The Reception

King Alfred stood outside the doors of the Amber Hall, waiting for his equerry to make sure that all the delegates were assembled within. He could imagine all the fussing about that was taking place; important people who were not used to being ordered about by underlings did not take kindly to being made to stand in a line and wait. It was all down to protocol, the same protocol that determined that the reigning monarch should be the last person to enter a room (except for servitors) and the first to leave.

'No king is above the law, eh?' He stroked Eleanor behind the ears. She growled softly.

'Ready, sire.' The doors opened.

Alfred looked up and down the receiving line. Some of the faces were familiar, some not so familiar. He walked slowly up to the first. The equerry performed the introductions.

'His Reverence Monsignor Jones, Bishop of Caester.'

'Hello Geoff. Glad to see you. And this is?'

'Fra Pavel, my personal chaplain, your majesty. He will be attending the Council with me.'

'Trust you Church chaps to slip in another delegate on the sly. All perfectly within the rules, I'm sure. You are welcome to Westminster, Fra Pavel.'

'Your majesty.' Alfred moved on.

'Lord Dellar, Admiral of the Fleet, Chief of Staff.'

'Brian. You're back from Kathay, then?'

'Got back last week, your majesty. Looking forward to the Council. What've you got for us this time?'

'It's wait and see, I'm afraid.'

'Yes, sire.'

'Mister Arthur Shire, chief seer of the Brytish Gyptian Council.'

'Mister Shire, how do you do? I remember Mister Coram, your predecessor, with much affection.'

The little man smiled briefly. 'He was a good man, your majesty. A very good man.'

'And very gifted too. You have a great deal to live up to, do you not?'

'We shall do our best, sire.'

'Sir Kenneth Wilkins, KC.' The judge was arrayed in his full robes of office, scarlet and gold.

'No black cap today!'

'No, your majesty.'

'I don't think you'll be needing it here.'

'I certainly hope not, sire.' Sir Kenneth was not blessed with a sense of humour.

'Sir Patrick McCormack, Chairman of the Boreal Foundation.'

'Sir Patrick. Glad you could spare us some time from making all those pots of money for the Treasury.'

'It is a privilege to be able to support your government in its good work with our tax contributions, your majesty.' I'm sure it is!

'What's good for the Boreal Foundation is good for Brytain, eh, Sir Patrick?'

'Indeed it is, sire.'

The king reached the end of the line. There was only one delegate remaining.

'Lady Lyra Belacqua, Professor of Jordan College, Oxford.' A woman? They've sent a woman?

The slight figure standing before him was dressed in severe academic black and white, with her honey-coloured hair constrained in a tight bun at the back of her neck. She curtseyed neatly and looked up to him with bespectacled pale-blue eyes.

'Your majesty.'

'Lady Belacqua. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I trust you had a pleasant journey from Oxford.'

'It was… interesting, sire.'

'Welcome to London. Have you been here before?'

'Yes sire, but it was many years ago.'

'You must let one of my people show you round. You may find that quite a lot has changed since you were last here. Have you spent much time away from Oxford?'

'No sire. I have travelled very little.'

'Well, perhaps we can change that. Look, they've set up a sort of buffet in here, I believe. Shall we go and see what they've laid on for us?'

'I should be delighted, sire.'

Lyra; later, pacing in her room. 'Oh Pan, I wish we'd never agreed to come! I felt so…insignificant! All those important men, freezing us out or patronising us. Or not talking to us at all.'

'Except for the most important one.'

'The King. Yes.' Lyra sat down. 'Why did he talk to me so much? What was he after?'

'You?'

'Me?'

'Didn't you notice? The way he looked at you?'

'You mean he's not interested in my qualifications or abilities at all? He just wants me for a mistress?'

'No. That's not it. Not all of it, anyway. How did he strike you?'

'He was… nice. That's the best word for it. Not terribly clever, but nice. Kind and considerate. He put me at my ease straight away.'

'Not clever. Hmmm. Are you sure about that?' Lyra thought. The tall figure, slightly stooped as if he was used to ducking his head in doorways, or having to look downwards to speak to people. The iron-grey hair, the slightly mocking tone of his voice. The languid gestures he used, the lazy smile that was never far from his lips, his spectacularly beautiful daemon. All these things were inviting her to underestimate him…

'No, I'm not sure.'

Alfred; later, in the State Apartments in the Palace of Westminster.

'What the hell's going on, Eleanor? What are Jordan playing at?'

'Be careful with Professor Belacqua. They may be more to her than there appears.'

'I will be. But why have Jordan sent us a junior professor, still wet behind the ears?'

'She's thirty-five.'

'She's a kid when it comes to politics. She may know all about her subject – she may be a world authority in it for all I know – but she'll be completely out of her depth in a Council. That lot'll eat her up and spit her out!'

'Jordan wouldn't have sent her if they didn't think she would give a good account of herself. They're not stupid.'

The king paused. 'They're not, are they? Do you think they want to influence me in… in another way?'

'You like her, don't you?'

'Yes, very much.'

'You could be tempted?'

'I could, but I'm not sure that she would consent.'

'That's part of her appeal, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course. But, for heaven's sake, Jordan wouldn't be that crude, would they?'

'They might. They might, for example, know about Elizabeth.'

Alfred sat down on the bed. 'They might, at that. They might think they've identified a weakness they can exploit. Let's see what we can find out. Alan!' He raised his voice. 'Alan!'

The equerry stuck his head around the door. 'Sire?'

'There's a little job I'd like you to do for me. A little bit of research.'