for everything—”
“You going now?”
“Yes. I must go after him.”
“I want to hear the end of story.”
“When I come back. Promise. I swear. Thank you! But I’ve got to go after him…”
He ran to the edge of the roof, checked again that the little silhouette was still there on the horizon, and leapt down and scrambled after it over the sand.
* * *
—
Lyra lay awake, wrapped in Malcolm’s coat. He murmured occasionally in his sleep: names mostly, including hers, but nothing coherent. Gulya’s tireless flight lulled them both at first, but Lyra hadn’t slept for long. She was wide awake, and her eyes were wide too, gazing past Malcolm out to the gryphon’s wing, steadily beating, and past that to the stars beyond.
Her heart was yearning as never before—yearning for Pan, for that lost rebellious part of her, that woodland-smelling self who’d set off in anger to find the priceless thing she’d lost so carelessly. She was also yearning for something simpler: for human contact. She was pressed close against Malcolm, but he was asleep, and anyway…Would that ever work? Oh, it was too hard to think about.
She made herself think of other things. The Rusakov field, and how it related to Dust, or if it was Dust. The rose oil made Dust visible, but only rose oil from the other world would do. No doubt something in its chemical composition resembled the wheel-tree oil that Mary Malone used in her amber spyglass; perhaps there was something in every world that had a similar property. She remembered the moment in the Jordan College Retiring Room when Lord Asriel, telling the scholars about the special emulsion he’d used (which of course, she saw now, must have been based on the rose oil) to make the lantern slides he was showing them, and saying of the picture on the screen: “But it isn’t light. It’s Dust.” And the sudden silence that fell. She thought of herself now, explaining to him everything they’d found out since, and where she was going, on the back of a gryphon, and she thought of his eyes when he smiled, as he did so rarely—but he would smile now, he’d smile at her now.
Or rather than the field making the Dust visible…suppose it was the other way round. Maybe it was Dust that made the field visible. Could it work like that? Maybe Ionides would know. She hoped very much that he was safe, that he was nearby, that he and Leila Pervani could continue their work…She thought of them together, a duet so ill-sorted and so perfectly harmonious. Working together at something important; Lyra thought now that that must be the most perfect endeavor for two individuals. She felt a kind of gratitude to them, for showing her that possibility.
The stars were fading. From somewhere to her left a faint light was diffusing into the sky. It brought cold with it, as if she hadn’t been cold enough already. She pulled Malcolm’s coat more tightly around her, and he stirred.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Not asleep.”
“Yes, you were! You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore. It was Asta purring.”
“You snore,” said Asta sleepily.
“All right, I give in. Why did you wake me up?”
“I want to know about the alkahest.”
“The what?”
He sat up, startling her, but it was only to stretch and yawn.
“The alkahest. Something to do with alchemy,” she said.
“Why are you asking about that? Where did you hear the term before?”
“In the dead city. Why do you ask?”
“The Director of Oakley Street referred to it on the lodestone resonator. Who spoke about it in the dead city?”
“I heard some voices…They sounded as if they were warning me. The alkahest, the destroyer of bonds…But I couldn’t hear any more, and I’ve been asking people if they know about it, and no one does except a French teacher in Baku, who looked it up in his encyclopedia. The universal solvent, apparently.”
“Hmm…A universal solvent. Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Well, what would you put it in?”
“A…I don’t know. A crucible, whatever that is. An alembic? One of those round flasks with a long spout pointing down.”
“A retort. But that wouldn’t work, you see. Nothing would work. If it dissolves everything, nothing could contain it. Here’s a jar of alkahest—oh dear, it’s gone. And now there’s a hole in the floor. The alkahest in a jar is a paradox. Like a square circle.”
“The destroyer of bonds…”
“They said that too, did they?”
“Yes, they did. The French teacher thought it might mean atomic bonds. The forces that hold them together.”
“It would be a universal solvent, if it could do that,” Malcolm said. “Did the other things your voices said make sense?”
“Yes. I think I could trust them. As if they came from the secret commonwealth.”
“And they were—” Malcolm pulled himself up a little. “They were warning you?”
“A mixture of things. Warnings, and…I can’t remember them all.”
“Who first told you about the secret commonwealth?”
“A gyptian man who helped me to get to the Fens when I first set off after Pan. I told Asta about it. It’s a way of seeing things, really.”
“I want to know more about it.”
“Mr. Ionides had the idea that it could be a field.”
“Ah. Yes, I see. That’s good.”
“Like the Rusakov field. It might be the Rusakov field.”
“What’s Dust, then?” he said. “How are they connected? Or are they the same thing?”
He wasn’t testing her on her knowledge: it was a genuine question, asked by someone who genuinely wanted to know.
“It’s…I don’t know. It’s the Rusakov particle, isn’t it? The particle associated with the field? Somehow?”
“What does that mean, though? What’s happening when we see it? What’s physically going on?”
“Maybe Dust has to be there because…Maybe like with a rainbow, the atmosphere has to be saturated with water vapor, doesn’t it? We don’t see rainbows on dry days. Maybe we can’t see this without Dust.”
The first tiny part of the sun’s disc emerged from behind a mountaintop. It was like a trumpet call; the whole sky seemed to ring with it, and the world was still waiting for an answer to a question neither Lyra nor Malcolm had quite articulated, which hung like an overtone in the intense azure.
