The Book of Dust: The Secret Commonwealth (Book of Dust, Volume 2)

by Philip Pullman

  “Yes,” she said easily. “Once I get there, I’ll be safe.”

  “Well, I wish you good luck. Sincerely. And remember, the Authority never wishes for his creation to be split apart. You were created with a dæmon, and he is somewhere now longing to be reunited with you. When that happens, nature will be restored a little, and the Authority will be happy.”

  “Is he happy that those poor Tajik people have to live like that?”

  “No, no. The world is not an easy place, Tatiana. There are trials we are sent….”

  She stood up, surprised at the effort it took, and had to hold on to the back of her chair.

  “You’re not well,” he said, and his tone was gentle.

  “No.”

  “I…”

  He stood too, and clasped his hands together. His face was expressing a whole sequence of thoughts and feelings, and he even made a curious writhing movement as if he wanted to burst out of chains or shackles.

  “What is it?” Lyra said.

  He said, “Sit down again. I haven’t told you the full…I haven’t told you the truth. Please. Sit down. I shall try.”

  He was plainly moved. He was struggling against something, and at the same time ashamed to reveal it.

  Lyra sat down, watching every expression that came and went on the priest’s face.

  “Your Tajik friends,” he said quietly, “their dæmons will have been sold.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “What? Did you say sold? People sell their dæmons?”

  “It’s poverty,” he said. “There’s a market for dæmons. Medical knowledge here is quite advanced, unlike other things. Big corporations are behind it. They say the medical companies are experimenting here before expanding into the European market. There’s a surgical operation….Many people survive it now. Parents will sell their children’s dæmons for money to stay alive. It’s technically illegal, but big money brushes the law aside….When the children grow up, they’re not full citizens, being incomplete. Hence their names, and the occupations they have to take up.

  “There are dealers….I know where—I can even tell you where to find them. This is not knowledge I’m proud of transmitting. In fact, every bone in my body is rebelling….I can’t forgive myself for knowing this. There are men who can supply a dæmon for those who are without one. It sounds atrocious. It sounds absurd. When I first heard about it, when I moved to this living, to look after this chapel, I thought it was something fit only for the confessional, and I admit I suffered—I struggled to believe it. But I have heard it from several quarters. People tell priests things like this. It seems that if a person such as yourself, who has suffered in this way, suffered the loss of a dæmon, if such a person has enough money, they can call on the services of a dealer who will supply them with…will sell them a dæmon who will pass as their own. I have seen a few people in that condition. They have a dæmon; she, he goes everywhere with them, appears to be close and understanding, but—”

  “You can tell,” said his own robin dæmon. Her voice was sweet and quiet. “They look disconnected, in some deep way. It’s very disturbing.”

  “I struggled with this,” the priest went on. “Struggled to understand it and come to terms with it, but…my bishop gave me no guidance. The Magisterium denies that this is happening, but I know it is.”

  “It’s not possible,” said Lyra, “surely! Why would any dæmon agree to pretend to belong to someone else? They’re us. They’re part of us. They must miss us just as we miss them. Have you ever been separate from your dæmon?”

  He shook his head. His dæmon said something quietly, and he took her in both hands and brought her close to his face.

  “And why do the dæmons stay with strangers? How could they bear it?”

  “It might be better than to remain where they are…where they’ve been severed.”

  “And…dealers?” Lyra went on. “Is this allowed? Are they licensed or something?”

  “I’ve heard…,” he began, and then, “This is speculation and rumor, you understand….Well, some of the dæmons they sell are those removed from the Tajiks. The majority of them die, apparently, but—and this is very much an underground, you know, illicit sort of transaction—but the authorities turn a blind eye to it because the corporations behind it are more powerful than politics now. Oh, you spoke the truth when you said this was a horrible place, Tatiana.”

  “Tell me more about the Blue Hotel,” said Lyra.

  He looked unhappy.

  “Please,” she added. “I’ve come a very long way to find my dæmon. If he’s anywhere near here, then I must keep him away from those dealers. And if the Blue Hotel is a place where dæmons go, it must be safe for them. Where is it? What is it? What do you know about it?”

  He sighed. “People keep away from it,” he said, “out of fear…I do believe there are evil powers involved. As far as I’ve heard—I had one parishioner who went to look for it out of curiosity, and he came back marked, changed, diminished….It’s not a hotel. That’s just a euphemism. It’s a dead town. One of hundreds. I have no idea why it’s known as the Blue Hotel. But something rules there, something attracts dæmons, maybe dæmons who’ve been severed and then escaped….It is not a good place, Tatiana. I’m convinced of that. Please don’t…”

  “Where can I find one of these dealers?”

  He put his head in his hands and cried, “I wish I had said nothing!”

  “I’m glad you did. Where can I find them?”

  “Everything about this is illegal, immoral. Everything is dangerous. Both legally and spiritually. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, but I still want to know. Where do I go? What do I ask for? Do they have a special name for these people, for this transaction?”

  “Are you determined to do this?”

  “It’s the only clue I’ve had. Yes, of course I’m determined, and so would you be. These people who buy dæmons—how do they find the dealers? Please, Mr. Burnaby—Jerome—if you don’t tell me everything you know, I might fall into even more danger. Is there a special place they go to? A particular marketplace, a café, something like that?”

  He murmured something, and Lyra was about to ask him to say it again when she realized that he was talking to his dæmon. And it was the dæmon who answered.

  “There is a hotel near the docks,” she said. “It’s called the Park Hotel, though there’s no park nearby. People in your condition do go there and take rooms for a few days. Dealers will hear about it and call on them. The hotel management is discreet, but they charge a high price.”

  “The Park Hotel,” Lyra repeated. “Thank you. I’ll go there. What street is it on?”

  “A backstreet called Osman Sokak,” said Burnaby. “Near the swing bridge.”

  “Osman…”

  “Osman Sokak. An alley, really.”

  Lyra stood up. This time she felt steadier. “I’m most grateful,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Burnaby.”

  “I can imagine how difficult it must be to find yourself in your position—but I beg you, please simply go home.”

  “There’s nothing simple about going home.”

  “No,” he said. “It was too easy to say.”

  “And I’m not going to buy a dæmon. That would be a horrible transaction.”

  “I should never—” He shook his head and went on, “If at any point you need help, please call on me.”

  “That’s kind of you. I’ll remember. But I’ll go now, Father Burnaby.”

  She remembered the veil with a sigh. She carefully arranged it across the bridge of her nose and around the back and over the top of her head, tucking the ends inside. She checked herself in the mirror over his hall table: it looked neat enough. And safe. And nullifying.

  She shook the priest’s hand and left the coolness of his
house for the heat of the morning, and began to walk doggedly towards the docks. She could see the tall necks of cranes in the quivering distance, and possibly the masts of ships as well, so that was clearly the way to go. “Osman Sokak,” she repeated to herself.

  If she hadn’t already discovered that this city was a less agreeable place than Smyrna, the walk to the docks would have convinced her. No one seemed to have ever had the thought of planting a tree or cultivating some bushes or even a patch of grass, or of making the neighborhoods places for pleasure or comfort and not just stonyhearted business. The sun blazed down on the dusty streets with nothing to mitigate its glare. There were no benches to rest on, not even at the infrequent bus stops, and no cafés either, it seemed. If you wanted to rest, you would have to sit on the ground, and find what shade you could between the buildings, most of which were blank-faced factories or warehouses or dingy apartment blocks. The only shops were small and functional, their goods laid out with a casual indifference in the full sun, vegetables wilting in the heat or bread gathering the dust of the traffic. The citizens moved about without looking at one another, their heads down, unwilling to acknowledge anyone or anything. And everywhere, patrols: the police cruising slowly in their blue vans, soldiers on foot, sauntering, guns held across their chests.

  Through it all, increasingly weary and painful and oppressed, Lyra moved grimly towards the docks. When she found the little backstreet called Osman Sokak, she was nearly ready to weep, but she managed to keep her composure as she entered the shabby building that called itself Par Hotel, the k having fallen off and disappeared.

  The desk clerk was both torpid and sullen, but a flash of reptilian interest seemed to spark deep in his lizard dæmon’s eyes as she noticed that Lyra had no dæmon. No doubt the clerk would earn a commission when he spread the word that a customer had arrived. He gave Lyra the key to a room on the first floor and left her to find the way herself.

  Once inside the hot little room, she tore off the veil and flung it into the corner, and lay down carefully on the bed: carefully because her injuries were merging into a single great pain, which felt not as if it were in her but as if she were in it. She felt sick and desolate. After crying a little she fell asleep.

  She woke an hour later to find tears still on her cheeks, and to hear someone knocking at the door.

  “Wait a moment,” she called, and hastily arranged the veil.

  She opened the door a little way. A middle-aged man in a suit stood there, with a briefcase in one hand.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “You are English, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am in a position to help you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Selim Veli. In fact, Dr. Selim Veli.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “You do not have something very necessary, and I can supply what you need. May I come into your room and explain?”

  His own dæmon was a parrot, who was watching Lyra from his shoulder with her head cocked. Lyra wondered if she was really his own dæmon or one that he himself had bought; and knew that she would normally be able to tell at once, but all her certainties were dissolving now.

  “Wait a moment,” she said, and shut the door before making sure her stick was near to hand.

  She opened the door again and let him in. He was formal and correct in manner, his clothes were clean and recently pressed, and his shoes gleamed.

  “Please sit down, Dr. Veli,” she said.

  He took the only chair, and she sat on the bed.

  “I don’t know whether this is conventionally approved of,” she said, “but I’m not used to wearing a niqab, and I’m going to take this one off.”

  He nodded gravely. His eyes widened a little when he saw her injured face, but he said nothing.

  “Tell me what you came for,” she said.

  “The loss of a dæmon is a grave event in anyone’s life. In many cases it is even fatal. The need exists for a supplier of what is wanted by those who have no dæmon, and I can fulfill that need.”

  “I want to find my dæmon.”

  “Of course you do, and I hope with all my heart that you are successful. How long has he been gone?”

  “A month…more.”

  “And you are still in good health, apart from…” He gestured delicately towards her face.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there is every likelihood that your dæmon will be too. What is his name, and what form does he have?”

  “Pantalaimon. He’s a pine marten. Where do you acquire the dæmons that you sell?”

  “They come to me. It is a purely voluntary transaction. There are dealers, I regret to say, who buy and sell dæmons taken by force, or without consent.”

  “You mean the dæmons that belong to the poor Tajiks?”

  “Tajiks, yes, sometimes others. They are regarded with disgust and scorn for selling their dæmons, but if you have seen how poor people are forced to live, you will not withhold your compassion. I have nothing to do with that business. I will not touch it.”

  “So your dæmons came by themselves.”

  “I represent only dæmons who have freely decided to sever their previous connection.”

  “And how much do you charge?”

  “It depends on the age, the appearance, the form….Other characteristics come into play as well. Languages spoken, social background…We aim for a close match, you see. There is always the risk that the person from whom the dæmon was severed will die, in which case the dæmon also will pass away. I can offer an insurance policy against that, which will cover the cost of a replacement.”

  Lyra was sickened, but made herself say, “And what is the price?”

  “For a dæmon of the highest quality, closely matched, the price would be ten thousand dollars.”

  “And the very cheapest?”

  “I do not deal in poor-quality dæmons. Other dealers would charge you less, no doubt. You would have to engage with them.”

  “But if I were to bargain with you?”

  “Ah, a price is a number on which we must both agree.” His manner was that of a high-class merchant discussing the purchase of a fine work of craftsmanship.

  “And how do people get on with their new dæmons?” she said.

  “Every case is different, of course. Clients take a risk. With goodwill on both sides, a satisfactory arrangement can be reached in time. The aim is a modus vivendi which will pass muster in normal social circumstances. The perfect oneness and sympathy that each party has lost, that they had from birth…I would be lying if I said that was always reached. But a sort of satisfactory tolerance and even, in time, affection is certainly possible.”

  Lyra stood up and walked to the window. The afternoon was a long way advanced; the pain she felt was not in the least abated; the heat was nearly intolerable.

  “In the nature of this kind of transaction,” the dealer continued, “there can hardly be any possibility of advertising. But it may be of interest to you to know the names of some satisfied clients.”

  “Well, who have you sold dæmons to?”

  “To Signor Amedea Cipriani, the Chairman of the Banco Genovese. To Madame Françoise Guillebaud, Secretary General of the European Forum for Economic Understanding. To Professor Gottfried Brande—”

  “What? To Brande?”

  “As I said, Professor Gottfried Brande, the distinguished German philosopher.”

  “I’ve read his books. He’s a profound skeptic.”

  “Even skeptics need to move about in the world, to appear normal. I found him a fine German shepherd bitch, very like his own original dæmon, he told me.”

  “But him…How ever did he come to lose his dæmon?”

  “That was a private matter, and no concern of mine.”


  “But in one of his books he says dæmons don’t exist.”

  “That is a question to be discussed between him and his followers. I daresay he will not make public the fact that he has made this transaction.”

  “No,” she said, feeling slightly dazed. “And how do the dæmons feel about being bought and sold?”

  “They are in a condition of loneliness and desolation. They are grateful to be introduced to someone who will care for them.”

  Lyra tried to imagine Pan coming to this dealer, being sold to some lonely woman, trying to fit into a stranger’s life, to feign affection, to receive confidences, all the while putting up with physical contact from someone who would always be a stranger. A lump came to her throat and tears to her eyes, and she turned away for a moment.

  “Well, I have another question,” she said after a pause. “How can I get to the Blue Hotel?”

  She turned back to see him a little surprised. He gathered himself almost at once and said, “I have no idea. I have never been there myself. I am inclined to believe that no such place exists.”

  “But you have heard of it?”

  “Of course. Rumor, superstition, gossip…”

  “Well, that’s all I need to know. Goodbye, Dr. Veli.”

  “With your permission, I shall leave a small selection of photograms. And my card.” He leant forward and spread out some pictures on the bed.

  “Thank you and goodbye,” she said.

  With a bow, the dealer left. Lyra picked up one of the photograms. It showed a cat dæmon, his fur patchy and thin, standing in a silver cage. As far as she could tell, his expression was one of rage and defiance.

  Stuck to the bottom of the picture was a label on which some typed words said: