When readers last saw Lyra in The Secret Commonwealth, she was
alone in a ruined city, her dæmon Pantalaimon gone in search of her
lost imagination. Now, in The Rose Field, Lyra’s journey to find him
intertwines with Malcolm’s, as both travel east along the Silk Roads
toward a mysterious red building said to hold the answers to Dust,
the roses, and imagination itself. Pursued by the Magisterium and
aided by spies, thieves, gryphons, witches, and old friends, Lyra
must confront fear, power, and love – and defend the secret that
could change their world forever.
She washed herself as well as she could in the little basin with its lukewarm water, and looked in the mirror dispassionately. The bruises on her face were fading, but she was tanned by the sun, and her cheeks and the bridge of her nose not far off from being actually burnt, so she must find some cream or ointment to deal with that. A broad-brimmed hat would help too.
She spread a very little of the rose salve on her nose and lips, her cheekbones and forehead. Then she sat down and thought about Ionides.
He’d been very helpful so far, but could she trust him any further? This part of the world was completely new to her, whereas Ionides was at home with the languages here, and the customs, and the modes of travel. Could she manage without his guidance? She could probably afford it. She still had most of the gold that Farder Coram had given her. Ionides hadn’t let her down yet, and besides, she liked him.
The man at Marletto’s, this Mustafa Bey whom Bud Schlesinger had recommended. She didn’t know what to do. The alethiometer would have helped her decide, of course; even without the books, and without risking the sickness and disorientation of the new method, she’d have gained something from it; her knowledge of the symbols was much greater than it had been, and just to hold it would have given her thoughts something to focus on. And now it was gone.
But she still had the glass, and the needle. If she didn’t find something safe to keep them in, though, she might not have them for long. The glass was merely a glass (she supposed), but the needle . . . She took it very carefully out of the pocket it was in, and laid it in the centre of a piece of scrap paper, which she folded over and over till the needle couldn’t slip out, and put it in a compartment of her rucksack.
Then she thought of the old gentleman on the train, and the cards he’d given her. She took out the pack and shuffled it and spread the cards face down on the bed beside her. Now what could she do? The alethiometer worked by blending the meanings of three symbols. Should she pick three cards? Or just one? Or what?
She chose one and turned it over. It showed a man behind a barricade trying to defend it from a group of soldiers, against a background of gunfire and bursting shells. She looked at it despondently for a minute or so, and gathered the cards together again.
Ionides sprang to his feet as soon as he saw her come downstairs.
“He bore himself with such confidence and brio
that Lyra felt herself to be acting a part too.”
‘Miss Silver! Now I am your guide and guardian for the journey to Marletto’s Café. May I ask if you are hoping to see the well-known and respected Mustafa Bey?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘It was a guess purely and entirely. A traveller of your consequence would of course wish to pay her respects to such an important gentleman, and Marletto’s is where he is to be found. It is as good as a headquarters for his multitude of enterprises.’
He held open the hotel door and walked along beside her with the air of a senior courtier accompanying a princess. He looked no different from the ragged and none-too-clean individual who had first appeared outside her hotel room in Seleukeia, but he bore himself with such confidence and brio that Lyra felt herself to be acting a part too, and enjoying the attention of other passersby. Most of those who looked at her were disconcerted, of course, by her lack of a dæmon, but she remembered the woman she’d seen in Amsterdam, strolling along magnificently indifferent to the hostile stares of other people, and she remembered Farder Coram’s advice too, to bear herself like a queen.
‘Mr Ionides,’ she said.
‘I am all ears,’ he declared.
‘From now on my name is Tatiana Iorekova. I am a queen of the witches of Novaya Zemlya. You are a magician from Prague, and you are in my service.’
‘Ah! I completely understand. This is how I shall present you to Mustafa Bey, no?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And what is my name?’
‘Magister Parathanasius.’
‘Parathanasius. A fine name, which I shall strive to deserve. How should I address you, Queen Tatiana?’
‘Like that. Say Queen Tatiana, may I present His Excellency Mustafa Bey?’
‘Not “Your Majesty”?’
‘No. We witches live plainly and without ceremony. Ah! – Wait here.’ She had noticed something in the window of a dress shop, and went inside. After a minute she came out with a length of narrow scarlet ribbon.
‘That for me or for you?’ said Ionides.
She smiled, which surprised him, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember the last time a smile had come to her face. She tied the ribbon around her head, across the middle of her brow, and let the ends fall in front of her right ear.
Ionides watched critically, and said, ‘You permit?’
She nodded, and he adjusted the ribbon slightly.
‘There. Very royal. What my name again?’
‘Parathanasius. Magister. Like Maestro. Master Parathanasius.’
‘From Prague.’
‘That’s right.’
He looked around. The street was busy; it was a late morning in a prosperous cosmopolitan city, and no one knew they were in the presence of a queen and a magician.
Extracted from The Rose Field: The Book of Dust Volume Three by Philip Pullman, out now.
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