Remo could only watch helplessly, his saliva glands-just about the only physical part of him he did not fully control-working overtime.
"Who said I failed?" Remo asked unhappily.
"Your feet."
Remo looked down. His feet looked like they always did. His shoes shone. Not that he ever bothered to shine them. Whenever they got dirty or picked up a scuff, he simply threw them away and bought new ones. Sometimes in that order.
"What about my feet?"
"They stink of failure."
Remo sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything."
"This odor is not smelt, but heard," Chiun said, thin-voiced. "Your every footfall reeks of shame, and failure."
"I did not fail," Remo said stubbornly.
"You did not accomplish your mission?" asked Chiun, turning to face him for the first time.
Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, stood no more than five feet tall. In his kimono, he resembled a frail cone of scarlet. The front was a swirl of calla lilies, stitched in silvery thread.
Eyes the color of steel regarded Remo, giving off cold, brittle sparks. They were set in a face that might have been a resin mask, yellow and lined with age. The bald head shone under the overhead light. Over each ear, wispy white hair made a gentle puff. His chin, resolute despite its unquestionable frailty, boasted a curl of a beard that was like smoke frozen in eternity.
Slowly, long-nailed hands rose and the fingers, thin and the color of eagle talons, came together. Fingers grasped the opposite wrist and the scarlet sleeves came together then, hiding the old Korean's hands.
"Speak," he intoned.
"Okay," Remo said quickly. "I didn't complete my mission. "
"Then you failed."
"I did not fail," Remo repeated.
"You lie. This was the most important mission Emperor Smith has given you, and you botched it like the clod-footed amateur that you are."
"Who said it was so important?"
"I do. Smith asked you to do a simple thing: to dispatch a former head of state. A minor thing-for Sinanju. A major thing, in our Emperor's eyes."
"Smith said nothing of the sort."
Chiun cocked his head. "You did not kill this man?"
"No. But he is dead."
"Aiiee!" Chiun wailed, his hands springing into view. They took hold of the puffs over his ears and tugged in consternation. He did a little circle dance in his sandaled feet. "You let competition steal the food from our babies' mouths!"
The reference was to the children in Sinanju-who were fed by the work of the Master, as they had been for five thousand years. It was the reason the men of Sinanju had first hired out their services to the emperors of ancient Asia.
"Actually, an alligator got him," Remo admitted, folding his lean arms.
"Who saw this?" Chiun asked quickly.
"No one, as far as I know."
"Then you will tell Smith that you dispatched this evil warlord yourself," Chiun snapped. "Use flowery phrases. He will not detect the deceit in your tones."
"I think that when the autopsy results come in and show that Nogeira died from having his head chewed off his shoulders, we'll have a hard time keeping that story alive."
"I will inform Emperor Smith that you are employing a new technique-designed to fool the gullible into believing wild alligators were at fault. We will tell him that this was done in Egyptian times."
"They have alligators back then?"
Chiun gestured with a lifted finger. "Crocodiles. A minor difference no one will discover, if we keep our wits about us."
"I can't lie."
"Why not?"
"Because I already reported to Smith."
Chiun's slit eyes widened in shock. "Before conferring with me? Who did you think you work for?"
"Smith."
"No! A thousand times, no! You work for the village. Smith is merely a middleman. The emperor is not important, only the emperor's gold."
Remo smiled thinly. "I'll tell Smith that next time I see him."
"Don't you dare!"
"Fine. Then get off my back."
"Never. Through you, my House survives. I will never get off your back until you are perfection."
"Never happen," said Remo, going to the cabinet over the stove. He began rummaging for something to eat. A feast awaited him-if a rice smorgasbord was his idea of sumptuous dining. Virtually every kind of rice was available to him, from domestic whites to exotic browns that smelled like popcorn.
He pulled off the shelf a clear plastic bag, heavy with hard, white grains, and grabbed up the still warm pot.
The Master of Sinanju watched this with grim mien.
"What did Smith say when you broke the terrible news of your abysmal failure?"
"He said he didn't want me to kill Nogeira, after all. So there."
Chiun's pale eyebrows drew together. "He changed his mind?"