Dagger Magic

The flames cast his own shadow oddly against the walls, whose sole adornment in the north, before him, was a rather gruesome portrait of the dread god Shinjed, who was perhaps another aspect of Taranis, the Thunderer, whose votary Raeburn had become while under the aegis of the now-departed Head-Master lamented by Dorje. But he could not believe that Taranis meant him to pay more than token lip service to the arrogant Man with Green Gloves.

As he shifted to relieve a cramp in one knee, his shadow rebounded around the walls and his hyperacute hearing caught the light patter of sandal-shod feet approaching from the door behind. Without the preamble of a knock, the door to the room swung open, silent on its hinges but accompanied by a whisper of air and the faint rustle of robes. Unhurriedly, Raeburn turned his head, his sardonic gaze lighting on the two younger dagger priests who had met the chopper when he arrived. He had expected Nagpo and Kurkar.

"You will please come with us, Gyatso-la," the nearer of the two said, favoring him with a nod. "Dorje Rinpoche wishes a final word with you before you depart."

Noting the "please" and the honorific, Raeburn gathered himself to his feet with less resentment than he might have felt, wondering whether the courtesy betokened Dorje's approval of the plans undoubtedly monitored during the night. He could read nothing from the priests' faces as he gathered up his notes and the technical manual. After wrapping his orange mantle around himself with a flourish, he padded stocking-footed to the doorway and paused to slip into his waiting Guccis before following his escorts along the passageway that led toward his new employer's private quarters.

It was a different chamber to which they led him this time. After passing through double doors flanked by painted dragons and two more subordinate priests, his escorts bade him leave his shoes in the ensuing anteroom before leading on to a second set of doors, these covered with figured silk of an emerald-green hue.

Raeburn passed through these alone. The chamber beyond was dim, of modest size, wreathed in a dense haze of aromatic smoke. Dorje was sitting enthroned on a carpeted dais amid a wealth of silk cushions, dressed informally in a chuba of emerald-green silk, with a profusion of lacquerwork tiles spread before him and a heavy bronze incense burner at his left elbow. A pair of green gloves lay beside it, in pointed reminder of who he claimed to be. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, the extreme dilation of his pupils suggesting the recent use of a potent narcotic, but his gaze had lost none of its sharpness as he subjected Raeburn to his searching scrutiny.

"You have not slept," he noted, gesturing for Raeburn to approach.

Raeburn inclined his head and mounted the dais. "I can sleep in the chopper, and then on the flight to Ireland. I trust my pilot has slept?"

"Rest assured that he did," Dorje said, with a tiny smile, as Raeburn folded to his knees and then back on his hunkers before him. "I trust that all your preparations are complete?"

"They are," Raeburn replied. "Of course, one cannot predict all permutations of such an operation, but I am confident that any trifling details will be resolved as the plan unfolds."

Dorje's expression hardened. "They had better be trifling."

"What do your auguries tell you?" Raeburn countered, indicating the tiles. "Surely you know better than I, the odds for or against the success of this mission."

"I have never cared for your impertinence," Dorje said icily.

Raeburn quirked his rival a faint smile. "I haven't cared for this mission, from the very beginning," he said lightly, "but you needn't concern yourself that I'll sabotage it, just to defy you. Remember that I, too, have a stake in this venture. I am hardly likely to endanger my own profits."

A sardonic smile curled the other's lip. "Ever the materialist, Gyatso. I begin to see why you have yet to transcend your limitations."

"I may yet surprise you."

"I doubt it. Acquaint me with the arrangements you have made."

With a shrug, Raeburn began to relate the timetable and form of his preparations. He had scarcely begun, however, when Dorje cut him off with a gesture.

"Why have you not arranged to fly into Belfast?'' he demanded. "Dublin is twice the distance from your destination."

"True enough," Raeburn conceded. "Unfortunately, I have reason to believe that quite a credible likeness of me has been circulating in British police circles over the last year or so. By contrast, the Irish Republic has no record of my existence. I thought you might prefer me not to risk calling attention to myself."

With Dorje's grudging nod of agreement, Raeburn continued.

"One of my associates will be waiting to meet me with a car when I arrive in Dublin," he went on. "The coastal village I've chosen for our staging area is only a few hours' drive from there, and the sub a few more hours beyond, by boat. A suitable vessel and crew are being hired.