Chiun needed only to gaze upon Hyunsil, daughter of his caretaker, to see that Smith had been right. "So," the Master of Sinanju said quietly. "It is true."
Hyunsil nodded. "Yes, Master," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. Though burdened, she tried to straighten herself. "Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully, leader of the House of Sinanju. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."
That in her sorrow she would remember the traditional greeting for a returning Master of Sinanju-the greeting her father had taught her-filled Chiun's heart with love.
"You honor me, child, to remember the words," he said, padding over to her. "Even more, you honor the memory of your father. But do not bother with formalities now."
"As you wish, Master," Hyunsil said, studying the dust on the floor with tired eyes.
Chiun sensed her spirit. "You blame the Master for your father's death," he announced, nodding sagely.
The old woman looked up with a start, shocked that her secret heart had become known. But then she realized to whom she was speaking.
"My father would be angry at me for thinking such a thing," Hyunsil said, hanging her head in shame. "He taught me to revere the Masters of Sinanju, whose labors have sustained our village for generations."
And the Master of Sinanju did take great pity on the old woman. Reaching out, Chiun took Hyunsil's chin in his slender fingers. He gently raised her eyes from the floor.
"Your father was a good man," Chiun said. "Not great, for that is another thing altogether, most often bestowed by shallow men who are easily impressed by flash and showmanship. In many ways it is more difficult to be good than great. Your good father taught you well. He was right to tell you that Sinanju survives by the labors of the Masters of Sinanju, the sworn protectors of our village." The old man offered a wise smile. "But in this matter, daughter of Sinanju, it is not wrong for you to blame the Master, for you are correct, as well. I have failed."
This time when she looked up, there was amazement in the old woman's bloodshot eyes.
"You are surprised that I would admit to failure," Chiun said. "I tell you now it is so, for if I had not failed in some way this terrible thing would not have happened."
And although he did not say it to the woman, his thoughts were of the reputation of the House of Sinanju. A reputation that had kept the village safe for generations.
Somewhere was someone who scorned that reputation. Who dared visit death to the Pearl of the Orient.
All this did Chiun think but did not say. He turned his attention to the crone who stood before him.
"I would see the body," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
THEY FOLLOWED the remote path from the main village.
Chiun knew at once where they were heading, for the road led to one place only.
"He was missing for many days," Hyunsil said as they walked. She struggled to keep strength in her voice. "At first a few of the other women from the village helped me look. But they gave up after a day. After that no one would help me search. They said he was an old fool who had probably stumbled into the bay and drowned. Someone saw blood on the shore that morning. But he did not drown." Her head hung low. "I was alone when I found him."
The hut of the dead shaman was at the end of the path.
Chiun knew well the family that had called the pathetic pile of stone and thatch home. The last shaman had died many years ago. His daughter, Sonmi, who had been the last of the family's pure bloodline, had vanished many months ago.
As he approached the crooked little path that led to the front door, the Master of Sinanju could not help but think of another who had once called the hut home.
The ghosts danced cold around his ankles. For this reason did Chiun approach the building with quiet care.
This was a place where few in the village dared venture. It was not a surprise that this was the last place Hyunsil had looked for her missing father. Halfway up the path, Hyunsil stopped.
"He is inside," the old woman said. Tears welled anew in eyes tired from weeping.
Chiun took her hands in his, patting them gently. He left the sobbing woman on the path.
It was cold in the hovel. Colder than outdoors. Ice formed on the insides of the stone walls.
The freezing temperature had preserved the body. With great sadness Chiun looked on the frozen corpse of his faithful caretaker.
Pullyang lay on his back in peaceful repose in the center of the dirt floor. As if arranged by a mortician. The daughter had said that he had been murdered. For the sake of delicacy Chiun hadn't asked the method of death, not wishing to further upset the woman. But upon initial examination he couldn't see anything obvious.
Perhaps the head. There was something not right with the way Pullyang's head sat in relation to his body.
Chiun circled the body.
He saw instantly. It had been obscured by Pullyang's clothing.
The head was no longer attached. It had been made to appear natural. The killer had tucked the head back up to the neck. A taunt. A grisly joke waiting to be discovered.
No tools or weapons of any kind had been used.
The initial blunt trauma to the bluish flesh of the neck indicated that the head had been removed by hand. The blow that had been used was unmistakable. Chiun quickly left the body, hurrying back out into the weak sunlight. Hyunsil was still on the walk, her back to the hut. She jumped when Chiun touched her elbow.
"Did you see anyone near here?" he asked sharply.
"No," she replied. "He was alone when I found him. "
Hyunsil could see the look of deep worry that had suddenly appeared on the face of the Master of Sinanju.
"Master," she asked, "is something wrong?" Chiun had been glancing around the area. As if looking for something to jump at them from the scrub brush.
When he spoke, the Master of Sinanju's voice was grave.
"Go back to your home, daughter of Sinanju," he intoned, adding darkly, "and barricade the door."
Chapter 20
Remo's flight from Berlin dropped him in Madrid late in the morning. It was just over an hour's drive from the capital of Spain to his next meeting spot.
The Alcazar at Segovia was a massive castle that seemed to grow up out of solid rock. If it seemed postcard perfect, that was only when viewed from the comfortable side of civilization. The castle was largely gray and functional, built at a time when strong fortifications oftentimes meant the difference between life and death.
Remo parked his car far down the road from the castle. Ducking into the woods, he found the little clearing just where it was supposed to be. For generations groundskeepers at the Alcazar had no idea why they were ordered to keep this one lonely spot in the middle of nowhere neatly mowed.
Remo found the tallest tower of the castle. It rose up high in the air, casting shadows across the rock. He felt the watchful eyes of the deceased Masters of Sinanju following his every move. As usual, a vague sense of dissatisfaction emanated from the spirits of the Masters' Tribunal.
"You've all done this before," he grumbled. "You'd think one of you could rattle a chain in the right direction."
Careful to keep the tower over his right shoulder, he began walking away from the palace, counting as he went.
"...seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty."