Chapter 16 CHAPTER EIGHT: THE TOWER OF THE ANGELS-2

Nagging and cajoling, she urged him down the steps, and they picked their way through the shattered glass and splintered wood and into a small, cool room off the landing. The walls were lined with shelves of bottles, jars, pots, pestles and mortars , and chemists balances. Under the dirty window was a stone sink, where the old man was pouring something with a shaky hand from a large bottle into a smaller one. "Sit down and drink this," he said, and filled a small glass with a dark golden liquid. Will sat down and took the glass. The first mouthful hit the back of his throat like fire. Lyra took the glass to stop it from falling as Will gasped.

"Drink it all," the old man commanded. "What is it?" "Plum brandy. Drink." Will sipped it more cautiously. Now his hand was really beginning to hurt. "Can you heal him?" said Lyra, her voice desperate. "Oh, yes, we have medicines for everything. You, girl, open that drawer in the table and bring out a bandage." Will saw the knife lying on the table in the center of the room, but before he could pick it up the old man was limping toward him with a bowl of water. "Drink again," the old man said. Will held the glass tightly and closed his eyes while the old man did something to his hand It stung horribly, but then he felt the rough friction of a towel on his wrist, and something mopping the wound more gently. a moment, and it hurt again.

"This is precious ointment," the old man said. "Very difficult to obtain. Very good for wounds." It was a dusty, battered tube of ordinary antiseptic cream, such as Will could have bought in any pharmacy in his world. The old man was handling it as if it were made of myrrh. Will looked away. And while the man was dressing the wound, Lyra felt Pan-talaimon calling to her silently to come and look out the window. He was a kestrel perching on the open window frame, and his eyes had caught a movement below. She joined him, and saw a familiar figure: the girl Angelica was running toward her elder brother, Tullio, who stood with his back against the wall on the other side of the narrow street waving his arms in the air as if trying to keep a flock of bats from his face. Then he turned away and began to run his hands along the stones in the wall, looking closely at each one, counting them, feeling the edges, hunching up his shoulders as if to ward off something behind him, shaking his head.

Angelica was desperate, and so was little Paolo behind her, and they reached their brother and seized his arms and tried to pull him away from whatever was troubling him. And Lyra realized with a jolt of sickness what was happening: the man was being attacked by Specters. Angelica knew it, though she couldn't see them, of course, and little Paolo was crying and striking at the empty air to try and drive them off but it didnt help, and Tullio was lost. His movements became more and more lethargic, and presently they stopped altogether. Angelica clung to him, shaking and shaking his arm, but nothing woke him; over as if that would bring him back.

Then Angelica seemed to feel Lyra watching her, and she looked up. For a moment their eyes met. Lyra felt a jolt as if the girl had struck her a physical blow, because the hated in her eyes was so intense, and then Paolo saw her looking and looked up too, and his little boys voice cried, "Well kill you! You done this to Tullio! We gonna kill you, all right!" The two children turned and ran, leaving their stricten brother; and Lyra, frightened and guilty, withdraw inside the room again and shut the window. The others hadnt heard. Gia-como Paradisi was dabbing more ointment on the wounds, and Lyra tried to put what shed seen out of her mind, and focused on Will.

"You got to tie something around his arm," Lyra said, "to stop the bleeding. It won't stop otherwise." "Yes, yes, I know," said the old man, but sadly. Will kept his eyes averted while they did up a bandage, and drank the plum brandy sip by sip. Presently he felt soothed and distant, though his hand was hurting abominably. "Now," said Giacomo Paradisi, "here you are, take the knife, it is yours." "I dont want it," said Will. "I dont want anything to do with it." "You havent got the choice," said the old man. "You are the bearer now."

"I thought you said you was," said Lyra. "My time is over," he said. "The knife knows when to leave one hand and settle in another, and I know how to tell. You don't believe me? Look!" He held up his own left hand. The little finger and the finger next to it were missing, just like Wills. "Yes," he said, "me too. I fought and lost the same fingers, the badge of the bearer. And I did not know either, in advance." Lyra sat down, wide-eyed. Will held on to the dusty table with his good hand. He struggled to find words. "But I—we only came here because—there was a man who stole something of Lyras, and he wanted the knife, and he said if we brought him that, then hed—"

"I know that man. He is a liar, a cheat. He wont give you anything, make no mistake. He wants the knife, and once he has it, he will betray you. He will never be the bearer. The knife is yours by right." With a heavy reluctance, Will turned to the knife itself. He pulled it toward him. It was an ordinary-looking dagger, with a double-sided blade of dull metal about eight inches long, a short crosspiece of the same metal, and a handle of rosewood. As he looked at it more closely, he saw that the rosewood was inlaid with golden wires, forming a design he didnt recognize till he turned the knife around and saw an angel, with wings folded. On the other side was a different angel, with wings upraised. The wires stood out a little from the surface, giving a firm grip, and as he picked it up he felt that it was light in his hand and strong and beautifully balanced, and that the blade was not dull after all. In fact, a swirl of cloudy colors seemed to live just under the surface of the metal: bruise purples, sea blues, earth browns, cloud grays, the deep green under heavyfoliaged trees, the clustering shades at the mouth of a tomb as evening falls over a deserted graveyard.... If there was suc h a thing as shadow-colored, it was the blade of the subtle knife.

But the edges were different. In fact, the two edges differed from each other. One was clear bright steel, merging a little way back into those subtle shadow-colors, but steel of an incomparable sharpness. Wills eye shrank back from looking at it , so sharp did it seem. The other edge was just as keen, but silvery in color, and Lyra, who was looking at it over Wills shoulder, said: "I seen that color before! Thats the same as the blade they was going to cut me and Pan apart with—thats just the same!" "This edge," said Giacomo Paradisi, touching the steel with the handle of a spoon, "will cut through any material in the world. Look."

And he pressed the silver spoon against the blade. Will, holding the knife, felt only the slightest resistance as the tip of the spoons handle fell to the table, cut clean off. "The other edge," the old man went on, "is more subtle still. With it you can cut an opening out of this world altogether. Try it now. Do as I say—you are the bearer. You have to know. No one can teach you but me, and I have not much time left. Stand up and listen." Will pushed his chair back and stood, holding the knife loosely. He felt dizzy, sick, rebellious. "I don't want—" he began, but Giacomo Paradisi shook his head.

"Be silent! You dont want—you dont want... you have no choice! Listen to me, because time is short. Now hold the knife out ahead of you—like that. Its not only the knife that has to cut, its your own mind. You have to think it So do this: Put your mind out at the very tip of the knife. Concentrate, boy. Focus your mind. Dont think about your wound. It will heal. Think about the knife tip. That is where you are. Now feel with it, very gently. with your eyes, but the knife tip will find it, if you put your mind there. Feel along the air till you sense the smallest little gap in the world...." Will tried to do it. But his head was buzzing, and his left hand throbbed horribly, and he saw his two fingers again, lying on the roof, and then he thought of his mother, his poor mother.... What would she say? How would she comfort him? How could he ever comfort her? And he put the knife down on the table and crouched low, hugging his wounded hand, and cried. his chest and the tears dazzled him, and he should be crying for her, the poor frightened unhappy dear beloved—hed left her, hed left her.... He was desolate. But then he felt the strangest thing, and brushed the back of his right wrist across his eyes to find Pan-talaimons head on his knee. The daemon, in the form of a wolfhound, was gazing up at him with melting , sorrowing eyes, and then he gently licked Wills wounded hand again and again, and laid his head on Wills knee once more. Will had no idea of ​​the taboo in Lyras world preventing one person from touching anothers daemon, and if he hadnt touched Pantalaimon before, it was politeness that had held him back and not knowledge. Lyra, in fact, was breath taken. Her daemon had done it on his own initiative, and now he withdraw and fluttered to her shoulder as the smallest of moths. The old man was watching with interest but not incredulity. Hed seen dasmons before, somehow; Pantalaimons gesture had worked. Will swallowed hard and stood up again, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "All right," he said, "Ill try again. Tell me what to do." This time he forced his mind to do what Giacomo Paradisi said, gritting his teeth, trembling with exertion, sweating. Lyra was bursting to interrupt, because she knew this process. So did Dr. Malone, and so did the poet Keats, whoever he was, and all of them knew you couldn't get it by training toward it But she held her tongue and clasped her hands. "Stop," said the old man gently. "Relax. Don't push. This is a subtle knife, not a heavy sword. Youre gripping it too tight. Loosen your fingers. Let your mind wander down your arm to your wrist and then into the handle, and out along the blade. No hurry, go gently, dont force it. tip, where the edge is sharpest of all. You become the tip of the knife. Just do that now. Go there and feel that, and then come back." Will tried again. Lyra could see the intensity in his body, saw his jaw working, and then saw an authority descend over it, calming and relaxing and clarifying. The authority was Wills own—or his daemons, perhaps. How he must miss having a daemon! The loneliness of it... No wonder hed cried; and it was right of Pantalaimon to do what hed done, though it had felt so strange to her. She reached up to her beloved daemon, and, ermine-shaped, he flowed onto her lap. They watched together as Wills body stopped trembling. No less intense, he was focused differently now, and the knife looked different too. Perhaps it was those cloudy colors along the blade, or perhaps it was the way it sat so naturally in Wills hand, but the little movements he was making with the tip now looked purposeful instead of random. He felt this way, then turned the knife over and felt the other, always feeling with the silvery edge; and then he seemed to find some little snag in the empty air. "What's this? Is this it?" he said hoarsely. "Yes. Don't force it. Come back now, come back to yourself." Lyra imagined she could see Wills soul flowing back along the blade to his hand, and up his arm to his heart. He stood back, dropped his hand, blinked. "I felt something there," he said to Giacomo Paradisi. "The knife was just slipping through the air at first, and then I felt it..." "Good. Now do it again. This time, when you feel it, slide me knife in and along. Make a cut. Dont hesitate. Dont be surprised. Dont drop the knife." Will had to crouch and take two or three deep breaths and put his left hand under his other arm before he could go on. But he was intent on it; he stood up again after a couple of seconds, the knife held forward already. This time it was easier. Having felt it once, he knew what to search for again, and he felt the curious little snag after less than a minute. It was like delicately searching out the gap between one stitch and the next with the point of a scalpel. He touched, withdrawn, touched again to make sure, and then did as the old man had said, and cut sideways with the silver edge. It was a good thing that Giacomo Paradisi had reminded him not to be surprised. He kept careful hold of the knife and put it down on the table before giving in to his astonishment. Lyra was on her feet already, speechless, because there in the middle of the dusty little room was a window just like the one under the hornbeam trees: a gap in midair through which they could see another world. And because they were high in the tower, they were high above north Oxford. Over a cemetery, in fact, looking back toward the city. There were the hornbeam trees a little way ahead of them; in the distance the towers and spires of the city. If they hadnt already seen the first window, they would have thought this was some kind of optical trick. Except that it wasn't only optical; air was coming through it, and they could smell the traffic fumes, which didn't exist in the world of Cit -tagazze. Pantalaimon changed into a swallow and flew through, delighting hi the open air, and then snapped up an insect before darting back through to Lyras shoulder again. Giacomo Paradisi was watching with a curious, sad smile. Then he said, "So much for opening. Now you must learn to close." Lyra stood back to give Will room, and the old man came to stand beside him. "For this you need your fingers," he said. "One hand will do. Feel for the edge as you felt with the knife to begin with. You won't find it unless you put your soul into your fingertips. Touch very delicately; feel again and again till you find the edge. Then you pinch it together. Thats all. Try." But Will was trembling. He couldn't get his mind back to the delicate balance he knew it needed, and he got more and more frustrated. Lyra could see what was happening. She stood up and took his right arm and said, "Listen, Will, sit down, Ill tell you how to do it. Just sit down for a minute, cause your hand hurts and its taking your mind off it. Its bound to. It'll ease off in a little while." The old man raised both his hands and then changed his mind, shrugged, and sat down again. Will sat down and looked at Lyra. "What am I doing wrong?" he said. He was bloodstained, trembling, wild-eyed. He was living on the edge of his nerves: cleaning his jaw, tapping his foot, breathing fast. "Its your wound," she said. "You ent wrong at all. Youre doing it right, but your hand wont let you concentrate on it. I dont know an easy way of getting around that, except maybe if you didnt try to shut it out." "What do you mean?" "Well, you're trying to do two things with your mind, both at once. You're trying to ignore the pain and close that window. I remember when I was reading the alethiometer once when I was frightened, and maybe I was used to it by that time, I dont know, but I was still frightened all the time I was reading it. Just sort of relax your mind and say yes, it does hurt, I know. Dont try and shut it out." His eyes closed briefly. His breathing slowed a little. "All right," he said. "I'll try that." And this time it was much easier. He felt for the edge, found it within a minute, and did as Giacomo Paradisi had told him: pinched the edges together. He felt a brief, calm exhilaration, and then the window was gone. The other world was shut. The old man handed him a leather sheath, backed with stiff horn, with buckles to hold the knife hi place, because the slightest sideways movement of the blade would have cut through the thickest leather. Will slid the knife into it and buckled it as tight as he could with his clumsy hand. "This should be a solemn occasion," Giacomo Paradisi said. "If we had days and weeks I could begin to tell you the story of the subtle knife, and the Guild of the Torre degli Angeli, and the whole sorry history of this corrupt. and careless world. The Specters are our fault, our fault alone. They came because my predecessors, alchemists, philosophers, men of learning, were making an inquiry into die deepest nature of things. They became curious about the bonds that held the smallest particles of matter together. You know what I mean by a bond? Something that binds? "Well, this was a merchant city. A city of traders and bankers. We thought we knew about bonds. We thought a bond was something negotiable, something that could be bought and sold and exchanged and converted.... But about these bonds, we were wrong. We undid them, and we let the Specters in." Will asked, "Where do the Specters come from? Why was the window left open under those trees, the one we first came in through? Are there other windows in the world?" "Where the Specters come from is a mystery—from another world, from the darkness of space...   who knows? What matters is that they are here, and they have destroyed us. Are there other windows into this world? Yes, a few, because sometimes a knife bearer might be careless or forgetful, without time to stop and close as he should And the window you came through, under the hornbeam trees... I left that open myself, in a moment of unforgivable foolishness. There is a man I am afraid of, and I thought to tempt him through and into the city, where he would fall victim to the Specters. But I think that he is too clever for a trick like that. He wants the knife. Please, never let him get it." Will and Lyra shared a glance. "Well," the old man finished, spreading his hands, "all I can do is hand the knife on to you and show you how to use it, which I have done, and tell you what the rules of the Guild used to be , before it decayed. First, never open without closing. Second, never let anyone else use the knife. It is yours alone. Third, never use it for a base purpose. Fourth, keep it secret. If there are other rules, I have forgotten them, and if Ive forgotten them it is because they dont matter. are the bearer. You should not be a child. But our world is crumbling, and the mark of the bearer is unmistakable. I dont even know your name. Now go. I know where there are poisonous drugs, and I dont intend to wait for the Specters to come in, as they will once the knife has left. Go." "But, Mr. Paradisi—" Lyra began. But he shook his head and went on: "There is no time. You have come here for a purpose, and maybe you dont know what that purpose is, but the angels do who brought you here. Go. You are brave, and your friend is clever. And you have the knife. Go." "You ent really going to poison yourself?" said Lyra, stressed. "Come on," said Will. "And what did you mean about angels?" she went on. Will tugged her arm. "Come on," he said again. "We got to go. Thank you, Mr. Paradisi." He held out his bloodstained, dusty right hand, and the old man shook it gently. He shook Lyras hand, too, and nodded to Pantalaimon, who lowered his ermine head in acknowledgment. Clutching the knife in its leather sheath, Will led the way down the broad dark stairs and out of the tower. The sunlight was hot in the little square, and the silence was profound. Lyra looked all around, with enormous caution, but the street was empty. And it would be better not to worry Will about what shed seen; there was quite enough to worry about already. She led him away from the street where shed seen the children, where the stricten Tullio was standing, as still as death . "I wish—" Lyra said when they had nearly left the square, stopping to look back up. "Its horrible, thinking of... and his poor teeth was all broken, and he could hardly see out his eye.... He's just going to swallow some poison and die now, and I wish—" She was on the verge of tears. "Hush," said Will. "It wont hurt him. Hell just go to sleep. Its better than the Specters, he said." "Oh, what we going to do, Will?" she said. "What we going to do? Youre hurt so bad, and that poor old man.... I hate this place, I really do, Id burn it to the ground. What we going to do now?" "Well," he said, "thats easy. Weve got to get the alethio-meter back, so well have to steal it. That's what were going to do."