Near Cittagazze
It is mid-morning, and already the sun is beginning to feel oppressively hot in the hills above the town of Cittagazze. Giancarlo and Guilietta are sleeping, arms wrapped around each other, in the shade of a walnut tree which nestles in the bed of a narrow gully.
They stumbled into this small gap between the hills two hours earlier, searching desperately for water. They found it; a rill flowing between the rocks in the bottom of the valley, just as Giancarlo was beginning to think that they would have to return to the town and surrender to Signor Fratelli. His sister was showing visible signs of distress, clinging to him and crying softly.
Giancarlo knows that they cannot stay long in this oasis. They made slow progress during the night and early morning and are probably still only two or three miles from the town and their pursuers.
Their pursuers… They are men without scruples, who will not hesitate to take advantage of any weaknesses in himself or his father or sister. Was he right to abandon his father to them? It was an impossible choice and his dreams are haunted by the fear that he may have chosen wrongly.
A cloud passes over the sun, and Giancarlo is woken by the sudden chill. He groans, as he realises that he has been lying against a stone and it has dug into his side. They cannot stay here much longer; they must find food and shelter soon.
'Guili. Guili, wake up.'
'Carlo?'
'Guili, it's time we were going. Come on, sweetheart, up we get.'
Protesting feebly, Guilietta allows herself to be pulled to her feet.
'Please, where are we going?'
'We've got to keep moving. The bad men are still after us.'
This is not going well, Giancarlo tells himself. We should have found a safe place before the sun got too high. Now we must walk in the hottest part of the day, even though we are tired and hungry. In summer, their escape would have been impossible.
They follow the stream up the cleft, stopping to drink as much as they can. They do not know when they will next find water. Motioning to his sister to lie flat, Giancarlo climbs to the top of the slope of the gorge and, keeping as low as he can and covering his eyes with his hand, scans the countryside towards the town, trying to catch sight of the men he knows will be out looking for them. He takes his time, alert to the slightest sign of movement.
Nothing so far. Giancarlo returns to the foot of the slope he has just climbed. Together they clamber up the other side, away from Cittagazze.
Two hours later, and their situation is becoming desperate. Guilietta's feet are bleeding from walking without shoes, despite the soft grassy ground. Giancarlo is finding it increasingly difficult to think straight. The sun is behind them, which is a mercy, but its heat and glare are reflected back from the ground, making their eyes burn and their bare heads thump with pain. To make things worse, there is very little cover here on the tops of the hills, yet Giancarlo knows that if they descend into the twisting, turning valleys they will quickly become lost.
'Can we stop. Please?'
'No, Guili, we must go on.'
'But it hurts so…'
'Come here, now.' She staggers towards him. He knows that she is not far from collapse so, stepping forwards, he takes his sister in his arms and gently lifts her across his shoulders.
'Not far to go.'
'Really?'
'Yes, not far. Try to sleep.' The girl weighs next to nothing, it seems, but he knows that she will soon become an impossible burden as he weakens under the onslaught of heat, fatigue and hunger.
'Not far.'
Colombo, Sri Lanka
'Oh Christ!'
This unexpected profanity wakes Mary Malone, who is startled, but not altogether surprised, to find that she is not in her own room, nor her own bed. Let's see, who did I end up with? she thinks and unwisely lifts her head from the pillow.
'Ouch!' This is going to be one hell of a hangover. It was, after all, one hell of a party. She turns to her companion, a middle-aged man whose hair appears to have deserted the top of his head under the malign influence of gravity and landed on his chest. Who is it? Peter? Jim? That nice chemist from San Diego?
Oh, no. Oh shit! It's Roger. Roger the Dodger. Professor Roger Dexter, of the University of Liverpool, and the most notorious philanderer on the conference circuit. How on earth could she have let this happen?
'Hi, babycakes,' pronounces Roger, in what he probably believes to be a low, sexy drawl.
'Roger! I can't believe my luck!' That is certainly true…
'How do you feel, gorgeous?'
'Terrible!'
'That was some party, huh?' Hell's teeth, is this man for real? 'I feel great!'
'Then why are you holding your head in both hands?'
'Thinking. Remembering you, last night.'
'Oh give it a rest!'
'You didn't.' True enough. Mary is discovering aches and sore bits that shouldn't be there. We must have been pretty energetic last night! 'Get me a cup of tea, would you?'
'Just a mo.' Roger climbs out of bed, hastily dons a towelling dressing gown, and heads for the bathroom. So it's up to me, is it? thinks Mary, but is in no mood to argue. She throws a spare dressing gown over herself, lurches over to the table where the hospitality tray is and switches on the kettle. The tea will be foul – tea-bags and powdered milk – but right now anything warm and wet will do. When Roger eventually returns, hair carefully combed over his bald patch, she hands him a cup and he slurps it gratefully.
'Good in bed, and makes a decent cup of tea too. Mary – I think it's love!'
'Stuff it, Roger!' Mary fends off a hand which is trying to tug at the belt of her dressing gown. The old goat! Still, it's flattering, receiving this sort of attention at her age. Even if it's only from Roger the Dodger.
They sit together on the bed, sipping at their tea and trying to avoid making any sudden movements. How many clubs did they visit? And how many vodka-and-tonics did she drink? Mary suspects that she would rather not know the answers to those questions. She can vaguely remember demonstrating the moves of the Funky Chicken to a group of postgraduate students who weren't born when Rufus Thomas was at the height of his fame. It went down quite well, she seems to recall.
Then there was a taxi back to the hotel, and Roger Dexter with her in the back seat, and more drinks in the bar, and the blatant pass that she was inclined to laugh off but was also, in an odd way, welcome too, and staggering up the stairs to the first floor and into Roger's room and her discovery that the things that were whispered about his, er, proclivities, were all true…
What else? Oh yes, Will called. And she said she'd do a bit of research for him. Well. She could pick up her phone and google for the information he needs, but that would only be public information. Perhaps she can get something more out of this casual encounter. After all, Roger Dexter holds the Chair of Materials Science at Liverpool, and hers is most definitely a materials science question.
I'd better look coy when I ask this, she thinks.
'Roger?'
'Yes, babe? Ready for more?'
This is just not possible! Will, you owe me a big one for this!
'Just a minute, tiger!'
'Why wait?'
Mary bows to the inevitable. Later, as they lie sweatily entangled on the bed, she finally gets to ask her question.
'Roger?'
'Yes, sweetums?'
'Tell me, ooof! Stop it! Be serious for a moment! Do you know anyone in the UK who's making significant quantities of buckminsterfullerene?'
Oxford
Dream, and Imagination. Imagination, and Dream. They are siblings; they walk hand in hand, they breathe the same air. They share the same secrets.
Will Parry, asleep in his Oxford flat, treads the path of Dream, guided by the power of Imagination, following the trail the angels have blazed for him. And in that other Oxford, Lizzie Boreal, Lyra Belacqua's half-sister, is found in REM sleep and stirs, her lips subvocalising the words which only Will and Kirjava can hear.
Kirjava and Lizzie's serpent-daemon Parander are wide awake. The daemons are the key. The key to bridging the gap – microscopically narrow, yet infinitely wide – between the worlds.
'Lizzie, something happened today. Something different. Something important.'
'What was it?'
'It's the Knife – or something like the Knife. There was a man brought in today who could easily have been been Knife-cut.' Will describes Jack Farrell's injuries. 'I spoke to Mary, and she's going to look into it for me, but it may not be enough. Lizzie, I've got a favour to beg of you. Could you ask Lyra to…'
'Read the alethiometer?'
'Yes. It might help.'
'You know it's terribly hard for her.' It used to be so beautifully, gracefully easy.
'I know. And I'd ask her myself, but…'
'I know. Yes, I'll ask her. You know who could tell us if it really was the Knife.'
'Giancarlo. I know. But we can't reach him. I've not seen him for, oh, six years now.'
'I wonder how he is?'
Near Cittagazze
It is late afternoon when Giancarlo spots the wisp of smoke rising from behind a clump of pine trees to the north. He stops, places the sleeping Guilietta carefully on the ground, and peers through the trees. He can just make out the outline of a cottage. He does not know whether the people in the cottage will help them or not, but he has little choice in the matter. He covers his sister with her wrap and pushes through the trees to the waiting cottage.