The White Mirror (26 page)

Li Du thought it through, then shook his head. “The timing does not follow. If Rinzen glimpsed Sera returning to Lumo's hut, then Dhamo must have only just reached the hot springs. She and Lumo were together after that until they saw Dhamo's body.”

“They say they were,” said Hamza. “But we still do not know what secret Sera carries that led to someone shooting arrows at her.”

“I doubt it was Lumo scrambling down from the boulder this afternoon carrying one of Doso's bows,” said Li Du.

Hamza closed his eyes. “Perhaps she has inhuman strength,” he muttered, then sighed. “What of all the others?”

Li Du drew in a breath. “Let us think again of the day Dhamo died. Kamala, Doso, and Andruk were at the village that morning, but they did not remain together while they were there. The village is not far from the manor or from the stream. Any one of them might have gone to the bridge. We must also consider Pema, who claims that he went into the forest to bring food to Lumo, then took the goats out to graze alone. The Chhöshe also was alone except for when you yourself saw him praying at the temple. As for Yeshe—he was with the children at the time of Dhamo's death. And with his infirmity, he could not have climbed the boulder to shoot at Sera or overcome Paolo Campo.”

Hamza sighed. “Then there is Paolo Campo. We don't know who tried to kill him or why he refuses to speak of it. Is it possible that he is also a spy?”

Above them, footsteps thumped across the hallway floor. Li Du lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “It seems unlikely.”

“Likelihood,” said Hamza, “has not been a reliable restriction on what has happened in this valley since the snow began to fall. I begin to wonder if it is I, and not you, who is better suited to explain all that has occurred.”

Li Du drew himself up a little taller. “I have not found the answers yet, but I have not given up.”

“Humble librarian, I have every confidence in your ability. You misunderstand. What I meant was that perhaps this problem cannot be solved by a scholar in search of the truth. You seek an answer within the confines of certain rules. What if those rules have been broken?”

Hamza's expression was impossible to read in the dark, but Li Du understood. “You are suggesting that spirits and demons and ghosts may be to blame after all.”

“It is possible, scholar. They weave illusions. Perhaps a demon can renew silver that has been tarnished in the springs?”

“There was an impression of a fingertip in the paint.”

Hamza's reply was almost instant. “Or animate the hand of a dead man to paint his own flesh.”

“I do not know whether such demons exist,” Li Du said. “But what of the thangka that was stolen? And the paper that was burned in the courtyard fire? These are the actions of people.”

Above them, a door scraped the floor as someone pulled it shut. Hamza sighed. “I once met a princess who was waiting for her husband to rescue her from the castle of a sorcerer. It was the fault of the husband that she was there at all. She had been cursed to appear as a frog in the day and a woman at night. Her husband thought he could cure her of the curse by tossing her frog's skin into the fire one night after she had cast it off. She was instantly transported to the castle of the sorcerer. I offered to rescue her myself, but she preferred to wait and give her husband the scolding he merited. And of course—she loved him. But we enjoyed a pleasant conversation under the orange trees. It was she who told me that the morning is wiser than the evening. When it is light again, we will renew our efforts.”

*   *   *

Beneath the heavy furs and wool blankets Li Du thrashed fitfully. His thoughts were broken shards. Memories, suspicions, and inconsistences chipped against each other. He saw the vaporous forest pools framed in earth and snow. The villagers thought that the water held dead souls.

He dreamed.

He was in the library, lingering over a volume of forgotten poems. Behind him, a book fell to the ground. He turned and saw a woman sitting in a chair. He did not recognize her. As he watched, the hue of her skin changed as if she was illuminated through colored glass, blue shifting to green, then to golden orange. Her silk robes were suspended around her on invisible currents in the air.

The woman raised her left hand, and Li Du saw that she held a mirror by its golden handle. Looped through her fingers was a blue scarf like a wisp of sky. He saw the library reflected in the round face of the mirror, its shelves warped and curved. Moving closer, he saw his own face beneath a hat that was not faded. He took another step toward her, and the reflection in the mirror vanished. Its surface was white.

As Li Du took a step back in surprise, the woman also began to change. Her living eyes became flat and still. The silk printed with flowers and shells ceased its eddying movement and froze. Li Du raised his hand and passed it in front of the mirror. He looked for his hand reflected in its surface, but it was not there. He shifted his eyes to his fingers. They began to fade, becoming insubstantial and ghostly before his eyes.

He heard a sound. Someone was outside the library. Someone was banging on the door. Li Du hurried to the entrance hall.

Shu was there. He stood at a shelf, brush and bowl in hand, applying jewelvine to a corner where a worm had been spotted earlier in the day. The banging became louder. Li Du's chest constricted. There was no rattle of steel, no murmur of voices, and yet he knew with certainty that it was not just one person outside.

Li Du's own words formed a litany in his mind.
The Emperor should not have … the Emperor was wrong to … perhaps the poet was right … policy in the south is wrong and cruel …
He looked at Shu, but he could not hear what his teacher was saying above the banging.

Regret squeezed his throat and chest. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to undo time and unsay words. He opened the door. There were the soldiers, identical to each other in bright studded armor. He saw an order and a red seal. He heard the voice.
You are under arrest and will be tried for treason.

But he was thrust aside like a stray dog as they strode past him. The words were not for him.
Shu Tongjian, you have conspired against the life of the Emperor. You will be imprisoned until your case can be heard.

 

Chapter 20

Li Du woke up the next morning to a crash. It came from the room beside his own—Sonam's room. As he struggled into consciousness, he heard a clatter, followed by the metallic drone of rings or coins spinning across wood. This was accompanied by a string of unintelligible words. A door slammed. Footsteps vibrated the floor as someone strode away down the hall.

Li Du rose quickly and went to the kitchen, where he found Sonam sitting at the hearth tapping a booted toe against the floor. His fists were clenched. The muscles in his neck were taut.

Kamala handed Sonam a bowl of butter tea. He snatched it from her, spilling the steaming liquid, which sizzled on the hot mudstone of the hearth. With deft movements, Kamala took the bowl back and refilled it.

“Is something the matter?” The question came from Doso, who was ensconced comfortably by the fire. He regarded Sonam with patronizing concern.

“No,” muttered Sonam. “It is nothing. I am not feeling well.”

“Perhaps you should not drink so much liquor,” said Doso. “The men in my family are never felled by it, but we have always enjoyed strong constitutions.”

“Do not accuse me of being a drunken fool,” snapped Sonam. “I have journeyed across deserts and through jungles. I have survived blizzards and hurricanes. I have killed those who would have killed me. Do not call me a weak man.”

Doso lifted his own bowl and drank. He raised a hand and gestured for Li Du to join them. His glance flitted to Sonam, then back to Li Du. It held an apology.

“If you are uncomfortable in our house,” said Kamala, handing him the full bowl, “then perhaps you would prefer not to visit us here so often.”

“Peace, Kamala,” said Doso. “He is our guest.”

Sonam sneered. “And it is your duty to be hospitable,” he said. “It has always been so easy for you. You make your offerings and you congratulate yourself. Your ancestors are so impressed with you. But you are a line of ignorant country men with yaks and barley. You bring your wife dull jewels from a provincial market. Soon I will be a rich man, and you will not be so complacent.” Sonam drained his bowl and stood up. “The butter tastes rancid,” he said. Then he swung his heavy coat over his shoulders and strode to the door.

When he had gone, Doso put another log on the fire and urged Li Du to take fresh bread from where it rested on a flat stone laid over the embers. “I apologize,” he said. “Rude guests do no honor to anyone.”

Li Du inclined his head and offered a murmured compliment on the bread. Kamala brought a bowl of fresh, creamy cheese.

Doso finished his butter tea. “The sky is lighter today and the air is warmer. I have sent Pema to the village. He will assess the depth of snow on the pass. You and your caravan will be happy, I think, to be on your way.” He set down the empty bowl and stood up with a slight grimace. “Please take your time to eat,” he said. “I have work to do.”

Left alone with Kamala, Li Du sipped his tea and ate quietly, listening to the fire, the hushed voices of the children, and the steady drone of the old woman's spinning prayer wheel. Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice interrupted the ambient noise. It quavered and scratched like the sound of a bow drawn across a single-stringed fiddle. “Karma,” said the old woman. “Karma, are you bringing more tea?”

Kamala sighed and moved over to the grandmother. She rested her hand lightly on the dark, woolen shoulder and bent to the old woman's ear. “I am not Karma,” she said. “I am Kamala. Do you remember?”

Mara turned her head, apparently unsure of where the voice had come from. Then her cloudy eyes settled on Kamala. “Thank you,” she said. “You keep my son's home well.”

Kamala filled Mara's bowl and helped the old woman to cup her hands around it. Their fingers overlapped like new roots growing over old ones. Kamala released the bowl and moved to stand over the children, who were cleaning and peeling tubers that would be added to stew. She chastised the younger boy for splashing water from the bucket onto the floor. Then she sat down to tend the fire.

“Does Karma live in the village?” Li Du asked.

Kamala looked up, momentarily confused. Then she shook her head. “Karma was Doso's first wife,” she said.

“I did not know that was her name,” said Li Du. “Doso mentioned her when he told me the story of how Pema was almost lost to a bear in the forest.”

Kamala sat back on the bench and rested her elbows on her knees. Li Du realized that it was the first time he had seen her not engaged in a task. He also noted that, even resting, she was acutely aware of her surroundings. Every sound drew a part of her attention—the movements of the children, the thud of a door, the ring of a yak's bell. He watched her silently put each isolated disturbance into place, building in her mind a model of all that was happening in her home.

“It is a miracle that Pema survived,” she said. She was silent for a long moment. “I worry that, at his birth, some mistake was made by the astrologer. He has never seemed to fit in to this household. He is always out alone. He asks to sleep in the barn with the animals. Odd events seem to happen around him.”

“What kind of events?”

“Doso told you of the bear in the forest. But there was also the death of Karma.”

“How did Karma die?”

Kamala did not answer immediately. Then she adjusted her sleeve, pushing it away from her wrist as she shifted a burning log. “She died in a fire nine years ago. It was a dry autumn. She was praying in the temple and fell asleep. The wind through an open window caught the flame and set the scarves around the altar on fire. The building burned.”

“Karma died in the fire that burned down the mountain temple?”

“Yes.” Kamala reached out her hand for Li Du's bowl. He handed it to her. She filled it, then stood and passed it back with a hand so steady that the liquid did not splash, but remained as still as the hardened glue in Dhamo's pot. Li Du accepted it with a nod, but kept silent, sensing that she would continue talking. She did.

“I did not know Karma. We came from different villages. But they told me she was a good mistress of this house until her little boy was taken away.”

“The boy who was recognized as the Chhöshe.”

Kamala nodded. “He was very young to be taken from his mother.”

Li Du had seen a child tulku once before, only from a distance, leaving Gyalthang with an official escort. The boy had been tiny enough to fit in a basket on one side of a hornless white yak. The other side had been weighted with tea to keep the saddle balanced. The child had barely been discernible amid the feathers and bells.

Kamala sighed. “But you cannot change what is, and it is a great honor to the family. Still, for some mothers, the situation is different.” She stood up and went to the corner of the kitchen where several empty water buckets waited. The three children stood up without being told. While the girl helped secure the infant to Kamala's back with an embroidered wool sling, the eldest boy picked up two buckets. His younger brother tried to pick up a bucket, but it was too big for him. He dragged it along the floor until Kamala straightened up, the baby cooing on her back, and took it from him.

Kamala and the children left the room in a tangle of wool and fur. Li Du had finished his tea and was about to go himself when he noticed that the steady drone of Mara's prayer wheel had stopped. He turned to look at her.

Mara stretched open one of her hands and curled her fingers, lengthened by long, yellow nails, over her palm. She repeated the gesture. Understanding it to be a summons, Li Du shifted to the place beside her on the bench.