Beyond the hut was the central yard of the camp, around which several structures were arrayed. Some were makeshift huts of sticks, planks, even cardboard. Several, to his surprise, were small but substantial stone buildings. A knot of men worked in front of one, sharpening an assortment of axes and knives.

They had an apelike quality, short men with thick arms and small eyes. One of them detached himself and took a step toward Shan, brandishing a light axe. He had a disturbingly vacant stare, as if borrowed from the dead. Noticing the sack in Yeshe's arms, his face softened. Two other men stepped toward Yeshe, and solemnly extended their arms. As Yeshe handed the sack to them, they gave a nod of sympathy, then confusion appeared on their faces. One of the men looked inside the bag and laughed as he displayed an apple from inside. The others joined in the joke as he tossed the apple to the circle of men. It was not the kind of small burlap package the ragyapa usually received, Shan suddenly realized, not one of the small bundles of death that even the flesh cutters must hate to receive.

Yeshe's action broke the tension. More apples were thrown, and the men produced pocketknives- their longer blades being reserved for their sacred duties- and began distributing pieces of the fruit. Shan looked at the tools. Small knives whose blades ended with hooks. Long flaying knives. Rough handaxes that could have been forged two centuries earlier. Half the blades could easily have severed a man's head.

Children appeared, eager for the fruit. They stayed apart from Shan, but circled Yeshe, wide-eyed and happy.

"We came from the bookstore in town," Shan announced.

The words had no effect on the children, but the men instantly sobered. Words were muttered among them, and one man split away and ran up the hill behind the village.

The children began to poke at Yeshe, and suddenly he seemed very interested in them. He knelt to tie one of their shoes, studying the youth's clothing, then they leapt on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Some of the older boys produced toy blades of wood and, laughing hysterically, made sawing motions over his joints.

Shan watched the melee for only a moment, then his gaze fixed on the running man. It quickly became clear that his destination was a rock outcropping at the top of the low ridge above the camp. Shan began walking up the trail, then stopped as he noticed the birds. Over a dozen, mostly vultures, were circling high in the sky. Others, birds of prey both large and small, sat perched along the path on stunted trees. They seemed strangely tame, as though the village belonged to them as much as the ragyapa. They watched the runner pass by with idle curiosity.

It was called sky burial. The quickest remove from the physical bounds of one's existence. In some parts of Tibet bodies were set adrift in rivers, which was why it was taboo to eat fish. Shan had heard that in regions still closely tied to India immolation was practiced. But for the devout Buddhist in most of Tibet there was only one way to dispose of the flesh left when an incarnation was extinguished. Tibetans couldn't live without the ragyapa. But they couldn't live with them.

Another man appeared at the top as the runner approached, holding a long handle like a staff with a wide blade at its end. He was middle-aged, and wore a winter military cap with its quilted side flaps hanging out at the sides like small wings. Shan, wary of the birds, sat on a boulder and waited.

The man evaluated Shan with suspicion as he neared the boulder. "No tourists," he barked in a high voice. "You should go."

"This girl in the bookstore. She is from this village," Shan said abruptly.

The man stared at Shan with a grim countenance, then lowered his blade. He produced a cloth and began wiping off gobbets of wet, pink matter, watching Shan, not the blade, as he worked. "She is my daughter," he admitted. "I am not ashamed." It was a serious admission, and a brave one.

"There is no need for shame. But it was surprising, to find one of your people working in town." He knew he did not need to mention the work papers. The realization that Shan had discovered the lie was, he expected, the only reason the man was talking to him.

The challenge in the man's eyes dissipated to a glint of stubborn resolve. "My daughter is a good worker. She deserves a chance."

"I am not here about your daughter. I am here about your family's business with the old sorcerer."

"We don't need sorcerers."

"Khorda has been supplying her with charms. I think she brings them here."

The man pressed a fist against his temple, as though suddenly in pain. "It is not illegal to ask for charms. Not anymore."

"But still, you are trying to hide it, by having your daughter buy them."

The ragyapa considered this carefully. "I help her out. One day she will have her own shop."

"A shop can be very expensive."

"Another five years. I have it worked out. Ragyapa have the steadiest job in Tibet." It had the sound of an old joke.

"Has Tamdin been here? Is that why you need the charms?" Shan asked. Or does Tamdin live here, perhaps he should ask. Could it really be so simple? The bitter, forgotten ragyapa must hate the world, especially its officials. And who more qualified to conduct the butchery on Prosecutor Jao? Or to cut out the heart of Xong De of the Ministry of Geology?

The man sighed. "The charms are not for here."

"Then where? Who? You mean you are selling them to someone else?"

"These are not things to speak about." The man wiped the blade again, as if in warning.

"Are you selling them?" Shan repeated. "Is that how you will pay for her shop?"

The man looked up at the circling birds. A ragyapa village would be the perfect place for murder, Shan realized. Like shooting your own officer on a battlefield because you hated him. One body here would quickly become indistinguishable from the others.

The man did not respond. He looked down into the village and saw the men staring at him. He barked at them and they began working on the tools again. Yeshe, strangely, was still tumbling about with the children.

Shan looked at the man again. He was not only older than most of them, he was apparently the headman of the village. "I just want to know who. Someone must be too embarrassed, or too scared, to ask for the charms directly. Is it someone in the government?" The man turned away from Shan. "My questions may occur to someone else," Shan said to his back. "They would have other means of persuasion."

"You mean Public Security," the man whispered. Certainly the Bureau would be more interested than Shan in his daughter's work papers. His face seem to crumble with the words. He stared into the dirt at his feet.

Shan told the man his name.

The headman looked up in surprise, unaccustomed to such a gesture. "I am called Merak," he said tentatively.

"You must be very proud of your daughter."

Merak stopped and considered Shan. "When I was a boy," he said, "I never understood it, why none of the others would let me near. I would go to the edge of town and hide, just to watch the others play. You know who my best friend was? A young vulture. I trained him to come to me when I called. It was the only thing that trusted me, that accepted me as I was. One day when I called an eagle was waiting. It killed my friend. Snatched him right out of the air, because he was watching me, not the sky."

"It is hard to be trusted."

"We're vultures, too. That's what the world thinks of us. My father used to laugh about that. He'd say, 'That's the advantage we have over everyone else. We know exactly who we are.' "