The man's hands were held together, as if in prayer. Shan realized there was something between them, pressed together in the palms, with a protruding end barely visible. A stalk of something. A piece of grass, maybe. Shan leaned over with the lamp. As he did so he touched the arm and the top palm lifted fractionally. With a choke in his breath, Shan recognized it. A feather. A feather had been placed in the man's palms, a thousand years before.

He settled back, his heart racing. Then, with a slow, reverent motion he reached out and pulled it from the pilgrim's clasp far enough to see it in the lamplight. It was an owl feather, desiccated, its shaft bare for a quarter of its length, but still almost identical to the one in his gau, the one Gendun had given him before they had parted. He stared at it, overcome with wonder. Time passed, and still he stared. Not at the feather. At the man's face. At his long delicate fingers. The man had not been a shepherd. He had been an artist, or a teacher perhaps.

Finally, with utter confidence in the rightness of what he was doing, he lifted the feather from his gau, then carefully extracted the feather from the pilgrim's palms and inserted his own in its place. He placed the pilgrim's feather, the thousand-year-old feather, into his gau, then gently closed the man's hands, unprepared for the wave of emotion that swept over him. His own hands trembled. When they calmed he saw that they had come to rest on those of the pilgrim.

He pushed the rosary down the man's wrist, to be close to the fingers. Then, without knowing why, he cried.

They rode urgently through the night, the three camels in single file as Sophie and Marco led the way toward Yoktian. Marco invited Shan to ride double behind him, and though the Eluosi was silent for the first two hours, he began speaking to Shan of camels and the beauty of the high lonely places he called his home. Just before dawn, as they crossed the Kashgar highway and Sophie settled into a trot for the final miles to Yoktian, Marco began singing loudly: old songs, Russian songs, songs he said were for drinking on long winter nights.

The sun was an hour over the horizon when they arrived at a series of low sheds by the river, a large complex of holding pens for livestock shaded by a row of tall poplar trees in the golden plumage of autumn. The pens near them were all empty, but five or six at the far end, a hundred yards away, were full of horses. The Kazakh herds were being collected. Marco tied the camels in the shadows of the first shed, then led Shan up a small knoll. They were on the outskirts of the town, less than two hundred feet from the main road leading to the town square.

Half an hour later, Shan, Jakli, and Lokesh approached the low mud-brick buildings of the hat factory. Workers were on benches, milling at the gate, and as they stepped into the compound, someone called Jakli's name. Akzu sat on a nearby bench, smoking with one of his sons. Their hands were stained purple.

"You're making hats?" Jakli blurted out.

"Of course. Wonderful hats," he said with a nod to Shan and Lokesh. "The best hats. Always wanted to make hats, niece," he said dryly, looking at his stained hands. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"But why-" Jakli began, but did not finish her sentence. She had realized, Shan knew, that they were to cover for her.

"No sense in taking undue risk, not so close to nadam. The manager here is a Kazakh. He said he won't cover up for anyone if he's asked, but as long as production is above quota not many questions get asked," Akzu explained, standing and stretching. "As long as the boot squads don't come." He looked at a woman who appeared on the steps of the main building, holding a clipboard. "There's worker attendance forms inside the door, niece. Go sign a few."

"But the zheli-" Jakli began.

Akzu held up a hand to cut her off and looked about before answering in a low voice. "The clan still searches for them. And for Malik. We can't find Malik. He was seen galloping down a highway yesterday, as if in pursuit of someone." He looked toward the southern horizon. "I go back into the mountains tonight. One of your cousins will stay here until nadam."

As Akzu spoke a low moan came from a nearby bench. An old man with a long drooping moustache sat and stared at a piece of paper in his hand.

"Been that way for hours," Akzu said. "He came here to ask the manager to explain where his sheep were. He thought it must be some kind of map or directions to a pasture."

"His sheep?" Shan asked.

"It's a share certificate in the Brigade company," Akzu explained in a bitter tone. "He surrendered his sheep to the Brigade, and all they gave him was a piece of paper. Sixty years with his herd and just a piece of paper."

As Jakli took a step toward the man as though to comfort him, Akzu pulled her arm and led her to the gate of the compound. Her eyes never left the mournful old herder.

Ten minutes later Shan and Jakli were at the school compound. There was a ragged broom leaning against the crumbling concrete gatepost. Lokesh picked it up.

"Cleanliness is an overlooked virtue," he said with a twinkle in his eye. Shan nodded and smiled. Lokesh meant he would wait, and watch, at the gate.

Shan and Jakli stood in the shadow of the empty entryway, checking for signs of knobs. Seeing none, they quickly moved down the empty corridor to Lau's office. They searched Lau's office again, looking for more information on the zheli. In her desk. In the computer. Under her desk drawers. Nothing. A number of the photographs had been pulled from the wall since their last visit, some ripped away, their remnants hanging loose. Someone else had come back to the office, searching. Looking for what? The photo of the Dalai Lama that Jakli had removed on their last visit? Jakli went outside, toward the class buildings, hoping to find children who might have word on the missing zheli. As she departed Shan saw that the light was on in the opposite office.

He stepped to the door, which was open a few inches, and looked at the little hand-lettered sign again. Religion is the Opiate of the Masses. He looked back. The sign would have been in front of Lau whenever she walked out her office. There were voices inside. As he pushed on the door, it swung open to reveal the short plump man he had met at the rice camp, Committee Chairman Hu, wearing a bulky, brown cardigan sweater. He was sitting sideways on his desk, facing the rear of his office as he spoke enthusiastically to a tall lean man who leaned against the rear window casement. Kaju Drogme.

They stopped speaking and looked at Shan as he took a step inside. The Han was holding something, explaining it to Kaju- a thin, sleek, grey box, curved at the front corners, with earphones hooked to its rear. The man raised his eyebrows toward Shan but his gleaming expression did not change.

Shan nodded at Hu. "Just looking at her office again," Shan said to the Committee Chairman.

Not only did Hu not seem surprised, he appeared to welcome the comment, as if it were an invitation. "A suicide, I told them," he said with an oddly bright tone. "Obviously it was a suicide. Disgraced from the loss of her council position. Facing retirement, with no prospects, no family."

Shan stepped closer to the man. The box was a music player of some kind. On the lid he saw a stylized logo for a Japanese company. A plastic bag with an instruction manual lay on the man's desk.

"Just the day before she did it, Comrade Ko came in and told her she would be welcome to move to Urumqi. Said there was a retirement complex, a high-rise building just for retired citizens. A number of heroes from the Revolution live there, they give speeches about the liberation battles every week. Said he was going to Urumqi and that he wanted her to go with him to see it. At Brigade expense." Hu shook his head, looking back and forth from Kaju to Shan. "But Lau wouldn't have it. Acted like Director Ko had kicked her. She sat down, out of breath. Too old-fashioned, she was. No flexibility." He lowered his voice and leaned toward Shan. "She had allowed herself to become isolated, cut off from the socialist fabric. A latent reactionary," he said in a knowing tone. "Go, I said, don't you recognize the offer? They are offering rehabilitation. I told them at the camp, wrote it all down for them."