"Is this the one about the guy who didn't get paid?" Remo asked.
"You might say that," Chiun allowed.
"See? I was listening. I told you. I always listen."
"If you always listen, why don't you ever learn anything?" Chiun asked.
"Just lucky, I guess," Remo said with a grin. It felt good to be back; good to be Remo again. "The prince of whom I spoke was Wo and he had a brother with his eye on the throne, a brother massing a large army far greater than he needed to defend his own lands."
"This sounds like where we come in," Remo said.
"It is, but not if you keep interrupting." He glared at Remo and took a sip of tea. "Prince Wo wished to rid himself of this scheming brother and yet did not wish to have the death laid at his own doorstep, so Prince Wo sent for Master Pak and a bargain was struck. The very next day, the Prince's brother died, by falling from the parapets of his own castle."
"And when the assassin came to be paid?" Remo said.
"He was dismissed. Prince Wo insisted that his brother's death had been a true accident and he would not acknowledge the Master's work. He refused to pay the tribute that was agreed upon."
"This is getting interesting," Remo said, trying to please Chiun.
"It is getting long because you keep interrupting me. Anyway, the following morning the prince's concubine was found dead. The news and manner of her death spread quickly throughout the kingdom and soon everyone knew that the prince's brother had not died by accident. Master Pak had sent his message. He wanted to be paid."
"It's a great way to send a message," Remo said. "A lot more zip than Federal Express. And the prince still refused to pay?"
"No," said Chiun. His thin lips turned up in a wintry smile. "Prince Wo realized his error at once and sent a courier to the assassin with double the payment, one part for the assassination and another to ensure Master Pak's silence."
"All that extra gold. Sounds like a happy ending to me. They must have broken out the party hats back in that mudhole by the bay."
"What mudhole?" Chiun asked.
"Sinanju," Remo explained.
"Silence, you nincompoop," Chiun snapped. "The payment was only part of it. More important than the payment is the manner in which it is made. Prince Wo did not wish to be seen by his subjects as having been forced to pay the assassin, but Master Pak could not let this happen. If one prince refused to pay him, others might try the same. It was no longer enough to be paid; he had to be paid publicly, in tribute, as was his right."
"So he sent the gold back," Remo said.
"Of course not."
"Right."
"He sent back the empty sacks requesting that they be filled again and payment made again where all could see it. Prince Wo refused, for his own pride was so great that he did not wish to be seen bending to any man's will. Instead, he summoried his warriors and mobilized an entire army to pursue and kill a single man."
"I bet it didn't work," Remo said.
"It did not. Prince Wo's oldest and wisest general devised a plan called the seven-sided death. Each manner of death was inscribed on a separate stone. Death by sword, by fire and so forth. But none of the ways worked and Prince Wo's army was decimated and each of the first six stones was shattered.
"The great army had dwindled down to a handful of men and the only way left was that of the seventh stone. It was said to be ultimate, invincible, the one way that would work when all the others had failed."
"So that's why Pak is known as the Master Who Failed?"
"No, that's not why. The seventh stone was never used. Prince Wo and his remaining followers put out to sea and finally disappeared from the known world. And when they vanished, the seventh stone vanished with them."
"Well, what happened to Pak?" Remo asked.
Chiun sighed. "He spent the rest of his days searching for Prince Wo. Finally he was so overcome by disgrace and his own inability to find the prince that he retired to a cave and took no food or water until finally he died. He had a vision though in the very last moments of his life. He foresaw a future time when the descendants of Wo would try to wreak vengeance on another Master of Sinanju. With his dying breath, Pak left a cryptic message, a warning that the seventh stone spoke truth."
He looked up to Remo for comment. Remo shrugged. "Interesting story but that's two thousand years ago. Maybe they wanted to get even once, but, come on, it's a long time ago."
"As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory does not die," Chiun said. He drained his teacup. "Remember when we first came down here? That little article you told me about, the one that described the big stone that they had dug up on this island?"
"I remember mentioning it," Remo said. "Are you telling me that was the seventh stone?"
"It may be," Chiun answered solemnly. "Emperor Smith has pictures of it and he is trying to find out what it says."
"Hold on, Chiun," said Remo. "You speak every language I ever heard of. You can't read this writing?"
"The language is long dead," Chiun said, "and Pak left no instructions in its use."
"It's probably not the same stone at all," Remo said.
"It probably is," Chiun said. "Here is proof." He held up the sword he had taken from the frogman and ran his fingertips over the etching on the blade. "In ancient Indonesian, this says 'Wo' and 'son.' I think the men of the seventh stone are after us."
"And Pak says the seventh stone knows the true way to kill us?" Remo asked.
"So says the legend," Chiun said.
"Then we'd better hope that Smitty finds out what the stone says," Remo said.
"That would be nice," Chiun said agreeably, as he finished his tea.
Chapter Thirteen
Harold VV. Smith sat in front of the computer watching the little lights blink on and off as if someone inside the silent machine was trying to send him a message in code.
Smith loved the computer because it was able to do in seconds or minutes what might take humans days and months. But he hated it too because once it started working, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for it to finish. That made him feel guilty. Technically he might be working, but he really wasn't doing anything at all, except drumming his fingers on the console. After too many years with the government, he still got anxiety pains from not working, a tight little knot in his stomach that felt as if he'd swallowed a hard rubber ball.
He headed his own organization and was answerable to no one but the President himself. Yet he had a recurring nightmare, a dread dream of a day when someone would breeze into the CURE headquarters in Rye, New York, look at him, point a finger and say: "There you are, Smith. Goofing off at the computer again."
He felt a slight loosening of the knot in his stomach as a message took form on the computer's monitor screen. The machine had managed to decipher the first part of the message on the stone found in Little Exuma, although why Chiun thought it was important was beyond Smith.
"The two plums," the computer tapped out. Smith said it aloud just to hear the sound of it, but it sounded no better than it read. That was the trouble with ancient languages. They tended to relate things in terms of fruit and stars and trees and birds and entrails. Everything meant something else because the ancients lacked the gift for direct prose.
The machine had hesitated but now it tapped out two words from the end of the inscription. He now had:
"The two plums ... are bereft."
Not exactly enlightening, Smith thought with a frown. Without the middle, the message made no sense at all, and he had a sinking feeling that even when the computer finally figured out the middle part, the message still wouldn't make much sense.