Dagger Magic

Both monks spoke English with a strongly inflected accent. Looking from one to the other of the pair, Raeburn saw that both possessed the heavy daggers with triple-edged blades. The nature and purpose of such daggers was not unknown to him, nor was he ignorant of the kind of damage they could do in hands trained to manipulate such mysteries. Cautiously he eased himself back in his chair, ostentatiously displaying his empty hands.

"Who sent you?" he demanded. Then supplied the answer himself. "Siegfried - or perhaps I ought to have said Dorje,"

he amended, when neither of the monks appeared to recognize the German name.

"Dorje Rinpoche," the elder of the monks corrected gently. "He wishes to speak with you."

"Does he?" Raeburn's thin smile just missed a sneer.

"Your presence is required at Tolung Tserphug," the younger monk stated. "You will prepare to leave for Switzerland at once."

Despite his outward show of bravado, Raeburn felt his pulse surge in sudden apprehension. It had been thirty years and more since he last had visited the remote Alpine monastery where, as a boy, he had acquired most, if not all, of his working knowledge of Eastern ritual magic. In those days, his nearest contemporary had been a tall German youth, slightly older than himself, whose undeniable affinity for power had been matched only by his towering arrogance.

That arrogance had been fuelled by his having been acknowledged within the monastery as the most recent reincarnation of a supreme Tibetan sorcerer known throughout the ages as "Green Gloves" - a claim which had yet to be proven to Raeburn's satisfaction. Because of that claim and that title, however, Siegfried - or Dorje Rinpoche - had been accorded a degree of instruction denied the monastery's less exalted initiates. And it was this, more than anything else, that Raeburn had resented.

Nonetheless, though he had not seen Siegfried/Dorje since leaving Tolung Tserphug, he had followed some of his activities, and had cause to be wary concerning some of his own activities in recent years, where they touched on Dorje's concerns. While he did not accept Dorje's authority over him, the rumors of his power could not be denied. Nor could this cavalier summons - which gave every indication of being a command, not a request.

"This invitation comes at a rather awkward time," he ventured cautiously, eyeing the two monks. "I'm involved in several important projects. What if it doesn't suit me to accept?''

The elder of the two monks elevated a disinterested eyebrow. ' 'The question is without substance. If any resistance is offered, we are empowered to do whatever is required to ensure that the wishes of Dorje Rinpoche are carried out."

The answer was not so much a threat as a statement of intent. Raeburn had no doubt that the monks could carry out their master's wishes. However much it galled him to admit it, he appeared to have no choice but to go along, at least in the short term. Otherwise, he was apt to wind up like Barclay. He was just promising himself the satisfaction of staging a rebellion at the first viable opportunity, when the younger monk spoke again.

"Time grows short. Rinpoche is aware that you have not the mastery of lung-gom - you would call it speedwalking. Therefore, it will be necessary that you travel to him by more conventional means. You have access here to air transport." It was not a question but a statement.

"I have a helicopter at my disposal," Raeburn admitted. "As to whether it is capable of flying to Switzerland on such short notice, we shall have to ask my pilot - assuming, of course, that your interference has left his faculties intact," he added with a touch of sarcasm.

The younger monk countered this veiled accusation with a faintly superior smile and a touch of the point of his dagger to Barclay's temple. The pilot sucked in a gulp of air and gave his head a bemused shake.

"Are you all right?" Raeburn demanded.

Barclay was blinking rapidly, as if to clear his vision. In response to his employer's question, he gave a mute nod.

"I hope you're quite sure you've got all your wits about you," Raeburn said, "because I need a few quick answers. Has the chopper got the range to make it to Switzerland?"

Barclay drew a steadying breath as he gave another nod. "No problem, sir," he muttered huskily. "We'd have to do it by stages, of course, but she'll make the trip easily."

"And what about you?" Raeburn asked. "Are you sure you're fit to fly?"

"I - think so, sir," the pilot replied, apparently steadying by the second. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little lightheaded for a few seconds there."

Raeburn would have preferred to stall for time, if only on principle, but Barclay's answer deprived him of any effective excuse for delay. Resigning himself to accept the inevitable, at least for now, he asked, "How long will it take you to get her ready to fly?''