A few minutes later he placed a silver tea service on the table, along with a plate piled high with scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Karna poured tea and then sat down across from them.
“Now. Do tell me your tale,” Mr. Karna prompted.
Sam recounted their journey, beginning with their arrival in Jomsom and ending with their arrival at Lo Monthang. He left out any mention of King’s involvement in the assassination attempt. Through it all, Karna asked no questions, and, aside from a few arches of his eyebrow, gave no reaction.
“Extraordinary,” he said at last. “And you have no idea of this impostor’s name?”
“No,” said Remi. “He was in a bit of a hurry.”
“I can imagine. Your escape is the stuff of Hollywood.”
“Par for the course, unfortunately,” Sam said.
Karna chuckled. “Before we go on, I should make the local brahmins—the council—aware of what happened.”
“Is that necessary?” Sam asked.
“Necessary, and of benefit to you. You are in Lo Monthang now, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. We may be a part of Nepal, but we are quite autonomous. Have no fear, you will not be held responsible for what happened, and unless the council considers it absolutely necessary, the Nepalese government will not be involved. You are safe here.”
Sam and Remi considered what he had said, then gave their assent.
Karna picked up a brass bell from the floor beside his cushion and rang it once. Ten seconds later the boy who greeted them on the approach road appeared from the side hallway. He stopped before Karna and bowed sharply.
In what sounded like rapid-fire Lowa, Karna spoke to the boy for thirty seconds. The boy asked a single question, then bowed again, walked to the front door, and stepped out.
Karna said, “Fear not. All will be well.”
“Forgive us,” Remi said, “but the curiosity is killing us: your accent is—”
“Oxford through and through, yes. I am in fact British, though I haven’t been home for . . . fifteen years, I suppose. I have lived in Mustang for thirty-eight years this summer. Most of that time, in this very house.”
“How did you come to be here?” Sam asked.
“I came as a student, actually. Anthropology, mainly, with a few side interests. I spent three months here in 1973, then went home. I wasn’t there for two weeks before I realized Mustang had gotten under my skin, as they say, so I returned and never left. The local priests believe I am one of them—reincarnated, of course.” Mr. Karna smiled, shrugged. “Who can say? Without doubt, though, I have never felt more at home anywhere else.”
“Fascinating,” Sam replied. “What do you do?”
“I suppose I am an archivist of sorts. And an historian. My main focus is documenting Mustang’s history. Not the history you read on Wikipedia, though.” He saw Remi’s confused expression and said with a smile, “Yes, I know about Wikipedia. I have satellite Internet here. Quite extraordinary, given the remoteness of the place.”
“Quite,” Remi agreed.
“I am—and have been for nearly twelve years—writing a book that will, with any luck, serve as a comprehensive history of Mustang and Lo Monthang. A hidden history, if you will.”
“Which explains why Sushant thought you were the person we should see,” said Sam.
“Indeed. He told me you were particularly interested in the legend of the Theurang. The Golden Man.”
“Yes,” replied Remi.
“He did not, however, tell me why.” Karna was now serious, his eyes peering hard at Sam and Remi. Before they could answer, he went on: “Please understand. I mean no offense, but your reputation has preceded you. You are professional treasure hunters, are you not?”
“It’s not the term we prefer,” Sam replied, “but it’s technically accurate.”
Remi added, “We keep none of what we find for ourselves. Any financial compensation goes to our foundation.”
“Yes, I read that. Your reputation is in fact quite good. The trouble is, you see, I have had visitors before. People after the Theurang for what I fear were nefarious reasons.”
“Did these people happen to be a young man and woman?” Sam asked. “Caucasian twins with Asian features.”