The White Mirror by Elsa Hart

on stone touched by the water of hot springs. And I have just learned that there are hot springs just on the other side of the bridge.”
    â€œWell, scholar, I could have told you about the hot springs if you had asked me.”
    Li Du stared at his friend. “But how do you know of them?”
    Hamza, pleased with himself, pinched his beard to a finer point. “ Your reason for traveling remains mysterious, but I have always been honest about mine. I am a collector of tales. I heard about the hot springs from an old man in the village who told me not to visit them.”
    â€œDoso said that the villagers do not visit them because they are unlucky.”
    â€œUnlucky.” Hamza made a scoffing sound. “Simple answers like that allow important truths to be forgotten. Here is what the villager told me. There is a curse on the pools. When the dead journey through the realms between death and life, we cannot see them and they cannot see us. But these pools are enchanted. The dead can see them, and are drawn to them as snakes are drawn to woodpiles. So they go to the pools, and become trapped under the water. That is more interesting than simply ‘unlucky,’ I think you would agree.”
    â€œIt is,” said Li Du, “but there is no mention of cinnabar in this story.”
    â€œNo,” said Hamza. “But even if Dhamo went to the hot springs to collect pigments, as you say, what makes you think he did not kill himself on the way back? If the story of the pools is true, he might have seen a terrible vision there. He might have been pursued by ghosts that emerged from the dark waters.”
    Li Du began to pace the room. “Then where is the cinnabar he collected? There were a few shards of it near him on the bridge, but there should have been a basket or a pouch full of red rocks. What happened to it?”
    Hamza’s forehead creased. “And because of this you suspect that someone murdered him? It is a tenuous conclusion.”
    Li Du rubbed the back of his neck. Hamza was right. “I know,” he said quietly. “Even so, I intend to visit the hot springs.”
    A speculative look settled on Hamza’s features. “What is it that you expect to find? Do you think Dhamo will be trapped in the pool waiting to explain to you how he met his end?” Hamza paused and reflected on his own words. “That is not such a bad thought—if he was murdered he may be there waiting to tell someone who it was that killed him.”
    When Li Du did not answer immediately, Hamza went on. “Red,” he said thoughtfully, “from the stones of a hot spring. Did I ever tell you about the woman in a forest who once tried to sell me a pot of red paint from the Caspian Sea? She claimed that the sand used to make the paint came from the crushed skeletons of insects who lived in the fires that filled the earth’s crevices before there were oceans. She told me that a certain kingdom of seafaring warriors used it to paint their faces, and that unknown to their enemies, the paint granted them invincibility in battle.” Hamza paused expectantly, as if he was waiting for a question.
    Li Du pulled himself from his own musings and looked at Hamza. “Did you buy the paint?”
    â€œI did not,” Hamza replied. “She wanted a lock of my hair, and nothing good could come of an exchange like that. You are determined, then, to search the cursed pools for crystals red as blood. Before you do, come with me to the caravan. Norbu is using the time we have here to experiment with spices he bought back in the Gyalthang market, and the fragrance of the smoke through the roof reminds me of the time I dined with the ghost of the sultan’s own chef.”
    *   *   *
    Avoiding the outdoor stairs to the courtyard, which had not been swept since the second snowfall and looked treacherous, they went to one of the interior staircases. It was dark and