For several long breaths, they stood and stared into a deep darkness, until shapes shifted slowly out of the dim light. There were several princes, seated in a semicircle, each dressed in some of the finest clothes Edgar had seen in Burma, bejeweled costumes like those of the puppets that had danced at the yôkthe pwè: sequined jackets with brocaded wings on the shoulders, crowns shaped like pagodas. The men had been talking when they had entered, but the room was now silent. Carroll led Edgar around the circle to two open cushions. Behind each prince, other men stood in the darkness, barely licked by the dancing lights of tiny fires.

They sat, still silent. Then one of the princes, an older man with a finely combed mustache, spoke at length. When he finished, Carroll answered. At one point he motioned to the piano tuner, who heard “Daly, Lieutenant-Colonel, Hildebrand,” but he understood nothing else.

When Carroll’s introduction was complete, another prince began to speak. The Doctor turned to Edgar. “All is fine, Lieutenant-Colonel. You are welcome here.”

The meeting began, and soon the night was lost, a blur of jeweled gowns and candlelight, a canto of strange tongues. Soon Edgar felt himself doze off, so that it all took on the quality of a dream. A dream within a dream, he told himself, as his eyelids fell slowly, For perhaps I have been dreaming since Aden. Around him, the princes seemed to float; the upturned candleholders hid the floor from the flames. Only at occasional breaks in the conversation did Carroll speak to him, “That man who is speaking is Chao Weng, sawbwa of Lawksawk, next to him is Chao Khun Kyi, the sawbwa of Mongnai—whom you must recognize. Then that is Chao Kawng Tai of Kengtung, who has traveled a great distance to be here. At his side is Chao Khun Ti of Mongpawn. Next to him is Twet Nga Lu.”

And Edgar asked, “Twet Nga Lu?” But Carroll had returned to the conversation, leaving Edgar to stare at the man he had heard about since the steamer voyage, who some said didn’t exist, who had escaped hundreds of British raids, who was perhaps one of the last figures standing between Britain and the consolidation of the Empire. Edgar stared at the Shan Bandit Chief. There was something familiar about him that he couldn’t place. He was a small man, with a face that was soft even in the angular shadows cast by the candlelight. Edgar could see none of his tattoos or talismans, but he noticed that he spoke with an eerie self-assurance, a half grin cast into the smoke-filled air like a threat. And although he rarely said anything, when he did, the room quickly grew quiet. Edgar then realized why he recognized the man, or if not the man, why he recognized the confidence, the elusiveness. He had seen the same in Anthony Carroll.

So to this dream of the Shan princes entered a new character, a man Edgar thought he knew, but who now seemed as inscrutable as the sawbwas who sat before him, who spoke a strange tongue, who held the respect and fear of foreign tribes. Edgar turned to watch the Doctor, to look for the man who played the piano, who collected flowers and read Homer, but heard only a language of strange tones, words that even a man who controlled the intricacy of notes couldn’t understand. And for one brief, terrifying moment, as the glow of candles flickered upward across his face, Edgar thought that he recognized the high cheekbones, the long brow, and the intensity of stare and speech that the other tribes say make a Shan.

But this only lasted briefly, and as swiftly as it arrived, the haunting left him. And Anthony Carroll was still Anthony Carroll and he turned and his eyes flashed. “You holding up, old man? Is something wrong?” It was late, and it would be many hours before the meeting finished.

“Yes, I am holding up,” Edgar answered. “No…there is nothing wrong at all.”

The meeting lasted until dawn, when sunlight finally began to trickle through the rafters. Edgar didn’t know if he had been sleeping when he sensed a shuffling around him and one of the Shan princes, and then another, rose and walked out, bowing to the Englishmen as they left. As the others stood, there were more formalities, and Edgar remarked on how gaudy and caricatured the costumes seemed in the daylight, extravagance beyond the pomp and posture of their wearers. Soon they rose too, to follow the princes. At the door Edgar heard a voice at his back, and turned to find himself face-to-face with Twet Nga Lu.

“I know who you are, Mr. Drake,” said the Shan Bandit Chief in a deliberate English, a smile slinking along his lips. He said something in Shan and raised his hands before him. Edgar stepped back, suddenly frightened, and Twet Nga Lu, now laughing, turned his palms down and began to move his fingers before him in the mocking mime of a pianist.

Edgar looked to see if Carroll had seen this, but the Doctor was engaged in conversation with another prince. As Twet Nga Lu passed, Edgar saw Carroll turn, and the two men stared at each other. It was a brief exchange, and then Twet Nga Lu walked out of the room, where a group of Shan warriors fell into formation behind him.

On the road back to Mae Lwin, they spoke little. The Doctor stared out into the mist that covered the trail. Edgar’s thoughts were thick with fatigue and confusion. He wanted to ask about the meeting, but the Doctor seemed lost in contemplation. At one point the Doctor stopped to point out a group of red flowers by the side of the trail, but for the remainder of the trip he was silent. The sky was heavy, and the wind picked up, whipping along the lonely crags and open road. Only when they were climbing the hill above Mae Lwin did Carroll turn to the piano tuner.

“You haven’t asked what happened at the meeting.”

“I am sorry,” Edgar said warily. “I am a bit tired, that’s all.”

Anthony Carroll shifted his gaze down the trail. “Last night, I received a conditional surrender from both the Limbin Confederacy and from Twet Nga Lu, to end their resistance to British rule in one month’s time, in exchange for limited autonomy guaranteed by Her Majesty. The revolt is over.”

20

They arrived in camp shortly after noon. In the clearing, a group of boys came out to meet them, taking away the men’s ponies. The camp seemed eerily silent. Edgar expected announcement, movement, something to acknowledge the accomplishment. He had the unsettling feeling that he had just witnessed history. But there was nothing, only the customary greetings. The Doctor disappeared, and Edgar returned to his room. He fell asleep still dressed in his riding clothes.

He awoke at midnight, sweating, disoriented, having dreamed that he was still on horseback, on the long ride from Mongpu. Only as he recognized the features of his room, the mosquito net, his bag, the stack of papers, and the tuning tools, did his heart slow.

He again tried to sleep but couldn’t. Perhaps it was his thoughts of the Doctor, or his dream of a journey without end, or perhaps it was only because he had been sleeping since the early afternoon. He was hot, and dirty, and parched, and he found himself breathing fast, Maybe I am sick again. He pushed aside the mosquito net and rushed to the door. Outside the air was fresh and cool, and he took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.

It was a still night, and a sliver of moon passed between indecisive rain clouds. Below his room, the Salween was dark. He slipped down the stairs and out across the clearing. The camp was silent. Even the guard at the watch-post slept, seated outside the hut, his head rolled back and resting on the wall.

As Edgar walked, the soil curled up against his toes. He passed through the thicket of flowers and onto the beach. He was moving faster now, tearing off his shirt and throwing it onto the sand. He stepped out of his riding breeches. His toes touched the water and he dove.