"You might at least have left a freaking note," Remo said.
"Quiet!" Chiun thundered, his crackling voice reverberating off the metallic ceiling.
"I am told, white man, that there is unsettled business between you and the Master of Sinanju," the mandarin Wu Ming Shi suggested.
"I'll say there is," Remo growled, eyeing Chiun. He was angry. The hurt was no longer in him. He felt only a cold anger in his stomach. It was like bubbling ammonia.
"I have offered the Master of Sinanju your life in return for certain things of value, including the life of this Chinese man, Zhang. The Master of Sinanju has refused my generous offer."
"I'm not surprised," Remo said, glaring at Chiun. "He always puts his own interests first."
Wu Ming Shi nodded. "So you must die," he said, "having no value in these negotiations." Wu Ming Shi directed his voice toward Chiun. He barely moved on the dais, being more like a statue than a man. "Have you any objections to this, Master of Sinanju?"
"Yes. One."
"Speak."
"I owe this one a fee," Chiun announced to all. "I cannot allow him to die with the debt unpaid-any more than I would a dog I had promised to feed."
The mandarin Wu Ming Shi absorbed this in silence. The rising tone of the Master of Sinanju's words was not lost on him. His eyes glittered momentarily.
"Conclude your business, then, so that we may finish our own."
Chiun turned and padded toward Remo. Fang Yu withdrew.
From one sleeve of his tiger kimono, Chiun withdrew several gold coins. He offered them to a dumbfounded Remo.
"Here is your ten percent, which I was unable to give you, owing to the urgent nature of my business here," Chiun said loudly.
Remo threw the coins away.
"What happened to my not earning-"
"Our business is done!" Chiun said quickly. "I am sorry that you followed me here, for it would have been better had you not done so. For your life is forfeit."
"What are you talking about?"
"Farewell, faithful servant," Chiun shouted, turning away from Remo. Out of the side of his mouth he spoke. "Do not shame me before these Chinese barbarians," he whispered. "And remember this: one hand lies while the other tells the truth."
"What kinda crap is this?" Remo demanded.
"Please," Chiun said in an offended tone.
Remo arched a puzzled eyebrow. "Please?"
"This is a place of holy men." Chiun withdrew.
He stopped before the dais and bowed slightly. "The debt is paid. You may execute him now."
"Execute!" Remo barked, his muscles tensing. He started to back toward the door.
"Stay," Fang Yu snapped. Remo obeyed. He didn't want to obey. His mind knew he should not. But his body refused to go along. He was helpless.
And on the dais, the hauntingly familiar black-masked chauffeur stepped off, light as a dancer, and approached Remo with the sure catlike grace of a tiger approaching a staked goat.
He lifted his hands, circling around Remo. His lips peeled back in a satisfied grin of anticipation.
"Observe how like the white crane attacking the fox," Wu Ming Shi intoned, "Sagwa hops on one leg."
"So does a dog when it relieves itself," Chiun said.
"The arms are held high like wings, and like beaks the hands are prepared to strike at his opponent."
"This other man is a vassal, not an opponent," Chiun pointed out.
"He has will except when countermanded. The result of a certain drug introduced into his system through a Western conceit called a skin patch."
Skin patch? Remo thought, remembering the tearing sound behind his right ear. He reached for it.
"No!" Fang Yu cried. "Do not touch behind your ears."
Remo obeyed.
"This is not a fair fight," Chin said emotionlessly.
"You object?" Wu Ming Shi demanded quickly.
"It is no longer my concern, for the debt has been settled." "The other man wears a similar patch. For he is highspirited. Thus, they are equal, both obeying my commands, but also capable of attack or defense."
Chiun nodded. A little of the tension that had deepened his facial wrinkles relaxed.
Remo didn't notice any of this. He heard their exchange as if from far away. All his concentration was on the blackmasked chauffeur. He circled Remo warily, looking like an absurd black crow as he hopped on one foot.
Remo circled with him, waiting for the first blow.
None came.
"I guess I go first," Remo said. Then Sagwa feinted with one hand. Remo faded back. Then he lunged forward.
Sagwa leapt aside. One arm straight as a rod swept downward. Remo slid under the blow, feeling the push of compressed air driven by the stroke.
He swung on the rebound, using his elbow as a striking point. But it encountered only the faint afterthought of Sagwa's body warmth.
The gap between them was too great, and Remo instantly understood the theory behind this unfamiliar fighting style. Don't strike first. It kept the opponent at a disadvantage. In order to strike, Remo would have to come in on an inside line. But the chauffeur was like a repelling force on a pivot, prepared for any attack. There were no openings, because he refused to attack. He would only defend himself.
Remo watched the man's hands. They were like beaks undulating above his head.