The Book of Dust: La Belle Sauvage

Seventeen Pilgrims’ Tower

At about the same time, George Papadimitriou was standing at the window of his rooms at the top of Pilgrims’ Tower, the highest set in Jordan College, and looking out at the waste of waters that surrounded the tower and lapped against the windows of the other college buildings. Even in the enclosed quadrangle, the wind was whipping it into spray. The sky was heavy, promising even more rain, and the room was so cold that, in spite of the fire in the hearth, he was wearing his overcoat.

“When should we expect him, do you think?” he said.

“In this flood…,” said Lord Nugent, joining him at the window. “Who knows. But he’s resourceful.”

Nugent had arrived in Oxford the previous evening, an hour or two before the flood struck the city. Oakley Street had heard that Lyra was in danger, and he wanted to make sure of the arrangements for her safety. He would have made his way to the priory already that morning, despite the flood, but for the fact that they were awaiting the arrival of a traveler from the far north, Bud Schlesinger, news of whom had been in Coram van Texel’s coded letter from Uppsala. Schlesinger was a New Dane by birth, and an agent of Oakley Street by training and inclination. He had gone to the north to find out as much as he could about the witches’ knowledge of Lyra, because it seemed that the source of much that was said about her came from them. The witches were a great power in those latitudes, and the alliances they made were costly but valuable. Nugent was eager to gain their support, but even more eager to prevent the other side from gaining it.

“I should think every boat that exists will have been requisitioned by the authorities,” said Papadimitriou. “They would want to maintain civil order above everything else.”

“Oh, he’ll get here. Until he does, I’m going to— Wait a minute. Isn’t that Hannah Relf down there?”

Papadimitriou peered down at the flooded quadrangle, where a slight figure clothed in oilskins was wading waist-deep towards the tower. She looked up briefly, pushing back her yellow sou’wester, and the two men recognized her at once. Papadimitriou waved, but she didn’t see him, and she moved on through the water.

“I’ll go down and meet her,” Papadimitriou said.

He ran down the steep stairs and found her on the first landing, breathing heavily and unfastening the oilskin coat. Her little dæmon was helping with the buttons.

“Let me give you a hand,” he said. “Good Lord, what are you wearing?”

“Salmon-fishing waders,” she said. “Never thought I’d need them here.”

“Well, this counts as a revelation. I wouldn’t have imagined you with a fishing rod in your hands,” he said, taking the coat from her. The waders came up to her chest and looked substantial.

“Not mine. They belonged to my brother, who gave up fishing when he was injured. It’s not easy to wear waders with a prosthetic leg. If I sit on the stairs, perhaps you could…”

He went down a step or two and tugged hard. She was fully clothed underneath, and must have been extremely uncomfortable.

“Well, good for you,” he said.

“Are you very busy? I don’t want to interrupt anything, but—”

“You won’t. Don’t worry.”

“I thought I should come and tell you something important.”

“Tom Nugent’s here. Save your breath to climb the stairs and tell us both when you get there.”

Their dæmons climbed ahead of them, talking quietly. Papadimitriou was concerned about Hannah: she was breathing heavily, and her face was flushed.

“You didn’t walk all this way?” he said. Then, “Sorry, don’t speak. Take it easy. No hurry.”

When they reached the top floor, she said, “I begged a lift from a neighbor with an engine-boat. I’m not sure anyone could walk all the way. Have you seen how fast the water’s flowing down St. Giles?”

Nugent opened the door, hearing their voices, and said, “Dr. Relf, this is valiant. Come in and sit by the fire and let me give you some of George’s brandy.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I could do with it. I won’t stay any longer than I need to.”

“You’ll stay till you’re warm and dry,” said Papadimitriou. “It would be good for you to meet Schlesinger, anyway.”

She took a glass from Lord Nugent and sipped gratefully. “Who’s Schlesinger?”

“An Oakley Street agent with something to tell us, we hope.”

“I came because something’s happened at the priory,” she said. “Late last night. I heard from a neighbor, the man who owns the boat, and he took me up to see what was going on and check whether Malcolm was all right. But it’s all such a… To start with, the gatehouse and several other parts of the main building have fallen down. So has the bridge across to the inn. Seven of the nuns are dead — drowned — and two others are missing. And the child… Well, she’s missing too. But here’s the point: Malcolm, the boy, you remember, he’s disappeared as well. But so has his canoe and the girl who was helping out at the priory with the baby. That’s the only thing that’s giving Malcolm’s parents any hope.”

“They think he might have… what? Rescued the child and floated away?”

“In a word, yes. He was very fond of the baby, very interested in her and everything to do with her. So… well, that’s what I had to tell you, really.”

“Who is this girl?”

“Alice Parslow. Sixteen. She helps out in the inn, and she’d just begun at the priory too. But there’s something else that might have a bearing on—”

“Wait a minute. They’re sure the child is gone? Not buried under the collapsed building?”

“Yes, they’re sure, because she was in a wooden crib in the kitchen when the gatehouse fell, in the care of the girl Alice. The crib was still there, but all the blankets had gone. But there’s another thing. There was a man who’d shown up at the Trout a few days ago — Malcolm had told me about him for the first time on the day of Dr. Al-Kaisy’s dinner. I mentioned him then, but you’d given me so many other things to think about that I didn’t ask any further. His name was Gerard Bonneville. He had a hyena dæmon who’d lost a leg, and…”

Nugent sat forward.

Papadimitriou said, “How does he fit in? What was he doing?”

“I don’t know whether he matters or not,” said Hannah, “but Malcolm was afraid of the man because of the way his dæmon behaved. On the day of Dr. Al-Kaisy’s dinner, Malcolm told me that he’d seen Bonneville trying to break into the priory the night before… Oh, and the girl Alice had spoken to him, to Bonneville, and she said he’d claimed to be the father of the baby, of Lyra. But do you know anything about him?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Nugent. “We’ve been interested in him for some time. He’s a scientist — an authority on elementary particles. Or used to be. He led a group in Paris researching the Rusakov field, that theory about consciousness that has the Magisterium in such a spin. He wrote a paper arguing that there must be a particle associated with the field, and made the extraordinary claim that Dust could be that particle. The gist of it, as far as I can understand it, was that everything is material and that matter itself is conscious. There’s no need to bring spirit into the discussion. You can see why the Magisterium is keen to shut him up. He was — well, he is — a brilliant mind. And he’s involved with this, with Lyra?”

“But he was in prison,” said Papadimitriou. “Wasn’t there a court case? Some sexual offense?”

“Yes, that was his downfall. Or part of it. I think Marisa Coulter was involved in some way — perhaps she testified against him — we’ll look up the details. And he’s claiming to be Lyra’s father?”

Hannah said, “So I heard from Malcolm, who heard it from the girl Alice. And Mrs. Coulter does know Bonneville.”

“How do you know?”

“She came to my house.”

“What? When?” said Nugent.

She told them what had happened on that afternoon, and how Malcolm had spoken to Mrs. Coulter and deflected her questions. “She clearly did know this Bonneville, but she wouldn’t admit it. She wanted to know where the child was. She didn’t say it was her own daughter, let alone who the father was. It was a strange conversation altogether… Isn’t that someone outside?”

As she said that, there came a knock on the door. Papadimitriou opened it and warmly shook the hand of the man who came in.

“Bud! You made it,” he said. “Well done!”

Nugent got up to welcome him. Schlesinger was a man of thirty or so, lean, with fair hair cut very short and a vivid alertness in his expression. His dæmon was a small owl. His cold-weather clothing seemed wet through.

“Hello,” he said, seeing Hannah. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, I think I am,” said Hannah. “I’ll go now.”

“No, Dr. Relf, stay,” said Nugent. “This is important. Bud, Hannah is one of us. She knows what this is all about, and she’s given us some valuable information. Look, you’re soaked. Come near the fire.”

Schlesinger shook Hannah’s hand and said, “Good to meet you. What are you discussing? Have I missed the best part?”

As Schlesinger took off his outer clothing and sat down next to the fire, Nugent explained the situation, and Hannah listened with professional admiration. An A-plus for that summary, she thought: everything there and in its right relation with everything else, not a redundant word, clarity throughout.

As Lord Nugent spoke, Papadimitriou made a pot of coffee.

“So that’s where we are,” said Nugent as he finished. “Now, what do you have for us?”

Schlesinger sipped his coffee and said, “Plenty. First, the child. Lyra. There’s no doubt she’s the daughter of Coulter and Asriel. No one else involved. We’d heard rumors of some prophecy concerning the child, and we knew that the Magisterium was strongly interested in her, so I went north to find out more. The witches of the Enara region had heard voices in the aurora — that’s how they put it; I gather it’s a metaphor — voices that said that the child was destined to put an end to destiny. That’s all. They didn’t know what that meant, and I sure as hell don’t either. Could be a good thing, could be bad. And the main condition is that she must do this without knowing that she’s doing it. Anyway, the Magisterium heard about this prophecy through their own witch contacts, and immediately set about finding the child. That was when we realized that something important was going on, and when you began to look for somewhere to hide her.”

“That’s right,” said Nugent. “Go on.”

“Now the second thing: Gerard Bonneville. I knew him a little in Paris, and I heard he’d come to the north, so I asked around quietly among the university people I knew. He’d been in prison for this sexual crime, whatever it was, and he was newly released. He’d been dismissed from his academic post, cut off from access to laboratory facilities and technical help, to libraries, to everything a scientist needs. No one would employ him. He was always a difficult guy to work with — demanding, obsessive, and that dæmon was just so goddamn unpleasant… Three legs, huh? Well, she had a full set of legs when I saw Bonneville last. I think Coram van Texel might know something about that. I saw Coram in Sweden — I guess he told you.”

At the mention of Coram van Texel, Hannah glanced at Lord Nugent, who returned her look with bland impassivity.

“But Bonneville saw a way back into favor,” Schlesinger went on. “He knew about the witches’ prophecy, and he thought if he could get hold of the child, he’d be able to bargain with the Magisterium: give me a laboratory, give me all the help I need, and you can have the child and do what you like with her. So that’s what he’s after, and why. And do we know where he is now? What’s the latest you heard?”

“This is surmise,” said Papadimitriou, “but it’s likely that he’s pursuing the boy and the girl who are looking after Lyra. They have a boat — a canoe, I believe — and Hannah thinks they escaped in that. But, Hannah, where would they go? What would they be looking for?”

“Well,” said Hannah, “some time ago now, Malcolm asked me about the idea of sanctuary, because he’d heard about it from one of the nuns, and he asked me if the colleges still offered sanctuary to scholars, and I told him that Jordan used to have some form of it… ”

“We still do,” said Papadimitriou. “Scholastic sanctuary has to be invoked by asking the Master himself. There’s a Latin formula… ”

“So I’m sure Malcolm would try to bring her here,” Hannah said. “But we’ve all seen the way the flood is racing through the city. I don’t think a canoe could make much headway in this sort of torrent. They’d have to go where the flood took them.”

“But a baby is not a scholar,” said Papadimitriou. “It wouldn’t work.”

“If she were granted scholastic sanctuary, though, how safe would it make her?”

“Completely. The law has been tested in the courts, and always found to be impregnable. But, as I say—”

“You know,” said Schlesinger, sitting forward suddenly, excited, “this makes sense of something else I heard in the north. I was asking about a child — I didn’t say girl, on purpose, I said child. Was there a prophecy about a child? And there was one witch — what was she called? Tilda Vasara… Queen Tilda Vasara — she told me she’d heard a prophecy about a boy, so I kind of listened politely, but I was really only interested in what they might have to say about a girl. And she said the voices in the aurora had spoken about a boy who had to carry a treasure to a place of safety. Well, I had no interest in a boy, so I clean forgot it till you started talking about a place of safety. Sanctuary. Could this boy of yours be doing that?”

“Yes!” said Hannah. “It’s just the sort of way he’d think. He’s intensely romantic.”

“But in any case, he hasn’t brought her here,” said Papadimitriou, “so we have to assume that if he was trying to come here, he failed, and they’ve been carried further downstream. What would his next idea be?”

Hannah found all three men looking at her intently, as if they thought she knew. Well, perhaps she did.

“Lord Asriel,” she said. “That night when Lord Asriel came to the priory and saw the baby, and Malcolm lent him his canoe, it made a great impression on him. Malcolm would think that Asriel represented safety for Lyra. I think he’d try and take her to him.”

“Would he know where to find him?” said Papadimitriou.

“I don’t know. I suppose London… but no, I have no idea.”

“Anyway,” said Schlesinger, “I saw Asriel briefly last night in Chelsea. He’s just about to set off for the north again. Even if your Malcolm does get there, Asriel might be gone.”

“Unless the flood holds him up,” said Nugent, standing. He looked suddenly younger, energized, full of purpose. “Well, everything’s clarified. We know what we have to do: we have to set off on the flood and find them before Bonneville does. Bud, how did you travel here?”

“I hired a fast powerboat. I guess the owner’s still around; he said he’s going to try and pick up some work in Oxford.”

“Find him, and set off,” said Nugent. “George, you know the gyptians. Use your contacts. Find a couple of boats, for yourself and for me. The Magisterium will be looking for them too. The CCD has a number of riverboats; they’ll all be concentrating on this. Hannah, put everything else aside and use the alethiometer to search for them.”

“How will I keep in touch with you?” said Hannah.

“You won’t,” said Lord Nugent. “Whether we’re successful or not, you’ll be writing the history in due course. Go home, keep dry and safe, and watch the alethiometer. I’ll find a way of keeping in contact.”