by Laura Legend
She’d failed. She was to blame.
And that mask, warped and grotesque—in a crowd of thousands, turning to bow to her—felt like an accusation made tangible.
Cass sat up in bed and slipped free of her twisted sheets. The room was cool and even though she was dressed in just a T-shirt and underwear, her skin was clammy with sweat. Cass pulled the blinds and Underside’s gray light filtered in. The light, though, didn’t tell her anything about what time it was. How long had she been asleep? She wasn’t sure. However long it had been, she’d woken up feeling restless rather than rested. Her nerves were jangled and her stomach was knotted. Her hands were shaking with a nervous energy.
Regardless of how tired she felt, she wouldn’t be going back to sleep.
She paced the room and ran her fingers down the wooden arms of the Wing Chun dummy in the workout area. The equipment was excellent but brand new. It didn’t show any of signs of use or wear. And, especially, it lacked the smiley face that Cass had long ago drawn on hers with a magic marker.
Cass felt bad for the unloved dummy. Someone needed to hit this thing. Someone needed to break it in and show it how to be what it was meant to be. Cass knew, though, that she couldn’t educate the dummy quietly. She’d inevitably wake up the rest of the apartment as she administered the educational beating.
For a few moments, she settled for the martial equivalent of playing air guitar, mocking a series of blows in the air without actually connecting with the wood. But it didn’t last long. Not hitting the thing was making her feel even more tense and restless. Shadowboxing wouldn’t do anything to calm the itch of energy roiling just beneath the surface of her skin.
Cass decided to try with some push-ups. Push-ups would, at least, be quiet. Normally, she worked in sets that maxed out at fifty, so she thought she’d start there. Cass dropped to the floor and started counting. She got to twenty or so when the image of the kabuki mask floated back to the surface of her mind, drawing away her attention. She felt her grip on the present moment loosen and her mind drift into a space that was gray and disquieting and tinged with remorse.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d stayed in that gray space, but when she came back to herself, she found that she was still doing push-ups. The sweat was pouring off of her. Her T-shirt was soaked through. Her muscles throbbed with an agreeable ache.
How many push-ups had she’d done? Certainly more than fifty. Two hundred? At least. A set of five hundred? Maybe. She was guessing. She’d always been whip strong, her thin frame belying the corded muscles in her arms and upper body, but this was something else altogether. Somehow, fixed on the mask, she’d converted those waves of restless anxiety into . . . something else.
She’d didn’t like it, but it did make her wonder. People didn’t just accidentally do an extra four hundred push-ups because they’d zoned out for a moment.
What else could she do?
Maybe some chin-ups. She looked around for a workable spot and chose the closet doorway. Hanging from the lip of the doorjamb by her fingertips, she did a set of fifteen, her normal target. But she wasn’t struggling when she hit that mark, so she kept going. Twenty. Forty. Sixty. She felt fine. She did a set of twenty one-handed. No trouble. She switched to her off-hand for another twenty. Again, no trouble.
The harder she pushed herself, though, the stronger the image of the mask superimposed itself on her field of vision. And while she didn’t feel the burn of muscle fatigue that she normally expected, the image of the mask tied her stomach into a knot and she felt her gorge rising.
Cass let go of the doorframe and dropped to the ground. She sat down hard, pressed her back against the closet wall, and pulled her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, willing herself not to vomit. She waited it out, tucked into a tight ball. When the cloud of nausea passed, Cass was alone on her closet floor, curled into a ball, with just the mask’s white teeth and her own sense of guilt for companionship.
In the quiet clarity of that moment, she made a deal with herself. Even if, for the rest of her life, she had to bear a burden of guilt for having failed to save Miranda, she wouldn’t also bear the weight of wishing that things were otherwise. There was no way to go back. There was no way to fix what had happened. All she could do was accept responsibility for her actions.
Resting in that resolve, Cass felt the hand of fatigue close her eyes and pull her down into oblivion.
A few hours later, Kumiko reached out and gently squeezed Cass’s shoulder. Cass was still curled up on the closet floor, shivering.
“Oh, my poor girl,” Kumiko said. “Are you finished in here? For now, it’s time to train.”
16
Kumiko took Cass to the arena. Winding through the venue’s underbelly, they came to the training room. The room was crowded and loud. Music was blaring. Cass suspected that, even if they hadn’t known where to look, they could have navigated here just by following the noise. Kumiko visibly grimaced at the chaos. After the night she’d had, Cass basically felt the same way. Her body felt strong but her head felt like it was swathed in gauzy layers of cotton.
When they entered the room, a couple of glances were shot their way. Then a wave of whispers, accompanied by some discreet finger pointing: “The Seer . . . The Seer.” The whole room went silent for a moment as everyone turned to look. Cass froze in the doorway and offered a tiny wave of her hand in response. Evidently, like most people, they weren’t impressed by the sight of her. After a collective shrug of disappointment, the noise cranked back up and everyone returned to what they’d been doing.
The room was populated by a wildly diverse crew of fighters, trainers, and posse members. The fighters themselves came in all shapes and sizes—round as balls, skinny as rails, tall as trees, squat as boulders. Every step in the tournament would present a unique set of challenges. Cass wouldn’t ever have the luxury of facing the same style of fighter twice. She’d have to start from scratch each time.
Kumiko, her white hair pulled into a tight bun, her modified kimono looking no more out of place than anything else in the room, led Cass through the crowd, taking careful note of what she saw. She carved out a little space for them to work on the far side of the room.
Cass knew that they could have done this training session someplace more private and quiet but she suspected that they weren’t here just to warm up. They were here—like everyone else—to get a look at the competition. Cass put down her gear and stripped down to her black athletic bra and yoga pants. When she turned back around, she found Kumiko frowning.
“Where are your traditional training clothes?” Kumiko asked.
Cass didn’t respond. She just stood there, hands on her hips, holding Kumiko’s accusing gaze. Her head began to throb to the beat of the nearby music. But Kumiko just stared back at Cass. It went on long enough that Cass began to worry that she was going to lose this staring contest. Just before Cass was about to cave, though, Kumiko relented.
“Fine,” Kumiko said, “this will do.” She clearly wasn’t pleased at giving in, but Cass sensed that beneath her serene surface, Kumiko was involved in a complicated calculus surrounding the giving and taking of power and authority. The fact that she’d given in to Cass here, then, did not necessarily mean that Cass was making any kind of headway. Rather, it meant that Kumiko had more pressing battles coming up.
Regardless, in response to her small victory, Cass gave Kumiko a grateful nod. More than that, she gave her—or at least tried to give her despite all the noise—her full attention.
“This noise, however,” Kumiko added, “will not do.” Kumiko took a deep breath, whispered something to herself, and then snapped her fingers in a flash of green. The whole room went quiet. Kumiko had cast a spell, enveloping them in a cone of silence. Now, regardless of what everyone else was doing or saying, Cass and Kumiko could prepare for her first fight in a distraction-free bubble.
“Nice trick,” Cass admitted. With the noise muted, she could alread
y feel her headache receding.
“You’re welcome,” Kumiko replied. “Now, let’s start with something slow. Give me your full attention and we will see if we can prime your heart and mind to see through the world’s illusions and grasp the truth of time.”
That sounded like a lofty goal for this early in the day, but Cass was game. With her first match only hours away, she would need all the help she could get.
Kumiko started out very slowly. Her attack had the feel of a slow dance, like they were practicing Tai Chi rather than sparring. Her fist extended and, with a slow spin, her leg arced through the air. Her kimono flared gracefully. Cass’s job was to make sure that she didn’t get hit. She could block the blow or simply avoid it.
Cass’s motions felt jerky at first, but once she’d adjusted her expectations and synced with Kumiko’s rhythm, she found that the graceful ballet of Kumiko’s attack was contagious. Rather than blocking her attacks, it felt natural to avoid them, to look for the empty spaces that remained available and fit herself to them. After a few minutes, their pace remained glacial. Cass, though, had surrendered to the flow of it and she found her normal experience of space and time—fixated as it typically was on presence rather than absence, objects rather than emptiness—was being pulled inside out. She felt like she was moving through a photo negative with the normal values that structured her experience inverted.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Kumiko’s attacks picked up speed. As their paired movements gathered momentum, Cass’s weak eye rolled into focus and time began to expand. Soon enough, Kumiko’s attacks were blazing fast and Cass responded to them with blistering counters of her own.
Their distraction-free bubble had cut them off from the commotion of the rest of the room, but it didn’t prevent the rest of the room from watching. One by one, shoulders were nudged and fingers were pointed and a small crowd stopped what they were doing and gathered to watch.
The faster Cass went, the more expansive time felt, and the larger the crowd became.
Then, like a car jamming on its brakes for a red light, Kumiko stopped abruptly and Cass came crashing back into the normal flow of time with her. The break was so unexpected that Cass almost lost her balance.
“Good work,” Kumiko acknowledged. “You are making progress.”
“That . . . was helpful,” Cass admitted, offering Kumiko a small bow.
“You’re welcome,” Kumiko said again—then yelled, pointing over Cass’s shoulder: “Watch out!”
Cass ducked and spun to see what Kumiko was pointing at. But, as she did, Kumiko swept her leg and sent her sprawling to the floor.
Cass landed hard. Kumiko laughed harder.
Their cone of silence collapsed. The crowd dispersed.
Cass was pretty sure she’d never heard Kumiko laugh before.
“Ahh, I can’t believe you fell for that,” Kumiko said, sighing and wiping a bright tear from the corner of her eye. Then, more serious, she added, “Good speed-work.” Her dark, lined eyes twinkled brightly. Maybe even approvingly. “And good job tapping into a deeper dimension of time,”
“Thanks?” Cass said, rubbing her bottom.
Kumiko offered Cass a hand up. “Let’s get you prepped for your fight.”
17
Richard and Zach were about to head into Singapore proper. Richard’s sources indicated that they needed to track down a boat mechanic with a shop on the docks. The mechanic had put together some custom gear for the thieves. With Cass and Kumiko already out of the apartment and training at the arena, he and Zach would have the whole morning to see what they could learn.
Zach, unshaven and dressed in torn jeans, boots, and an old T-shirt, was waiting in the living room, ready to go. Richard, however, was struggling to put together an ensemble that would be less conspicuous on the docks than his normal daywear. Maybe if he just wore the same clothes as yesterday, they would have a grungy, lived-in look? He pulled on yesterday’s designer jeans and his mildly wrinkled linen shirt.
“You ready?” Zach called. “We’d better hurry or we won’t make it back in time for Cass’s match.”
Richard stepped out of his room. Zach stifled a laugh with a cough.
“At least your jeans don’t have a crease in them,” Zach said. “Plus, the pennies in those penny loafers have lost a little of their shine. We’ll blend in, no problem.”
Richard looked down at his penny loafers. Were his pennies less shiny?
Zach noted the look of concern on Richard’s face. “You’re fine, man. I’m just teasing. Let’s go.”
They took the elevator to the lobby, then exited the Underside through a neighboring tunnel that let them out near the docks in Singapore. They would have some walking to do, but not much.
Richard took the lead. He’d been to Singapore many times, though not much in the past twenty years. Zach stayed right with him.
As they walked, Richard kept an eye on Zach. He had to admit that Zach carried himself with a mix of earnest humility and demonstrated competence that he grudgingly admired. It wasn’t hard to see why Cass liked him. Since he’d made the decision last night, Richard had given Zach’s involvement more thought and concluded that he’d been right. Either Zach would come in handy tracking down the thief, or he’d at least be complicit in their failure to prevent the theft and, thus, mitigate complications with Cass and Kumiko. Either outcome would benefit him.
The streets were narrow. The neighborhoods abutting these older sections of the waterfront were falling apart. The closely packed buildings on both sides of the street were three or four stories high and admitted very little light, even at this time of the morning. The streets were busy but not packed. It was late enough that people were up and going about their daily business.
Richard and Zach both attracted a lot of stares and sneers. Regardless of their clothes, it was obvious that neither of them were locals. While the grown-ups sized them up and then went back to work, the children were more curious and, before long, they’d attracted a little band of admirers between the ages of eight and twelve. Like a slime mold with distributed intelligence, the band of kids followed them down the street, sometimes pretending to collectively hide when Richard glanced back and sometimes brazenly mocking them and calling them names.
They were getting closer to the docks, now, but the farther they went, the bolder the children became. Richard didn’t have any trouble deciphering the taunts tossed their way and they were getting uglier. Soon, the children were challenging each other to run past and slap them on the butt without getting caught. One buzzed Richard, got in a stinging slap, and then disappeared back into the safety of their swarm. Another took a run at Zach and delivered a similar blow.
Zach, though, noticed right away that this second slap was just a decoy.
“Hey, that one’s got my wallet!” he shouted.
The band of kids roared with delight and laughter. The skinny girl who’d snatched it took off like a shot down the street, squealing and holding her prize high in the air for everyone to see.
Zach didn’t have much chance to react, but Richard took two quick, bounding steps and snagged the girl by the scruff of her neck. He lifted her by the collar of her T-shirt, looked her in the eye, and held out his hand, asking for the wallet back.
The girl’s legs kicked freely in the air and she handed over the wallet. But when Richard put her back down, she blew a raspberry at him, kicked him in the shin, and ran back to the safety of her crew.
Richard took a look in Zach’s wallet.
“Bloody hell,” Richard said, “it’s empty.”
Zach shrugged and offered up his goofy grin. “Yeah, there was never any money in it.”
Richard raised an eyebrow.
Zach answered his unasked question. “The wallet’s for—you know—just in case.”
Richard cracked a little smile, handed over the wallet, and Zach stuffed it back into his pocket.
The boat mechanic’s garage was just around the corner,
right on the waterfront. All the paint had peeled off years ago. The whole building was a weathered, gray jumble of cracked wood and rusted metal. The garage sign was barely legible and hung at a thirty degree angle from true.
“Yep,” Zach said as they both gave the building a closer look, “this would be the place, wouldn’t it.”
The office door was locked, but a few of the garage bays were open. Several smaller boats were in dry dock and pieces of twenty to thirty more lay scattered around. They heard hammering, followed the sound deeper into the garage, and found a leathery, toothless fellow who must have been pushing ninety. When Richard finally called out “hello” loud enough for him to hear, the man dropped his hammer with a clatter and clutched his chest like they’d just given him a heart attack.
Richard apologized in Mandarin and told him they were looking for a mechanic named Jinn.
The old man, though, just shook his head and held up his hands in surrender. However, his eyes told a different story. Richard and Zach both caught his eyes darting toward the rear of the garage, followed the line, and saw a man in his early twenties trying to steal away.
Zach took off first, but Richard was hard on his heels. Sprinting through the garage involved navigating an obstacle course of debris, tools, parts, and boats. Zach hurdled an engine on blocks. Richard ducked beneath the hull of a boat on a lift. The man who was, evidently, Jinn, took every opportunity to send more junk crashing to the ground behind him. Zach had almost caught him when the man pulled a pair of shelves down behind him. Zach pulled up short just in time.
The man took a look back at Zach, clearly pleased that his last move had worked so well—Zach was still trying to pick his way through the mess of parts and shelving. The man even had the rear door halfway open when Richard, angling from the opposite direction, slammed it shut again.
