The White Mirror (32 page)

Li Du bowed his head and began to speak in a voice just above a whisper. “I did not know it until today, when I was reminded of my first conversation with Pema. When he spoke of Dhamo's paintings, he compared them to the wildflowers that grow in mountain meadows.”

“I do not understand,” Rinzen said, frowning. “Did Dhamo share secrets with him?”

“No,” Li Du said. “Pema was telling me that he wanted to visit places he had never seen. He said that Dhamo's paintings offered no escape because, like the wildflowers, they were always the same. The same flowers every year, he said, only in different patterns. I did not realize at the time that Pema was describing a quality unique to Dhamo's paintings.”

Li Du paused to gather his thoughts, noting Rinzen's impatience. He continued. “Today, Hamza happened to mention that Dhamo's paintings traveled to distant places. His words made me think again of what Pema had said. I considered Dhamo's paintings once more. I asked myself what they were—silk panels filled with symbols repeated in varying orders, commissioned by pilgrims, and sent to specific locations. As a librarian, I am not unfamiliar with codes. I have seen many of them before. It occurred to me that Dhamo's paintings might have contained hidden messages. The more I considered it, the more convinced of it I became.

“Dhamo's thangkas would not be intercepted and read and recorded as they traveled. They were gifts to monasteries—a sacrosanct delivery that even thieves on the road would honor, for fear of supernatural reprisal. I thought of what you told me—of the networks of spies that run through the trade routes between China and Lhasa. When I asked for the names of monasteries where thangkas were sent, they were all familiar to me. They are monasteries near the Kangxi's palaces.”

“And this led you to me.”

“Yes. Where there are codes, there are spies. You had admitted to me already that you are an agent for the Kangxi Emperor. You were also the person who brought Dhamo to this place. I think that you brought him here to be a hidden transcriber of secret reports. They were commissioned by spies who wished to convey their messages to the Emperor. He turned the messages into paintings and directed them to their destinations.” Li Du hesitated, then concluded, “A lonely life—he must have been offered a great reward.”

Admiration competed with concern on Rinzen's features. He bowed his head in a suggestion of deference, then raised it. “You are correct in all but one point. Dhamo was not, himself, a spy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that there was no pretense in his work. He was a gift to us, a man of visions, a devout man. He believed, and believed willingly, that the messengers who came and commissioned paintings from him were trying to seal the mountains and monasteries against demons. He was not given messages. He was given a sequence of symbols—that is all. Fulfilling their requests was what he desired to do. He wanted no other reward. He did great service to the Emperor for thirteen years without realizing it.”

Li Du nodded his understanding. “Until someone killed him.”

Rinzen raised a hand and pressed his fingers to his temples. Again, he squeezed his eyes shut as if in the effort of thought. Li Du wondered at the weight and volume of secrets in the man's mind. “Yes,” said Rinzen. “Someone killed him cruelly.”

“And with his death,” said Li Du, “this point of communication is silenced.”

Rinzen nodded. “I do not think another such person could be found. There will have to be new strategies.”

A sound at the far end of the hallway caused them both to look up. Rinzen leaned forward. His voice became urgent. “What danger threatens me?”

“I believe that someone else knows the true reason that Dhamo was here. There is someone here in the manor who wants your network destroyed.”

Rinzen looked uncertain. “I have considered it,” he said, “but are you sure? Dhamo lived here for many years. He could have made an enemy. This could have nothing to do with his paintings.”

Li Du nodded. “Nothing is certain. But the thangka that Dhamo was painting—a thangka recently commissioned—is missing. I saw it on the morning after Dhamo's death. On the following day, it was gone. I suspect that whatever message it contained was something very important—something that would have been of value to the Kangxi Emperor.”

Rinzen appeared dazed. “A thangka is missing? Why did you not tell me before? I had no idea that Dhamo had received a recent commission.” His voice became a murmur. “Is it possible?” he said, half to himself.

Li Du leaned forward. “Is there someone you suspect?”

Rinzen's expression became wary. “I do not know if I can trust you,” he said. “The circumstances are not what I thought them to be.”

“You have already trusted me with the purpose of your journey to Litang. Please trust me also with your suspicions. I feel that I am close to the truth.”

Rinzen did not answer immediately. Then he gave a single, stiff nod. “The foreigner,” he said. “It has occurred to me that he is not what he pretends to be.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because of Zogong.”

“I do not understand.”

Rinzen dropped his voice to a whisper. “The foreigner, Paolo Campo, says that his friend is a guest of the lord in Zogong, who has expressed interested in converting to the Christian faith. You understand that in Lhasa I am apprised of all the personalities and leanings of the nobility. The lord of Zogong is a devout man. One of his younger sons was recognized as a tulku from a wealthy lineage. He benefits from the income of an estate and a monastery. He would never propose to entertain a foreign faith. In the past, perhaps. There was a lord in Zogong who did show hospitality to Capuchins when last they traveled across the country. But that was almost a hundred years ago. Paolo Campo's story—it does not make sense.”

Li Du listened until Rinzen had finished speaking. “I see,” he said.

Rinzen studied him. “You appear not to agree with me.”

“Paolo Campo certainly has a secret,” said Li Du. “But I do not think it has anything to do with codes or empires.”

“What, then?”

“On that,” said Li Du, “I will keep my own counsel.”

Rinzen's posture was suddenly weary. He looked frail and nervous. “I do not know,” he said. “There is a knot here that I cannot untie. I hope you can find the truth, but I urge you not to forget what I said before. The white mirror is a warning. I am sure that it is.”

*   *   *

The door to Yeshe's hut stood slightly open. Li Du announced himself and, after a short silence, was told to enter. Inside, Yeshe was crouched beside the hearth, which was smoking. “Wet wood,” he said. “All of it is wet.” With his weight on his arms, he lowered his head and blew on the coals. They glowed red. Another breath, and the kindling burst into flame. Yeshe grunted in satisfaction, then coughed and pulled himself onto the cushioned bench.

“The water won't boil right away,” Yeshe said. “Sit down, if you want.”

Li Du remained standing. “Thank you, but I am on my way to the temple.”

Yeshe did not quite meet Li Du's eyes. “You are going to make offerings for Sonam?”

“I want to discover who killed him.”

Yeshe gestured in the direction of the caravan cabin. “I'd say it was one of your friends. He probably made some crooked deal. Disagreements happen.”

“What of your disagreement with him?” asked Li Du. “Will you tell me now what it was?”

To Li Du's surprise, Yeshe laughed. “You think I killed him? It would have taken me a whole day to get to that ravine. I can't travel through a forest in the snow, not without everyone seeing me.” He paused. “Our quarrel had nothing to do with his death.”

Li Du's gaze moved around the hut, humble and warm, the table stacked neatly with fresh cheese and rounds of butter pressed carefully into shape. “Then I will tell you what you will not tell me. I think that Sonam knew you before you came to this valley.”

Li Du saw the start in Yeshe's shoulders, but Yeshe did not look up from the fire. Li Du went on. “He knew you were not a peaceful farmworker set upon by thieves.”

Yeshe's voice was low, almost a growl. His chin jutted forward. “You lie.”

Li Du continued. “You knew that Sonam was a thief—you warned me of it. What he knew was that you were one also. You both kept bad company. Maybe the two of you rode together through the mountains. Sonam liked to taunt you with the truth, a truth that might have cut your relationship with a family you have grown to love.”

“No,” said Yeshe. “I deny it. Why do you accuse me of being anything different from what I have proclaimed myself to be? I am a cripple—I'm no threat to anyone.”

“When I learned the nature of your injuries,” Li Du said, “I was reminded of a sentence given to traitors in my own empire. Later, I heard Norbu describe certain bandits whose cruelest acts were reserved for their own as punishment for betrayal. Your wounds did not come from an attack on an innocent traveler. They were inflicted by your former companions. When Doso found you, you passed yourself off as a farmworker and received hospitality that would never have been offered to a thief.”

Yeshe's fingers twitched in his lap. He clasped his hands together. “Please,” he said, “this family is—” He paused, overcome. “Doso took me in, but Kamala is—she is—” He stopped, and Li Du read Yeshe's feelings clearly on his face.

Yeshe raised his eyes to meet Li Du's. “I would do anything for her and for her children. With my broken feet I cannot protect them, or this valley, as Doso can. But I would never bring harm to them.”

Li Du nodded. “I believe you. And more than that, I defer to Kamala, who knows more than anyone what is dangerous to her family and what is not.”

Yeshe's shoulders slumped. “Then you are not going to speak of this? Threaten to have me cast away?”

“No,” Li Du said. “Your former life exists now in the stories of bandits and adventurers that so engross the children from the manor. I would encourage you perhaps to vary your dark tales on occasion, but I will not betray your secret.”

With a deep exhale of breath, Yeshe let his head drop to his chest, temporarily overcome. When he looked up, he met Li Du's eyes directly. “I understand that you are determined to find Sonam's killer,” he said. “Sonam was not a trustworthy man or a kind one, but I would help you if I could.”

“Did you see him this morning?”

“Yes—I saw him. I assumed he was going to the village but had taken the wrong path to the ravine. I was not about to call out and assist him.”

“And did you see anyone go that way before or after him?”

“No one,” said Yeshe. “My door was closed. The next person I saw going that way was Pema, and you yourself followed.”

*   *   *

The sun was setting and the forest was melting in rivulets of color. Free of snow, the stairs were a wet, living gray, veined with moss and lichen. When Li Du reached the prayer flags, he caught a glimpse of movement to his left. Descending from a higher path, Pema and the Chhöshe walked on either side of a mule, over which a wrapped body was loosely bound.

They stopped. The Chhöshe, a brilliant spot of red and yellow on the slope, walked around the front of the mule and dropped to his knees in front of Pema. His arms were raised, as if in supplication. Pema stepped backward away from him, shaking his head. Li Du could hear their voices, but he could not discern the words.

There was a clatter of displaced rocks as the mule stepped forward, shifting the weight of its burden. Slowly, the white-shrouded form began to slip. With a cry, Pema lunged for the body. As he struggled to keep it in place, the Chhöshe sprang up and moved to help him. Together, they lifted the slumped form back onto the mule. They resumed their progress, and reached the temple door at the same time as Li Du.

“I thought that your caravan was leaving,” Pema said.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Pema looked over Li Du's shoulder at the sinking sun. He raised a hand, casting a shadow like a mask over his eyes.

“Why have you come?” The Chhöshe's voice did not conceal his distrust. “We must take him into the temple.”

“I know,” Li Du said. “And I would not distract you from your task unless it was necessary that I speak with you. Let me help you carry him inside.”

The Chhöshe hesitated. “You will forgive me, scholar, but you are a stranger to this valley, and the circumstances of his death—”

“I cannot help you unless you place a small amount of trust in me.”

“How would you help him?” The question came from Pema.

Li Du looked at them. The Chhöshe, broad-shouldered and confident, stood ready to act. Beside him, Pema trembled visibly.

“Because,” Li Du said, raising his eyes to meet the Chhöshe's, “I can give you the answer to the question that drew you back to your home.”

 

Chapter 26

As twilight fell, the wind grew stronger. It pushed at the temple wall and slipped through cracks, catching the butter lamp flames and sending them into frantic agitation.

Li Du sat facing Pema and the Chhöshe. “Since coming to this valley, I have received several accounts of the day you were recognized as the Fourth Chhöshe. It was Rinzen who spoke of it first. He told me that thirteen years ago, emissaries from Lhasa came here in search of the Chhöshe. They were led by a vision—Dhamo's vision—of a boy at a temple surrounded by these very mountains.”

Li Du made a small gesture of self-deprecation. “The customs of your land are not my own, but I know enough to understand that signs—in this case, the enactment of the scene in Dhamo's vision—are used to confirm the identity of a tulku. I know that it is considered an honor to a family when a tulku is born to them. But I also know that, by the laws of your school, the lama, once recognized, is no longer a part of his father's bloodline. His rights and his duties are those associated with the lineage of the lama he embodies.”