Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  So now my disastrous gentleness was being equated with his murders. Yet perhaps there was justice in the parallel. "Yes," I said. "Are there films of the match? I'd like to—"

  "I have ordered a print. I want you to see exactly how you—"

  The intercom came to life, startling me because I hadn't realized it was there. "Judo representatives: a complication," an unfamiliar voice announced.

  "Yes?" Takao snapped, evidently recognizing the speaker and not liking him.

  "Your European combat representative has reneged, as I might have known. He will not report for the tournament."

  Takao struck his head with the heel of his hand. "The East German? I know that man. He fears nothing!"

  "The official report listed him as indisposed. Isn't that a synonym for cold feet?"

  "The Communists must have stopped him, afraid he would defect. Why did they wait until the last moment?"

  "I see Judo is good at making excuses," the voice said arrogantly. Takao let out an amazing stream of Japanese profanity. "What do you expect us to do? The American sportplayer just got wiped out by the Korean!"

  No consolation for losers, I thought bitterly. If that was the East German I thought it might be, we would have had a winning team, regardless of his politics.

  "If you can't field a fighting team, you'll forfeit," the voice said, sounding cynically pleased. "I have no patience with cowards or weaklings." There was a click of dismissal.

  "Who was that?" I demanded, as resentful as Takao.

  "Vicente Pedro, our esteemed host and sponsor."

  Ouch! "He doesn't much like judo, does he!"

  "He was crippled while practicing judo," Takao said seriously. "Kata-guruma."

  The kata-guruma, or shoulder wheel: a throw in which one man lifts the other on his shoulders and throws him over his head. The result is a very hard fall, particularly if an incorrect landing is made. Pedro must have twisted in the air, trying to fall on his side so that there would not be an ippon, a point scored against him, and twisted on his side as he landed, injuring his spinal cord. I had heard he was confined to a wheelchair, but hadn't realized that he had once practiced judo. "But that's no reason to hate the art itself," I objected.

  Takao shrugged. "The man is mad. But he'll be fair. He'll award the prizes to the victors, and reap ten times as much from the television royalties, but he'll not be sorry to see judo wiped out."

  "I'll see if I can win a few matches," I said.

  "You can't do it alone. You would get killed, trying to fight every day."

  A fair statement. In sport judo, a man can participate in many matches in a few hours. But the Martial Open was no sport arena. A single throw for an ippon did not end the match here. "I'm not much for forfeiting," I said grimly.

  "How are you for getting your skull kicked in?"

  He was baiting me, and I didn't like it. But I wanted to fathom his motive, so I reined my temper, which wasn't easy with the headache I had. "There will be another match with the bull-stunner."

  "You are not afraid?"

  "I am a judoka."

  "Well spoken!" he exclaimed, surprising me. "Still you need a partner, or Pedro will not let Judo compete at all."

  Then I understood his drift. "Takao, you have given me honest criticism. Do you want it back?"

  He stared hard at me. "Yes."

  "You are old and fat and out of condition. Look at your beer belly! Your mind may retain its skill, but your body has deserted you. You would be a clown."

  A deadly insult to an eighth dan Japanese sensei. But Takao only laughed. "Strike the clown in his fat belly," he suggested, thrusting it out.

  I did not like to do it, but it was best that he know the truth before he undertook a suicidally foolish mission. I got slowly to my feet, hefting my right fist, then struck him hard, in the gut with a left-handed reverse punch: knuckles down, palm up. It was like smashing a wall. My hand, lacking the callus of the karateka, stung and went numb. Only the layer of fat on him had cushioned the blow; underneath was an incredible mass of rocklike muscle.

  "Strangle the clown by his flabby neck," he offered.

  Once this man had allowed two others to straddle a pole set across his neck, and against their combined strength bearing him down he had slowly risen up, suffering no apparent distress from all that weight on such a vulnerable part. But that had been a quarter century ago. Now he was in his fifties. I applied a two-hand strangle, ryote-jime, a reliable combination type.

  He laughed, not bothering to resist. I tightened, using my leverage to stop both his breath and the supply of blood to his brain. He stood there breathing easily, fully conscious. I exerted my full force, feeling like a fool. Only then did his breath begin to rasp, but I was unable to cut it off entirely, or to make him pass out from pressure on his carotid arteries. I could strain until I grew tired, but I could not strangle him. No man could.

  Takao might not be the judoka he used to be, but I had to admit he was still a lot of man. He had kept himself in shape, after all. And I did need a partner.

  Judo was back in business.

  I took another look at the big tournament board in the main lounge. Now there were cumulative rankings.

  Karate, Kung-fu and Aikido were tied for first place, each with a wonlost record of 1-0. Wrestling was fourth with 1-1, followed by Boxing with 0-0. Judo was sixth, 0-1, and Thai Kick-Boxing was last, 0-2.

  Sixth place! I couldn't blame Takao for being angry. He might have won the match I had lost, for the Korean's punches and kicks would have had less effect of Takao's gristle. But this was only the first round of a total of twelve.

  Now that I had come to terms with my humiliation, I studied the board with interest. I was surprised that Thai Kick-Boxing had done so poorly, for the feet were said to be the strongest part of the body, and the kick-specialists were remarkably proficient at bringing that strongest part into hard contact with the opponent's weakest part: his head. I checked the other chart and saw that one loss had been to Aikido, which wasn't really surprising, and the other to Wrestling. No doubt the wrestler had gotten hold of the kick-boxer, after taking some punishment, and not let go. Hitting and kicking are only effective so long as one's limbs are free to hit and kick. Had I gotten a proper hold on the karateka—but that was futile speculation. I could not win retroactively.

  Interesting that Boxing should have had no matches yet, while Thai Kick-Boxing and Wrestling already had two each. I understood why not every art could participate every day, since seven was an odd number. On any given day there should be three matches, with one art sitting out. But for some reason the Wrestling—Kick match had been scheduled a day before the main tournament began.

  I studied the chart, and discovered how complex it was to fit in every match without duplication. No doubt there was a way to keep it even throughout, but that simply hadn't been worth the effort. Probably the television audience had appreciated the warmup, watching Grapple meet Kick. Then, today, Kung-fu had taken Wrestling, Aikido had beaten Kick—and Karate had tromped Judo. Tomorrow it would be Karate—Kung-fu, Aikido—Wrestling and my new partner Takao would meet a boxer.

  I returned to my room, where my evening meal was catered. Ordinarily I would have been eager to get out and meet the other tournament participants, but the ignominy of my first loss was still fresh and I preferred to be alone. What would Jim be thinking now, after witnessing the horror of my introduction to the Martial Open? Had Thera seen it? Was Dato laughing? And my mysterious sponsor: he had to be sorry now.

  I watched the television news, hoping to take my mind off such unpleasant speculations. I now knew that Nicaragua had little TV, with broadcasts from Managua just six hours a day, and no doubt brought to this outpost by the relay towers I had seen on the way in.

  Small consolation. There was only one channel, and the broadcast was in Spanish, but the subject was plain. It was a rerun of the day's tournament matches with animated commentary. It included my own humiliation at the
hands and feet of Makato. I wanted to turn it off, but was morbidly fascinated.

  Takao was right: I had gone into it like a rank amateur, and Makato had clubbed me down like a professional. From the first kidney-shot I had never been in the fight at all. All the time I had thought I was taking evasive action, I had actually been cowering; when I thought I was regaining my feet, I was staggering into the karateka's perfectly timed strikes. I had not been lucky to escape uninjured; Makato had spared me because he was toying with me and had no need of stronger measures.

  The announcer chuckled as I sprawled unconscious on the tatami. A chuckle in Spanish carries all the meaning of a chuckle in English. I knew that the local audience enjoyed seeing an American bite the dust, almost literally.

  Yet perhaps I had something to gain from this experience. Now I understood, all the way down into the unconscious, that hesitancy or gentleness was folly here, even though the actual meaning of the word "judo" is "gentle way." I would not again make a gift of a match to anyone. And if I met Makato again, I would show him another face of judo.

  CHAPTER 5

  MATCHES

  The boxer was a tall black American-stylist, the leading heavyweight contender. He was a former world champion who had been unjustly stripped of his title because of his involvement with the Black Panther movement, and now was denied a match by the current champion, a man he could certainly beat. I had never understood why politics was allowed to interfere with American ring success, but that was the way it seemed to be. Perhaps that was one reason America was not more highly regarded in the martial arts.

  This boxer had taken the name of Mustapha, and was loudly anti-white, as well be might be. In recent years Mustapha had assumed a very high style of living, preferring white women for the humiliation to which he could subject them. A black Adonis, but of unquestioned boxing talent, and probably the actual, if not official, best in the world.

  But even the finest boxer is mismatched against a hardened judoka. Mustapha had yet to learn this, and he was so arrogant it was hard to feel sorry for him. I watched because I had to, but I knew it would be cruel. Another Oriental was about to give another American another licking, and the world would cheer.

  Mustapha pranced out, proud of his constantly moving legs, proud of his manly carriage. His hands were bare, of course; it would be ridiculous to use the voluminously padded boxing gloves against horn-handed bare-knuckles specialists. I was sure both boxers had been soaking their fists in brine for weeks to harden them. Mustapha wore standard boxing trunks and soft sneakers, and looked ready to knock someone out in fifteen seconds. Takao, in contrast, was short and stout. His judogi uniform with its floppy sleeves and trouser cuffs and loosely tied red and white belt only accentuated the effect. He hardly looked like a fighter, let alone a master.

  There was something very like a sneer of Mustapha's handsome face. That was his trademark, his confidence builder—yet it was not really an act. Mustapha believed in himself, as every fighter must; he was confident that no one could touch him, let alone hurt him.

  Mustapha feinted with his left in classic form, then let go with his right. It scored: a solid hook to the ear. A painful blow, because of the bare knuckles. But at the same time Takao whipped his own right hand around for a shuto, a blow with the edge of the hand to the kidney. Such a shot was illegal in pure boxing, but perfectly in order here.

  Before Mustapha, smarting as I had smarted, could draw away, Takao slung one arm around his neck and kicked his knee from behind, forcing the boxer to the floor. In that position Takao finished the fight with a chop directly to the nose. Mustapha's well-formed beak was smashed, the handsome face ruined. One more blow to the head, Takao's middle knuckle striking midway between the temple and the ear, and Mustapha was mercifully asleep.

  I shook my head. I had lost because I had lacked the gumption to do what was necessary at the outset. Takao had demonstrated how to win. I didn't like it but I knew I would complete the tournament Takao's way.

  Everything a man could want was provided to the rooms, including beautiful, healthy, tractable girls of any race and shape specified. A number of the contestants were happy to take advantage of these services, but it wasn't to my taste. I was here as a representative of judo, and I intended to uphold its standards in all regards. Takao evidently felt the same way.

  Now the tournament ladder showed Karate and Aikido tied for the lead, each 2-0. Judo had moved up to tie for third with Kung-fu, 1-1. That looked better than sixth.

  It was late afternoon. I still did not wish to socialize, and certainly did not want another dose of TV recapping. I walked down the marble staircase, out of the hail, and into the sparkling gardens. It was hard to believe that such beauty could exist within such a barren region of the continent. Vicente Pedro, however eccentric he might be in other respects, had fine botanic and esthetic taste.

  The garden was made with paths traveling around the floral and statuary displays. The paths themselves were formed of crushed colored stones set in patterns, with some sections of beautiful speckled granite. Small trees were clipped to resemble human figures. Marble benches were conveniently spaced, and there were arbors of vine-covered lattices with suspended orchids, grapes and hanging parasitic flowers.

  I meandered through a garden maze, the hedge formed into devious configurations. A man could easily get lost in here. But I focused on a nearby fountain with colored lights and picked my way out. At night, dogs were loosed to patrol these grounds, German shepherds that sounded vicious. Was it because they were impatient with these winding byways?

  Now there was a cactus enclave: dozens of weird prickly shapes, some with bright red flowers. I hadn't realized the cactus was a flowering plant before.

  No one was about. I stopped before a remarkable statue whose plaque said "Dialogue of Priapus." No man could possibly be endowed in quite the way this representation was.

  "Hell with it!" I said, and stripped off my clothes, tossing them behind the statue. I ran naked down a pebbled path, past red bougainvillaeas, yellow roses, assorted tulips and spurting fountains. It felt so good to be free even though I wasn't free. Even if the estate were not guarded by riflemen and dogs, the arid terrain would destroy a man on foot. I would remain for the full tournament, perhaps killing or being killed before it was over.

  I drew up to a clear pool. A natural stream led up to it, the waters falling in a scenic cascade into a deep hollow. The crystal green liquid looked supremely inviting, and the banks of the pool were lined with stones that would make good footing for climbing out.

  I dived in, cutting the water as cleanly as I could. The shock of entry was wonderful. The pool was much colder than I had anticipated. I came up and flopped over, back stroking lazily. What joy to drift forever, at peace with all the world.

  My eye caught an interesting movement on the opposite bank. I blinked. It was a woman, a girl, a young Indian maiden, perhaps fifteen. Evidently she had not observed me, for she was undressing. And here I was, naked, with my clothing lost far back in the gardens. I treaded water, submerged except for my face, watching her. Now the transparency of the water was embarrassing. Yet why should it be, I chided myself, here where everything pertaining to any appetite was free?

  The girl had long black hair and rather fair features. Not a full-blooded Indian, then. Her legs were well formed, and so was her bosom as it came into unfettered view. Yes, she was young, but girls evidently matured early in the tropics.

  Then, with delightful innocence, she dived into the pool. Well, why not? I swam across while she was under. "Señiorita," I said as her head appeared.

  She showed no surprise. Her large dark eyes looked into mine for a moment, appraising me. Then she stroked unhurriedly away. That was all. I finished my swim and climbed out, letting her see whatever she cared to see. It hardly matched the Priapus statue. Then I walked back to recover my clothing, feeling better.

  My next match was with a Thai kick-boxer. Actually my opponent was not fr
om Thailand, but was a young Filipino, not large at all: about 145 pounds, five feet two inches tall. He had very black hair, a big mouth, deep eyebrows, and a wispy beard. He was about twenty-two years old and his name was Filo Domingo. He was not a champion, but I knew he would not have been selected for the Martial Open if he were not near the top.

  I was taller and heavier and more developed, but I took nothing for granted. Kick-boxing was deadly, because a man can put more power into his feet than into his hands, and this man would know how to score quickly. I was not deceived by the Thai team's two prior losses; I had not yet won.

  I let him make the first move, wanting to see him committed before I acted. He tried a flashing head kick, and I ducked back; his foot missed contact by a good inch and a half. But immediately he came back with a hard gut kick. He knew I could finish him the same way the wrestler had, if I once got hold of him, so he was out for a fast win. His foot-reach was longer than my arm-reach, so he could strike first, and his balance was phenomenal. But I turned, taking the second kick on the thigh, absorbing its considerable impact.

  I kept turning, converting my motion into a reverse kick that struck Filo's thigh. I had hoped to surprise him, but I failed; he bounced away, unhurt, ready for my followup. But I stayed clear now, knowing his counter would be more deadly than his initiative. I could not hope to outkick him.

  In my first match I had not been aware of the TV cameras.

  This time I saw them, and the three judges, and a fair scattering of other contestants there to study technique. One judge was Kick, another neutral—actually the wrestling specialist—and the third should have been Takao for Judo. But no contestant was allowed to judge, so the third was a substitute, the Aikido judge, representing Judo for this one match. He would argue our case if a question of procedure or decision came up. We were at a disadvantage without a proper Judo judge, but not a great one, because the officials were all well qualified and fair minded.