"Plenty hot good, eh?" the man said, raising one of his big pawlike hands in greeting. "He sent for me. I found him."

It was Jigme.

"What do you mean he sent for you?"

"You came, didn't you?"

"How could you be here so soon? You drove?"

His battered eyes somehow were able to twinkle. "I fly through the air. Like the old ones. The spell of the arrow."

"I've heard of it," Shan said. "I also remember seeing logging trucks on the road out of your valley."

Jigme tried to laugh but the sound emerged as a hoarse, hacking cough.

Shan and Yeshe pulled him to his feet and, one at each shoulder, half dragged, half carried him out of the building. They were stopped on the stairs by a furious officer.

"These prisoners belong to Public Security!" the officer roared.

"This man is part of my investigation," Shan said matter-of-factly and turned his back on the officer. Once inside the cell block, Jigme pulled himself away and straightened his clothing. He limped down the corridor alone and dropped to his knees with a cry of delight as he reached the last cell.

The guard at the cell door rose in protest. Shan cut him off with a gesture to open the cell.

Sungpo acknowledged Jigme with a nod which lit Jigme's bruised face. The gompa orphan closed the door behind him and surveyed the untouched bowls of rice. "Everything okay now," he said with a grateful smile to Shan.

"We need to speak with him."

Jigme seemed to think Shan had made an excellent joke. "Sure," he grinned. "Two years, one month, and eighteen days."

"He doesn't have that long."

Jigme soured and moved back to Sungpo with one of the bowls of rice. With small, affectionate strokes of his hand he began brushing the straw off Sungpo's robe.

"We have to speak with him," Shan repeated.

"You think he's scared to throw off a face?" Jigme shouted, suddenly defiant. "You people from the north, you're a fly on his shoulder." Shan saw a tear rolling down Jigme's cheek as he spoke. "He's a great man. A living Buddha. He'll die easy, no bother. He'll throw off a face and laugh at all of us in the next life."

They sat in an unused stall at the rear of the market and watched the sorcerer's shop. No one entered, no one exited. The market began to fill with vendors' carts piled high with spring greens, the early leaves of mustard and other plants that elsewhere on the planet would have been considered weeds.

Feng, still nervous from the night before, rubbed his palm over the handle of his pistol.

"I need fifty fen," Shan said.

"Who doesn't?" Feng cracked.

"For food. You have expense money."

"Not hungry."

"We had no breakfast. You did."

The announcement seemed to pain Feng, and Shan wondered if he was still stinging from the discovery of his nickname. Feng's eyes moved back and forth from Shan to Yeshe. "One of you stays here."

Yeshe, taking the cue, leaned back against the wall as though settling in.

Shan extended his hand and took the money.

Feng made a vague gesture toward the stalls in front of them. "Five minutes."

Shan lingered at a vendor selling writing supplies, then found a woman selling momos. He bought two for Yeshe, then moved to the first stall and quickly bought two sheets of rice paper, a writing brush, and a small ink stick.

"The first charm was requested a few days ago," a voice from behind suddenly declared.

Shan began to turn. An elbow pushed into his back. "Don't look," the man said.

Shan recognized the voice. It was the purba with the scarred face. He saw tattered felt boots behind him. The man was dressed as a herder.

"They're always looking for a chance," the purba said over Shan's shoulder. "Witches like Khorda, he'll take their money. They have steady money. Business is always good for their kind."

"I don't understand."

"This one, she works in a bookstore. Asked for the Tamdin charms about a week ago. Yesterday she asked for one against dogbite."

"She?"

"Daughter of a flesh monkey."

"A ragyapa?"

"Green Bamboo Street," came the reply.

Shan turned. The purba had disappeared.

Twenty minutes later Shan and Sergeant Feng watched from across the rutted gravel track on the north side of town as Yeshe ventured into the book shop. A short, swarthy woman could be seen inside as he entered. As he spoke to her she pointed toward the rear of the store, then looked up and down the street before pulling the door shut.

Yeshe darted out of the store ten minutes later, a glimmer of triumph on his face. "She's there," he announced. "That was her at the door. Says she's from Shigatse but she's not." He said that he had asked for the owner, explaining he was conducting a quick audit of working papers. When the man had begun to question his authority, Yeshe had pointed out the window. Seeing an official-looking vehicle and a soldier at the wheel, the man had quickly revealed his enterprise license and the girl's work papers. "Showed she was from Shigatse nearly a year ago. But on the way out I asked if she liked climbing the walls of the old fortress at Shigatse. She said she did, said she liked to take picnics there."

"There's a still a fortress there?" Shan asked.

"A fortress, in Tibet? Of course not, the Communists blew it up forty years ago!" He put his hands together as he spoke, then threw them apart, like an explosion. "No more walls."

"So she's not from Shigatse."

"Impossible. She lives in the back, but the owner say she leaves almost every weekend. A store clerk would never make enough to travel two hundred miles to Shigatse so often."

"Then her family is nearby," Shan said. A family of fleshcutters. In the mountains. Where Tamdin the fleshcutter lived. "That's where she is going with the charms." He looked expectantly at Yeshe.

Yeshe's face darkened. "No," he protested weakly.

"Her home shouldn't be hard to find," Shan suggested. "In Lhadrung there is an active market for death."

Tan handed him several sheets of paper clipped with a pin at the top. "I found her," he said, with the exhilaration that progress brings.

"Her?"

"Miss Lihua. Prosecutor Jao's secretary. On leave in Hong Kong. The Ministry of Justice tracked her to her hotel. She went to the local Ministry office and used the fax. Reports that Assistant Prosecutor Li drove her to the airport, before Jao left for dinner with the American woman. I know her. Young, very dedicated. Great memory for details. Gave me Jao's schedule. His calls on the day of his murder. She faxed it all. No one called about a meeting."

Miss Lihua was honored to be able to assist the colonel, the first fax said. She was stricken with grief over the loss of Comrade Prosecutor Jao and felt she should return immediately. Tan had declined the offer, provided she would cooperate by fax.

"Did she know how to find the driver?" Shan asked.

"Told me where he lived. And said she was certain no one Jao knew had set up a meeting at the South Claw."