The White Mirror Read Online Free PDF Page A

Akbarabad. On a different occasion he insisted that he was born in Istanbul and left home on a ship bound for Athens. On a night when he had drunk a bottle of wine around a fire in the Gyalthang inn, he spoke with vehemence of the death of his noble family at the hands of the East India Company in the narrow alleys of Hooghly, only to claim on the next night that he had been raised by spies and cutthroats.
    Hamza’s features offered little clue to his place of birth, but when he sat with the muleteers around a campfire, wearing his plain hat and rough coat, he could easily pass for a trader from Kham. His polished manners and skill with languages had earned him the role of ambassador for the trade caravan.
    Now he stood in the doorway wearing a critical expression. “There are many acceptable gifts that a traveler can offer his host. You might have brought news of foreign kingdoms, trinkets for the lady of the house, or half a torn map, perhaps, or a cart full of wondrous objects. Instead, you present a corpse.”
    Li Du gave a small smile, which faded quickly as he remembered the inert, icy figure on the bridge. “How did you hear?” he asked.
    â€œFrom the old man in the cottage who is making cheese in a snowstorm,” said Hamza. “Perhaps it is a delicacy—curds separated amid snowflakes and clouds. Like tea leaves dried in moonlight.” Several months earlier, in the market inn at Dali, Hamza had spent a day composing a tale about moonlight tea that he swore would double the tea’s value in the Lhasa markets. It was something to do with the ghost of a poet searching for his fox wife.
    Li Du recalled the crippled man making cheese in his hut. “We met Yeshe. I think he knew who the monk on the bridge was, or guessed, but he was not eager to speak with us.”
    â€œHe is not warm with strangers,” said Hamza. “But the lord of the manor displays enough geniality to balance twenty gruff gatekeepers.”
    â€œIs Yeshe a member of the family?”
    Hamza shrugged. “The children call him Uncle.”
    Li Du nodded abstractedly. He was turning his hat over in his hands, twisting the worn wool.
    Observing him, Hamza frowned. “Was it so bad a death?” he asked.
    â€œA nightmarish end,” Li Du replied. “Violent and inexplicable.” As Li Du described the scene at the bridge, he watched Hamza’s expression flicker between surprise and curiosity. When he came to the paint applied to the corpse, Hamza’s brow furrowed, as if he had not understood the words.
    â€œPainted?” Hamza raised his hand to stop Li Du’s account. “But are you sure this was not some trick on tired minds? This apparition on the bridge strikes me more as a spirit than a man. Perhaps this white and gold and blue was an illusion?”
    â€œIt was real,” Li Du said. “The paint was thickly applied. I saw the image clearly.” Li Du traced a finger across the surface of the wall, sketching an invisible copy of the shape he had seen.
    â€œA white circle framed in gold and blue,” said Hamza, thoughtfully. He was leaning against the wall beside the table. He picked up the silver bells and began to polish them idly on his sleeve. “I have seen courtesans painted blue and green to intrigue princes,” he said. “I have seen a sorcerer’s arms etched with black serpents that writhed, living, across his skin. I have seen eyes painted on the closed eyelids of the dead.” Hamza’s gaze was focused on memories Li Du could not see, as if he was turning the pages of a book quickly, searching for a half-remembered illustration. “I have never before seen a dead man painted this way,” he concluded.
    â€œAnd you did not even see it,” Li Du reminded him.
    â€œNo,” Hamza said. “No. When I arrived here yesterday, there was nothing on the bridge. Nothing living, nothing dead.”
    Hamza set the string of