sir
…
A shape loomed in the snow, picked out in black and white. Sam saw a colossal wall left over from ancient times when rockets and gunpowder were just for fireworks. The gates were, not surprisingly, closed. The whole city, without electricity or a proper water supply, was little more than half a mile across with, raised up at its heart, the monastery on the card sent to Freya. Sorted in this city, the card would have been carried down the mountain by donkey pack, transferred to a clunky old van in the lowlands, and no doubt read over by at least five airport officials before being loaded on to a plane, to arrive just before Freya died.
Seeing no other way to gain admittance, Sam hammered on the gate. A hatch slid back and a pair of suspicious eyes took in this stranger wearing none-too-substantial thermal gear bought in Devon. Sam didn’t know whether the gatekeeper noticed his pale skin beneath the scarf, but he heard a snatch of questioning in Tibetan shouted against the storm. He yelled back, ‘Please! Let me in!’
The hatch slid shut.
They’re not going to. Strangers aren’t welcome here.
He immediately chided himself for the thought.
They’re good people. They’ll let me in.
A small gate opened, and gratefully he staggered into the relative shelter of a porch. Two men in thick furs and skins began questioning him, even as they took him inside, into the warmth. Where had he come from? What did he want here?
‘I’m looking for someone. It’s very important.’
In the gatehouse were more dark-skinned guards, who looked up in surprise. As Sam unwrapped his scarf and semi-collapsed by a flickering fire, the light of the flame revealed his distinctly European features. Immediately the questioning became more aggressive. With a lot of neglect to its history, Europe was not held in the highest esteem by Tibetans.
‘How did you get here? What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for someone,’ he repeated. He directed the full force of his gaze on the nearest guard, who flinched. Yes, now that his face was illuminated, there was little doubt. In the firelight his eyes, which people readily saw as dark, dark brown, were nearly pitch black.
Or possibly it was the flame
, thought the man.
Yes, a trick of the light
.
Everyone thought that.
‘Someone who’s been in contact with another European, probably travelling by the name of Freya Oldstock. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Tall. Very pretty. Came out of nowhere, I expect, like me.’
They looked uneasy. ‘What’s your business with the other European, if she has been here?’ asked one.
‘Has she been here?’
‘She has.’
‘Who did she see?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m her friend. She’s dead.’
There was a shocked silence. ‘Dead?’ asked one. ‘The lady’s dead?’ They, like everyone who’d met Freya, had been won over.
‘I need to meet whoever it was she saw.’
‘We don’t know who. She always went to the monastery.’
‘Then that is where I need to go.’
They were defensive again. ‘Have you got your papers? Who are you?’
At this Sam seemed to lose his temper, rising and stretching up to his full height.
His eyes seem to burn into you, as if reading your mind
, thought the captain of the gate.
The lady had had eyes like those, but hers had been blue – and softer, kinder.
‘I am Luc Satise, I am Sam Linnfer. I am Sebastian Teufel. Now you tell the people at the monastery that I’m coming under one or all of those names, I don’t mind which. Tell them that whoever of
my
family murdered Freya may be after them too. Tell them that she was killed with a dragon-bone knife, which can destroy even an immortal. Tell them all that, and show me to the monastery!’
Something about Sam didn’t allow for arguing. A boy ran ahead, while the captain trucked up with Sam in a rackety jeep that took five goes to start moving, and stalled on every street corner. The guards seemed very proud of it.
All
…
A shape loomed in the snow, picked out in black and white. Sam saw a colossal wall left over from ancient times when rockets and gunpowder were just for fireworks. The gates were, not surprisingly, closed. The whole city, without electricity or a proper water supply, was little more than half a mile across with, raised up at its heart, the monastery on the card sent to Freya. Sorted in this city, the card would have been carried down the mountain by donkey pack, transferred to a clunky old van in the lowlands, and no doubt read over by at least five airport officials before being loaded on to a plane, to arrive just before Freya died.
Seeing no other way to gain admittance, Sam hammered on the gate. A hatch slid back and a pair of suspicious eyes took in this stranger wearing none-too-substantial thermal gear bought in Devon. Sam didn’t know whether the gatekeeper noticed his pale skin beneath the scarf, but he heard a snatch of questioning in Tibetan shouted against the storm. He yelled back, ‘Please! Let me in!’
The hatch slid shut.
They’re not going to. Strangers aren’t welcome here.
He immediately chided himself for the thought.
They’re good people. They’ll let me in.
A small gate opened, and gratefully he staggered into the relative shelter of a porch. Two men in thick furs and skins began questioning him, even as they took him inside, into the warmth. Where had he come from? What did he want here?
‘I’m looking for someone. It’s very important.’
In the gatehouse were more dark-skinned guards, who looked up in surprise. As Sam unwrapped his scarf and semi-collapsed by a flickering fire, the light of the flame revealed his distinctly European features. Immediately the questioning became more aggressive. With a lot of neglect to its history, Europe was not held in the highest esteem by Tibetans.
‘How did you get here? What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for someone,’ he repeated. He directed the full force of his gaze on the nearest guard, who flinched. Yes, now that his face was illuminated, there was little doubt. In the firelight his eyes, which people readily saw as dark, dark brown, were nearly pitch black.
Or possibly it was the flame
, thought the man.
Yes, a trick of the light
.
Everyone thought that.
‘Someone who’s been in contact with another European, probably travelling by the name of Freya Oldstock. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Tall. Very pretty. Came out of nowhere, I expect, like me.’
They looked uneasy. ‘What’s your business with the other European, if she has been here?’ asked one.
‘Has she been here?’
‘She has.’
‘Who did she see?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m her friend. She’s dead.’
There was a shocked silence. ‘Dead?’ asked one. ‘The lady’s dead?’ They, like everyone who’d met Freya, had been won over.
‘I need to meet whoever it was she saw.’
‘We don’t know who. She always went to the monastery.’
‘Then that is where I need to go.’
They were defensive again. ‘Have you got your papers? Who are you?’
At this Sam seemed to lose his temper, rising and stretching up to his full height.
His eyes seem to burn into you, as if reading your mind
, thought the captain of the gate.
The lady had had eyes like those, but hers had been blue – and softer, kinder.
‘I am Luc Satise, I am Sam Linnfer. I am Sebastian Teufel. Now you tell the people at the monastery that I’m coming under one or all of those names, I don’t mind which. Tell them that whoever of
my
family murdered Freya may be after them too. Tell them that she was killed with a dragon-bone knife, which can destroy even an immortal. Tell them all that, and show me to the monastery!’
Something about Sam didn’t allow for arguing. A boy ran ahead, while the captain trucked up with Sam in a rackety jeep that took five goes to start moving, and stalled on every street corner. The guards seemed very proud of it.
All
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