The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Actually I hadn’t told Moy anything about that. But I had no intention of saying so. I wanted Soon nervous.

  “Incidentally,” I asked as if I were merely curious, “why did you leave the tournament?”

  For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze held mine, and in his eyes I could see my death, gathering like thunderheads. I’d practically accused him of murdering Bernie. If he couldn’t control his rampant ego—or if he’d killed Bernie—I might never know what hit me.

  But then, slowly, the darkness receded from his stare, pushed aside by calculation. By degrees the tension in his shoulders eased. Facing me squarely, he asked, “Am I suspected—?”

  “You will be,” I put in, “if anything happens to those chops.

  “That’s why you need me.” The visceral shame of backing down serrated my voice. “I’m security here. If I do my job right, I’ll be the best protection you can get.”

  Obviously he hadn’t considered the situation in that light. When he spoke again, he’d made up his mind.

  “You are Western, Mr. Axbrewder.” It wasn’t a compliment. “I am not. Perhaps your understanding of these matters has merit.

  “What do you require of me?”

  Maybe I should’ve let him change the subject. Bernie’s death wasn’t my responsibility. Martial America was. But I positively could not retreat another step. I’d already backed up more than I could bear.

  “For starters,” I told him harshly, “answer the question. Why did you leave the tournament when you did?”

  That brought a new flicker of butchery into his glare, but he didn’t waver. When he made a decision, he stuck to it.

  “One of my students was expected to compete, but he had not arrived. I wished to call him, and went to the telephone.”

  If I hadn’t been working for Lacone, I might’ve yelled, And you expect me believe that? Why didn’t you send one of your flunkies? Unfortunately I couldn’t go that far and justify it to myself afterward. Anger aside, I had no solid reason to accuse him of lying. And anyway I was mostly furious at myself for backing down.

  Like an act of self-mortification, I nodded to accept his answer. Then I went back to the job Lacone paid me for.

  “Thank you, Master Soon. What I need right now is pretty simple. If you’ll answer a couple of questions, I’ll get out of your way.”

  He gestured for me to go ahead.

  Gritting my teeth, I asked, “How do you provide for your own security? I understand that you have some pretty valuable artifacts yourself. What do you do to protect them?”

  As if in response, Soon looked past my shoulder at Hamson and the brown belts. “Return to your training,” he instructed them. “Do not concern yourselves with Mr. Axbrewder.”

  That was as close as he came to reprimanding them. Apparently it was all the satisfaction I’d get.

  I didn’t turn to watch his students go. I could feel them disperse. And a moment later I heard the aerobics class start yelling again. Low voices came from the smaller dojo, but I couldn’t make out what they said.

  Grimly I slipped my hands into my pockets and dug my fingers into the tops of my thighs, clawing at my quads for restraint.

  “Mr. Axbrewder,” Soon announced, “you will not speak of what I tell you.”

  “Not unless I have to,” I agreed. “But if the cops question me for some reason, I’ll talk. For my protection as well as yours.”

  After an instant’s uncertainty, he accepted that.

  “I am my own security,” he explained. “I sleep lightly.” His tone suggested that every real martial artist did the same. “And I am attuned to my dojo. I would be aware of any intrusion.

  “Further, my first student, Pack Hee Cho, makes his home here. He is talented and sensitive, and I have taught him well. Also”—Soon spread his hands slightly—“he is a large man. Even you would say so. In fighting his effectiveness is extreme.”

  “That’s it?” I didn’t even try not to sound skeptical.

  “As an additional precaution,” he went on more sharply, “and as part of their training, all my brown belts in turn sleep here. They place their pallets there.” He tilted his head at the door behind me. “No one can enter without disturbing them.”

  A pretty good precaution, I had to admit. And it explained a few things to me—intuitively, anyway. Despite its obvious benefits, his approach to training said less about security than it did about solidarity, school loyalty. It ingrained an us-against-them attitude. After spending a few sleepless responsible nights on the floor, half expecting every cough and pit stop to bring down his master’s disapproval, even a tough-minded brown belt might lose his ability to think for himself.

  My mouth twisted as I considered the implications. “That should do it,” I remarked, although I meant something different than Soon probably thought I did. If Hong and Nakahatchi taught us-against-them, Martial America would degenerate into a war zone.

  All the front doors, as I’d already noticed, opened outward.

  Which brought me to my other question. Before Soon lost patience with me, I said, “I need to ask you about keys. Just to cover an obvious point.

  “Do you still use your original key? The one you got from Mr. Lacone?”

  “Yes,” he answered without interest.

  “Your key works for the fire doors as well as this one?” The apartments upstairs didn’t concern me.

  “Yes.”

  “How many copies are there?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Each of my black belts is given a key.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “So there are, what?”—I glanced around at the rank certificates—“twenty copies? More?”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  “That’s a lot, Master Soon.” A bitter wind gusted in the background of my voice. “Can you trust that many people?”

  Not to mention their girlfriends, spouses, buddies, coworkers. He pinned a lot on school loyalty.

  He wasn’t worried, however. Stiffly he informed me, “I do not grant a black belt to a student who has not earned my trust.”

  Oh, of course. Naturally. I faked a smile. “I’m sure you don’t.” Then, taking a precaution of my own, I said, “Thank you, Master Soon. That’s all I need for now.

  “We’ll have the chops appraised in a few days. When we know whether or not they’re genuine, we’ll decide how much security they really need. I might want to consult with you again then.”

  Thinking while I talked, Come on, asshole. Tell me you know that’s a lie. Tell me you know they’re genuine.

  Tell me you didn’t leave the tournament to make a phone call.

  But he disappointed me. Indicating the door, he said, “We will speak again at that time.” And not before, his tone added.

  Discretion and all that. The better part of fucking valor. I took my cue and left, snarling inwardly at the sensation that I had my tail tucked between my legs.

  Outside the sun felt like a wash of fire against my heated face. I abhorred backing down. Maybe I was doing my job. Earning Lacone’s money. But as far as I could tell, I’d accomplished exactly nothing.

  I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it up. I longed for the simplicity of Puerta del Sol’s dark streets, the straightforward corruption of men who lurked in alleys and doorways to sell drugs or flesh or stolen property. Crimes like Bernie’s murder and Soon’s attitude were making me crazy.

  Probably I should’ve driven away right then, given myself a chance to decompress a bit. I could always call Essential Shotokan from the van, let Nakahatchi know I’d talk to him later. No doubt that would’ve been sensible.

  So of course I didn’t do it.

  Carliss Swilley had pronounced the chops genuine. A complete set of this provenance cannot be worth less than one million dollars. And Bernie was still dead.

  Squinting against the light because I was too angry to put on my sunglasses, I rounded the building to Sihan Nakahatchi’s dojo.

  I had no ide
a what he wanted to talk to me about. Presumably it had something to do with guarding the display. In which case I had a very simple suggestion for him—one that wouldn’t impress Watchdog even a little bit, but that might do more to keep the chops safe than all the security measures I’d mentioned to Lacone.

  As I pulled the door open and entered the building, I went blind for a few seconds while my eyes adjusted to the relative gloom. When I could see again, I caught a glimpse of a white gi through the doorway to the main dojo. Hideo Komatori shifted quickly in and out of view as he worked up and down the hardwood floor alone, practicing some kata or other.

  And he did it without all the tension and threats, the strained breathing and flushed faces, that I’d seen at the tournament. Instead he moved like oil flowing down a cascade of worn stones, viscid and somehow out of reach, as if by the time you identified where he was he’d already slipped somewhere else. His reflection in the mirrors made him look like he filled the room. His breathing was deep and easy, inaudible. In fact, the only sounds came from the snap of his gi against his forearms and calves at the end of each technique. Even when he jumped, his feet returned to the boards as lightly as a falling breeze.

  If I’d had the brains God gave lawn furniture, I might’ve taken it as a warning.

  For some reason I felt sure that he was aware of me, but he didn’t so much as glance in my direction until he’d come to the end of his pattern. Even then he didn’t acknowledge me until he’d bowed to the room—a sign of respect for the dojo, apparently.

  At last he turned and walked toward me, smiling. “Brew-san,” he said when he’d bowed himself out of the dojo, and bowed again to me. “You’ve come to talk to my master.”

  I nodded. But I was still too angry for my own good. Procrastinating so that I wouldn’t rush into a mistake, I asked, “Have any idea what it’s about?”

  He gestured me toward the stairs. Clearly he didn’t want to keep Nakahatchi waiting any longer than necessary. As we headed upward, he said, “Sensei hasn’t told me what he has in mind. Knowing him, however, I might hazard a guess.”

  “Guess away,” I muttered. “If he doesn’t want security advice, I’m in the dark here.”

  “Brew-san”—Komatori smiled again—“I’m eager to hear any advice you can give me. As my master’s senior student, I’m responsible for the chops. But Nakahatchi sensei won’t discuss that with you.”

  I considered my options briefly while we left the head of the stairs and approached the meeting room. “So what’s your guess?”

  Hideo inclined his head, acquiescing to something I couldn’t identify. “I expect my master wants to form a deeper impression of your character.”

  Oh, joy. And me without my references. Not to mention my characteristic good humor.

  I ground my teeth. “How will he do that?”

  Now Komatori shrugged. “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” he replied calmly. Instead of leading me into the meeting room, he halted at the foot of the stairway to the third floor. “His methods are his own. And they vary. He assesses different people in different ways.”

  I was in no mood to accept anything from anyone. Nevertheless his answer sounded perfectly reasonable.

  Facing him squarely, I said, “OK. I’ll cope.

  “Here’s my security advice.” For what it was worth. “Understand that Alex Lacone won’t want to spend the money for a really adequate alarm system. Oh, he wants to keep you and the chops here. He’s pretty clear about that. But he’s not exactly brimming with cash.”

  As it stood, Lacone’s “dream” would only work if it grew big enough. He needed to put up more buildings, attract more schools. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to generate the traffic, publicity, and revenue that would suck in serious investors. But without those investors he might not be able to put up more buildings.

  “I’ll get everything I can out of him,” I promised. “And you can bet that Watchdog will lean on him. But you’ll have to take precautions of your own.”

  Komatori’s face didn’t show any particular reaction. He simply waited for me to go on.

  I gave him the best I had.

  “Don’t trust this lock.” I pointed at the meeting room door. “Move the display into your apartment at night. Every night. Or Nakahatchi sensei’s. Then put extra deadbolts on your doors. And don’t use the same key.”

  He nodded without hesitation. “I’ll begin tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have the deadbolts installed.

  “Thank you, Brew-san.” Then he added, “My master is upstairs. You’ll be able to speak privately.”

  In other words, he wasn’t coming with me.

  The warning I’d missed earlier finally began to nag at the ends of my nerves. This was going to be such fun. I started up the stairs immediately so that I wouldn’t have time to talk myself into a frothing rage.

  Right away, however, I thought of another question. I stopped abruptly, turned to look down at Komatori. Trying to sound unconcerned, I asked, “By the way, how did your tea ceremony go?”

  He laughed, a soft ripple of pleasure. “Quite well. I was”—he spread his hands—“surprised. I expected some discomfort. But Mitsuku-san is really an extraordinary hostess. And Sifu Hong was very gracious. Poor T’ang Wen and I found it hard to emulate such grand manners without embarrassing ourselves.”

  That was a relief. Apparently the danger I’d created for Hong didn’t involve driving him into overt conflict with Nakahatchi. Something that I’d wanted to accomplish had actually gone right.

  I’d expected Hong’s pride to assert itself somehow—

  When I thanked Hideo and started upward again, I had a bit less dread in my stride.

  This was my first visit to any top floor in Martial America. Sternway had told me that Nakahatchi had a private dojo up here, as well as a library and a guest apartment. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to blunder around knocking on doors. Fortunately, at the head of the stair I found myself in the library, with the dojo immediately beyond it through a wide entryway.

  Ignoring the library—except to notice that the shelves along the walls held a number of books that looked old and weren’t in English—I crossed to the dojo.

  Like the rooms on the ground level, this one had a hardwood floor, the wood rubbed and cleaned until it seemed to glow with its own warmth. But this dojo didn’t have any mirrors. Instead its long exterior wall held one long series of heavily tinted windows. Presumably the door in the neighboring wall gave access to Nakahatchi’s guest quarters.

  Below the precise center of the windows stood a small three-sided structure like a shrine of some kind. It was made of wood lacquered black, ornamentally carved in an austere way, with a line of incense holders nearly at floor level, a black stand supporting two slightly curved swords above that, and above them another stand which cradled a scroll. The swords differed in size, but looked identical in other ways. The larger one, I assumed, was a katana. I didn’t know what to call its smaller twin.

  On both sides of the shrine where you could look at them while you lit your incense or slit open your guts hung sheets of paper or parchment in plain black frames. The characters written on them looked like kanji.

  Sihan Nakahatchi knelt there. He’d replaced his elaborate tea-ceremony garb with a white gi cinched by a black belt so worn that it’d frayed white. He didn’t kneel the way Catholics in Puerta del Sol did, straight up from the knees. Instead he’d lowered himself onto his heels with his feet extended under him. A small curl of incense rose past his swords and his bowed head. The air held a faint tinge of sandalwood, so delicate that I almost missed it.

  Since I didn’t know what else to do, I stayed where I was, watching him from the entryway. But then I caught an ambiguous flash of intuition. Before I could question it, I bent down to take off my shoes. Leaving them in the library, I stepped onto the hardwood in my socks.

  That may’ve been a signal of some kind. Or a clue.
At once Nakahatchi lifted from his knees as lightly as smoke and turned toward me. Like he’d been watching to see how I entered the dojo.

  He bowed in my direction, hands at his sides. When I’d bowed back, he beckoned me to join him in the middle of the room.

  Up close he looked a bit less sorrowful than he had earlier, and his eyes were brighter, as if someone had rubbed a layer of tarnish off his gaze. I couldn’t imagine that he felt better knowing his insurance rates were about to erupt like Krakatoa. Something else must’ve happened to ease his settled distress, reduce the rub of a worry that had galled him for a long time.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” The lines at the corners of his mouth deepened—he almost smiled. “Your presence in my small dojo pleases me. I am much in your debt. Your invitation to Sifu Hong has lifted a burden from my spirit.”

  I was tempted to shuffle my feet and mumble, Aw, shucks. A side effect of being so pissed off, I suppose. The anger blowing through my head urged me to insult his thanks by mocking it.

  Instead I muttered, “Just doing my job. We’ll all be better off with a little less tension around here.”

  He didn’t reply to that. “I have observed your actions with interest, Mr. Axbrewder,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Now I wish to teach you. You will spar with me, please.”

  I gaped at him—I couldn’t help it. Spar with him? He wasn’t serious. He may’ve been a great martial artist, but this was ridiculous. For one thing, he was hardly two thirds my size. If I sat on him, he’d never get up again. And for another, he had more than a decade on me. Occasionally his air of unrelieved mourning made me feel almost young.

  And I’d just backed down from a fight at Soon’s school, despite a hell of a lot more provocation.

  “Sensei—” I groped for a response. “You flatter me.” Or maybe he insulted me. I wasn’t sure there was any difference. “They asked if I wanted to study with them. At Sifu Hong’s school. Yesterday.” I must’ve sounded like an idiot. “I turned them down. I’ve got a job to do. I don’t have time to study a martial art.”