For a second I was pa.s.sive, receiving the kiss rather than sharing in it. But then the warmth and insistence of it overcame thought, overcame doubt, overcame all of my other senses in every nuance of the word, and then I was returning her kiss, putting my arms around her to pull her closer even as she slid her arms under mine and ran strong fingers up my back. More than five years ago for her, when she had kissed me farewell at the river on Old Earth, her kiss had been urgent, electric, filled with questions and messages-but still a sixteen-year-old girl"s kiss. This kiss was the warm, moist, open touch of a woman, and I responded to it in an instant.
We kissed for an eternity. I was vaguely aware of my own nudity and excitement as something I should be concerned about, embarra.s.sed about, but it was a distant thing, secondary to the -expanding warmth and urgency of the kisses that would not stop. When finally our lips came apart, feeling swollen, almost bruised, wanting to be kissed again, we kissed each other"s cheeks, eyelids, forehead, ears. I lowered my face and kissed the hollow of her throat, feeling the pulse against my lips there and inhaling the perfumed scent of her skin.
She moved forward on her knees, arching her back slightly so that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched my cheek. I cupped one and kissed the nipple almost reverently, Aenea cupped the back of my head in her palm. I could feel her breath on me, quickening, as she bowed her face toward me.
"Wait, wait," I aid, pulling my face up and leaning back. "No, Aenea, are you...I mean...I don"t think..."
"Shhh," she said, leaning over me again, kissing me again, pulling back so that her dark eyes seemed to fill the world. "Shhh, Raul. Yes." She kissed me again, leaning to her right so that we both reclined on the sleeping mat, still kissing, the rising breeze rattling the rice-paper walls, the entire platform rocking to the depth of our kiss and the motion of our bodies.
IT IS A PROBLEM. TO TELL OF SUCH THINGS. TO share the most private and sacred of moments. It feels like a violation to put such things into words. And a lie not to.
To see and feel one"s beloved naked for the first time is one of life"s pure, irreducible epiphanies. If there is a true religion in the universe, it must include that truth of contact or be forever hollow. To make love to the one true person who deserves that love is one of the few absolute rewards of being a human being, balancing all of the pain, loss, awkwardness, loneliness, idiocy, compromise, and clumsiness that go with the human condition. To make love to the right person makes up for a lot of mistakes.
I had never made love to the right person before. I knew that even as Aenea and I first kissed and lay against each other, even before we began moving slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. I realized that I had never really made love to anyone before-that the young-soldier-on-leave s.e.x with friendly women or the bargeman-and-bargewoman-we-have-the-opportunity-so-why-not? s.e.x that I had thought had explored and discovered everything to do with the subject was not even the beginning.
This was the beginning. I remember Aenea rising above me at one point, her hand hard on my chest, her own chest slick with sweat, but she was still looking at me-looking at me so intensely and so warmly that it was as if we were connected intimately by our gaze as surely as by our thighs and genitals-and I was to remember that instant every time we made love in the future, even as I seemed to be remembering forward to all those future times even during these first few moments of our intimacy.
LYING TOGETHER IN THE MOONLIGHT, THE SHEETS and blankets and the futon curled and thrown around us, the cool wind from the north drying the sweat on our bodies, her cheek on my chest and my thigh across her hip, we kept touching each other-her fingers playing with the hair on my chest, my fingers tracing the line of her cheek, the sole of my foot sliding up and down the back of her leg, curling around her strong calf muscles.
"Was this a mistake?" I whispered.
"No," she whispered back. "Unless..."
My heart pounded. "Unless what?"
"Unless you didn"t get those shots in the Home Guard that I"m sure you got," she whispered. I was so anxious that I did not hear the teasing quality in her voice.
"What? Shots? What?" I said, rolling onto my elbow. "Oh...shots...s.h.i.t. You know I did. Jesus."
"I know you did," whispered Aenea and I could hear the smile now.
When we Hyperion lads had joined the Home Guard, the authorities had given us the usual battery of Pax-approved injections-antimaleria, anticancer, antivirus, and birth control. In a Pax universe where the vast majority of individuals chose the cruciform-chose to attempt to be immortal-birth control was a given. One could apply to Pax authorities for the antidote after marriage or simply buy it on the black market when it was time to start a family. Or, if one chose neither the way of the cross nor a family, it would last until old age or death made the issue moot. I had not thought of that shot for years. Actually, I think A. Bettik had asked me about those shots on the Consul"s ship a decade ago when we were discussing preventative medicine and I had mentioned the Home Guard induction battery, our young friend of eleven or twelve curled on a couch there on the holopit level, reading a book from the ship"s library, seemingly not paying attention at all...
"No," I said, still on my elbow, "I mean a mistake mistake. You"re..."
"Me," she whispered.
"Twenty-one standard years old," I finished. "I"m..."
"You," she whispered.
"...eleven standard years older than that."
"Incredible," said Aenea. Her whole face was in the moonlight as she looked up at me. "You can do math. At such a moment."
I sighed and rolled over on my stomach. The sheets smelled of us. The wind was still rising and now it rattled the walls.
"I"m cold," whispered Aenea.
In the days and months to come, I would have held her in my arms if she said such a thing, but that night I responded literally and stood to slide shut the shoji screen. The wind was colder than usual.
"No," she said.
"What?"
"Don"t close it all the way." She was sitting up with the sheet raised to just below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
"But it"s..."
"The moonlight on you," Aenea whispered.
Her voice may have caused my physical response. Or the sight of her, waiting for me in the blankets. Besides holding in our own scents, the room smelled like fresh straw because of the new tatami and the ryokan in the ceiling. And of the fresh, cool air of the mountains. But the cold breeze did not slow my reaction to her.
"Come here," she whispered, and opened the blanket like a cape to fold me in.
THE NEXT MORNING AND I AM WORKING ON SETTING the overhang walkway in place and it is as if I am sleepwalking. Part of the problem is lack of sleep-the Oracle had set and the east was paling with morning when Aenea slipped back to her own pavilion-but the major reason is sheer, simple stupefaction. Life has taken a turn that I had never antic.i.p.ated, never imagined.
I am setting supports into the cliff for the high walk with the high riggers Haruyuki, Kenshiro, and Voytek Majer moving ahead, drilling holes in the stone, while Kim Byung-Soon and Viki Groselj lay brick behind and beneath us and carpenter Changchi Kenchung begins work behind me on the laying of the wood floor of the terrace itself. There would be nothing to catch the high riggers and me if we fall from the wooden beams if Lh.o.m.o had not done his free-climbing exhibition yesterday and set fixed ropes and cables in place. Now as we jump from beam to beam, we just clip one of our harness carabiners into place on the next rope. I have fallen before and had the fall arrested by this sort of fixed rope: each can hold five times my weight.
Now I leap from set beam to set beam, pulling along the next beam as it dangles from one of the cables. The wind is coming up and threatens to hurl me off into s.p.a.ce, but I balance myself with one hand touching the hanging beam and three fingers on the rockface itself. I reach the end of the third fixed rope, unclip, and prepare to clip on to the fourth of seven lines Lh.o.m.o has rigged.
I do not know what to think about last night. That is, I know how I feel-exhilarated, confused, ecstatic, in love-but I don"t how to think about it. I tried to intercept Aenea before breakfast in the communal dining pavilion near the monks" quarters, but she had already eaten and headed far out to where the terrace carvers had run into trouble on the new eastern walkway. Then A. Bettik, George Tsarong, and Jigme Norbu had shown up with the porters and an hour or two was consumed sorting materials and transporting the beams, chisels, lumber, and other items to the new high scaffolds. I had headed out onto the eastern ledge before the beam work began, but A. Bettik and Tsipon Shakabpa were conferring with Aenea, so I jogged back to the scaffolds and got busy.
Now I was jumping to the last beam set in place this morning, ready to install the next one in the hole Haruyuki and Kenshiro have chiseled and blasted into the rock with tiny, shaped charges. Then Voytek and Viki will cement the post in place. Within thirty minutes, it will be firm enough for Changchi to set a work platform on. I"ve become accustomed to leaping from beam to beam, catching my balance and squatting to set the next beam in place, and I do so now on the last beam, pinwheeling my left arm to keep my balance while my fingers stay in contact with the beam balancing from the cable. Suddenly the beam swings out too far ahead of me and I am off balance, leaning into nothing. I know that the safety line will catch me, but I hate to fall and be dangling here between the last beam and the newly drilled hole. If I don"t have enough momentum to kick back to the beam, I"ll have to wait for Kenshiro or one of the other riggers to kick out and rescue me.
In a fraction of a second, I make up my mind and jump, catching the swinging beam and kicking out hard. Because the safety rope has several meters of slack before it will catch me, all of my weight is on my fingers now. The beam is too thick for me to get a good grip on it and I can feel my fingers sliding on the iron-hard wood. But rather than go dropping to the elastic end of my fixed line, I struggle to hang on, succeed in swinging the heavy post back toward the last beam in place, and jump the last two meters, landing on the slippery beam and flailing my arms for balance. Laughing at my own foolishness, I catch my balance and stand panting for a moment, watching the clouds boiling against the rock several thousand meters below my feet.
Changchi Kenchung is leaping from beam to beam toward me, clipping onto the fixed ropes with a rapid urgency. There is something like horror in his eyes, and for a second I am sure that something has happened to Aenea. My heart begins beating so hard and anxiety washes over me so swiftly that I almost lose my balance. But I catch it again and stand balancing on the last fixed beam, waiting for Changchi with a sense of dread.
When he leaps to the last beam with me, Changchi is too winded to speak. He gestures toward me urgently, but I do not understand the motion. Perhaps he had seen my comical swing and dance and leap with the dangling beam and was concerned. To show him that it was all right, I reach up to my harness line to show him that the carabiner is locked tight to the safety line.
There is no carabiner there. I never tied on to the last fixed rope. I have been doing all this leaping, balancing, hanging, and jumping with no safety line. There has been nothing between me and...
Feeling a sudden stab of vertigo and nausea, I stagger three steps to the cliff wall and lean against the cold stone. The overhang tries to push me away and it is as if the entire mountain is tilting outward, pushing me off the beam.
Changchi tugs Lh.o.m.o"s fixed line around, lifts a "biner from my harness rack, and clips me on. I nod my appreciation and try not to lose my breakfast while he is here with me.
Ten meters around the bend in the cliff, Haruyuki and Kenshiro are gesturing. They have blasted another perfect hole. They want me to catch up with setting the beams in place.
THE PARTY DEPARTING FOR THE DALAI LAMA"S EVENING reception for the Pax at Potala leaves just after the noon meal in the common dining hall. I see Aenea there, but except for a meaningful exchange of glances and a smile from her that makes my knees weak, we have no private communication.
We a.s.semble on the lowest level with hundreds of workers, monks, cooks, scholars, and porters waving and cheering from the platforms above. Rain clouds are beginning to curl and spill between the low gaps in the eastern ridgeline, but the sky above Hsuan-k"ung Ssu is still blue and the red prayer flags flapping from the high terraces stand out with almost shocking clarity.
We are all dressed in travel clothes, our formal reception clothing carried in waterproof shoulder-strap satchels or-in my case-my rucksack. The Dalai Lama"s receptions are traditionally held late at night and we have more than ten hours until our presence is required, but it is a six-hour trip on the High Way, and couriers and one flyer coming into Jo-kung earlier that day have told of bad weather beyond the K"un Lun Ridge, so we step off lively enough.
The order of march is set by protocol. Charles Chi-kyap Kempo, Mayor of Jo-kung and Lord Chamberlain of the Temple Hanging in Air, walks a few paces ahead of his near-peer, Kempo Ngha w.a.n.g Tashi, abbot of the Temple. Both men"s "traveling clothes" are more resplendent than my shot at formal wear, and they are surrounded by small hornet cl.u.s.ters of aides, monks, and security people.
Behind the priest politicians walk Gyalo Thondup, the young monk and cousin to the current Dalai Lama, and Labsang Samten, the third-year monk who is the Dalai Lama"s brother. They have the easy stride and easier laugh of young men at the peak of physical health and mental clarity. Their white teeth gleam in their brown faces. Labsang is wearing a brilliant red climbing chuba chuba that gives the appearance of him being an ambulatory prayer flag in our procession as we head west along the narrow walkway to the Jo-kung fissure. that gives the appearance of him being an ambulatory prayer flag in our procession as we head west along the narrow walkway to the Jo-kung fissure.
Tsipon Shakabpa, the official overseer of Aenea"s project, walks with George Tsarong, our chubby construction foreman. George"s inseparable companion, Jigme Norbu, is absent now: his feelings hurt by not being invited, Jigme has stayed behind at the Temple. I believe that this is the first time that I have seen George where he is not smiling. Tsipon makes up for George"s silence, however, telling stories with waving arms and extravagant gestures. Several of their workers hike with them-at least as far as Jo-kung.
Tromo Trochi of Dhomu, the flamboyant trade agent from the south, walks with his only companion for so many months on the highways-an oversized zygoat packbrid laden with the trader"s goods. The zygoat has three bells hung from its s.h.a.ggy neck and they chime like the Temple"s prayer bells as we walk along. Lh.o.m.o Dondrub is to meet us in Potala, but his presence in the party is represented symbolically on the zygoat"s topmost pack duffel by a swatch of new flight fabric for his paraglider.
Aenea and I bring up the rear of the procession. Several times I try to talk about last night, but she silences me with a finger to her lips and a nod in the direction of the nearby trader and other members of the procession. I settle for small talk about the last days of work on the Temple overhang pavilion and walkways, but my mind continues to jostle with questions.
Soon we are in Jo-kung, where the ramps and walkways are lined with crowds waving pennants and prayer flags. From the fissure terraces and cliff shacks, citizens of the city cheer their mayor and the rest of us.
Just beyond the fissure city of Jo-kung, near the jump-off platforms of the only cableway we will be using on this trip to Potala, we encounter another party headed to the Dalai Lama"s reception: the Dorje Phamo and her nine female priests. The Dorje Phamo travels in a palanquin carried by four heavily muscled males because she is the abbess of Samden Gompa, an all-male monastery some thirty klicks out along the south wall of the same ridge that holds the Temple Hanging in Air along its north wall. The Dorje Phamo is ninety-four standard years old and was discovered to be the incarnation of the original Dorje Phamo, the Thunderbolt Sow, when she was three standard years old. She is a woman of immense importance and a separate monastery for women-the Oracle Gompa at Yamdrok Tso, some sixty klicks farther along the dangerous ridge wall-has held her as its prefect and avatar for more than seventy standard years. Now the Thunderbolt Sow, her nine female priest companions, and about thirty male carriers and guards are waiting at the cableway to attach the palanquin"s ma.s.sive carabiner clamps.
The Dorje Phamo peers through her curtains, spies our party, and beckons Aenea over. I know from Aenea"s offhand comments that she has traveled to the Oracle Gompa at Yamdrok Tso several times to meet with the Sow and that the two are fast friends. I also know from A. Bettik"s comments to me in confidence that the Dorje Phamo has recently told her female priests and monks at the Oracle Gompa and the male monks at Samden Gompa that it is Aenea, not His Holiness the current Dalai Lama, who is the incarnation of the living Buddha of Mercy. Word of this heresy has spread, according to A. Bettik, but because of the Thunderbolt Sow"s popularity across the world of T"ien Shan, the Dalai Lama has not yet responded to the impertinence.
Now I watch as the two women-my young Aenea and the ancient form in the palanquin-chat and laugh easily as both parties wait to cross the cableway across the Langma Abyss. The Dorje Phamo must have insisted that we precede her group, for the carriers move the palanquin back out of the way and the nine female priests bow deeply as Aenea motions our group forward on the platform. Charles Chi-kyap Kempo and Kempo Ngha w.a.n.g Tashi look discomfited as they allow their aides to clip them on to the cable-not out of concern for their safety, I know, but out of some breech of protocol that I missed and am not particularly interested in. At that moment I am interested in getting Aenea alone and talking with her. Or perhaps just kissing her again.
IT RAINS HARD DURING THE WALK TO POTALA. DURING my three months here I"ve experienced more than a few summer showers, but this is a serious pre-monsoon rain, chilling, icy, with curling tendrils of fog that close around us. We clear the one cableway transit before the clouds close in, but by the time we are approaching the east side of the K"un Lun Ridge, the High Way is slick with ice.
The High Way consists of rock ledges, bricked pathways on the sheer cliffside, high wooden walkways along the northwest ridge of Hua Shan, the Flower Mountain, and a long series of platform walkways and suspension bridges connecting those icy ridgelines with K"un Lun. Then there is the second-longest suspension bridge on the planet connecting K"un Lun Ridge with Phari Ridge, followed by another series of walkways, bridges, and ledges heading southwest along the east face of Phari Ridge to Phari Marketplace. There we pa.s.s through the fissure and follow the ledge road almost due west to Potala.
Normally this is a six-hour walk in the sunshine, but this afternoon it is a dreary, dangerous trudge through the curling fog and icy rain. The aides traveling with Mayor/Lord Chamberlain Charles Chi-kyap Kempo and Abbot Kempo Ngha w.a.n.g Tashi attempt to shelter their worthies under bright red and yellow umbrellas, but the icy ledge is often narrow and the worthies frequently must get wet as they go ahead in single file. The suspension bridges are nightmares to cross-the "floor" of each is just a single, heavily braided hemp cable with hemp ropes rising vertically, horizontal side ropes for railings, and a second thick cable above one"s head-and although it is usually child"s play to balance on the lower cable while keeping contact with the side ropes, it takes complete concentration in this driving rain. But all of the locals have done this through dozens of monsoons and they move along quickly; it is only Aenea and I who hesitate as the bridges flex and toss under the party"s weight, the icy ropes threatening to slip out of our hands.
Despite the storm-or perhaps because of it-someone has lighted the High Way torches all along the east face of Phari Ridge, and the braziers burning through the thick fog help us find our way as the wooden walkways turn, bend, rise, descend icy staircases, and lead out to more bridges. We arrive in Phari Marketplace just at dusk, although it seems much later because of the gloom. Other groups bound for the Winter Palace join us there and there are at least seventy people headed west together past the fissure. The Dorje Phamo"s palanquin still bobs along with us and I suspect that others besides myself are a bit envious of her dry perch in there.
I confess that I am disappointed: we had planned to arrive at Potala in the twilight, while there was still alpenglow lighting the north-south ridges and the higher peaks to the north and west of the palace. I have never glimpsed the palace before, and I had been looking forward to seeing this region. As it is, the broad High Way between Phari and Potala is just a series of torchlit ledges and walkways. I have brought the flashlight laser in my pack, although whether as a futile gesture for defense should things turn bad at the palace, or for finding our way in the dark, I am not sure. Ice coats the rocks, the platforms, the hemp-cable railings along this most well traveled of walkways, as well as the stairs. I cannot imagine being on the cableway this night, but rumor has it that several of the more adventurous guests are traveling that way.
We arrive at the Forbidden City some two hours before the reception is scheduled to begin. The clouds have lifted a bit, the rain relents, and our first glimpse of the Winter Palace takes my breath away and makes me forget my disappointment of not having approached it in the twilight.
The Winter Palace is built on a great peak rising from the Yellow Hat Ridge, with the higher peaks of Koko Nor behind it, and our first glimpse through the clouds is of Drepung, the surrounding monastery that houses thirty-five thousand monks, tier upon tier of tall stone buildings rising up the vertical slopes, its thousands of windows glowing with lantern light, torches at balconies, terraces, and entrances, while behind the Drepung and above it, with gold roofs touching the ceiling of boiling clouds, rises Potala-the Winter Palace of the Dalai Lama-ablaze with light, and backlighted-even in the stormy darkness-by the lightning-lit peaks of the Koko Nor.
The aides and fellow travelers turn back here, and only we invited pilgrims press on into the Forbidden City.
The High Way now flattens and broadens to a true highway, an avenue fifty meters wide, paved with gold stones, lined with torches, and surrounded by countless temples, chortens, lesser gompas, outbuildings for the imposing monastery, and military guard posts. The rain has stopped but the avenue glistens goldly while hundreds upon hundreds of brightly garbed pilgrims and residents of the Forbidden City bustle to and fro in front of the huge walls and gates of the Drepung and the Potala. Monks in saffron robes move in small, silent groups; palace officials in brilliant red and rich purple gowns and yellow hats looking like inverted saucers walk purposefully past soldiers in blue uniforms with black-and-white-striped pikes; official messengers jog by in skintight outfits of orange and red or gold and blue; women of the court glide across the gold stones in long silk dresses of sky blue, deep lapis lazuli, and daring cobalt, their trains making soft slithering sounds on the wet pavement; priests from the Red Hat Sect are instantly recognizable with their inverted saucer hats of crimson silk and crimson fringe, while the Drangpas-the wooded valley people-stride by with wooly hats of zygoat fur, their costumes adorned with brilliant white, red, tan, and gold feathers, carrying their great gold ceremonial swords tucked into their sashes; finally the common folk of the Forbidden City are little less colorful than the high officials, the cooks and gardeners and servants and tutors and masons and personal valets all bedecked in silk chubas chubas of green and blue or gold and orange, those who work in the Dalai Lama"s quarters of the Winter Palace-several thousand strong-glimpsed in the crimson and gold, everyone wearing the zygoat-banded silk hats with stiff brims some fifty centimeters broad, to preserve their pale palace complexions on sunny days and to ward off the rain during monsoon season. of green and blue or gold and orange, those who work in the Dalai Lama"s quarters of the Winter Palace-several thousand strong-glimpsed in the crimson and gold, everyone wearing the zygoat-banded silk hats with stiff brims some fifty centimeters broad, to preserve their pale palace complexions on sunny days and to ward off the rain during monsoon season.
Our wet band of pilgrims seems dull and shabby in these surroundings, but I have little thought of our own appearance as we pa.s.s through a sixty-meter-tall gate in one of the outer walls of the Drepung Monastery and begin to cross the Kyi Chu Bridge.
This bridge is 20 meters wide, 115 meters long, and made of the most modern carbon-plasteel. It shines like black chrome. Beneath it is...nothing. The bridge spans a terminal fissure in the ridgeline and drops thousands of meters to the phosgene clouds below. On the east side-the side from which we approach-the structures of the Drepung rise two or three kilometers above us, flat walls and glowing windows and the air above us laced with spiderweb upon spiderweb of official cable shortcuts between the monastery and the palace proper. On the west side-ahead of us-the Potala rises more than six kilometers on the cliff faces, its thousands of stone facets and hundreds of gold roofs reflecting the flickering lightning from the low clouds above it. In case of attack, the Kyi Chu Bridge can retract into the western cliff in less than thirty seconds, leaving no stairway, foothold, ledge, or window for half a kilometer of vertical stone to the first ramparts above.
The bridge does not retract as we cross it. The sides are lined with troopers in ceremonial garb, each carrying a deadly serious pike or energy rifle. At the far end of the Kyi Chu, we pause at the Pargo Kaling-the Western Gate-an ornate arch eighty-five meters tall. Light glows from within the giant arch, breaking out through a thousand intricate designs, the brightest glow coming from the two great eyes-each more than ten meters across-that stare unblinkingly across the Kyi Chu and the Drepung to the east.
We each pause as we pa.s.s under the Pargo Kaling. Our first step beyond it will bring us onto the grounds of the Winter Palace itself, although the actual doorway is still some thirty paces ahead of us. inside that doorway are the thousand steps that will take us up to the palace proper. Aenea has told me that pilgrims have come from all over T"ien Shan by walking on their knees, or in some cases by prostrating themselves at every step-literally measuring the hundreds or thousands of kilometers with their bodies-just to be allowed to pa.s.s under the Western Gate and to touch this last section of Kyi Chu Bridge with their foreheads out of homage to the Dalai Lama.
Aenea and I step across together, glancing at one another.
After presenting our invitations to the guards and officials within the main entrance portal, we ascend the thousand stairs. I am amazed to find that the stairway is an escalator, although Tromo Trochi of Dhomu whispers that it is often left unactivated to allow the faithful a final exertion before being allowed into the upper reaches of the palace.
Above, on the first public levels, there is another flurry of invitation checking, servants divesting us of our wet outer robes, and other servants escorting us to rooms in which we might bathe and change. Lord Chamberlain Charles Chi-kyap Kempo is ent.i.tled to a small suite of rooms on the seventy-eighth level of the palace, and after what seems- like farther kilometers of walking down outside halls-the windows to our right showing the red rooftops of the Drepung Monastery flickering and gleaming in the storm light-we are greeted by more servants given over to our bidding. Each of our party has at least a curtained alcove in which we will sleep after the formal reception, and adjoining bathrooms offer hot water, baths, and modern sonic showers. I follow Aenea and smile at her when she winks on her way out of the steamy room.
I had no truly formal clothes at the Temple Hanging in Air-nor any in the ship currently hiding on the third moon, for that matter-but Lh.o.m.o Dondrub and some of the others roughly my size have fitted me out for tonight"s honor: black trousers and highly polished, high black boots, a white silk shirt under a gold vest, with a red-and-black X-shaped wool overvest, tied together at the waist with a crimson silk sash. The. formal evening cape is made of the finest warrior-silk from the western reaches of Muztagh Alta and is mostly black, but with intricate border designs of red, gold, silver, and yellow. It is Lh.o.m.o"s second-best cape and he made it quite clear that he would toss me from the highest platform if I stained, tore, or lost it. Lh.o.m.o is a pleasant, easygoing man-almost unheard of in a lone flyer, I am told-but I think he was not kidding about this.
A. Bettik loaned me the requisite silver bracelets for the reception, these purchased by him on a whim in the beautiful markets of Hsi w.a.n.g-mu. Over my shoulders I place the feather and zygoat wool red hood loaned to me by Jigme Norbu, who has waited his entire life in vain for an invitation to the Winter Palace. Around my neck is a jade-and-silver-link Middle Kingdom formal talisman courtesy of master carpenter and friend Changchi Kenchung, who told me this morning that he has been to three receptions at the palace and has been bored witless each time.
Servants in gold silk come to our chambers to announce that it is time for us to congregate in the Main Reception Hall next to the Throne Room. The outside corridors are filled with hundreds of guests moving along the tiled halls, silk is rustling, jewelry rattles, and the air is filled with the clash of perfume and cologne and soap and leather. Ahead of us, I get a glimpse of the ancient Dorje Phamo-the Thunderbolt Sow herself-being helped along by two of her nine female priests, all of them in elegant saffron gowns. The Sow wears no jewelry, but her white hair is tied and ribboned in elaborate mounds and beautiful braids.
Aenea"s gown is simple but breathtaking-a deep blue silk, with a cobalt hood covering her otherwise bare shoulders, one Middle Kingdom talisman of silver and jade dropping to her bosom, and a silver comb pinned in her hair, holding a thin half veil in place. Many of the women in view are veiled for modesty tonight, and I realize how cleverly this disguises my friend"s appearance.
She takes my arm and we move in procession down the endless corridors, turning right and gliding up spiral escalators toward the Dalai Lama"s levels.
I lean close and whisper against her veiled ear. "Nervous?"
I see the glint of her smile beneath the veil and she squeezes my hand.
Persisting, I whisper, "Kiddo, you sometimes see the future. I know you do. So...do we get out of this alive tonight?"
I bend over as she leans close to whisper back. "Only a few things in anyone"s future are set, Raul. Most things are as liquid as..." She gestures toward a swirling fountain that we pa.s.s and spiral above. "But I see no reason to worry, do you? There are thousands of guests here tonight. The Dalai Lama can greet only a few in person. His guests...the Pax...whoever they will be, have no reason to think that we are here."
I nod, but am not convinced.
Suddenly Labsang Samten, the Dalai Lama"s brother, comes racketing down the ascending escalator in violation of all protocol. The monk is grinning and bubbling over with enthusiasm. He addresses our group, but hundreds on the rising staircase lean to listen in.
"The guests from s.p.a.ce are very important!" he says enthusiastically. "I have been talking to our tutor who is the a.s.sistant to the second in command to the Minister of Protocol. These are not just missionaries whom we greet tonight!"
"No?" says the Lord Chamberlain Charles Chi-kyap Kempo, resplendent in his many layers of red and gold silk.
"No!" grins Labsang Samten. "It is a cardinal of the Pax Church. A very important cardinal. With several of his top people."
I feel my stomach chum and then drop into freefall.
"Which cardinal?" says Aenea. Her voice seems calm and interested. We are approaching the top of the spiral staircase ride and the sound of hundreds or thousands of softly murmuring guests fills the air.
Labsang Samten straightens his formal monk"s robe. "A Cardinal Mustafa," he says brightly. "Someone very close to the Pax Pope, I think. The Pax honors my brother by sending him as amba.s.sador."
I feel Aenea"s hand close on my arm, but I cannot see her expression clearly through the veil.
"And several other important Pax guests," continues the monk, turning as we approach the reception level. "Including some strange Pax women. Military types, I think."
"Did you get their names?" asks Aenea.
"One of them," says Labsang. "General Nemes. She is very pale." The Dalai Lama"s brother turns his wide, sincere smile on Aenea. "The Cardinal has asked to meet you specifically, M. Aenea. You and your escort, M. Endymion. The Protocol Minister was very surprised, but has arranged for a private reception for you with the Pax people and the Regent and, of course, my brother, His Holiness, the Dalai Lama."
Our ascent ends. The staircase slides into the marble floor. With Aenea on my arm, I step out into the noise and tightly controlled chaos of the Main Reception Hall.
19.