The Golden Compass: His Dark Materials Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  PART ONE: OXFORD

  ONE The Decanter of Tokay

  TWO The Idea of North

  THREE Lyra’s Jordan

  FOUR The Alethiometer

  FIVE The Cocktail Party

  SIX The Throwing Nets

  SEVEN John Faa

  EIGHT Frustration

  NINE The Spies

  PART TWO: BOLVANGAR

  TEN The Consul and the Bear

  ELEVEN Armor

  TWELVE The Lost Boy

  THIRTEEN Fencing

  FOURTEEN Bolvangar Lights

  FIFTEEN The Dæmon Cages

  SIXTEEN The Silver Guillotine

  SEVENTEEN The Witches

  PART THREE: SVALBARD

  EIGHTEEN Fog and Ice

  NINETEEN Captivity

  TWENTY Mortal Combat

  TWENTY-ONE Lord Asriel’s Welcome

  TWENTY-TWO Betrayal

  TWENTY-THREE The Bridge to the Stars

  About the Author

  Also by Philip Pullman

  Copyright Page

  Into this wild abyss,

  The womb of nature and perhaps her grave,

  Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,

  But all these in their pregnant causes mixed

  Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,

  Unless the almighty maker them ordain

  His dark materials to create more worlds,

  Into this wild abyss the wary fiend

  Stood on the brink of hell and looked a while,

  Pondering his voyage . . .

  —John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II

  The Golden Compass forms the first part of a story in three volumes. The first volume is set in a universe like ours, but different in many ways. The second volume is set in the universe we know. The third volume will move between the universes.

  THE GOLDEN

  COMPASS

  PART ONE

  OXFORD

  ONE

  THE DECANTER OF TOKAY

  Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions.

  Lyra stopped beside the Master’s chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” whispered her dæmon. “Behave yourself.”

  Her dæmon’s name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall.

  “They’re making too much noise to hear from the kitchen,” Lyra whispered back. “And the Steward doesn’t come in till the first bell. Stop fussing.”

  But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

  “There’s no one there,” he whispered. “But we must be quick.”

  Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. Even the maid-servants didn’t clean in here. That was the Butler’s job alone.

  Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder.

  “Happy now? Can we go?” he whispered.

  “Don’t be silly! I want to look around!”

  It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little chafing dish and a basket of poppy heads.

  “They do themselves well, don’t they, Pan?” she said under her breath.

  She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably; robed, bearded, and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval.

  “What d’you think they talk about?” Lyra said, or began to say, because before she’d finished the question she heard voices outside the door.

  “Behind the chair—quick!” whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn’t the best one for hiding behind: she’d chosen one in the very center of the room, and unless she kept very quiet...

  The door opened, and the light changed in the room; one of the incomers was carrying a lamp, which he put down on the sideboard. Lyra could see his legs, in their dark green trousers and shiny black shoes. It was a servant.

  Then a deep voice said, “Has Lord Asriel arrived yet?”

  It was the Master. As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant’s dæmon (a dog, like all servants’ dæmons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet, and then the Master’s feet became visible too, in the shabby black shoes he always wore.

  “No, Master,” said the Butler. “No word from the aerodock, either.”

  “I expect he’ll be hungry when he arrives. Show him straight into Hall, will you?”

  “Very good, Master.”

  “And you’ve decanted some of the special Tokay for him?”

  “Yes, Master. The 1898, as you ordered. His Lordship is very partial to that, I remember.”

  “Good. Now leave me, please.”

  “Do you need the lamp, Master?”

  “Yes, leave that too. Look in during dinner to trim it, will you?”

  The Butler bowed slightly and turned to leave, his dæmon trotting obediently after him. From her not-much-of-a-hiding place Lyra watched as the Master went to a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, took his gown from a hanger, and pulled it laboriously on. The Master had been a powerful man, but he was well over seventy now, and his movements were stiff and slow. The Master’s dæmon had the form of a raven, and as soon as his robe was on, she jumped down from the wardrobe and settled in her accustomed place on his right shoulder.

  Lyra could feel Pantalaimon bristling with anxiety, though he made no sound. For herself, she was pleasantly excited. The visitor mentioned by the Master, Lord Asriel, was her uncle, a man whom she admired and feared greatly. He was said to be involved in high politics, in secret exploration, in distant warfare, and she never knew when he was going to appear. He was fierce: if he caught her in here she’d be severely punished, but she could put up with that.

  What she saw next, however, changed things completely.

  The Master took from his pocket a folded paper and laid it on the table beside the wine. He took the stopper out of the mouth of a decanter containing a rich golden wine, unfolded the paper, and poured a thin stream of white powder into the decanter before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the fire. Then he took a pencil from his pocket, stirred the wine until the powder had dissolved, and replaced the stopper.

  His dæmon gave a soft brief squawk. The Master replie
d in an undertone, and looked around with his hooded, clouded eyes before leaving through the door he’d come in by.

  Lyra whispered, “Did you see that, Pan?”

  “Of course I did! Now hurry out, before the Steward comes!”

  But as he spoke, there came the sound of a bell ringing once from the far end of the hall.

  “That’s the Steward’s bell!” said Lyra. “I thought we had more time than that.”

  Pantalaimon fluttered swiftly to the hall door, and swiftly back.

  “The Steward’s there already,” he said. “And you can’t get out of the other door...”

  The other door, the one the Master had entered and left by, opened onto the busy corridor between the library and the Scholars’ common room. At this time of day it was thronged with men pulling on their gowns for dinner, or hurrying to leave papers or briefcases in the common room before moving into the hall. Lyra had planned to leave the way she’d come, banking on another few minutes before the Steward’s bell rang.

  And if she hadn’t seen the Master tipping that powder into the wine, she might have risked the Steward’s anger, or hoped to avoid being noticed in the busy corridor. But she was confused, and that made her hesitate.

  Then she heard heavy footsteps on the dais. The Steward was coming to make sure the Retiring Room was ready for the Scholars’ poppy and wine after dinner. Lyra darted to the oak wardrobe, opened it, and hid inside, pulling the door shut just as the Steward entered. She had no fear for Pantalaimon: the room was somber colored, and he could always creep under a chair.

  She heard the Steward’s heavy wheezing, and through the crack where the door hadn’t quite shut she saw him adjust the pipes in the rack by the smoking stand and cast a glance over the decanters and glasses. Then he smoothed the hair over his ears with both palms and said something to his dæmon. He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. In fact, she had the form of a red setter. The dæmon seemed suspicious, and cast around as if she’d sensed an intruder, but didn’t make for the wardrobe, to Lyra’s intense relief. Lyra was afraid of the Steward, who had twice beaten her.

  Lyra heard a tiny whisper; obviously Pantalaimon had squeezed in beside her.

  “We’re going to have to stay here now. Why don’t you listen to me?”

  She didn’t reply until the Steward had left. It was his job to supervise the waiting at the high table; she could hear the Scholars coming into the hall, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet.

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t,” she whispered back. “We wouldn’t have seen the Master put poison in the wine otherwise. Pan, that was the Tokay he asked the Butler about! They’re going to kill Lord Asriel!”

  “You don’t know it’s poison.”

  “Oh, of course it is. Don’t you remember, he made the Butler leave the room before he did it? If it was innocent, it wouldn’t have mattered the Butler seeing. And I know there’s something going on—something political. The servants have been talking about it for days. Pan, we could prevent a murder!”

  “I’ve never heard such nonsense,” he said shortly. “How do you think you’re going to keep still for four hours in this poky wardrobe? Let me go and look in the corridor. I’ll tell you when it’s clear.”

  He fluttered from her shoulder, and she saw his little shadow appear in the crack of light.

  “It’s no good, Pan, I’m staying,” she said. “There’s another robe or something here. I’ll put that on the floor and make myself comfortable. I’ve just got to see what they do.”

  She had been crouching. She carefully stood up, feeling around for the clothes hangers in order not to make a noise, and found that the wardrobe was bigger than she’d thought. There were several academic robes and hoods, some with fur around them, most faced with silk.

  “I wonder if these are all the Master’s?” she whispered. “When he gets honorary degrees from other places, perhaps they give him fancy robes and he keeps them here for dressing-up....Pan, do you really think it’s not poison in that wine?”

  “No,” he said. “I think it is, like you do. And I think it’s none of our business. And I think it would be the silliest thing you’ve ever done in a lifetime of silly things to interfere. It’s nothing to do with us.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Lyra said. “I can’t sit in here and watch them give him poison!”

  “Come somewhere else, then.”

  “You’re a coward, Pan.”

  “Certainly I am. May I ask what you intend to do? Are you going to leap out and snatch the glass from his trembling fingers? What did you have in mind?”

  “I didn’t have anything in mind, and well you know it,” she snapped quietly. “But now I’ve seen what the Master did, I haven’t got any choice. You’re supposed to know about conscience, aren’t you? How can I just go and sit in the library or somewhere and twiddle my thumbs, knowing what’s going to happen? I don’t intend to do that, I promise you.”

  “This is what you wanted all the time,” he said after a moment. “You wanted to hide in here and watch. Why didn’t I realize that before?”

  “All right, I do,” she said. “Everyone knows they get up to something secret. They have a ritual or something. And I just wanted to know what it was.”

  “It’s none of your business! If they want to enjoy their little secrets you should just feel superior and let them get on with it. Hiding and spying is for silly children.”

  “Exactly what I knew you’d say. Now stop nagging.”

  The two of them sat in silence for a while, Lyra uncomfortable on the hard floor of the wardrobe and Pantalaimon self-righteously twitching his temporary antennae on one of the robes. Lyra felt a mixture of thoughts contending in her head, and she would have liked nothing better than to share them with her dæmon, but she was proud too. Perhaps she should try to clear them up without his help.

  Her main thought was anxiety, and it wasn’t for herself. She’d been in trouble often enough to be used to it. This time she was anxious about Lord Asriel, and about what this all meant. It wasn’t often that he visited the college, and the fact that this was a time of high political tension meant that he hadn’t come simply to eat and drink and smoke with a few old friends. She knew that both Lord Asriel and the Master were members of the Cabinet Council, the Prime Minister’s special advisory body, so it might have been something to do with that; but meetings of the Cabinet Council were held in the palace, not in the Retiring Room of Jordan College.

  Then there was the rumor that had been keeping the College servants whispering for days. It was said that the Tartars had invaded Muscovy, and were surging north to St. Petersburg, from where they would be able to dominate the Baltic Sea and eventually overcome the entire west of Europe. And Lord Asriel had been in the far North: when she’d seen him last, he was preparing an expedition to Lapland....

  “Pan,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think there’ll be a war?”

  “Not yet. Lord Asriel wouldn’t be dining here if it was going to break out in the next week or so.”

  “That’s what I thought. But later?”

  “Shh! Someone’s coming.”

  She sat up and put her eye to the crack of the door. It was the Butler, coming to trim the lamp as the Master had ordered him to. The common room and the library were lit by anbaric power, but the Scholars preferred the older, softer naphtha lamps in the Retiring Room. They wouldn’t change that in the Master’s lifetime.

  The Butler trimmed the wick, and put another log on the fire as well, and then listened carefully at the hall door before helping himself to a handful of leaf from the smoking stand.

  He had hardly replaced the lid when the handle of the other door turned, making him jump nervously. Lyra tried not to laugh. The Butler hastily stuffed the leaf into his pocket and turned to face the incomer.

  “Lord Asriel!” he said, and a shiver of cold surprise ran down Lyra’s back. She couldn�
�t see him from where she was, and she tried to smother the urge to move and look.

  “Good evening, Wren,” said Lord Asriel. Lyra always heard that harsh voice with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. “I arrived too late to dine. I’ll wait in here.”

  The Butler looked uncomfortable. Guests entered the Retiring Room at the Master’s invitation only, and Lord Asriel knew that; but the Butler also saw Lord Asriel looking pointedly at the bulge in his pocket, and decided not to protest.

  “Shall I let the Master know you’ve arrived, my lord?”

  “No harm in that. You might bring me some coffee.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The Butler bowed and hastened out, his dæmon trotting submissively at his heels. Lyra’s uncle moved across to the fire and stretched his arms high above his head, yawning like a lion. He was wearing traveling clothes. Lyra was reminded, as she always was when she saw him again, of how much he frightened her. There was no question now of creeping out unnoticed: she’d have to sit tight and hope.

  Lord Asriel’s dæmon, a snow leopard, stood behind him.

  “Are you going to show the projections in here?” she said quietly.

  “Yes. It’ll create less fuss than moving to the lecture theater. They’ll want to see the specimens too; I’ll send for the Porter in a minute. This is a bad time, Stelmaria.”

  “You should rest.”

  He stretched out in one of the armchairs, so that Lyra could no longer see his face.

  “Yes, yes. I should also change my clothes. There’s probably some ancient etiquette that allows them to fine me a dozen bottles for coming in here dressed improperly. I should sleep for three days. The fact remains that—”

  There was a knock, and the Butler came in with a silver tray bearing a coffeepot and a cup.

  “Thank you, Wren,” said Lord Asriel. “Is that the Tokay I can see on the table?”

  “The Master ordered it decanted especially for you, my lord,” said the Butler. “There are only three dozen bottles left of the ’98.”

  “All good things pass away. Leave the tray here beside me. Oh, ask the Porter to send up the two cases I left in the Lodge, would you?”