Chapter Twenty-Five High Mountain Cradle #3
“Let’s go somewhere a little more comfortable, and discuss the matter,” said the older man, and held out Bonneville’s shoes. “You might like to put these on first.”
Bonneville took them without a word and sat down to put them on. His socks were still hanging from the window bars, sopping wet. The older man saw them and said, “I think we can find you a clean pair, Mr. Bonneville.”
“I have been scandalously mistreated.”
“These are difficult times,” said the officer, and his soothing voice made Bonneville think that his own tone was peevish and feeble. He resolved to speak more firmly.
“I need my rucksack, and everything that was in it,” he said.
“We shall discuss it all. Follow me, please.”
He lifted his daemon from the bunk, and the officer led him along the cold corridor to an office that probably wasn’t his, because he had to wait for the other guard to unlock the door for him.
The first thing Bonneville saw was the alethiometer, undamaged, in the middle of the blotter on the desk.
His other property was nearby, his clothes folded neatly.
Everything that should be there was there.
There was also an anbaric heater glowing in the fireplace, and he sat on the chair in front of the desk and held out his hands to the warmth.
The officer dismissed the guard and sat down behind the desk.
“You claimed to be an envoy of the Presidential Council of the Magisterium. It did not take long to discover that was a lie. You absconded from the custody of the nuncio in Aleppo, and before that, you stole this instrument and two of these books from the Palais de Justice in Geneva. You are urgently sought by agents acting directly for Monsieur Marcel Delamare, the President of the General Assembly of the Magisterium. What have you got to say to that?”
“Firstly, that I feel reassured, Colonel, to have fallen into the hands of someone who clearly understands the importance of my mission—”
“I am not a colonel. Address me as Brigadier.”
“I beg your pardon. And I understand the purpose of your question, which was to test whether I was truly who I claimed to be. The Magisterial Council is not called the Presidential Council, nor is it called the General Assembly of the Magisterium; and the building in Geneva is not the Palais de Justice but La Maison Juste. Have I passed the test?”
As soon as he said that, Bonneville imagined a crevasse opening under his feet. Perhaps, since he’d left, they had made all these changes, and he’d fallen into a horrible trap.
But the brigadier merely smiled and nodded. “Good,” he said, and the ground closed up again. “Now tell me about this instrument.”
“It is an alethiometer—”
“I know that much. What is it doing in your possession?”
“I am the Magisterium’s appointed reader. It’s in my care, not in my possession. I am traveling east, using it as a guide, in order to find a certain young woman, who has stolen another instrument like this, intending to use it to find a great treasure, which rightfully belongs to the Magisterium.”
“ ‘A certain young woman’? The same one mentioned recently by the President?”
“Of course the same one.”
“Can you prove that the instrument was given into your care? That you are the authorized reader?”
“The proof is that it is in my care.”
“You might have stolen it.”
“Another proof is that I can read it, and no one else can.”
“Go on, then. Read me what you judge to be the truth about the desert of Karamakan, and about that young woman. Where she is now, for instance?”
“I can’t do that here. I need a room away from noise and disturbance.
I need something palatable to eat and drink, a table and a comfortable chair, pencils and paper, and access to a bathroom.
I also need enough time to formulate the questions and interpret the answers, and the assurance that I shall be free to leave when I’ve done that, taking with me everything I brought here, including the alethiometer. ”
“You may have most of that, except the bathroom. Do you think this is a first-class hotel? And you have my assurance that whether your answer is true or not, if it fails to convince me in any detail, I shall hand you over to the civil police. Without the alethiometer, and without shoes.”
“Very well,” said Bonneville, who knew he had no choice.
They locked him in a room with only one window, with frosted glass, and time went by.
It was days since he’d engaged with the alethiometer and the new method, and the usual difficulties occurred; but he persevered.
This room was noisier than the cell he’d been in, and the sounds of stamping and the slamming of doors and shouted orders might have distracted a less-accomplished reader.
At one point a gyropter flew down and landed not far away, followed by more shouting, more stamping; he ignored it all.
Sometime later the brigadier threw open the door and said, “Well?”
Bonneville lifted his eyes languidly and said, “I haven’t finished.”
“You’ve had an hour.”
“I need longer.”
“That should be long enough.”
“You have no idea of the complexity—”
The brigadier slammed the door hard, staying in the room. Bonneville flinched.
“I’m not interested in your complexities,” the brigadier snapped. “You claim to be an expert. What have you discovered?”
Bonneville sighed with sympathy, but without contempt. He was pleased with his ability to do that so accurately, but then the brigadier kicked his chair away and sent him sprawling.
“Come on! Get up! You’re wasting my time and yours. Tell me what you’ve found out about Karamakan.”
Luckily, Bonneville had not been holding the alethiometer, or it might have fallen and smashed. He got up carefully and sat down, trembling only slightly. His face, the brigadier noticed, was very pale, and he looked nauseous.
“The research station is occupied again,” Bonneville said as steadily as he could.
“Who by?”
“I haven’t had time to see. As far as I can make out, one of the former investigators has returned. There is no way of telling his name. He, or they, have been experimenting. That’s all I can find out.”
“And the girl? The renegade?”
“She is not far away. I don’t know where we are, mind you. Where are we?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“It would help.”
The brigadier opened the frosted-glass window, which only disclosed a brick wall an arm’s length away. He breathed deeply and turned back.
“Tell me where she is,” he said. “You can tell that, because you’ve said she’s not far away. Tell me more.”
“As far as I can make out, she’s at the edge of—I suppose it’s the Caspian Sea. A coast, anyway, in mountainous country. She’s not alone.”
“Who else, then?”
“Well, that’s what I need more time for.”
The brigadier said, “Are you feeling unwell?”
“Yes. As I tried to tell you, this process is physically and intellectually demanding in the highest degree. It can’t be rushed. There are physical…costs.”
“You should have asked to use the bathroom.”
“I completely agree. I asked you about a bathroom, if you remember. Your attitude made it clear that you didn’t care whether I used a bathroom or not. As a result, I had to vomit into that wastepaper bin at your feet.”
The brigadier moved away. “You have to be sick every time you use it?”
“Not always. In cases of exceptional difficulty, I have to cope with nausea.”
The brigadier strode to the door and opened it. “The bathroom is to the left, along the corridor. Dispose of…” He indicated the wastepaper bin. “That. Then come to my office, and bring the instrument and your notes.”
He left. After a minute Bonneville followed him. He left the wastepaper bin where it was.
He found the brigadier standing outside his door, waiting for him; and as soon as Bonneville was in the room, the brigadier came in and locked the door behind him.
Bonneville couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. In the chair behind the desk, watching him with an expression of calm indulgence, was Marcel Delamare.