Remo kept at it. Just a matter of time now. Chiun would have his kohi. It would be the best kohi he ever could have imagined.
And best of all, Remo wouldn't have to listen to the carping complaints of how he, a mere white, had allowed Chiun to languish under the sands outside Palm Springs, immersed in cold, brackish water, beseeching the gods for release, while Remo wasted his time mourning for one who was not even dead: No longer would Remo have to endure the complaints that he had only pretended ignorance of Chiun's true fate so that he could assume mastership of the House of Sinanju, the finest house of assassins in human history, the house Chiun headed. The house Remo, his adopted son, was destined to assume one dark day when the Master of Sinanju was no more.
Remo set a simple but elegant table, with cherry-wood chopsticks placed carefully beside bamboo plates and bowls. The water was pure spring water, entirely free of chemicals or carbonation.
All that was missing was a birthday cake. Remo had considered doing something with a rice cake, but decided that Chiun's age was still too sensitive an issue to raise just yet. Not while he was stubbornly insisting he was still only eighty.
When the rice was nice and sticky, Remo drained off the water through a bamboo colander and spooned two nearly perfect steaming balls into the proper eating bowls.
Only then did he remove the duck from the oven and place it on a platter in the center of the table. It smelled like . . . duck. But it was the kind that Chiun always seemed to crave most, when Remo had returned from food shopping and invariably failed to bring home the coveted species.
Remo removed his chef's apron and stuck his head into the living room.
"Soup's on!" he called cheerfully. Chiun was going to melt like a midsummer's ice cream cone when he saw the spread. It was all Remo could do to hold back a grin of culinary triumph.
Chiun continued to be absorbed in the day-to-day travails of the British gentry. Slowly, he gathered the silvery folds of his evening kimono about his spindly legs.
"It's getting cold," Remo warned. "The rice will lose that rare nutty flavor if you keep it waiting."
Still no response.
Remo was hovering in the half-open door. He eased it open farther and started fanning the succulent scent of roast duckling into the parlor.
It would spoil the surprise, surprise, but it might produce a reaction.
It did. The Master of Sinanju's severe profile lifted, like a cat reacting to the scent of prey. His tiny nose sniffed the air, at first delicately, then curiously.
A strange expression came over his features.
Like a gaudy Oriental tent being thrown up on short poles, the kimono-clad form of the Master of Sinanju rose to its full magnificent five-foot height. The bald head, decorated with shimmery fogwisps over each precious ear, swiveled in Remo's direction.
Remo took that as his cue. He threw the door open wide, stepping aside so that Chiun could pass.
Tucking his tiny hands into the closing sleeves of his kimono, Chiun did just that.
Soundless, but with a force like that of a steamship plowing along, Chiun pushed past Remo and entered the kitchen, his face unreadable, but the quiet power of his presence making the exposed hairs on Remo's forearms lift as if from static electricity.
Remo let the door swing closed and followed his mentor in.
Chiun stood dead-still before the spread table. He sniffed here and there. Remo maneuvered to get a good look at his face in profile. The hazel eyes, clear as agates, gleamed with an odd light.
Remo waited for the webbing of wrinkles covering his face to smooth with surprise and appreciation.
Instead, they contracted like a wind-troubled orb web. His tiny nostrils stopped drawing in duck aroma, and the Master of Sinanju straightened like the main sail on a junk.
Just before Remo could get out the words "Not bad, huh?", Chiun asked a question in a level but vaguely indignant voice.
"Why are you trying to poison me?"
"Poison?"
"This duck is poisoned," Chiun said flatly.
"Is not!" Remo flared.
"It is deadly. Do you covet my Masterhood so much that you would stoop to mere poison?"
"I did not-"
A single hand rose.
"It is one thing for you to covet my throne," intoned Chiun. "It is another to employ poison to achieve it. The House has not used poison since before the Great Wang. A simple blow while I sleep would have been sufficient-not that you would have landed such a blow or survived the attempt, but it would have been acceptable."
Remo shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I? You would not be the first who attempted to supplant me as Master. You would do well to remember what befell him."
Chiun was referring to his nephew, Nuihc. His brother's son had been Chiun's first pupil. He had turned against his village and used his deadly skills for evil. Chiun had personally eliminated Nuihc in order to save Remo's life, and had mentioned the matter rarely over the past decade. The fact that he brought it up now only angered Remo more.
"Look," Remo protested, growing hot, "I'm trying to honor you here! Why are you giving me all this BS?"
"Because you are giving me poison duck. I will not eat it, and I suggest you do not."
"But you gotta eat the duck!"
Chiun drew back, his clear eyes hardening. His long-nailed fingers found his wrists and disappeared within the tunnel of his sleeves. He cocked his head to one side.
"I must?"
"It's supposed to be your kohi! Remember? This way you can turn one hundred!"
Chiun became angry. "I am only eighty!" he snapped. "I will always be eighty. I will never age, thanks to your white thick-headedness, and I will never die."
"You won't?" Remo asked, taken aback.
"I cannot afford to," Chiun squeaked. "For I am the last of my line, and my only successor is a pale piece of a pig's ear who covets the treasure of my ancestors."
Remo put his hands on his hips. "You know that isn't true. And I'm sick of apologizing for not realizing you weren't dead that one time. Pulling this 'poisoned duck' scam is a low move. I went to a lot of trouble preparing this bird!"
"Then you eat it," Chiun sniffed.
"I will," said Remo, reaching out to rip loose a shriveled brown wing. He brought it to his mouth.
The Master of Sinanju watched with silent interest. Remo's strong white teeth took hold of a string of meat and pulled it loose.
He had barely tasted the greasy meat when, faster than Remo's Sinanju-trained reflexes could avoid it, a nut-colored hand swept out. Remo thought for an awful moment that his front teeth had been pulled.