“Not yet,” said Ommony, studying by which roundabout route it might be easiest to elicit information. He decided on the sympathetic-personal. The man’s neck had plainly received attention, but the subject served. “Shall I get a doctor for your neck?”
“Nay, Tsiang Samdup made magic and put leeches on it and some stuff that burned. Lo, I recover.”
“You mean the holy Lama Tsiang Samdup? The Ringding Gelong Lama? He who was at Chutter Chand’s this afternoon?”
Ommony knew quite well whom he meant, but he wanted to convey the information to the others without putting the Hillman on guard. By the look in the Hillman’s eye, his mood was talkative—boastful—a reaction from the failure of the afternoon.
“Aye, the same.”
“I should have thought his chela would have attended to that.”
“Samding? Nay, they say that fellow is too sacred altogether. Not that I believe it; I could cut his throat and show them he dies gurgling and whistling like any other man! But the Lama looks after him like an old wife with a young husband and the boy mayn’t soil his fingers. Rebuke thy dog, Ommonee—she eyes me like a devil in the dark. So, that is better. Ohe—I wish I had never come southward! Yet, I have seen this house of thine. It is a wonder. It will serve to speak of, when I go back to Spiti and tell tales around the fire.”
Ommony translated for the others’ benefit, and went on questioning.
“I suppose you will return to Tilgaun with the Lama and his chela?”
“May the stars and my karma forbid! I go under the belly of a te-rain, as I came. To Kalka I go; and thence by foot on the old road to Simla, where I know a man who will pay me to carry goods to the rajah of Spiti. That is a long journey and a difficult. I shall be well paid.”