Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  I held the dead phone, bemused. To Drummond money was always the answer, yet he wouldn't pay any out to his black-sheep relative. The old man was shrewd, maybe too shrewd.

  Slowly I returned to the practice room, thinking hard. I had used the pain hold to bring Thera into line, the first two days. Now she had it on me, figuratively. She understood her father, as I had not.

  Do what needs to be done...

  Not necessarily judo. Diago could have done that.

  Jason Striker, sex education instructor?

  Thera remained as she had been: statuesque, inviting. She looked up at me impishly. "Scream," she murmured. "Bite. Spread." I paused, assessing her. Then I gave her the kiai yell, the judo attack scream that heightens strength and unnerves the opposition. She was so surprised she fell over, her legs flying. I found her judogi outfit on a shelf and threw it at her. The trousers wrapped nicely about her head, blinding her for an instant.

  "You're right," I said. "You're just about ready for college. I see no reason why we can't wrap this up this week."

  "This week?" she inquired, prettily perplexed. "But it's a six week course!"

  "Why waste a week? The job is done and I've got a club to run."

  She shook her head as if she had misheard. Then, slowly, she donned the judogi. She looked so forlorn that I longed to comfort her, and knew I would be lost if I did.

  "Okay," I said when she was ready. "I'm a rapist coming at you." I charged.

  She used the harai-gosbi sweeping hip throw. I cooperated, flipping over and landing resoundingly on the tatami.

  "Beautiful!" I exclaimed. "Even my wife couldn't have done it better."

  She froze, as girls do. "Wife?"

  "She's a first degree black belt," I said innocently. "We still work out regularly. You really must meet her some day." I had broken Thera's pain hold; now I was applying a finishing choke on her casual romantic aspirations.

  "Yes, I must," she said faintly.

  We reviewed routine moves and holds, and she was competent, but the glow was off. On that day and the days that followed (I went the full six weeks, despite my baiting words) Thera behaved. There were no more studied exposures of anatomy, no more suggestive wriggles in the midst of mat-work.

  On the last day she confronted me, eyes blazing. I had a vision of an erupting volcano. "You're not married!" she cried. "I put a tracer on your social life. You don't even have a girlfriend!"

  Oh-oh.

  "I've had plenty of girls," I began lamely.

  "And I can name them!" she flared. "Do you want them alphabetically or chronologically? Or only your actual affairs—all four of them?"

  She had the dope, all right. "No need." That was the risk in countering a submission hold as I had done: sometimes the counterhold slipped, and then vulnerability was doubled. Why had I lied, anyway? That was a poor example of judo ethics.

  "Why did you do it?" she demanded furiously. I would have felt safer if she had been coming at me with a machete. "I'd have given you just as good a time as any—"

  I put my hand over her mouth, not hard. "One," I said. "Your father hired me to teach you what you needed to know. So I tried to convince you not to sell your body cheaply." But that sounded stuffy, even to me.

  She nodded reluctantly. I shifted to the pain hold, without pressure. "Two: I am not looking for 'a good time.' When I settle down, it will be with a woman worthy of the name, not an easy mark." But that was wrong too, for Thera hadn't said a thing about "settling down," and I hadn't raised that objection with my prior girls.

  She clapped her right hand over my right, brought her left around to apply pressure to my elbow, and twisted clockwise, capturing my arm in a submission grip of her own. No one would ever again use the shi-atsu pain hold on her without regretting it. But then she gazed at me, her anger subsiding as she realized the broader implications. What a man chooses to leave may be more important than what he takes.

  "Three," I continued, learning as much about my own motives as I was teaching her. "Give yourself a couple years of college. Apply yourself intellectually as you have these weeks physically. Show yourself what you can do with your mind when you're serious. Then, if you're still interested, look me up again."

  "You really know the score," she said with mixed contrition and bitterness as she let go my arm. "I guess you knew it all the time." She tapped the wall with one finger, and looked at me meaningfully.

  "I knew your first day's performance was a setup," I agreed. "One of those boys at the bar did come in to the club later, and—" Then her signal registered.

  A tap on the wall. The walls had ears.

  No wonder her father hadn't been concerned about my behavior. He knew first hand everything that happened in this house. There must be audio and visual pickups all over.

  "You didn't know?" she asked, surprised.

  "Sorry. It just didn't occur to me," I admitted sheepishly. And I had been lecturing her about education!

  It was her chance to crow. But she didn't. She stared at me long and thoughtfully. I was struck afresh by her beauty, for this expression became her.

  "So everything you said to me," she murmured at last, "you really meant it. You weren't just protecting your fee."

  Now I was angry. "Didn't anything I have told you about the ethics of judo sink in?" Ironic, for I had hardly been scrupulous myself. "Of course I meant it! I always mean it."

  This time she put her own finger to my lips. "I always thought honest was square," she murmured. "And I guess it is. But it grows on you."

  "No," I said with difficulty. "I lied about being married."

  "You didn't lie," she said. "You just gave away your real desire."

  I waited, not knowing what to expect, from either of us. Thera fascinated me.

  "Two years," she breathed. "Two years of real education and real accomplishment. And a first-degree black belt."

  I almost missed her irony. First degree belt—the level I had given my fictitious wife.

  Thera was going for broke, the way volcanoes do. She thought I had slipped her a veiled message, and perhaps I had. I had the feeling that she knew what she was doing: making an honest man of me.

  I hoped so.

  The dojo was in disarray when I returned. Something had happened. Jim saw me and gave it to me in one stiff dose: "Charles Smith—he's dead!"

  I was too stunned to make intelligent comment. From the incipient promise of a pretty girl a few minutes ago, to this. "How?"

  "Right here in the practice hall! He was doing the uchi-komis, and when it was his turn to throw, he collapsed. We couldn't revive him!"

  "Ridiculous!" I snapped. "He was in excellent health. Who hit him?"

  "Nobody!" Jim protested. "The whole class saw it."

  I shook my head, feeling ill. "The autopsy will tell the story. He must have been on drugs secretly—steroids or amphetamines, or one of the dangerous new ones."

  "I don't think so," Jim said. "I only knew him six weeks, but he was a straight guy. Good potential, clean living, shaping up to be a real asset to the dojo."

  Those were my own sentiments. Charles Smith had obviously left Dato because he was an honest, cleancut judoka, quite capable of recognizing the unbudo attitude of his first teacher. Dato's actual knowledge was not in question, but he had lost the real spirit of judo, as his angry call to me had shown. One day his temper would bring him down; until then I would leave him alone and let bright students like Smith come to their own conclusions.

  Had Dato known about Charles Smith's health problem? Was that why he had been so gracious about his student's departure? If so, he had not been bluffing about the grief it would bring to me.

  But the autopsy brought no comfort. Charles Smith had died of a heart attack, apparently an embolism, yet he had no prior history of any such condition.

  I thought again of Dato's threatening call. And I couldn't help remembering the wild, ugly notion I had fought off before. I had absolutely no evidence, and nobody
would believe such a thing anyway.

  What could I do but go on? At least I was in the clear. Smith had died before witnesses, in my absence, and no one had touched him. A hard blow on the chest can indeed injure the heart—but the autopsy showed that no one had struck him there recently. Whatever had attacked his heart had not originated at my dojo. But for the luck of my tutoring commitment that had kept me absent, he might have died while practicing with me, and possibly he would have been struck on the chest.

  I regretted his death strongly, and it certainly did no good to my business, but it could have been worse. If I had thought I had done it...

  CHAPTER 3

  JIM

  Jim Blake was shorter than I, but weighed more, and all of it was muscle. He was a collegiate wrestling champion who also lifted weights, and he had the drive and the health of youth in abundant measure. All of these were excellent assets for a judoka, and had led to his recent college-level judo championship. Contrary to popular opinion, muscle does help.

  We were doing randori, practice competition before my judo class. We grabbed for coat-holds in the usual fashion, and Jim's hands fastened on my lapels while I took hold of his mid-outer sleeves. I pushed him lightly to the rear; he reacted by pushing back. I stepped away and pulled his left hand with my right, bending my knees. He thought I would continue back, but I put my left foot deep between his legs, dropped down, set my right foot gently into his abdomen, fell straight back and hauled him over me. It was the Tomoe-nage, round throw.

  Unfortunately, he was ready for it. As I made the attack, he resisted by lowering his hips, bending his knees, and thrusting his lower abdomen forward. My grasp on his sleeves ripped free, and he retained his feet as I landed on my back. I thought he would fall on top of me, following up his advantage and seeking to utilize his wrestling skill, but he declined.

  Jim was a good judoka, and getting better. He was the best of my students. I had qualified him through shodan, the first-degree black belt, and later sent him to the promotional evaluation for qualification as nidan, the second degree. This was more than mere physical competition; a judoka's basic knowledge and attitude is verified too, and these become more important as he climbs the black belt ladder. Jim had succeeded beautifully. Now he was working on sandan, the third degree, and already had five tournament points, though it would be a year-and-a-half before he could qualify officially.

  I had trained him, and now he was making me look inept before the class. He had learned well. Go to it, Jim; see if you can take the old man down!

  I got up quickly and went into one of my favorite movements, a standing arm bar. I grasped his right arm with both my hands, one at the wrist and the other at mid-forearm; I passed my leg in front of this arm, twisted my body, and fell on my side as my other leg pushed against his knee to bring him down. But Jim was ready for this too, knowing my ways too well. He kept his strong arm slightly bent, foiling the hold. I landed on my side while he stood over me, again having the advantage—but still not deigning to follow it up. If this had been a shiai, a competition match, Jim would certainly be ahead now.

  But old judokas have many tricks. I couldn't really let a student beat me in my own club, before my own class. Not even one as talented as Jim. When all was said and done, he was a new nidan and I an old godan, a fifth degree black belt, and at thirty I was not yet over the hill.

  I'm proud of you, Jim, but I have self-pride too. You would not have come to me if you hadn't been ambitious to train with the best in this area, and you would be disappointed if you could dump me already! I am no Dato.

  God! Why did I have to think of that now. Dato, and the death of Charles Smith. Why couldn't I have thought of something nice, like Thera and her nude yoga position? Now a pall fell on the exercise.

  We sparred for handholds a third time. I could not get the grip I wanted. Jim was in a deep defensive position, almost bent in half, his upper torso parallel to the floor. He was giving away nothing, and I became frustrated. Was the instructor unable after all to take down the student?

  I tried a sumi-gaeshi-sutemi corner reversal throw, but he stooped and stepped aside, forcing me off balance and breaking it up. It was as if he were the instructor, foiling every game effort of the student, and I found myself acutely embarrassed. It seemed that young judokas had tricks of their own.

  Desperate to bring him to the mat where I might have better success despite his wrestling prowess, I stood there, letting him attempt whatever he would. And suddenly Jim made his move. He pulled hard at me, dropped to his right knee, and rolled me over his back in an imperfect moro-teseoi-nage. No ippon, or contest point, but he had taken me down. This time, to my surprise, he seized me in a yokoshi-hogatame, the side four quarter hold. Good going, Jim! I'm glad to see this stuff, even though I didn't teach you that particular combination. Even if you are showing me up in my own dojo, my own judo exercise hall, and before my own students. Because you are going to need it all in that incredible tournament you're training for.

  The tournament: a recluse multi-millionaire, richer than Johnson Drummond, had recently taken it into his head to discover once and for all which of the world's martial arts was the strongest of them all. Usually boxers fight only boxers, and wrestlers wrestlers, and not only do the twain never meet, amateur never meets professional and grade never meets another grade. So a world champion boxer was only a fraction of a champion of one portion of his martial art. How would he do in a genuine combat situation, no holds barred?

  So this anonymous fight fan had sunk a chunk of his fortune into one gala tournament: the Martial Open. The only conditions for entry were that each representative be typical of his art, not a freak. That he have no gross physical deformities that might affect the outcome. No four-hundred-pound wrestlers, no seven-foot boxers, no rock-fisted karate killers, no feeble-minded suicide fighters. Just good normal, healthy, skilled youths from all over the world.

  And so it was that the finger of fate had fallen on young Jim, for he met the requirements precisely. Just twenty years old this month, handsome, and typical of the finest ideals of rising judokas. Already winner of several judo meets, and a college champion. They had wanted an American, for without some regional requirements Japan and the Orient would have dominated overwhelmingly, perhaps prejudicing the prospective television audience. America is said contemptuously to be a fifth-rate judo nation, but it is a first-rate television nation. Cynical motive.

  Thus I was training Jim for the big event, and I hoped he would do well. Still, he had things to learn and techniques to perfect. His hold on me was flawed, as I was about to demonstrate. I lay on my back, with Jim straddling me at right angles. His right arm passed between my legs to grip the back of my jacket; his chest weighted my torso. His left arm should have passed around my left shoulder, his hand grasping my jacket as far down as it could reach. Instead, he had hold of my sleeve at the shoulder, and his forearm lay across my throat. He should have known better; now his hold was not tight.

  His arm moved. His forearm chopped down on my throat, bruising my larynx. There was a dull throbbing pain.

  Then I realized that his position was not an error. He was trying to strangle me with his forearm!

  I was furious. It wasn't the mere fact of the strangle, as that is a legitimate weapon in the arsenal of judo. It was the contempt Jim seemed to be showing for my skill as a judoka. Such a tactic might work against a brown belt, but hardly against a black belt. And never against an instructor.

  I hunched my neck, blocking off his arm and abating the strangle. I passed my right hand under his body, where there was a space between it and the mat at my right side, and seized his belt at the waist. I ground my knuckles against his lower ribs, giving him back some of the pain I still felt in my throat.

  With my left hand I took hold of his left arm, pushing it toward him as if I were trying to turn that way. Then suddenly I reversed the motion, pushing him the other way with my right arm. This elevated his body, bridging it a
cross me. I used my leverage to throw him off my left side, then rolled over and jumped on his back before he recovered, and clamped a kataha-jime one-wing strangle on him. If he wanted to know how to apply an effective choke, I would show him, and in the process redeem my image as an instructor.

  It was experience, nothing else. My own years of imperfections and mistakes had cost me matches until I had learned the hard way to make certain of every technical nuance. Jim simply had not had time to iron out every error. But I was teaching him, as I myself had been taught. He had just sacrificed a likely victory because of his seemingly minor lapse in technique, and I would explain it to him in detail later. Not to gloat, but to make sure he never again threw away his best opportunity like that. The next time might not be an inconsequential practice session, but the decisive match of a tournament.

  I tightened up, waiting for him to slap the mat twice in surrender. I was behind him, my left knee on the tatami. My left arm trapped his left arm, pinning it over his head and pushing on the back of his neck; this was the "broken wing." My right hand passed under his chin and gripped his left lapel, giving me leverage for the choke. The bony edge of my wrist pressed against the front of his neck.

  I had put strangles on Jim many times before in practice. But he had a bull neck of which he was proud—perhaps too proud, and he developed it constantly with exercises. I liked him, and had not wanted to humiliate him by demonstrating just how vulnerable that neck might be. So I had never applied force beyond a certain point, even when he did not yield. But I realized now that Jim was getting too cocky and thought he was better than he was.

  In a shiai contest, in a match with a less soft-hearted antagonist, he would quickly be rendered unconscious. So this time I meant to make him submit. As when I had applied the pain hold to the girl Thera: it was a necessary lesson.

  But Jim refused to quit. He tried to resist by pulling down my right hand, alleviating the strangle. He bridged his body to minimize the remaining pressure on his neck, and pushed back while trying to close his chin against his chest.