The Cloud Maker

hand. ‘Shara?’ he said, his voice high-pitched and scared.

Rega’s nostrils flared again. ‘So finally, I meet the child. Governor Depon’s son.’

He reached out a hand, the fingers long and delicate. ‘Come closer, child.’

Shara gave a strained smile.

‘With due respect, His Holiness the Abbot has instructed that he should not socialise with other members of our order. I will take him back to his quarters.’

‘Yet he is here with the Westerner? And I only ask the chance to meet a boy so special that he does not even pass our initiations.’ Rega’s lips pulled back to reveal worn teeth as he attempted a smile. ‘The only way for me to see is through touch. Surely you would not begrudge an old blind man? ’

Shara hesitated for a second, glancing to where Drang was standing by the door. He looked preoccupied, staring at the jade beads Babu was holding in his hands. His head finally tilted up, to meet her gaze, then he moved a step to his right, covering the door.

Shara helped Babu on to the ground and as Rega approached he stood rigid, hands outstretched.

‘Hold still while our father greets you,’ Shara said, hearing the tension in her own voice.

Rega’s bony hands traced across Babu’s cheeks, sweeping over the top of his forehead and down under his chin. As his fingers passed over Babu’s closed eyes, the prayer beads in his hand fell to the floor with a clatter. Eventually, Rega straightened, flexing his fingers.

‘You say you are the son of the governor, but I can tell you were born on the plateau. Tell me, child, when did you move to Lhasa?’

‘Really Father, he is just a child,’ Shara protested. ‘He is surely too young to answer such questions.’

‘Too young or unable?’ Rega said. ‘Many irregularities have occurred recently and it is for me to decide what…’

He was interrupted by clattering footsteps. A young monk appeared at the doorway, his eyes frantic. He bowed quickly at the room, and then leaned forward again, supporting hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

‘Father, I must speak with you.’

Rega swivelled round, his jaw clenched.

‘Wait, impertinent child,’ he hissed, raising a finger, ‘I am engaged with other matters.’

‘Father you must listen! Something terrible has happened.’

Rega hesitated for a second, then with a sweep of his hand, signalled for Drang to follow him. He stalked out of the door, his robe billowing behind him. As his steps disappeared down the corridor, Bill propped himself further up in the bed.

‘What on earth was all that about?’

‘I’ll explain later,’ Shara said quickly, scooping Babu up from the ground. ‘I’m sorry, Bill, but it was stupid of me to have brought him here. I’ll come back, I promise.’

As she carried Babu to the door, he started squirming in her arms, his eyes locked down towards the floor.

‘Shara, wait!’ he said, pointing over her shoulder.

‘Not now,’ Shara said distractedly. ‘We’ve got to go.’

With Babu still trying to break free of her grip, she swept out the door and into the corridor beyond, leaving Bill alone in the sudden quiet of his chamber.

Two hours later, the bolts on the door to Bill’s room were softly drawn back.

As the door inched open, the gentle draught of air made Bill stir in his sleep, but not wake. Drang stepped silently into the room. His eyes remained fixed on Bill’s face, the scar on his face glinting in the light. He moved further into the room, his felt boots padding over the stone floor.

With his eyes still fixed on the bed, he crouched down, his hands feeling across the stone floor. Eventually his fingertips connected with the beads he was looking for and with another quick glance at Bill’s sleeping form, he retreated back towards the door.

In the corridor outside, he lifted the prayer beads towards the nearest lamp, so that it cast a dim light across the silver clasp. He was right to have come back.

He had seen that sign before.

Chapter 43

‘Keep it tight.’

The words drifted up the cliff-face to where Chen stood, his stance wide and his arms flexing as he hauled on the rope. He grunted from the effort, his powerful shoulders swinging forward with each great heave. A moment later Zhu appeared, his gloved hands clinging to the rock while the rope snapped taut at his waist.

As Chen watched him worm his way on to the ledge, he stared into the captain’s face, at the black eyes and thin, pursed lips. Zhu was sheet-white, his cheeks devoid of the slightest hint of colour. He looked as if he were about to be sick.

Coiling in the slack, Chen wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his heavy winter jacket. He had practically pulled the captain up the entire cliff-face and, despite their difference in size, it was heavy work. As they went higher, it had slowly dawned on him that Zhu was more or less a dead weight, his eyes moving nervously in a constant rhythm from the rock to the rope and back again.

It was almost unbelievable, but there was only one explanation — Zhu was scared of heights.

‘Are you OK, sir?’

For a moment Zhu didn’t answer. He simply moved past Chen to the back of the ledge, pressing his shoulders against the rock.

‘How much further?’ he murmured.

Chen looked up, watching the other soldiers climbing in pairs along the line of the ledge. They were getting close to the top, maybe a hundred metres more to go.

‘Another twenty minutes. No more.’

Zhu nodded. He was trying to steady his breathing and tiny beads of sweat had collected on his upper lip.

Chen watched him curiously for a moment. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had so casually ordered the execution of the monk in Drapchi or the rape of the little girl in Lhasa headquarters.

Zhu caught his gaze and his expression hardened.

‘Don’t you ever say a word about this,’ he hissed.

‘No, sir.’

Chen turned away, staring down into the valley below. Blurred from the height, he could see the single tent. It was all that remained of their campsite and in it, he knew, the Westerner would be either dead or dying.

All night they had heard his desperate whimpering. It was soft, little more than a murmur, but Chen had been unable to sleep through it. It had echoed round the campsite, the undercurrent of another’s suffering silencing everyone at dinner. Only Zhu had eaten heartily, spooning out extra portions of noodles and, unusually, making idle conversation with the men.

From the sheer amount of blood lost, Chen was almost certain the knife had severed the Westerner’s femoral artery. By now, he must surely have bled to death. Many years ago he had seen a construction worker injured in the same way. A crane had malfunctioned, the wire cabling slicing his artery in two. Blood had pumped ceaselessly on to the dusty ground, the life seeping from the man with terrifying ease.

Zhu had surely known that. He had known that such a knife wound, left untreated, would inevitably lead to a