over, and unfastened the false lining, exposing the thangka beneath. This he drew out with exquisite care and— keeping his eyes averted—hung it by a silken cord on a golden hook he had driven into the wall nearby.
Blackburn took his place before the painting and arranged himself in the lotus position, placing his right hand on his left, the thumbs touching to form a triangle. He bent his neck slightly and allowed the top of his tongue to touch the roof of his mouth near his upper teeth, his gaze unfocused and on the floor before him. Then, with delicious slowness, he raised his eyes and gazed upon the Agozyen mandala.
The image was beautifully illuminated by the glittering candles arrayed on silver platters, yellow and gold tints that played like liquid metal over the thangka’s surface. Gradually—very gradually—it opened to him. He felt its power flow through him like slow electricity.
The Agozyen mandala was a world unto itself, a separate universe as intricate and deep as our own, an infinite complexity locked on a two-dimensional surface with four edges. But to gaze upon the Agozyen was to magically liberate the image from its two dimensions. It took shape and form within the mind; the painting’s strange, intertwined lines becoming as so many electric wires flowing with the currents of his soul. As he became the painting and the painting became him, time slowed, dissolved, and ultimately ceased to exist; the mandala suffused his consciousness and his soul, owning him utterly: space without space, time without time, becoming everything and nothing at once . . .
61
THE HUSH THAT HAD FALLEN OVER THE DIMLY LIT SALON OF THE Tudor Suite belied the undercurrent of tension in the stateroom. Constance stood before Pendergast, watching as the agent calmly took another sip of his tea and placed the cup aside.
“Well?” he asked. “We don’t have all day.”
Constance took a deep breath. “Aloysius, I can’t believe you can sit there, so calmly, advocating something that’s against everything you’ve ever stood for.”
Pendergast sighed with ill-concealed impatience. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by protracting this pointless argument.”
“Somehow, the Agozyen has poisoned your mind.”
“The Agozyen has done no such thing. It has
my mind. Swept it clean of jejune and hidebound conventions of morality.”
“The Agozyen is an instrument of evil. The monks knew as much.”
“You mean, the monks who were too fearful to even gaze upon the Agozyen themselves?”
“Yes, and they were wiser than you. It seems the Agozyen has the power to strip away all that is good, and kind, and . . . and
Pendergast scoffed. “It breaks a weaker mind, but strengthens the stronger one. Look what it did to that maid, or to Captain Mason, for that matter.”
“Really, Constance, I expected better of you. Of course Mason has seen it—what other explanation could there be? How, I don’t know and don’t care. She’s behind the disappearances and murders—very carefully escalated, you’ll notice—all to effect a mutiny and get the ship to divert to St. John’s, on which heading she could contrive to run it up onto the Carrion Rocks.”
Constance stared at him. The theory seemed preposterous—or did it? Almost despite herself, she could see some of the details begin to lock into place.
“But none of that is important anymore.” Pendergast waved his hand. “I won’t stand for any more delays. Come with me now.”
Constance hesitated. “On one condition.”
“And what is that, pray tell?”
“Join me in a Chongg Ran session first.”
Pendergast’s eyes narrowed. “Chongg Ran? How perverse—there isn’t time.”
“There
time. We both have the mental training to reach
quickly. What are you afraid of? That meditation will bring you back to normality?” This was, in fact, her own most fervent hope. “That’s absurd. There’s no turning back.”
“Then meditate with me.”
Pendergast remained motionless for a moment. Then his face changed again. Once more, he grew relaxed, confident, aloof.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall agree. But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I intend to take the Agozyen before leaving this ship. If Chongg Ran does not work to your satisfaction, then you will gaze on the Agozyen
Hearing this, Constance caught her breath.
Pendergast gave a cold smile. “You’ve named your terms. Now I’ve named mine.”
For a moment longer, she remained silent. Then she found her breath, looked into his silver eyes. “Very well. I accept.”
He nodded. “Excellent. Then shall we begin?”
Just then, a knock sounded on the front door of the suite. Constance stepped over to the entryway and opened it. Outside in the hallway stood a worried-looking Marya.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Greene,” she said. “No doctor to be found. I search everywhere, but this ship go crazy, crying, drinking, looting—”
“It’s all right. Will you do me one last favor? Could you wait outside the door for a few minutes, please, and make sure we’re not disturbed?”
The woman nodded.
“Thank you so much.” Then, shutting the door softly behind her, she returned to the living room, where Pendergast had settled himself cross-legged on the carpet, placed the backs of his wrists on his knees, and was waiting with perfect complacency.
62
COREY PENNER, INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY MATE SECOND CLASS, sat in the glow of the central server room on Deck B, hunched over a data access terminal.
Hufnagel, the IT chief, leaned over Penner’s shoulder, gazing at the display through filmy glasses. “So,” he said. “Can you do it?”
The question was accompanied by a wash of sour breath, and Penner tightened his lips. “Doubt it. Looks pretty heavily defended.”
Privately, he was sure he could do it. There were few, if any, systems on the
