“He knows the routes,” the merchant said at once. “He does not speak as one who is ignorant.”
This time the Rajah himself asked the question. “Where have you come from? You have given us an excellent idea of where you are going, but where did this homeward journey begin?”
“I left my home in Lo-Yang about two years ago,” he said, his compelling dark eyes meeting the Rajah’s directly. “I went into the west of China and fought there against the Mongols until we were overrun and I was forced to flee. I made my way into the mountains, coming through Bod, the Land of Snows, where we passed the winter with Yellow Hat monks. Once out of the high mountains, we have come west and north along the mountains.”
“We? You did not travel alone?” Guristar demanded, his hands braced on his hips. He was not prepared to accept anything that Saint-Germain told him.
“I have traveled with my servant, Rogerio. He has been with me throughout my travels, in fact, for many years before that.” Saint-Germain read anger in Guristar’s swarthy face and decided to add a cooperative note. “Send for him, if you wish, and speak to him privately. He will confirm all that I have said.”
“Then he is well-coached,” the Commander snapped as he turned toward the man on the throne. “Great Lord, any man may claim he has come from far away, and when the man is plainly a foreigner, as this one is, it is the more plausible. He may tell us that he has been in the Land of Snows and there are few who could disprove him. It is a convenient lie, Great Lord. He is much more likely to be a spy for the forces in Delhi. The Sultan is anxious to extend his realm, and you know as well as I that this principality would be welcome addition to the Sultanate. Listen to the man. He speaks the language of the men of western Islam. What could be easier than to send such a one among us, posing as a traveler, needing only to tell ever-more-fantastic tales of his adventures to turn us away from real vigilance? Consider this, Great Lord, I beseech you!”
“Very eloquent,” Saint-Germain said softly, and as all five of the others stared at him, he reached into the wallet buckled to his belt. “I have here a message from the Master of the Yellow Hat lamasery called Bya-grub Me-long ye-shys, where my servant and I passed the winter. The message is in several languages, and one of them must be familiar to you.” He took the scroll from the wallet and offered it to the man on the throne.
But it was Guristar who took it. “Do not think that we are unwary, foreigner!”
“Naturally not,” Saint-Germain murmured, and watched while the Commander of the guards opened the scroll with exaggerated care.
“Tell me,” Rajah Dantinusha said to Saint-Germain while Guristar pored over the words, “why did you want to sell those jewels? One I can understand, and perhaps two, but six?”
Saint-Germain raised his brows, answering in a philosophical tone, “Since it is apparent that I will not be able to reach my homeland this winter, or quite possibly next winter, I must have a place to live. I have studies to pursue, and I would prefer to live pleasantly.” He did not add that well-paid servants were less likely to carry tales than poor men with a strange neighbor.
“You wish to buy a house? With these jewels you could have half of this palace.” The Rajah’s manner was less formidable now.
“I doubt it,” Saint-Germain answered truthfully. “A room or two, no more.”
“Perhaps,” Dantinusha allowed. “Guristar, what have you learned?”
The Commander of the guard looked up from the scroll. “I can read one of the sections, and it is as he says, though, of course, there is no way to prove that this is genuine.” He started to hand the scroll back to Saint-Germain, but was stopped by the poet Jaminya.
“Let me examine the scroll, Great Lord. If there is forgery, I will know it.” He held out his hand for the scroll, and after seeing an approving sign from the Rajah, Guristar reluctantly gave Jaminya the scroll.
The room had grown silent as the pcet read. Saint-Germain hoped that the man’s claim was justifiable, or he might find himself wrongly denounced. It would not be, he reminded himself, the first time. Or the tenth.
At last Jaminya glanced at Saint-Germain. “The Yellow Hats are quite an important sect, aren’t they?”
“So I understand. I didn’t see much of other Orders, but in the middle of winter, it was not likely that anyone would be traveling, and so I must take their word for it. Their chapterhouse in Rhasa is quite large.” Saint-Germain was wary, though he answered the question easily enough. The questions would test him and he would have to satisfy the poet.
“They have an ancient tradition of masters, do they not?” Jaminya was holding the scroll negligently, but his eyes kept moving over it.
“That was my understanding, yes.” Saint-Germain did not dare to look at the Rajah, for fear that such a move would be interpreted as insolence.
“And this one, this SGyi Zhel-ri, is a man of great wisdom, wouldn’t you say?” Jaminya was not looking at Saint-Germain at all.
“You must pardon me—certainly the master is wise, but I would not call him a man. He is less than ten years old.” The first of the traps was past, and Saint-Germain hoped that the remainder of the test would be of a similar nature.
The others listening were startled. “Absurd,” Guristar said quite loudly.
“Well, Jaminya, is it absurd?” the Rajah inquired.
“He is correct,” the poet assured his prince. “Two years ago I spoke with a number of Buddhist scholars who were returning from a long retreat in Bod, and they told me then of this child, who had only recently entered the lamasery, and who was regarded with reverence and awe even then.” He opened the scroll again.
“Let me see,” Dantinusha said, holding out his hand for the scroll, accepting it quickly from the poet. “But this is most surprising,” the Rajah said as he read.
Guristar laughed unpleasantly. “Do you expect me to believe that the Master of the Yellow Hats would speak highly of a foreigner, one who is not part of the country or the faith of Bod? He has hired some forger in a distant city to do this, and he has asked a number of questions of the men coming from Bod, and has learned enough to impress those who seek marvels.”
Saint-Germain did not raise his voice, but the quality of command grew in him so that he was more forceful. “If it were my intention to deceive you and the Rajah and, indeed, anyone else, there is no reason I should choose such elaborate and easily discredited methods. I would only have to say that I was a merchant from the West who had been driven out of a distant city by invaders or a corrupt ruler. There would be no way for you to verify my claim. I would only have to show you the jewels and tell you my tale of misfortune. Instead I have spoken to you honestly and openly, and for that you have accused me of deceit.”
Dantinusha looked up from the scroll. “You’re a most clever man, foreigner. You have an answer for any reasonable objection.”
“Great Lord,” Saint-Germain said evenly, “what am I to do, if everything I say is regarded with suspicion?” There was no challenge in his words, and no apology. He looked from one man to the next, his eyes betraying no feeling.
Dantinusha let the scroll roll closed. “You are said to have great understanding. The Master of the Yellow Hats commends you for your wisdom. Most unusual, isn’t it?”
“I do not know, Great Lord,” Saint-Germain answered honestly. “It was nothing we discussed.” He could see that the Commander of the guard was getting restive again.
The poet Jaminya spoke before Guristar could. “If you have wisdom that the Master of the Yellow Hats acknowledges, then reveal it. A wise man may remain silent all his life, but once discovered, then it is important that he find a way to bring his knowledge to others.” He was looking not at Saint-Germain but at the Brahmin Rachura.
The somber holy man nodded. “True wisdom will make itself known. If the message on this scroll is genuine, then all will benefit from his teaching. If the message is not genuine, those of us who have advanced far in learning will know it at on
ce.”
Guristar almost smirked. “Excellent. Let the fool bring himself down by his own temerity.”
Rajah Dantinusha hesitated, watching Saint-Germain carefully. “If I make this demand of you, foreigner, will you agree that it is just?”
“I will accept your terms,” Saint-Germain said carefully.
“That is not quite the same thing,” the Rajah admonished him.
“No, it is not.” His eyes were on Dantinusha’s and he did not look away.
“Very well,” the Rajah said at last. “You will not agree that it is just, but you are willing to accept the terms.” He held out the scroll to the black-clad foreigner. “What do you wish to teach us?”
Saint-Germain glanced toward the window. “I will tell you a tale, Great Lord, and you will judge its wisdom.” He thought this whole interrogation was foolish, but could not afford to antagonize these men. He had no desire to have to travel westerward until he had made careful preparations.
“What will be the thrust of the tale?” the Rajah asked, beginning to enjoy the foreigner.
“I will not tell you that, Great Lord. If there is wisdom, you will not have to have it pointed out to you.” His expression was gently sardonic. “If there is some doubt, you may wish to confer when I have finished.”
“And if there is no agreement,” Guristar said haughtily, “then you can claim that we were incapable of understanding.”
“Be silent, Guristar,” Rajah Dantinusha ordered in a tone that tolerated no contradiction.
The Commander of the guard fell silent but from the set of his features, he did not intend to listen to anything Saint-Germain said.
“There was a boy,” Saint-Germain began after a moment, “who may have been a Prince, but did not lead a princely life. He was given to the leader of a caravan and taken into the mountains, to a place far from his home, and it was apparent that he was to remain in this distant and isolated place his life long. Though the men of the caravan were without malice toward the boy, they did what they had been paid to do, for otherwise they could not continue to trade with the boy’s homeland.”
“Traders will tolerate anything if there is profit in it,” the Brahmin said to Rajah Dantinusha. “We have heard this often.”
“Let him continue,” the Rajah said, raising his hand for silence.
Guristar looked away from the throne and from Saint-Germain. There were scented oil lamps hanging about the room which had been recently lit, and these held the Commander of the guard’s attention with rapt and mendacious fascination while Saint-Germain went on.
“These traders were the only link the boy had with his home and his people, and because it was late in the season, the boy was able to persuade his hosts to let the traders remain through the long winter. The hosts were kindly men in their way, and did not too much resist the request made of them: the traders were secretly glad to have found shelter for the winter, as the mountains were treacherous. Now, these men in this mountain citadel had many animals, especially cats, and the boy often found himself the companion of a large soot-colored cat with topaz eyes, and having no other real confidant, he gave all his thoughts to this aninal. And the cat watched him with his topaz eyes, in the self-contained manner of his kind.”
“Buddha spoke against cats,” the poet Jaminya observed.
“He is not the only one to do so,” Saint-Germain responded urbanely. “Cats are curious beings.” He met the Rajah’s eyes and went on. “In the spring the traders prepared to move on, and the boy was filled with anger and fear, for now he would be truly alone. It seemed to him a great betrayal that these men would leave him and perhaps never return. He climbed to the parapet of the citadel and poured out his fury to the cat, saying that he could not endure the isolation. And in his wrath, he hurt himself. The cat fled swiftly and silently; far down the mountain the boy could see the caravan falter. His ire faded at once and he wept joyously, for though he knew that the caravan must have experienced some misfortune, he knew, also, that he would not be left quite alone.”
“Did this boy have a name?” the Brahmin Rachura inquired, not quite politely. He touched the threefold cord of his rank and waited.
A face rose in Saint-Germain’s mind, a face he had not seen for more than a thousand years, but the memory of loss was still sharp within him. “I will call him Kosrozd,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “It may or may not have been his name.”
“Persian?” the merchant Qanghozan asked, startled.
“Yes.” He was still for a moment as the recalled impressions of Rome faded. “As it turned out, within the hour the cat had returned, and not far behind him came the caravan. The guide had fallen and was quite seriously injured. The good men of the citadel took the party in and ministered to the guide. By the time his broken bones had knit and the guide was once again able to travel, winter was upon them, and the boy was able to enjoy the company of the traders through the dark of the year. He deceived himself willfully, pretending that the traders would stay at the citadel forever and he would not be entirely alone among strangers. He told this to the soot-colored cat during the long night, and the cat watched him with his topaz eyes.
“Of course, spring came, and the caravan once again made ready to depart. The boy, who now had the downy cheeks of approaching manhood, was thrown into the darkest despair, so that all his life stretched before him as desolate as the Arabian sands at night. He could take pleasure in nothing; learning, dance, the delights of the table and the flesh had no lure for him. He thought only of the terrible solace of final silence, and on the day the caravan was to depart he climbed to the watchtower of the citadel and held the black cat, telling it of his misery, saying that he wished he had the courage to jump and dash out his miserable brains on the stones far beneath his vantage place. At this the cat leaped up and sped away.”
“What consolation is there in his leaving?” the Brahmin asked.
“None,” Saint-Germain responded at once. “But almost at once there was a sound of thunder in the mountains, and a great avalanche rumbled and shattered down the slopes, destroying the road on which the caravan had to travel. And so, for a second time, the kindly men of this citadel took the traders in, and side by side they worked to rebuild the road that led out of the mountain fastness to the fertile plains. The youth worked with them most diligently, for he could not escape an inner chagrin; he blamed himself for the misfortunes that had kept the traders with him even as he took delight in their presence. He was so industrious that many looked to him for leadership, and praised him for his efforts, which filled him with shame. By the time the road was completely repaired, winter had come again, and the traders had to delay their departure until spring arrived. The youth was much in their company, savoring every hour, hoping to assuage the long years alone that were to come, for he knew that he would soon have to say farewell to them, no matter how much he wished them to stay. Though he could not harden his heart, he tried to persuade himself that the loss of his countrymen would not be intolerable. He poured out his confusion to the soot-colored cat, who watched with topaz eyes.
“In course of time it was spring and the caravan made ready to depart. The youth was filled with sorrow, for he knew without doubt that when the traders were gone, his last link with his own kind would be broken. He took the cat and climbed to the peak of the highest roof in the citadel and watched as the traders made their way down the new road. The soot-colored cat regarded him, ready to spring away at a word.”
Rajah Dantinusha leaned back against the pillows of his throne and allowed himself to smile. Wisdom or nonsense, he liked tales of this sort, and remembered fondly the ones he had been told as a child. He noticed that Saint-Germain had stopped, and motioned him to resume the tale.
Saint-Germain inclined his head to the Rajah. “At last the caravan passed from sight and the youth wrenched his tear-filled eyes away from the empty road. He reached out gratefully to the soot-colored cat, finding solace in the presence of the animal. The
cat allowed the youth to stroke him for a few moments, blinking his eyes slowly in his contentment. Then he rose, stretched, and bounded away over the roofs of the citadel, and was never seen again.”
The room was quiet. The merchant Qanghozan shifted uneasily on his feet and tried to avoid notice. Jaminya smiled knowingly as the silence lengthened.
“Yes?” Rajah Dantinusha said impatiently when it was clear that Saint-Germain was not going to say more until prompted. “What happened then?”
“I don’t know, Great Lord,” Saint-Germain said rather apologetically. “That is all of the tale there is.”
Guristar gave a snort. “It was as I predicted. There is nothing in the story, and what you wish to make of it is the only wisdom it can offer.”
“It has been my experience,” Saint-Germain said diffidently, “that this is true of everything. Whatever meaning it has is what we give to it.”
Jaminya grinned. “So I have often thought,” he agreed, eyeing Guristar covertly. “If there is a meaning and a form, it is known only to the gods, who reign for millions upon millions of years.”
Rachura was clearly offended. “There is karma and the attainment of perfection. The Enlightened Ones perceive it.”
“It is possible,” Saint-Germain conceded. “Yet there are few who are enlightened: most of the world walks in darkness.”
Before Rachura could speak again, Rajah Dantinusha interrupted him, and the others in the throne room were still. “I have been considering what I have heard, and this is my decision: you, Shih Ghieh-Man, or Saint-Germain, whatever you call yourself, may remain here in my principality for the space of a year, at which time I will review your accomplishments. Guristar may be right, and you are clever with words that hint at much, but reveal nothing. It may be that you are one of those whose merit is not known until long after you teach. I will not decide that for some time. In that time you will live here, for I cannot allow you to be unobserved—”
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