Fang Yu led them to a run-down section of town where saffron-robed lamas walked the grounds of a dilapidated monastery, which looked as if it had been closed for the seventy-odd years Communism had held sway over Outer Mongolia.
Shaven-headed lamas stabled their ponies. Two helped Zhang Zingzong off his horse. He needed help because his hands were tied to the pointed pommel of his saddle with cords of braided bamboo. He had resisted being led to Sayn Shanda until two Mongols fell upon him and bound him to his horse.
After that, he was quiescent. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips.
"Follow me, please," Fang Yu said as Zhang was set on his feet.
The three of them walked into the monastery through a heavy wood door studded with iron spikes.
Chiun's nostrils recoiled at the strong odor of incense that permeated the dim interior. Under it was the heavy cloying weight of musk.
The lama gestured them to follow. He carried a yakbutter candle in an ornate brass stick. It threw light on the colorful walls-idealized paintings of the Buddha and other religious subjects. Here and there, sections of wall lay exposed, where gold or inlaid panels had been ripped free by looters.
Through twisting passages they walked, the lama's feet making slipper sounds on the stone floor. Zhang Zingzong walked with the heavy tread of a condemned man, his head hung low. No sound attended the Master of Sinanju's footsteps. He had left off his Mongolian attire, and wore instead a tiger-striped kimono. The play of candlelight on its shifting silken stripes was like the muscles of a great cat rippling under a true tigerskin.
They came at last to a great double door of hammered bronze panels depicting a looping dragon battling a fiery phoenix.
Outside the door stood a wiry man in a black chauffeur's uniform. He stood proud as a caliph's eunuch, his arms folded, his head slightly bowed, so his black cap shadowed his features.
As they approached, he lifted his face, exposing a domino mask of polished onyx. His eyes showed through the almond slits like black opals that had been sanded of their luster. They looked dead.
The black-masked chauffeur turned and threw open the doors with a double-handed flourish. He watched stonily as they passed by, then fell in behind them.
The room was a great vaulted chamber. At the far end, a throne of ivory and rosewood stood on a low stone dais. And on this throne sat a man.
Old he was. His eyes were sunk into their sockets as if retreating from all sound, all light. They were black and filmy, but their bright intelligence showed through the film like dim diamonds.
The old man stood up with a feline grace, causing the silken folds of his filigreed mandarin gown to fall and shift. The golden hem of his gown touched the floor, making him resemble a pillar of green-gold flame with a human head on top. On his head rested a black mandarin's skull cap decorated with a tiny coral button.
The Master of Sinanju stepped forward, his face impassive.
The black-masked chauffeur leapt to the dais protectively. The tall Asian motioned toward him with long fingers tipped with intricate nail-protectors of blue jade.
"Sagwa!" he hissed.
The one addressed as Sagwa subsided. Chin lifting proudly, he folded his arms and took his place at his master's side.
Without a word, Chin got down on his hands and knees in the prescribed full bow of Asia. His forehead touched the cold stone floor twice. His face was as cold as the stone, and harder.
He stood up and his lips parted, but barely moved as low words came out.
"To behold you with these old eyes," he intoned, "is to hear thunder from a clear sky. I had believed you ashes, Wu Ming Shi."
"Paper cannot wrap up a fire. It served my purposes to have Asia believe this for a time," said the mandarin Wu Ming Shi. His wrinkled vellum countenance barely moved with his words. It was like the preserved mask of a mummy actuated by mechanical assistance. "The Communist Revolution crushed my hopes to assume the ancient Dragon Throne as China's next emperor. I knew that they would fail, so I slept until a time when revolt troubled the air. Now."
"Your wisdom is boundless. Even I, your former servant, thought you no longer among the living."
"You honor me, you who are in your way as great as I am in mine."
Chiun inclined his head toward the unmoving chauffeur.
"I see you have a new servant," he remarked.
"A former pupil of your late nephew. He was to have been the first of a new line of night tigers, I had hoped."
"He knows Sinanju?" Chiun asked in surprise.
"Some. He is no Master. His true expertise is in the White Crane school of kung fu."
"Ah, I have heard of it. It approaches the perfection of our art."
The chauffeur's proud chin lifted slightly. It fell at Chiun's next words.
"The way a candle approaches the glory of the sun," Chiun finished. "Still, to one unfamiliar with it, it is formidable enough. Why is he masked?"
"In the time I slept, he allowed himself to become famous through playacting in films. This was a mistake. I had his death arranged so the world would think him no more. Now that I am free to move among men once more, I find the mask a regrettable necessity. It also reminds him of his errors, for he came into prominence dressed in these servant's clothes and wearing such a mask. It is a conceit that pleases me to have him play the part of a mere chauffeur in actuality."
Wu Ming Shi's vellum lips twitched slightly wider. The teeth showed as brown as old corn.
"I have brought the one known as Zhang Zingzong with me," Chiun said. "What is it you wish of him?"
"I have promised him to the butchers in Beijing, in return for certain concessions." Wu Ming Shi directed his stained smile toward the trembling Chinese. "They want his head very badly."
"I have certain obligations to this man," Chiun said quietly.
"Obligations which you may see fit to put aside, for I have something to offer you in return for this man."
"This is unlikely, for as you know, my word is sacred to me."
The return nod was imperceptible.
"I have in my possession a man known to you by the curious name of Remo," Wu Ming Shi went on. "Might not his life hold more value to you than your word?"
Chiun's eyes squeezed into walnut slits. His voice was controlled when he next spoke.
"No man's life is more important to a Master of Sinanju than his word," he said tightly. "The one you speak of is a former servant of mine. No more."
"He has journeyed a long way to seek you. He has suffered through storm and the deception of the female heart." The blue nail protectors gestured to Fang Yu, who stood with her head meekly bowed.
"Through unavoidable circumstances, I left him owing money," Chiun said casually, adding, "the matter that has brought me to Asia was pressing. No doubt he seeks his severance fee."
"Then you will not object to my doing with him what I will?" Wu Ming Shi suggested in a dry voice.
"I have some sentimental attachment to him. For he served me well-for a big-footed white man."
"Fang Yu," the mandarin Wu Shi Ming hissed, "bring the foreign devil here."