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as others native to the frigid area did, but he had discarded the idea. He was a Tellem. He would wear the loose black cotton leg wrappers of his people, the white cotton cap, the string of antelope teeth around his neck, the ceremonial red sash around his waist, and nothing more. If he could not stand the cold, then he deserved to die ignominiously before his turn at battle.
He made his way carefully toward the cave, moving quickly in the night shadows. Before his death at the hands of the yellow man, the great warrior Balpa Dolo had described the cave to Kiree.
"It is the home of the ancients of the Yellow Land," Balpa Dolo had said. "Outside the entrance are plants that have not been seen in all of Africa. Three plants, a pine, a bamboo, and a plum blossom. But you will not need this sign. The cave is a holy place, and you will feel its holiness. Open your senses, and your instinct will take you there."
Kiree had closed his eyes at the shore of Sinanju, and felt and listened for the thrum of life. He felt it only weakly from ordinary humans, but among the Tellem, the vibration was strong. And here, too, the unheard music of concentrated, instinctual life pulled him toward the cave and nowhere else. He did not see the flowers until he was almost at the mouth of the hill.
A thin old man with strange features and golden skin emerged from the cave on footsteps so silent and controlled that even the dust beneath his feet did not move. He wore a robe of dazzling red, embroidered with threads that shimmered like water in sunlight. He was small, nearly as small as Kiree, and looked as insubstantial as a feather. To Kiree's eyes, the yellow man resembled nothing as much as a series of high clouds, from the wispy white hair on his head and chin to the slender, inch-long fingernails on his hands. And yet there was power about him. Near him, the
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thrum of life was deafening to Kiree's sensitive instincts. And there was peace, too, the unmistakable serenity of the born warrior,
"You are the Master of Sinanju," Kiree said in English.
The frail-looking old Korean bowed formally. "I am Chiun," he said. "I welcome you to this place of peace."
Inside the cave, the vibrant life force washed over Kiree like warm waves. The other contestants sat on a fragrant grass mat that covered the floor, their faces bright in the light from a smokeless fire. There was an enormous white man, a thin, aristocratic brown man with a high-bridged nose and jewels in his ears, and a woman with golden hair. The level of energy that emanated from them was almost tangible. The cave was alive with pure life. Balpa Dolo had been right. It was a holy place.
"There is safety here," he said softly.
The splendidly robed Oriental smiled. There is always safety among persons of honor.''
Chiun brought food and drink, and treated each of the guests with impeccable courtesy. "Now that you have all assembled here, I wish you to meet another of my people," he said.
"Your son?" Emrys asked.
"No. According to the rules of the Master's Trial, the protegee of the victor does not meet with the challengers before the hour of combat. At the appointed time, my son will travel to your lands, just as you have come to Sinanju, alone. This is a meeting of peace among those of us who have kept the old ways in the face of the new."
"The old ways are not always the best ways," Jilda said. Her voice was respectful, but her chin was thrust out defiantly.
Ancion's dark eyes flashed. "Do you mean to lead your people away from their traditions?" He looked at Jilda with contempt.
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"I speak only of the Master's Trial. It is a tradition that is unworthy of us."
Ancion set down his bowl with distaste and rose quickly. As he did, he stepped on the hem of his cloak, momentarily losing his balance. He broke his fall with his hands, digging into the red-hot peat of the fire. Ancion yelped with the pain, righting himself. "You do not belong here!" he spat.
"And you are only angry because you have shamed yourself by tripping over your clothes like a child," Jilda taunted.
"Hold. Hold." The voice, thin and quavering, came from deep within the recesses of the cave. The contestants fell silent as they watched an old, old man emerge from the shadows. He was heavyset and bald, and his face was so worn and wrinkled that it looked like a crumpled sheet of translucent parchment, but he held his back perfectly straight. His eyes were like those of a statue, their pupils pale and unseeing.
Emrys rose. "The old Master," he said. The others murmured. "My father spoke of you. The most powerful of all the Masters of Sinanju."
"The Venerable One," Jilda said. "1 remember, too. It is he of the Sight."
"H'si T'ang," Kiree whispered. "The warrior who can see the future."
"I would much rather see the present," the old man said, smiling. "But these eyes have long since abandoned this old body." He turned his sightless gaze toward the fire.
Chiun took his hand. "H'si T'ang was my teacher," he said, helping the old man to a place at the fire beside Ancion. The Inca regarded him coldly.
"And who are you, my children?" H'si T'ang asked.
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"If you have the Sight, you should know who we are," Ancion said.
Jilda slapped the floor with her open palm. "How dare you speak to the Venerable One in this way!"
"Venerable One," Ancion mocked. "A useless blind man who lives in a cave."
The others protested, but H'si T'ang quieted them. "Ancion may speak as he likes here." He turned to the Inca. "You are quite right, my son. It is to a shamefully inadequate dwelling that Chiun has brought you, but it was for a reason. You see, the Master of Sinanju occupies, by tradition, a house in the village, but Chiun believed that you would prefer to meet in secrecy. That is why he chose my home for this gathering. He did not intend to insult you by bringing you here."
"It is a holy place," Kiree said. "The cave where our fathers met."
"You remember well," H'si T'ang said.
"It's good enough for me," Emrys added belligerently.
"It is still a cave," Ancion said flatly. "And I would like to know why the so-called Master of Sinanju allows his teacher to live in such a rough place. In my homeland, when the old king passes on his powers to the new, he continues to live in splendor. It is his due. You seem to me a man worthy of little respect among your own people."
H'si T'ang smiled. "At my age, respect from one's peers is not so important as understanding of one's own heart. This 'rough place,' as you call it, is of my own choosing. For it is here, away from the traffic of daily life, that I may contemplate all the things that I was too busy to notice during my youth." He reached for the Inca's long, tapering fingers. "For example, twenty years ago, I would not have been able to know that your hands were burned without seeing or touching you,"
Ancion snatched his hands away. "Don't touch me."
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"I am more than one hundred and thirty years old," H'si T'ang said. "1 would not harm you, but I can help you." With an impossibly swift motion, he clapped Ancion's hands between his own and held them. When he released them, the Inca stared at his palms in amazement. The burns had healed completely in the instant that H'si T'ang had touched them.
"Sorcery," Ancion whispered, making a sign against witchcraft. "One such as you should never have been permitted to fight in the Master's Trial. You killed my grandfather with trickery."
"1 felled your grandfather, the great warrior Huaton, in combat."
"You bewitched him!" Ancion shrieked.
"1 cannot bewitch. 1 can only heal. 1 would have healed Huaton if 1 could, but he was dead even before he fell."
Ancion shouted him down. "There is no Master's Trial, only the work of sorcerers!"
"Stop it!" Jilda commanded. "The Master's Trial is an evil thing. It is causing us to rum against one another already.''
"This is not your affair, woman," Ancion said coldly.
"1 am one of the contestants in this misbegotten game, and it is my affair," Jilda said. "We must stop the Trial before it begins. There ar
e so few of us left, we people of honor and strength. Why should we seek to destroy one another when the whole world pushes to destroy us?"
"Sorcery," Ancion muttered.
Jilda rose. "Inca ruler, I witnessed the death of my predecessor at the hands of the Master Chiun. He used no sorcery. But if that is what you fear, then help me to stop this wicked contest."
"1 fear no one! It is you who fear, because you are a woman, and by nature a coward."
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Jilda's jaw clenched. She stared at the Inca for a long moment, as if Fighting with herself. Then, exhaling suddenly, she pulled the dagger from her belt and leaped like a deer toward Ancion. He moved out of her way swiftly, pulling out his own knife.
it happened in a matter of seconds. Then, in another moment, a third pair of moving hands entered between then, snatched both daggers away, and thrust them upward, where they quivered embedded in the stone ceiling of the cave.
"This is why we have the tradition of the Master's Trial," Chiun said wearily, his hands still on their wrists. "This way, only four from each generation among us are destroyed."
Ancion jumped up and extricated his knife from the rock. He held it, hesitating as he watched the blank eyes of H'si T'ang. Then he slid the blade back into its sheath. "I will fight your apprentice. But if there is any trickery, my people will stand ready to tear his limbs and scatter his blood on the wind." He threw his cloak over his shoulder and left.
Chiun poured more tea into the remaining cups and cleared the Inca's things away. "Not the peaceful meeting I planned."
"It was my fault," Jilda said. "I attacked him." She hung her head. "I, who wished to abolish the bloodshed."
"Violence is a difficult habit to break among our kind," H'si T'ang said kindly. "It is the way of all our peoples. It is how we have survived."
"But we don't have to kill each other."
"That is for each of you to decide in your own heart." He turned to Emrys. "Tell me, will you resign from the contest?"
Emrys grunted. "I'll not be called a coward."
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H'si T'ang nodded. "And you, Jilda. You would not permit yourself to be called a coward, either?"
"It is different for me. I'm a woman. I cannot be the only one to retreat. The elders of Lakluun would be shamed."
"I see. And you, Kiree? Would your elders be shamed?"
The little black man smiled. "Very much," he said. "You see, the Tellem do not believe in death. It is our belief that when we die, our spirits are transferred to others. That way, we continue to live. To fear shedding one life when there is promise of another at hand is most unworthy."
"We believe much the same thing here in Sinanju," H'si T'ang said.
Jilda sighed. "So the Master's Trial goes on. Because we are afraid to be afraid."
"That is so," H'si T'ang said.
They slept. The next morning, as the three warriors prepared to take their leave, Chiun gave each of them a polished piece of jade inscribed with Korean characters. "It is the symbl of the Master's Trial," Chiun said. "When my pupil comes to your lands for the contest, he will be carrying one of these so that you may recognize one another."
"What about Ancion?" Jilda asked.
Kiree laughed. "I think Ancion will have everyone in his country looking for the protegee of the Master of Sinanju."
Emrys strapped his knapsack onto his back. H'si T'ang moved toward him in the shadows. "Forgive me, but there is something about you, my son. Your aura. Something is wrong."
Emrys looked back quickly to Jilda and Kiree, standing in the doorway of the cave. "There's nothing wrong with me," he said loudly.
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"it is your eyes-"
"My eyes are as good as anybody's. Good enough to fight your boy, at least," he bristled. Then he straightened up and smiled. "No offense, H'si T'ang. Whatever you did to Ancion's hands last night made a good show, but I don't cleave much to magic and hocus pocus myself. Besides, I can see just fine. Your aura locator made a mistake this time." He chuckled and joined the others at the door.
When they had left, Chiun turned to the old man and said, "The big one is becoming blind."
"I know. But he is too proud to admit it."
They settled near the fire. "And where is your successor now?" the old man asked.
"In America. But he will arrive here soon. I wish for you to meet him."
"Then his visit must be very soon, because my days are coming to an end," H'si T'ang said softly. "He is a good pupil?"
"Good enough," Chiun said, not wishing to boast about his protegee. "He is white."
"Oh?"
"But worthy," Chiun hastened to add. "That is, reasonably worthy. For a white."
H'si T'ang laughed. "I am making you uncomfortable," he said. "I do it out of amusement, because you are so painfully prejudiced."
"I did not wish to train a white boy. It just happened."
"It was meant to happen. Perhaps you do not know the legend. You are still so young."
Chiun was disconcerted. "I have lived more than eighty years, my teacher. No one would call me young."
H'si T'ang snorted. "Wait until you are my age. Even the mountains will appear young. You do know the legend, then?"
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"Which legend? We have so many."
"The legend of Shiva." The old man spoke softly, remembering. "The ancient god of destruction will come to earth as a tiger wearing the skin of a man. He will be called the white night tiger, and he will die, to be created anew by the Master of Sinanju."
"I know the legend," Chiun said. "It has sustained me."
"And he is the one? The white night tiger?"
"I believe so. I have seen signs in him."
"And the boy? Does he know himself to be Shiva?"
Chiun shook his head. "He tries not to believe. Even when the signs exhibit themselves, he strives to forget. He is white, after all. What can one expect from a white thing?" He spat on the cave floor.
"He is only young. Too young, perhaps, to undertake the Master's Trial. He has not encountered opponents such as these contestants before, no doubt."
"No. Not like these."
"Take care of your godling, my son. This rite of passage is measured in blood."
Chiun stared at the fire for some time. "He is ready," he said at last.
H'si T'ang nodded. "Good," he said. "The scroll you took from my collection. Did you send it to him?"
"Yes, Little Father," Chiun said.
"Then you know the prophecy?"
"I do not understand it fully."
The old man smiled. His rnouth was broad and toothless, and he grinned like a baby. "If the prophecies were perfectly understood, they would be history, not prophecy," he said, clapping Chiun on the back. "So. Tell me, son. What do you call your young, white, misplaced, nonbeliev-ing pupil who bends his elbow during combat?"
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Chiun looked up at him, startled. Then he smiled, because through the long years he had forgotten that his old teacher could stiil surprise him. "If you know he bends his elbow, then you know his name."
Chapter Two
His name was Remo and he was crawling into a whorehouse. That's all it was, Remo thought as he inched up the outside of the swank Fifth Avenue apartment house while a small colony of police waited impotently on the sidewalk below. Only a whorehouse wasn't what you called any establishment in a building that rented space by the square inch.
It was an unlikely place for a group of sweat-stained terrorists, but then New York was a city that tolerated eccentricity, a term used to cover every type of pervert from the standard garden variety wand-waver to lunatics like the Managuan Liberation Front.
The MLF, as the group of unwashed, make-believe soldiers inside the whorehouse called itself, was a stock item in a city that specialized in mayhem: A handful of power-crazed fools who used international politics as an excuse to play with bombs. The MLF had tried to blow up four politically significant Manhattan building
s: the courthouse, the prison known as the Tombs, and two police stations. But the bombs were so poorly made and the
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preparations so inadequate that they missed all four targets entirely and managed only to blast a lot of innocent bystanders to smithereens.
The one tactically intelligent thing the MLF crazies had thought up was to take refuge in the Versailles Arms. The tall, white marble building housed some of the richest people on the East Coast, and the MLF went to pains to select the richest and most celebrated among the tenants and hold them hostage in the discreet, thousand-dollar-a-night bordello on its top floor. Because of the danger to the hostages, the police were under orders not to storm the place in an all-out shoot-em-up, and were reduced to hanging around the entrances, waiting for the MLF to come out for air.
Remo didn't work for the police anymore. He was an employee of the United States government, but his name didn't appear on any federal payroll, since the nature of his work demanded a certain lack of publicity.
Remo was an assassin.
And an assassin, especially one as elaborately trained as Remo, could go places where no policeman would think of venturing. Like up the sheer face of a marble building.
When he reached the top story, his feet and hands using the momentum and weight of his body to scale the surface, he pushed away from the building and forced his legs upward into a backward spin that propelled him through a window in a shower of broken glass.
The room he vaulted into was, not surprisingly, a bedroom. The walls were covered with metallic mylar, and a chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. On the oversized round bed were two swarthy young men wearing only purple berets marked by an insignia depicting a clenched fist with its middle finger outstretched. Standing over them was a leggy platinum blonde in a Nazi officer's
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cap satin garter belt, and thigh-high black leather boots with six-inch heels.
"Now they're coming in through the windows," she shrilled, throwing down the snakeskin whip in her hands. "I give up. First these twerps who haven't got two bits between the bunch of them, and now the human fly. I knew supply-side economics was leading to this. I suppose you're not going to pay, either."
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