know.”
After asking the Hyatt’s concierge to arrange a rental car, they took to the road, with Sam driving and Remi navigating, a Kathmandu city map flattened against the dashboard of the Nissan X-Trail SUV.
One of the few lessons they’d learned (and had since forgotten) from their last visit to Kathmandu some six years earlier came rushing back to them soon after leaving the hotel.
Except for major thoroughfares like the Tridevi and the Ring Road, Kathmandu’s streets rarely bore names, either on maps or signs. Verbal directions were given relative to landmarks, usually intersections or squares-known as
In Sam and Remi’s case, they were lucky. Kathmandu University lay fourteen miles from their hotel in the foothills on the extreme eastern outskirts of the city. After spending twenty frustrating minutes finding the Arniko Highway, they made smooth progress and arrived at the campus only an hour after setting out.
Following signs in both Nepali and English, they turned left at the entrance, then drove up a tree-lined drive to a brick-and-glass building fronted by an oval plot brimming with wildflowers. They found a parking spot, walked through the glass entrance doors, and found an information desk.
The young Indian woman sitting at the counter spoke Oxford-tinged English. “Good morning, welcome to Kathmandu University. How may I help you?”
“We’re looking for Professor Adala Kaalrami,” said Remi.
“Yes, of course. One moment.” The woman tapped on a keyboard below the counter and studied the monitor for a moment. “Professor Kaalrami is currently meeting with a graduate student in the library. The meeting is scheduled to end at three.” The woman produced a campus map, then circled their current location and that of the library.
“Thank you,” Sam said.
Kathmandu’s campus was small, with only a dozen or so main buildings centered atop a rise. Below were miles and miles of green terraced fields and thick forests. In the distance they could see Tribhuvan International Airport. To the north of this, just visible, were the pagoda-style roofs of the Hyatt Regency.
They walked a hundred yards east down a hedge-lined sidewalk, turned left, and found themselves at the library’s entrance. Once inside, a staff member directed them to a second-floor conference room. They arrived as a lone student was leaving. Inside, seated at a round conference table, was a plump elderly Indian woman in a bright red-and-green sari.
Remi said, “Excuse me, would you be Professor Adala Kaalrami?”
The woman looked up and scrutinized them through a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. “Yes, I am she.” Her English was thickly accented with a lightly musical quality common to many Indian English speakers.
Remi introduced herself and Sam, then asked if they could sit down. Kaalrami nodded to the pair of chairs opposite her. Sam said, “Does the name Lewis King mean anything to you?”
“Bully?” she replied without hesitation.
“Yes.”
She smiled broadly; she had a wide gap between her front teeth. “Oh, yes, I remember Bully. We were . . . friends.” The glimmer in her eyes told the Fargos the relationship had gone beyond mere friendship. “I was affiliated with Princeton but had come to Tribhuvan University on loan. That was long before Kathmandu University was founded. Bully and I met at a social function of some kind. Why do you ask this?”
“We’re looking for Lewis King.”
“Ah . . . Ghost hunters, are you?”
“I take that to mean you believe he’s dead,” Remi said.
“Oh, I do not know. Of course I’ve heard the stories about his periodic manifestations, but I have never seen him, or any genuine pictures of him. At least, not in the last forty years or so. I’d like to think if he were alive, he would have come to see me.”
Sam pulled a manila folder from his valise, pulled out a copy of the Devanagari parchment, and slid it across the table to Kaalrami. “Do you recognize this?”
She studied it for a moment. “I do. That is my signature. I translated this for Bully in . . .” Kaalrami pursed her lips, thinking, “Nineteen seventy-two.”
“What can you tell us about it?” Sam asked. “Did Lewis tell you where he found it?”
“He did not.”
Remi said, “To me, it looks like Devanagari.”
“Very good, my dear. Close, but incorrect. It is written in Lowa. While not quite a dead language, it is fairly rare. At last estimate, there are only four thousand native Lowa speakers alive today. They are mostly found in the north of the country, up near the Chinese border, in what used to be-”
“Mustang,” Sam guessed.
“Yes, that’s right. And you pronounced it correctly. Good for you. Most Lowa speakers live in and around Lo Monthang. Did you know that about Mustang or was it a good guess?”
“A guess. The only current lead we have on Lewis King’s whereabouts is a photograph in which he supposedly appears. It was taken a year ago in Lo Monthang. We found that parchment at Lewis’s home.”
“Do you have this picture with you?”
“No,” Remi said, then glanced at Sam. Their shared expression said, Why didn’t we ask for a copy of the picture? Rookie mistake. “I’m sure we can get it, though.”
“If it is not too much trouble. I like to think I would recognize Bully if it were truly him.”
“Has anyone else come to see you recently about King?”
Kaalrami hesitated again, tapping an index finger on her lip. “A year ago, perhaps a bit longer than that, a pair of kids were here. Strange-looking pair-”
“Twins? Blond hair, blue eyes, Asian features?”
“Yes! I did not particularly like them. I know that is not a charitable thing to say, but I must be honest. There was just something about them . . .” Kaalrami shrugged.
“Do you remember what they asked you?”
“Just general questions about Bully-if I had any old letters from him or remember him talking about his work in the region. I could not help them.”
“They didn’t have a copy of this parchment?”
“No.”
Sam asked, “We never found the original translation. Would you mind?”
“I can give you the essence of it, but a written translation will take a while. I could do that tonight, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” said Remi. “We’d be most grateful.”
Professor Kaalrami adjusted her glasses and centered the parchment before her. Slowly she began tracing her finger down the lines of text, her lips moving soundlessly.
After five minutes, she looked up. She cleared her throat.
“It is a royal edict of sorts. The Lowa phrase does not translate well to English, but it is an official order. Of that, I’m certain.”
“Is there a date?”
“No, but if you look here, at the upper left corner, there’s a piece of text missing. Was it on the original parchment?”
“No, I photographed it exactly as it appeared. Do you remember if the date was on the original you saw?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Would you care to venture a guess?”
“Do not hold me to this, but I would estimate between six and seven hundred years old.”
“Go on, please,” Sam prompted.
“Again, you must wait for the written version . . .”
“We understand.”
“It is an order to a group of soldiers . . . special soldiers called Sentinels. They are instructed to carry out a plan of some kind-something detailed in another document, I suspect. The plan is designed to remove something called
