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.