CITY OF THE FALCON
Dawn gave birth to a day that for Trent and Dana Charteris was
surcharged with expectancy and apprehension. Ridges broke up the
horizon, hiding the country beyond, as though fate and nature had
conspired to preclude until the last moment a view of Shingtse-lunpo.
Before another night they should be within the walls of the city.
Just before noon they rode over a crest and saw a high _tchorten_, or
rock pyramid. Yak-hair tents were pitched at its base, and a band of
men, mounted on white ponies and carrying yellow-pennoned lances,
clattered across the valley to meet them.
"They are soldiers of the Golden Army," Kee Meng announced.
As the horsemen drew nearer, Trent could see that they wore
neutral-colored tunics and black leather caps, the latter having a strap
under the chin and a golden, flame-shaped ornament attached to the top.
Gold-hilted swords glittered in black belts, and several of the men
carried queer, ancient-looking guns embossed with turquoise and coral.
They came up in a cloud of dust, like figures riding out of history, and
the leader stuck out his tongue by way of greeting. He examined their
passports and assigned two soldiers--"to accompany us to Amber Bridge,"
Kee Meng explained.
With their escort they rode on toward the heat-twisted, quivering
horizon that, in its very illusiveness, symbolized the uncertainty that
filled both Trent and the girl. Neither spoke, but sat erect on their
mounts, staring steadily, until their eyes ached, into the white
sunlight.
The hot midday was waning when they reached the top of a shoulder of
ground and looked upon the city. At first it was a long white blur upon
the distant ranges, separated from the plain that surrounded it by a
belt of green; then it assumed shape and form, and they saw it, walls
and golden roofs, floating like a fabulous Atlantis in the liquid
sunlight. A white bulk, seeming the extravagant creation of a mirage,
towered above the walls. Gradually it emerged from the deceptive
heat-waves and stood out, defined, a massive building, dominating the
crenellated heap of masonry at its feet. The city's ramparts were high,
yielding only a glimpse of roof-tops and the buttressed structure that
was silhouetted in blinding white upon the aquamarine sky.
"The great building," said Kee Meng, "is Lhakang-gompa, of which I told
you--the palace and temple of the Grand Lama."
As they rode nearer, passing barley fields and isolated groups of
houses, it became evident that the belt of green encircling
Shingtse-lunpo was a marsh. Apparently an outer fortification at one
time stood in the swamp, for piles of broken stone reared themselves at
intervals from the rush-encumbered quagmires, like the bones of a
half-buried and bleaching skeleton. On the edge of the morass, flung
across a stream, was a bridge; a stone causeway, perhaps a mile in
length, linked it with what Trent imagined was the main gate of the city
proper. The bridge itself--"Amber Bridge," Kee Meng had called it--was
of mellowed stone, its enclosing walls supporting a roof glazed with
tiles and inset with great lumps of raw amber. Prayer-flags drooped from
the top.
Thus Shingtse-lunpo, the City of the Falcon, revealed herself to them
for the first time, like an orient dream-city in the golden noonday.
As they approached Amber Bridge, two familiar lines sprang into Trent's
mind and repeated themselves over and over:
With gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze,
And burnished domes half seen through luminous haze.
In the silence, sovereign but for the footfalls of the animals and the
creak of sweaty saddles, he heard the swift breathing of the girl who
rode at his side--saw the wonderment, the expression of fascination, of
awe, that reflected in her face. Brown eyes were deep with mystery.
At the bridge they were halted by more leather-helmeted guards who,
after glancing at their passports, held a short conversation with the
two soldiers from the outpost, then explained, through the usual channel
of translation, that Trent's caravan would have to remain at Amber
Bridge until the news of their arrival was communicated to "certain
authorities" in the city.
A soldier dashed off along the causeway, while Trent, vaguely troubled,
allowed his pony to be led into a mud-walled compound at one side of the
road. There he and the other members of the caravan dismounted, and
there they waited, somewhat apprehensive, for over an hour.
When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a small cortege, all
soldiers but one, who, from his dress, was a dignitary of the city. He
rode a white horse and wore a robe of orange-yellow brocaded silk, its
wide sleeves faced with peacock-blue. A mushroom-shaped hat surmounted
copper-hued Tibetan features. He greeted Trent very graciously in
English and informed him that he was Na-chung, a member of the Higher
Council, that meaning, he explained, those who assisted the Governor. He
said that no doubt it was surprising to hear him speak English, but that
he had learned it from a British officer at Gyangtse, at the time of the
expedition to Lhassa.... His Transparency the Governor, he stated, had
been expecting him for several days and his delay had caused his
Transparency no small concern. Then he looked over Trent's men--and when
his eyes reached Dana Charteris they halted. It was, for Trent, a
breathless moment. But Na-chung smiled amiably and said:
"I understood there were to be only _four_ caravaneers. You have
_five_."
Trent replied that none of the four assigned to him at Tali-fang spoke
Tibetan--and how could he travel in Tibet without an interpreter?
Therefore, he had presumed to add another to his caravan....
Na-chung continued to smile. "I see," he commented. "And this is the one
you added?"--with a gesture toward the girl.
"No," returned Trent. "This one"--indicating Kee Meng.
"I see," repeated Na-chung. "We shall go into the city now, to the house
which the Governor has provided for you."
The incident at Amber Bridge had a depressing effect upon Trent and he
scarcely heard the inconsequential talk of Na-chung as they moved slowly
over the causeway toward the ramparts of Shingtse-lunpo. But when they
passed the gates--formidable, iron-studded affairs, with turrets at
either side--his fears were temporarily thrust into the background. For
the walls of Shingtse-lunpo only hinted at what they enclosed.
Beyond the main town, which sloped down into a depression and was a
wilderness of narrow streets and dazzling whitewashed houses (some
roofed with blue tiles, others with burnished gold), the ground rose to
the one dominating structure--the Lamasery that stood, sheer-walled,
upon sharply truncated rocks. Its massive bulk--longer than two city
blocks, Trent hazarded--was pierced by row upon row of windows that
seemed no larger than loopholes, and naked walls fell away from torn
roofs and terrace-like additions. There were other large buildings and
tiers of houses, the doors of the upper rows opening upon the roofs of
those below, but they cowered beneath the regal mass of Lhakang-gompa,
an architectural masterpiece that rose at least two hundred feet from
its natural foundations and which Trent could compare only with the
descriptions he had heard of the Potala at Lhassa.
From the main gate the road cleaved between brick-walled enclosures and
hedges of bamboo. Beggars, ragged, repulsive-looking creatures, whined
at the roadside, and dogs and swine nosed in the black, bubbling mud of
the gutters. Blenching human bones lay beside discolored slabs of stone,
and mailed dragonflies, drawn by the smell of carrion flesh, hovered
near.[1]
[Footnote 1: In Tibet it is the custom to deliver the dead to a sect of
professional body-hackers, who, in turn, feed the remains to the dogs
and vultures. Thus merit is acquired by the family of the deceased.]
From this filthy quarter they passed over another bridge and into a
highway that lay in the shadows of fortress-like buildings. It was
crowded with tonsured, magenta-robed priests. Mounted soldiers, the
majority in neutral-tinted tunics, but some few wearing royal-blue and
apricot-hued uniforms, threaded across the crimson swarm in a human
shuttle, while men and women in less gaudy apparel moved inconspicuously
through the throng. Yak-hair curtains and prayer-flags drooped from the
windows of houses.
"You arrived at a time of celebration," said Na-chung. "The Feast of the
Sacred Dance began yesterday. To-day the races were held on the Field of
Ceremonies, and to-morrow will be celebrated by the Dance of the Gods,
wrestling-bouts and the archery contest."
Na-chung proved most voluble. He talked on as they forsook the crowded
street for a quarter close to the lamasery. The soldiers, who were
leading, opened a gate in a high white wall, and the caravan moved into
a flagged court.
The dwelling was typical of the better Tibetan residences, low and
flat-roofed, and in the shape of a quadrangle. To the left, beyond a
huddle of out-houses, was a garden. Willow-thorn, clematis
and--hollyhocks! The scarlet flowers, pure flame in the sunlight, gave
something of warming welcome to Trent.
Na-chung led the way into the house. The main hall was dank, like an
empty cistern, and lighted by an opening in the ceiling, which served a
twofold purpose in that it was also a means of reaching the upper floor.
There were little or no furnishings, and narrow passages, black with
gloom, led off from it.
"It would be advisable," said Na-chung as he prepared to leave, "that
you do not leave your courtyard; that is, until you have been provided
with proper garments. I shall acquaint his Transparency with your
presence, and in the morning one will be sent to"--the councillor
smiled--"to remove your beard and clothe you as befits a member of the
Higher Council. To-morrow I shall return and accompany you to the Court
of Ceremonies, after which his Transparency will no doubt receive you."
Then, following a pause, "It has been deemed advisable to elevate you to
membership in the Higher Council--for appearances only, as your duties
will be quite different from those of a councillor."
He took his leave then, and Trent accompanied him into the court. He
observed that Na-chung left two leather-helmeted soldiers at the gate,
whether to act as bodyguards, or to see that he did not leave the
grounds, he could only surmise.
2
Trent and Dana Charteris made a thorough inspection of the house. The
rooms were clean, as clean as Tibetan rooms ever are; but the lack of
proper ventilation and the ever-present stale-sweet odors did little to
invite occupancy. From the roof the monastery and a portion of the town
could be seen, and there, in a space protected by the high masonry that
enclosed the housetop, the girl decided to quarter herself, while Trent
chose the room directly beneath.
Before sundown, while Dana Charteris was overseeing the transportation
of her packs to her elevated abode, Trent sought Kee Meng and found him
in the quadrangle.
"I am going to place my brother in your charge," he announced. "I will
probably be away from him much of the time, and if anything happens to
him--" He chose to leave the sentence unfinished. (Trent always spoke of
the girl as his "brother," although it was tacitly understood that Kee
Meng knew she was not a man.)
"_Cheulo!_" responded the Mussulman. "Henceforth, instead of _makotou_,
I am Protector-of-the-Brother!"
"And furthermore," Trent added, "I forbid you, or any of the men, to
leave the grounds without my permission."
Later (dusk had swooned on Shingtse-lunpo), as Trent entered the main
hall, which was unlighted except for a brass butter-lamp, he beheld a
naked brown ankle and the bottom of a red robe as they vanished into one
of the several black cavities opening upon the chamber. He stopped--then
quickly backing to one side, against the wall, he drew his revolver and
edged toward the passageway. When he was yet a few feet away a round,
blue muzzle leaped out to meet him. As he recoiled, the owner of the
ankle and robe, a lama with a very modern automatic gripped in one slim
hand, stepped out. They stood motionless for a space of seconds, each
with weapon lifted. Then a familiar satanic smile traced itself upon the
yellow countenance--a smile that made the lama look Mephistophelian,
despite his shorn head and hairless features.
"Kerth"--as Trent lowered his revolver, smiling. "Always at
pistol-point...."
"I was beginning to feel uneasy about you," said Euan Kerth, as their
hands met. "It was a relief when I saw your pack-train ride in to-day.
Where can we go to talk--the garden? I came that way."
They left the house by a black-dark corridor, making their way into the
grove of willow-thorn. Bright stars peered down through the branches,
and the moon, floating above the white wall, reflected a faint, hazy
light among the shadowy trees.
"I'd almost given you up," Kerth began, halting in the gloom beside the
wall. "You were due over a week ago."
Trent had been debating with himself since the meeting in the house. Now
he spoke; told Kerth of Dana Charteris; of the meeting in Calcutta and
the subsequent happenings. Kerth saw a story within a story and surmised
certain things that Trent omitted. He was silent for a while after the
latter finished.
"It complicates matters, of course," he ventured discreetly, at length,
"yet ... hmm ... no, you had no alternative. She had nerve, all right;
how many women would have dared to do that? Damn these meddling police
agents! If it hadn't been for her brother.... Hmm--and he had the Pearl
Scarf!" A pause. "D'ye think Sarojini knows of her presence?"
"Miss Charteris? How could she?" Then Trent explained how he had
exchanged muleteers at Tali-fang.
"Good!" exclaimed Kerth. "Good! That's a score against Sarojini. She'll
raise thundering hell when she learns of it, but I think you can tame
her--yes, you can do it."
"But tell me what happened at Myitkyina"--this from Trent.
The other shrugged. "Oh, nothing much. I had suspected we were headed
for Tibet since I learned the character of the god on the symbol of the
Order--yet this"--he made a gesture intended to include the city--"well,
this is a bit beyond my imagination."
Briefly he then sketched his activities at Myitkyina.
"I followed you and Da-yak to the river that night, then downstream in
another boat. After you had landed, and your servant, Tambusami, in
another boat, I swam ashore. There was one fellow waiting with the
boats, so I slipped up behind him.... After that it wasn't difficult. I
exchanged clothing with him and waited. Sarojini Nanjee, dressed as a
Kachin, returned in a few minutes, and with her, Da-yak, Tambusami and
the boatmen. She and the Kachins took one of the craft downstream, I
suppose to her camp, and Da-yak and your bearer got into the other
boat--the boat where I was waiting. I'd sent a note to Warburton, the C.
O. at Myitkyina, and he was waiting at the landing with several Gurkhas.
We didn't have any trouble arresting them; the trouble came when we
tried to force them to speak. All summed up, what they said was
surprisingly little. Tambusami declared he was simply a servant and knew
nothing about the Order, except that it existed. But Da-yak told where
you had gone, and said there were three men in Myitkyina who knew the
trail to Tali-fang. One of them I later hired. Da-yak said that up until
a year ago he had a shop in the bazaar at Shingtse-lunpo, which he
described as 'a great city where many lamas live'; that he was commanded
by a Grand Lama to go to Myitkyina and establish a business. He was
instructed to obey all who came to him with a certain symbol--the symbol
of the Order. He swore he knew nothing of the Falcon or the jewels."
Kerth paused; peered into Trent's face; smiled.
"You're thinking just as I wish you to think," he observed; then went
on: "Meanwhile, I'd reported the place in Calcutta and it had been
raided. What happened I don't know. I was ready to start for
Shingtse-lunpo the day after you left, but of course Delhi waited a
couple of days to telegraph permission--and I was glad enough to get it
then, for I was half afraid the Viceroy would refuse to let me go into
Tibet. At Tali-fang I learned you hadn't passed and I left a
message--you received it?... Eighteen days later I was inside the walls
of Shingtse-lunpo--and paying homage to his Holiness Sakya-muni, the
Buddha reincarnated."
"You mean," Trent interrogated, "there's a lama here who's supposed to
be a reincarnation of Buddha?"
Kerth nodded. "That's his palace"--indicating Lhakang-gompa. "Oh, we've
stumbled into a jolly little nest! It'll take your breath when I tell
you everything. This--Shingtse-lunpo--is everything that Lhassa was, and
a hundred things that Lhassa never could be, with Lhassa's secretiveness
and holiness intensified to the nth degree. It's the--well, I suppose
one might call it the secret capital of the Lamaist hierarchy. From all
I can learn, it hasn't always had the great significance and power that
it has now; until a few years ago it was simply the home of a Grand Lama
who ranked with the Tarnath Lama. Nobody knew of it, because explorers
haven't covered this part of Tibet; the nearest anybody ever came to
this particular strip of territory was some time ago when a naturalist
made his way into Kham, and again, later, when an American doctor went
to a place called Chiamdo.... They say the Dalai Lama actually hid here,
in Lhakang-gompa (which, incidentally, is a facsimile of the Potala at
Lhassa, which I saw with the Mission) before he went to Urga. But that's
monkish gossip.... At any rate, here's how I interpret affairs from all
I've heard:
"After the Mission was sent to Lhassa the Dalai Lama lost a certain
amount of prestige. The authority of the Tashi Lama, as you probably
know, is more spiritual than temporal. Englishmen had been to Lhassa and
to Tashi-lunpo; therefore, both of their holy-of-holies had been
profaned. The lamas--that is, the hierarchy--were losing their hold on
the people. All that was before nineteen-twelve. Then the President of
China restored Tubdan Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, to Lhassa. But even that
failed to revive the old zeal. So a _coup d'etat_ was planned. A Grand
Lama had a made-to-order vision in which he saw the soul of Gaudama
Siddartha descend into the body of one of the abbots. From that moment
the abbot was Sakya-muni, Buddha reincarnated, and they installed him in
Lhakang-gompa, here in Shingtse-lunpo, the secret city _par excellence_
of Tibet. Lhassa and the Dalai Lama became figureheads--'to fool the
British,' as one priest put it to me. The monasteries of Sera, Debung
and Gaden, hotbeds of political intrigue in the time of the Dalai Lama
and the Buriat, Dorjieff, were no longer powerful, but subservient to
Lhakang-gompa. I understand the Tashi Lama objected to all this, but the
Yellow Caps over-ruled him.... So now Sakya-muni, with the Lamaist
hierarchy behind him, is supreme pontiff of the Church--and
Lhakang-gompa is the Vatican, as it were, from which he rules Tibet and
practically all of Mongolia, with certain _sub rosa_ wires that give him
power in Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan and parts of China."
Trent was staring up through the branches at the stars, but as Kerth
stopped he looked down and asked:
"Didn't you say you had an audience with him?"
Kerth's shaven skull nodded. "Yes. The Living Buddha wears a veil at all
ceremonies--too holy for mortal eyes, I fancy. Of course the Grand Lamas
have seen his face, but in the presence of the laity he is always
veiled. I attended what might be called pontifical mass. In company with
a number of pilgrim priests--at Shingtse-lunpo for the Feast of the
Sacred Dance--I was conducted through a veritable labyrinth in the
monastery and to a huge cathedral-like place. Sakya-muni, in yellow
robes and with a golden veil over his face, sat on a throne at one end.
Many cardinals and high officials were there, including the Great
Magician of Shingtse-lunpo. After the ceremony the Living Buddha
murmured something about '_Om, Ah, Hum_' and blessed a lot of red
scarves, or _katags_ as they're called, and distributed them among the
pilgrim priests. Then we left."
In the pause that followed Trent inserted:
"What of the jewels?"
Another shrug from Kerth. "If they're in Shingtse-lunpo, they are well
hidden and their presence isn't widely known."
"Yet--" But Trent checked himself.
"Yet Sarojini Nanjee said they were here," Kerth finished up. "I know
it. The fact that I haven't learned anything about them doesn't mean
they aren't here."
"And you haven't seen Sarojini?"
"If I did, it was without my knowledge."
"Or--Chavigny?"
Kerth laughed quietly. "If I didn't _know_ he existed, I'd believe him a
myth. No, I haven't seen Chavigny, nor heard of him, for that matter,
since I entered the city. But that's not queer, for if he were here he
wouldn't advertise the fact."
Trent motioned toward the lamasery. "Do you suppose he had a hand in the
jewel affair?"
"Who? Sakya-muni? If not, why were the gems brought to Shingtse-lunpo?
And remember: a _Grand Lama_ sent Da-yak to Myitkyina."
"But--"
"I agree with you," Kerth cut in, anticipating him. "It _is_
preposterous. It's evident that Chavigny has the alliance of the lamas,
but how did he get it? I haven't told you the strongest link in that
chain yet. You'll recall that a Grand Lama from a Tibetan monastery
emulated the example of the Tashi Lama and made a pilgrimage to the
Sacred Bo-tree at Gaya just about the time the gems were stolen?"
Trent's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"Precisely," continued Kerth, reading the other's thoughts. "I believe
the lamas who pilgrimaged to Buddh-Gaya carried the jewels out of
India. I have foundation for this theory, too. Since my arrival here
I've learned that a number of the monks who went on that pilgrimage were
from Shingtse-lunpo--and they haven't returned yet!"
Trent was subconsciously following a detached idea. He remembered that
the priests were at Gaya on the night Manlove was murdered, and if their
purpose was that suggested by Kerth, it furnished a reason for Chavigny
being there....
"Nor is that all I know," Kerth resumed. "Caravan-loads of rifles have
been brought here from Mongolia--_Russian_ rifles--also gunpowder and
dynamite. They're stored in the armory under the monastery. Has that any
significance to you?... Trent, we may yet bring down a brace of birds
when we only expected to pot one.... I'm more than a little concerned
with Sarojini Nanjee; I can't adjust her with this business. What are
her secret strings that give her so much power? What can she expect to
do alone? She has a trump card up her sleeve, mark my words. She's no
fool, and I'd feel deucedly better if I were certain she was going to
play that card for us."
"She promised," Trent reminded.
Kerth smiled wryly, but the smile passed quickly.
"Captain Manlove?" he queried. "You've learned nothing?"
Trent shook his head. The silence after that was heavy. Kerth ended it.
"I can't stay any longer now. I'm cultivating the abbot of one of the
lesser monasteries, with the view of eventually being assigned to a cell
in Lhakang-gompa. I've a suspicion I'll find something of interest
there, if I ever get in. I daresay you're scheduled to witness the
ceremonies to-morrow, so I won't have an opportunity to see you until
to-morrow night, but I'll return then, about this hour." He extended his
lean hand. "Here's luck to you!"
"The same," Trent responded with a smile, gripping his hand. "How'd you
get in?"
Kerth indicated the wall. "Give me a lift, will you?"
Trent clasped his hands, and, by stepping into the foothold thus formed,
Kerth was able to grasp the top of the wall and draw himself up. There
he sat for a moment, looking below on the other side; then, with a wave
of farewell, he dropped from sight.
Trent returned to the house, passing the muleteers who were gathered
about a fire in the quadrangle, and climbed to the roof. Dana Charteris
was there--but asleep. For a space of seconds he stood looking down at
the slim form. Her head was pillowed upon one arm and utter weariness
lined the features that were revealed in the moonlight--pale, starry
features. He felt a warm rush of sympathy, a moment when he loathed
himself for having brought her into danger.... He turned away, moving
quietly to the shaft.
At the top of the ladder he paused. The city lay before him, patches of
gloom and shadow, beneath the dark bulk of the lamasery. To think that
there, among those huddled buildings, was a key to the riddle--a
solution that would dispel the nebulous clouds, perhaps clear the
mystery of Manlove's death!
A wave of the old bitterness swept up through him; swept up and cast his
features into a mold of grim resolution.
3
The next morning Trent told Dana Charteris of his talk with Euan Kerth;
also, that Kee Meng was to be her bodyguard.
"But surely I can leave the compound?" she objected. "I would like to
see the festival to-day--and, oh, it would be frightful here, waiting,
with nothing to do! I'd worry about you every moment, yet with something
to distract me ... don't you see?"
He considered a long time before he decided.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise. There's no accounting for what might
happen, and then...." He made a movement as though to furrow his hair,
but instead passed his hand over his turban. "I'm sorry, but the risk is
too great. You won't go, will you?"
She promised.
Shortly before noon Na-chung, accompanied by his escort, arrived. The
Tibetan superintended the transformation of Trent from a Hindu merchant
to a lamaist dignitary. It was after one o'clock when the Englishman,
shaved and dressed like Na-chung--orange-yellow robe, mushroom hat and
all--mounted a pony in the quadrangle, and, with the councillor at his
side and a file of helmeted soldiers behind, clattered away from the
house. As he passed out of the gate he looked back for a glimpse of Dana
Charteris, but did not see her. A vague sense of unrest enclosed him.
Toward Lhakang-gompa they rode, through swarms that pressed eagerly in
the direction of the monastery. Prayer-flags were festooned from house
to house, and women sat by the roadside selling dried fruit and
sweetmeats.
In the very shadow of the monster building, where the rocks fell away
from its base, they dismounted. The serrated facade piled itself above
them in a series of inward-sloping ledges, reaching a shuddersome height
before it met the helium-like blaze of golden roofs. The soldiers
remained with the horses, while Na-chung led Trent through a gate and a
courtyard--the latter a veritable abyss between the main building and
outer walls--and into a dark corridor that reeked with rancid odors.
Thus began a journey that carried them through dim chambers and black
halls; through cloisters heavy with incense and faintly lighted rooms
where lamas, sitting before prayer-wheels, murmured passages from
Buddhist scriptures; through courts that were cool and sunk deep in the
shadow of lofty walls; until, at length, they came out into bright
sunlight.
At first the intense glare stung Trent's eyes, but gradually he became
accustomed to it and saw that they had emerged on the other side of the
lamasery and were upon a gallery overlooking a huge amphitheater. He
hazarded a guess that it measured about half a mile around. An incline
led down from the gallery, between rows of seats and stalls, and along
this slanting aisle and into a box close to the immense center court
Na-chung conducted him. There, seated on cushions beside the councillor,
he had an opportunity fully to absorb the bewildering spectacle.
Tier after tier of stalls and terraced seats were packed against the
retaining walls. Marquees of striped silk, flying maroon and
flame-colored flags, had been erected around the edge of the arena. In
the far end stood a gilded, silk-draped proscenium, and raised upon it,
under a gold-fringed canopy, was a dais. On either side of the platform,
herded together and kept within their boundaries by guards armed with
halberds, were hundreds of lamas--patches of cinnabar-red. At the left
of the arena, starkly silhouetted upon the walls, was a line of stakes;
their purpose puzzled Trent. Every available space, except the vast
center-court and the proscenium, was crowded with richly dressed
onlookers. There were Tibetan dukes and duchesses, the turquoise-studded
aureoles of the latter gleaming like blue fire; soldiers and government
dignitaries; high lamas wearing saffron vestments, and novices in red
togas; pilgrims from Ladak, Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan, Kham and Mongolia;
men and women garbed in silks and satins and decked with jewels. The
many-hued robes and the colored banners and standards--gold, cerise,
ocher, lavender-blue and neutral-tint predominating--were like vivid
splashes on a giant palette.
The box where Trent and Na-chung sat was one of a row that was occupied
by men in the orange-yellow robes and mushroom hats of the Higher
Council. Many of these bronze-faced dignitaries were accompanied by
women in maroon garments and silver coral-adorned aureoles. Inquisitive
eyes were turned toward Trent and Na-chung, and the latter bowed and
smiled.
"Yonder," explained the Tibetan, indicating a long carpet of imperial
yellow that dazzled from a flight of stone steps at one side of the
arena to the proscenium in the remote end, "is where His Holiness will
walk. And that"--inclining his head toward a nearby stall where a
prelate in claret-colored garments sat in the midst of shaven-pated
satellites--"is the Great Magician. It is rumored that he and His
Holiness have--er--had some misunderstanding."
Thus he gossiped while Trent, searching the ranks of the laity below for
a familiar face and aware of something imminent and compelling in the
subdued buzzing of many voices, listened only half attentively.
Without warning a trumpet gave voice to a blast. It seemed to inject a
sudden thrill into the atmosphere. Trent felt his muscles grow tense,
and involuntarily his eyes sought the broad stone stairway.
At the top yak-hair curtains parted for a moment and a group of heralds
bearing long copper horns filed out. Came another blast, monstrously
loud. A shout rose from the multitude; died. Trent heard a faint, minor
chant--coming from behind the yak-hair curtains, he imagined. When this
intoning ceased, trumpets blared again; the curtains at the stairhead
parted.
Hushed expectancy shut down like a tangible weight. The rapid play of
sunlight on lances and bare blades, on burnished helmets and golden
accoutrements, seemed a visible manifestation of the feverish intensity
that charged the throng. The majority were standing with bowed heads;
some had prostrated themselves. Anticipation transfigured every face.
Then the head of the pontifical procession came into view.
Leading were the lictors, with lamaic emblems; then acolytes with golden
censers and chalices. They moved slowly down the steps and along the
yellow carpet. Following them strode the secular lords and
cardinals--bronze-faced prelates in rich, deep-yellow robes and yellow
mitres. Laymen marched at their heels, carrying silken cushions.
And toward the rear, beneath a golden state-umbrella, attended by Grand
Lamas of the Gelugpa, walked the reincarnation of Gaudama Siddartha, His
Holiness Lobsang Yshe Naksang Sakya-muni, the Yellow Pope of Tibet. He
bore the insignia of his pontifical rank in one hand, in the other a
rosary. A mitre was set upon his head. From beneath this peaked hat fell
a golden veil that shimmered in the sunlight and blended with the
yellow-gold pallium and wide stole that hung from his shoulders.
The living deity moved slowly over the yellow carpet; mounted the
proscenium; sank cross-legged, hands folded, like a Buddha, upon the
dais.
Banners and standards were lifted in salute above the countless faces
that blurred against the terraced seats. A detachment of soldiers in
lavender-blue uniforms and brazen helmets clattered out of a door in the
arena and formed a line in front of the gilded proscenium. Flash of
sunlight on helmets and lifted lances; gleam of wrought gold and brazen
accoutrements; a rippling play of gold. Then horses were wheeled, and
the Tibetan cavalry trotted out of the arena.
Sakya-muni removed his mitre. Which proved a signal for the ceremonies
to begin.
A clarion blare announced a new group of lamas--priests wearing white
robes and hideous masks, representing mythological demons. They paid
obeisance to the supreme pontiff and gathered at one side of the
proscenium. After them came other lamas, in golden harness and mantles
the flame hue of nasturtiums.
"They are the ancient warriors," explained Na-chung to Trent. "And
those"--waving his hand toward another group that was debouching from a
gateway below the tiered seats--"are the contestants in the wrestling
matches."
The sinewy Tibetan gladiators saluted Sakya-muni. They wore only pelts
of snow-leopards girded about their hips. Their skin, between knees and
throat, was surprisingly fair. The wrestling tourney lasted for over two
hours. Na-chung explained every detail to Trent who, toward the end of
the lengthy show of physical skill, was growing weary of it. Too, his
eyes ached from looking so long and steadily at the sunlit expanse.
When the wrestlers left the arena, hidden drums rumbled--throbbed out a
tuneless miserere. Cymbals clashed metallically. A discordant blast of
the trumpets whipped the air and a lama wearing a frightful mask with
yak-horns upon it and tiger-skins flapping over his yellow robes moved
toward the proscenium. He held a skull-bowl above him. Suddenly he
paused and dashed its contents to the flagging, where it spread in an
ugly crimson pool. Another burst of trumpets accompanied this.
"It is the Dance of the Gods," Na-chung told Trent.
A faint light showed itself in the councillor's eyes. Trent saw the same
glow in the eyes of those around him--a glimmer of fanatical zeal.
The white-robed lamas danced into the center of the arena; whirled
about, making strange signs; swayed to the monotonous _boom-booming_ of
the drums. The priests garbed as ancient warriors joined in, their
nasturtium-hued mantles and golden harness aquiver like sinuous flames.
As the dance continued, pilgrims frequently leaped up and prostrated
themselves, intoxicated with a mystical vintage. Even Trent was not
immune to infection. The drums throbbed against his heart and temples;
throbbed and throbbed, until they seemed the pulse of a dull delirium.
The Dance of the Gods was interminably long and, after a while, lost its
hypnotic power over Trent. The sun, a globe of angry red, was rapidly
spinning into the west and a blood-shot sky flamed above the arena when
the evil spirits were exorcized--for that, Na-chung explained, was the
story told by the performance--and the dancers melted into the throngs
of priests on either side of the proscenium.
"Now comes the Archery Contest," announced the councillor, a repressed
gleam in his eyes. "It is the great event of the celebration--a
demonstration of justice."
Even as he spoke, trumpets were blown. From behind the yak-hair curtains
emerged a small body of men in golden chain-mail and helmets. (The armor
and headgear interested Trent. Here were relics of the ancients--of
Srong-tsan-gambo and the early Tibetan kings.) The rays of the sun
reflected a dull radiance in the meshes of their armor; sent needles of
fire weaving along the contours of gilded bows and quivers; glittered in
blood-red and gold upon polished helmets.
"They belong to the guard of his Transparency the Governor," said
Na-chung.
The archers lifted their bows in salute to the Living God. A visible
ripple of admiration passed around the amphitheater. Heads were strained
forward, eyes focussed upon the mailed bowmen, who aligned themselves on
the right side of the arena--facing the black stakes. There was
something pregnant and potent in their movements....
From a gateway opposite the archers rode a double file of soldiers.
Between them walked a line of men in dun-colored garments. As Trent saw
that they were manacled a frightful suspicion fastened upon him. With
dreadful suddenness the purpose of the stakes became apparent....
The bowmen stood motionless; only their chain-mail seemed possessed of
life. It glittered and crawled with scaly scintillations, like the
corrugated armor of a dragon.
At the stakes the soldiers drew up; dismounted. One of the manacled men
screamed and gibbered as he was being bound--sounds that were like
nothing human. Trent turned to Na-chung. The Englishman's face showed no
emotion, but his jaw was thrust forward at an ugly angle.
The councillor smiled grimly.
"Their tongues are slit," he informed Trent; then, with a wave of his
hand, he added: "Political offenders."
Trent, his features cast in a mold that for sheer inscrutability would
have rivalled that of the stoniest idol, turned away--and an instant
later he felt a warm breath upon his ear and heard Na-chung's suave
voice.
"Thus the Governor punishes treason. Look! There is his Transparency
now."
A vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair, borne on the shoulders of four
guards, moved through a gateway close to the archers; was placed on the
ground at the end of their stances. The official, visible only as a
crimson blot in the interior, did not rise, but watched the proceedings
from his seat.
Trent's eyes were drawn back irresistibly to the stakes where the
prisoners were being bound, manacled wrists above their heads. Silence
wrapped the amphitheater about, like tight swathing. To the Englishman,
there was a terrible significance in the undernote of red that the late
afternoon introduced into the scene: the five bars of the blood-red
sunset quivering above the arena and reflecting upon the gilded
proscenium, the deep magenta of the lamas' robes, and the red-gold glint
on harness and naked metal.
At a signal the archers advanced several paces. Bow-strings were tested;
arrows drawn from quivers.
A shudder, half of awful ecstasy, half of horror, swept the
amphitheater, like wind rippling the surface of the sea.
Trent, a nausea spreading from the pit of his stomach to his throat, saw
Sakya-muni lift one hand. His lips pressed into a line; otherwise, his
immobility was unbroken.
Another shiver swept the amphitheater.
Sakya-muni's hand dropped.
The archers flexed their bows; clapped their heels together; stood
erect. Gutstrings snapped rigid between their nocks.... The
_whizz-zz-zz_ of the arrows seemed to unleash the tension. A hysterical
cheer wavered up from the multitude. The manacled figures sagged, hung,
drenched in the flaming red of the sunset.
Trent relaxed--but the nausea remained, a dull horror that he could
almost taste.
Sakya-muni rose, as did the multitude. A low chant began, a weird,
droning incantation. The mailed executioners marched out of the arena,
followed by the Governor's vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair. The masked
lamas and those in harness and flame-colored mantles filed toward the
stairway. Lictors and acolytes descended from the proscenium; the
secular lords and cardinals; the Living Buddha and his attendant Grand
Lamas.... Slowly they traversed the yellow carpet, slowly they mounted
the steps and vanished behind the yak-hair curtains. The red monks
herded together on either side of the platform formed human rivulets
that surged into the arena. The onlookers left their seats.
The Festival of the Gods was over.
4
Trent and Na-chung moved up the incline, sifting through the swarm. On
the gallery, at the portal of the monastery, Trent looked back. Dusk was
creeping into the inflamed sky and gray motes subdued the crimson
reflection. Over the heads of the people he saw the arena--saw the
sagging figures starkly outlined upon the white wall.
Then he plunged into the doorway, behind Na-chung.
As they re-traveled the labyrinth of corridors and courts, there hung
before Trent a picture of the arena as he last looked upon it--a grim
etching. He had seen men slaughtered in recognized warfare, had seen
prisoners executed, but this--There was something monstrous, something
inexplicably hideous, about it. His failure to understand the uncanny
impression only sharpened the horror. "Their tongues are slit--"
Na-chung's words were written as with steel upon his brain. When men's
tongues are slit it is obviously for the purpose of preventing speech.
What did those wretches know? "Political offenders," the councillor had
said ... yet....
So ran his thoughts as they emerged at length on the other side of
Lhakang-gompa. Night was swiftly gathering, and a familiar
vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair swam in the dusk of the courtyard near
the gate. As Trent drew nearer, a figure in long robes stepped out. He
saw the pale blot of the Governor's face.
"Ah! It is his Transparency!" exclaimed Na-chung. "He is waiting for
us."
The Governor stood motionless by his sedan-chair. Not until they were
within three yards of him did he stir--and as he took a step, Trent
experienced a shock that was not unlike a physical blow. But his poise
did not desert him; he only drew a swift breath, which he doubted if the
Governor heard, and a slight smile settled over his features--as though
he had known from the very first that it was Hsien Sgam who rode in the
vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair and this meeting was no more than
expected, even anticipated.
"Hsien Sgam," he said, still smiling.
The Mongol--he, too, was smiling--bowed. His slender, almost feminine
hands gleamed sharply-cut in the twilight.
"By that name you first knew me," he replied in the quiet, reserved
voice that Trent remembered so well--a voice that chose each word with
extreme care. "So, my friend, continue to know me as that."
He wore a dark silk-brocade garment; it looked crimson in the dusk. The
facings were goldcloth, shining dully, and a hat with upcurling brim
surmounted his pale bronze features. One of those curious, vagrant
questions came to Trent as he looked at the Mongol. Was this the
flannel-clad fellow-passenger of the _Manchester_, he who had talked of
revolutions, of Western vices and morals?... Queer.... There was little
of incongruity about him now, here in his native setting; only the eyes
and face--eyes of Lucifer and face of Buddha. Anomalous, unexplainable,
almost--Trent hesitated at using the term, even in thought; yet why
not?--almost monstrous.
"I am pleased to welcome you to Shingtse-lunpo," Hsein Sgam announced.
"I regretted very much"--here the sensitive lips quivered in a quick
smile--"that you became impatient and left the joss-house, that night in
Rangoon. It was unpardonable of me to have kept you waiting, yet
unavoidable. I hope to do here what I intended to do there--discuss
certain matters with which you are only partly acquainted." Then, after
a pause, "I trust you find your quarters comfortable?"
Trent answered with a single word.
"I am delighted to have you accept my hospitality," resumed the Mongol.
"There are many--er--things we must discuss, but I would indeed be rude
if I suggested that we take up those matters so soon after your
fatiguing journey. Perhaps you will do me the honor of calling at my
residence to-morrow night?... I shall send my estimable chief
councillor, Na-chung, to--er--fetch you, as they say in your country."
And he did a most Western thing; he extended his hand. Trent accepted
it, because he had no choice. For some inexplicable reason he felt a
sudden loathing. In that instant the Mongol seemed, mentally, as
misshapen as his limb. It was like a swift glimpse behind the serene
Buddha-like face, and his touch was a tangible reminder that Hsien
Sgam--Hsien Sgam of the slender hands and sensitive lips--was
responsible for the slaughter that Trent only a short while before had
witnessed. "Thus the Governor punishes treason," Na-chung had said.
The Mongol spoke, almost with clairvoyance.
"Doubtless you found in the ceremonies this afternoon a--er--slight
unpleasantness; that is, it would be unpleasant to an Anglo-Saxon." He
smiled. "Public executions, we of Shingtse-lunpo find, are necessary to
bring forcibly to the people the supremacy of the State, and"--the
baffling eyes were more inscrutable than ever--"as an example to those
who contemplate--shall I say, _indiscretions_?"
Still smiling, Hsien Sgam limped to the sedan-chair. He entered, without
another glance at Trent, and was borne away on the shoulders of the
guards.
"Come," said Na-chung. "My men are waiting outside the gate."
Back through the narrow, crowded streets they rode--streets that were as
chaotic as Trent's brain. The discovery that Hsien Sgam was Governor of
Shingtse-lunpo (and, quite evidently, one of the Order of the Falcon)
swung his main danger from Sarojini Nanjee to the Mongol--or rather,
left him between the two perils. Of the pair, he imagined he could
expect more mercy from the woman. If she and the Mongol were in league,
that doubly jeopardized his position; but if they were opposing
forces.... Well, frequently the third party profits by the rivalry of
the other two. What puzzled him most was why Hsien Sgam had tried to
kill him in Rangoon, if he believed him Tavernake, the jeweler. And
Trent did not doubt for an instant, now, that the Mongol was the
instigator of the bullet that Kerth had intercepted. A warm thrill of
assurance ran through him at thought of Kerth. He had one ally. More, of
course, counting the muleteers and Dana Charteris; but the girl was more
of a liability than an asset, a thorn in his fragile security. If she
were only somewhere else.... But she was not. And her presence troubled
him.
Hsien Sgam, the Governor of Shingtse-lunpo. He smiled inwardly. What was
the Mongol's part in the jewel mystery? He suspected that Hsien Sgam's
talk of a Mongol revolution was a sheath in which his true motive in
luring him to the joss-house in Rangoon lay hidden. Was--?
"By George!" he muttered, aloud.
Glancing toward Na-chung, he saw the councillor's questioning look and
made an inconsequential remark, while he asked himself:
"Is Hsien Sgam ... but no ... yet ... well, why not!... But what of
Chavigny, if he isn't the Falcon!"
They reached Trent's dwelling-place then. Na-chung halted at the gate,
informing the Englishman that he would leave a guard.
"As your guide," he explained suavely. "You will wish to go beyond your
quadrangle, and whereas your garments are a passport anywhere in the
city, it is not wise for you to venture out alone--yet." He smiled. "You
see, the fact that you do not speak our language, and that my people are
unfortunately suspicious, might prove ... you understand? Therefore, I
have instructed the guard to accompany you when you leave the house, as
a purely precautionary measure. His Transparency the Governor also
wishes me to present to you the pony which you are riding, as a slight
token of his esteem."
Trent thanked him and Na-chung clattered away, followed by his retinue
of soldiers.
As one of the muleteers took Trent's mount, he looked about the
quadrangle for Dana Charteris.
"Where is my brother?" he asked.
The muleteer muttered a few unintelligible words.
"Where?" Trent repeated.
The Oriental looked as though he expected Trent to strike him, as he
answered:
"He left the house--this morning--soon after you did, _Tajen_."
"Alone?" He snapped out the question.
"No, _Tajen_; Kee Meng went, too."
"Where? Do you know?"--this with a frown.
"To the festival, _Tajen_."
Trent stood motionless. The frown disappeared as he remembered that he
had ridden from the amphitheatre; they, being on foot, would be later in
coming.
"Send Kee Meng to me as soon as he returns," he rapped, and entered the
dwelling.
When a half-hour had gone by and Dana Charteris and Kee Meng had not
come, the frown returned to Trent's forehead; returned and stayed; and
deepened into furrows when another thirty minutes did not bring them. He
went up on the roof to smoke and to be alone; and he paced the stones,
drawing nervously upon the amber stem and confessing to himself that he
was alarmed.
His heart beat a swift symphony of anticipation when he heard the gate
open. Without looking over the roof-wall, he hurried below. As he
stepped into the quadrangle and beheld the limp figure that was being
supported by two muleteers, fear sank its talons into him.
The sound of his footsteps brought the limp figure up with a visible
effort. He thrust back the two men; took a step; dropped on his knees
before Trent.
"_Tajen!_" whispered Kee Meng. "_Tajen_, I swear by Allah that--"
Trent gripped his shoulders. His right hand encountered moisture; he saw
a stain.
"What is it?" he demanded, his muscles bound in a rigor of dreadful
apprehension.
"_Tajen_, as we were coming from that--that devil dance, the brother and
I.... We were in a street no wider than this"--painfully he lifted his
hands in illustration--"and they jumped on us from behind--"
"Who did?"
"I do not know, _Tajen_; but I think they were lamas. They struck me
from behind--and as I lay there I heard the brother scream--and I....
They stabbed me, _Tajen_. I saw black for a long while, oh, a very long
while! When I woke up I was lying in the gutter. The brother--he was
gone! I was hurt; but I knew you would kill me if I returned without
looking--so I hunted--until I spilled my blood over the city and had
none left to keep me alive. Then I came--came back!"
He sank in a huddle at Trent's feet.
"Kill me, _Tajen_," he moaned. "The brother--how could I refuse when he
told me to go with him to...? But kill me--I am not worth the--" His
voice broke; he was still.
Trent bent swiftly. After a moment he stood erect.
"Carry him inside," he directed the muleteers. "It isn't a bad wound;
he's weak from loss of blood."
The two yellow men stooped and picked up the unconscious Kee Meng. As
Trent entered the house behind them the putrid odor of butter-lamps
assaulted him, sickened him. The blow had come with a maiming force. He
felt suddenly crippled.
5
When Trent had dressed Kee Meng's wound he returned to the roof, to his
pipe and the stars. The spot seemed a lone haven of cleanliness, raised
above the malefic atmosphere of the city.... To think--to decide what to
do. He told himself that over and over as he paced the stones. His
hands, figuratively, were tied. There was no one to whom he dared
appeal--none save Kerth, and the two of them might search for days in
the labyrinth of the city without even finding a clue. Meanwhile, Dana
Charteris was in danger--a danger that was more frightful because of the
indefiniteness of its character. There was but one explanation for her
disappearance: either Sarojini Nanjee or Hsien Sgam had discovered her
sex and had taken steps to place her where she was likely to cause the
least trouble ... and where she might prove a weapon.
He smoked on, pipe clamped between his teeth, striding the length of the
housetop. The stars saw what few men had ever seen--Arnold Trent
stripped of his mask, his citadel of impassivity beaten down. A great
hollow infinity seemed to press upon him and quench the very breath from
his lips. He came to understand a new emotion--the agony of separation.
The scales of unreason weighed values, and an alien recklessness urged
him to forsake the sovereign motive for his presence in Shingtse-lunpo
and with one mighty effort break the bonds that held him to a discreet
course. Did not duty toward flesh transcend duty toward the
inanimate?... Thus the lover's litany--a beautiful heresy.
But all this ache, longing, and unreason only carried him about in a
circle; and from these purposeless revolutions the memory of her, a
continuous glow in the dimness, led him into patience, to a mastery of
himself. There were lines in his face--the mellow writing of anguish. It
was as though he had partaken of the eucharist of suffering and from the
bitter sacrament had come quiescence.
With the first easing of the tension came a plan. It broke upon him
suddenly. If Sarojini Nanjee had abducted Dana Charteris, he could only
rely upon his wits to free her; but if it was Hsien Sgam--His plan was a
counter-blow at the Mongol in the event he was responsible for the
girl's disappearance. It was a bold play, and if he failed....
As he heard a soft footfall, he swung about toward the shaft. A figure
emerged--one of the muleteers.
"_Tajen_, a lama is below," he announced. "He came over the garden wall.
He says he would speak with you."
"Send him up here," directed Trent.
Several minutes later a shaven skull projected itself above the black
opening in the roof, and Kerth, in his lama robes, stepped out. There
was something reassuring in the sight of him. A white man! That alone
was a moral fire in which to forge his resolution.
Kerth listened in silence while Trent recounted what had happened and
told of his plan.
"I know of a place to conceal him," Kerth announced, when Trent had
concluded. "It's an old ruin at the other end of the city; and there's a
vault, with a door that will lock. I stayed there the first few days I
was in Shingtse-lunpo. We'll have to strike now--to-night. To-morrow
morning I enter Lhakang-gompa, to serve in one of the cells." He smiled
his satanic smile. "It's my one chance to get at the source of things in
the monastery."
They descended from the roof--and a few minutes afterward, when Kerth
climbed over the garden wall, he was accompanied by two of Trent's
muleteers. Trent stood in the shadow of the willow-thorn until their
footsteps ceased, then returned to the house to wait.
He kept vigil in the quadrangle for more than an hour, restless,
impatient. At the first sounds in the willow-grove, he hurried to the
garden and met the two caravan-men.
"All is well, _Tajen_," reported one of the Orientals. "The lama bade me
tell you everything happened as planned and that the councillor Na-chung
is hidden in the vault."
"The lama sent no other message?"
"He said he wishes you the peace of Gaudama Siddartha."
Good old Kerth, Trent thought warmly. That was his message of comfort.
"You have done well," he commended the muleteers. "To-morrow you will
each receive a gift."
It was near midnight, and the stars had fled before black clouds and a
drizzling rain, when Trent forced himself to lie down. Almost the
instant he relaxed unconsciousness carried him into its dim cathedral,
and he drank of the sleep that deadens even the pains of the dying.