Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  The karateka missed a major punch, and Sato seized his arm. Jesus tried to hit him with his free hand, but Sato turned, falling on the locked elbow, dislocating it.

  Jesus had his arm reset immediately, so that he could continue in the tournament, perhaps with the aid of painkilling drugs. But Karate had lost its first match. And I made a note: do not attempt many karate-type punches against aikido: Jesus had been lucky that the dislocation had been minor.

  Then I turned to Hiroshi's two matches. The first had been against wrestling, and tiny Hiroshi, the smallest man in the tournament, faced Whale, the largest.

  Hiroshi stood there in the traditional aikido costume, the hakama, a kind of pleated skirt extending to the ankles. Dresses seem effeminate only to those who do not know their martial history. Yet perhaps the suggestion of gentleness was appropriate, for Hiroshi was a kind man. That showed up even in the film: there was an aura about him that suggested no one need hesitate to ask a favor. Surely Takao was already forgiven, could he but bring himself to stand in this man's presence.

  The match was fast and clean. Whale rushed at Hiroshi, thinking to crush him in a huge and fatty embrace. The tiny man waited calmly. Whale, surprised but hardly dismayed by this easy capture, seized him and started squeezing, ready to settle for submission in lieu of broken ribs.

  Hiroshi calmly put one hand on the small of the wrestler's back, at his spine, and pressed there with his fingers. With just one finger of the other hand, he pushed under Whale's nose. It looked futile, but I knew that such pressure on the two nerve locations, spinal and facial, could be excruciating. A man of any stature can be brought up short by one finger held sidewise under his nose. Anyone can verify this by simple trial. Whale was trapped, and he had to surrender.

  Then Boxing: and Mustapha made the same mistake of trying to finish the frail-seeming old man quickly. He started punching hard, and as the agile sensei moved aside, Mustapha rushed him, thinking to clinch with one arm while punishing him with short jabs to the kidneys and perhaps a rabbit punch to the back of the neck to finish him off.

  Hiroshi stepped to the front and with his two hands tumbled Mustapha to the left and back. It was a perfect sumi-otoshi, or corner drop, a very difficult throw to execute. Then he seized Mustapha's hand and used both his own hands to splay the fingers apart, applying pressure with his thumbs to the back of the hand. It was a submission hold, and the boxer submitted rapidly.

  Yes, little Hiroshi was a remarkable man. But it seemed to me I could take him, if I were careful to stay clear of his armbar. I was intrigued by the care he took to prevent injury; apparently gentleness was not incompatible with victory.

  Hiroshi in person was even more remarkable than on film. Not only was he the lightest man in the tournament, he was the oldest: sixty-two. He was five-feet two-inches tall and weighed 105 pounds. He was as graceful as a dancer; equilibrium was his keynote.

  Gentle? Yes, but he was proud, too, and the two were linked. I had wondered, when considering him, why he had entered this brutal tournament. It was not that he needed the money. He was poor, certainly, but he lived austerely by choice. It was not that he craved notoriety, for he had little use for personal reputation. Hiroshi was the leading sensei in his martial art, so he was called the O-Sensei. He could have sent anyone to represent Aikido. He had come himself because he did not wish to bear the responsibility for the possible injury or death of another man.

  Some of the greatest pacifists are leaders in the martial arts, and this is no paradox. Hiroshi was the perfect example.

  We closed, and despite my preparation and caution I was too slow. Hiroshi's hands were a blur as he caught mine, and then he had the kote-gaishi, the reverse hand, and I was in agony. He was turning my hand outward, putting pressure on my wrist, and I knew he could break it easily. I had seen him apply such submission holds in the films, yet I had fallen into this one anyway.

  I rolled forward and wrenched myself free. But this was a blundering tactic against such a master, and I felt something break. It was my own fault; he had not been pressing really hard, assuming that I would yield—and perhaps I should have. But I was only half his age, and lacked his mature discretion in the heat of battle. If I had only somersaulted backward...

  Now I was on the floor. I put both feet on his stomach and grasped his ankles with my hands despite the pain in my right. I shoved him down that way; even Whale could not have held his footing against that leverage. Immediately I was on him, turning my body to the side, catching his neck in a strangle scissors hold, choking him with my legs. Now he had to yield.

  Afterwards, he checked my hand, expressing sincere regret.

  There was little I could say, for we both knew I had been responsible for my injury, and had accepted it as the price of victory. My wrist appeared to be sprained, and one finger was broken.

  So I had won, but now I had a liability that could cost me dearly in the second half of the tournament.

  CHAPTER 6

  DANCE

  It was time for the halftime show. We were to have three days of relaxation during which the rigors of training could be eased and battle animosities set aside. A small army of girls of every nationality arrived by truck to reinforce the regulars, and exotic aromas wafted from the kitchen complex. Vicente Pedro evidently planned to entertain royally.

  There were motion pictures showing in three separate rooms: one conventional American romance with subtitles in Chinese/Japanese symbols, one Japanese martial arts sequence that I watched with interest, and one pornography that required no translations. Each had few attendees at any given hour of the day; most of the men preferred to skip the vicarious offerings in favor of the real ones. A number, however, eschewed sexual contact as debilitating during physical training, a myth that many athletes believed.

  "The dance tonight is formal," Takao told me gloomily. "Full regalia, including women."

  "Our host provides both clothing and distaff," I said. "Excellent selection, both. No problem at all."

  He shook his head. "If my wife ever found out—"

  I laughed, but stopped when I realized he was serious. My tough roommate was turning out to be a man of many hesitations, when not in combat. He really did not want to date a local girl, or even a Japanese offering. "Your wife—good looking?" I inquired awkwardly.

  "Fat like a Sumo wrestler!" he said, grimacing. "But for thirty years she has believed in me, when not many did, and there is not her like in all the world."

  I was surprised to discover this particular loyalty in so callously practical a man. But the business with Hiroshi should have given me a clue. It was never possible to judge character on an incomplete basis. "Then decline the honor of company," I suggested. "If I were married—" To a girl like Thera Drummond?

  Foolish thought!

  "Pedro insists," he said. I already knew enough of our crippled host to realize that his foibles had to be obliged if one cared to remain on the premises. He wanted his formal dance, each man dressed and with a pretty girl, and so it would be. "And I must have the money," Takao finished.

  To get that wife over to Brazil, I remembered. "Then you'll just have to explain to her that you had no choice."

  He shook his head lugubriously. "This one thing she would not believe."

  Jealous wife! "Maybe if someone else explained?"

  "No. She would believe only a Japanese sensei of high standing and which of those would speak for me?"

  I let it drop. It seemed like such a trivial problem, yet obviously it was a matter of great concern to him.

  At least I was in the clear. I had no wife and no serious attachments. Probably I would never see Thera again, for she would meet boys in college. I could attend this function with one of the provided girls. Perhaps the pond-maiden. She was young, but old enough to appreciate the extravaganza.

  But she wasn't in the lineup. I asked the mayordomo, the Spanish head butler—a genuine Spaniard from Spain, no doubt a status symbol—describing her. The
man's eyes widened momentarily, and he took me aside. "Señor, that girl is not available! Do not inquire of her again!" he whispered.

  I bowed to necessity. It was not important, really. The glimpses I had had of the nymph's bare torso did not give me any special claim upon her. I accepted instead a fine buxom Latin girl who spoke no English, thus solving the problem of inane conversation. The banquet room was at one side of the main ballroom, and the whole complex was huge. The entire floor was of polished white marble, and there were myriad full-length mirrors on the walls alternating with costly hangings. Around the top was a carved and painted frieze illustrating mythological scenes similar to the motifs of the outdoor statuary: cupids, centaurs, and a great many well-formed nymphs.

  At one end was a full orchestra in formal attire, playing soft music indefatigably. Also a battalion of camareros, or waiters, and a wellequipped cantinero: the bartender.

  Every man was garbed in his national costume, making for a splendid and diverse array. I wore a black tuxedo, but Whale sported a very nice green suit with modern wide tie and ruffled purple shirt. Mustapha, however, was resplendent in a golden lamé suit with cerise pants, a shocking pink shirt, a mink hat and genuine alligator shoes. He had gold and ruby earrings, a big diamond ring, and a pendant on his chest: golden lion with diamond eyes. He must have done some fast talking to convince our host that this was his national attire.

  The girls were all dressed almost alike in pastel-hued floor-length gowns of white, pink, or blue. Each had fluffy sleeves and decolletage showing their deep bosoms to advantage. My own date, Lufita, was in yellow, and I reined my gaze from her impressive and quivering cleavage with difficulty. It was all a rather neat counterpoint, though there was also a somewhat cynical symbolism: the implication that men were complete and distinct individuals, while women were interchangeable. Pedro had a fine regard for the martial arts and the men who practiced them, but it seemed that to him women were mere accessories.

  I glanced at him, at the head table, seated in his wheelchair. He was almost concealed by the fare loading the table and I could not actually make out more than his right shoulder and part of his head. I did not know the precise nature of his handicap, but suspected it was similar to paraplegia: an injury of the spinal nerve that numbed and incapacitated the lower extremities. If Pedro actually had no sensation from the waist down, he would be unable to derive sexual pleasure, except, possibly, for a thin orgasm when his genitals were competently massaged. An almost intolerable situation for a rich, handsome (if the statue were to be believed), influential, and not too old a man who would normally have had his pick of the most desirable women of the world. Unless he constructed a formidable defensive psychological shield.

  We sat at a tremendous carved mahogany table, with high chairs of leather and mahogany, real works of art. The service plates and vases were of beaten gold.

  The camareros circulated with trays of drinks, and they would take orders for practically anything a man could want. Others pushed buffet serving carts bearing hot and cold delicacies, shrimp, lobster, oysters, button mushrooms, crab meat, snails and garnishes of raw vegetables carved into elegant shapes: radish roses, turnip daisies, parsnip petals, onions cut into chrysanthemum flowers, and carrot curls set off by ripe olive halves and parsley foliage. Then the first main course: whole suckling pig, roasted over charcoal in a hole in the ground. It was accompanied by heart of palms salad, and a whole group of boiled and fried dishes like yuca frita—potato-like tubers, fried plantains, guava omelette, rice, black beans, assorted fish, squid, and so many exotic soups I could not hope to keep track.

  Dazed by the variety, and uncomfortable amid such opulence, I was daunted by the gustatorial array until Lufita helped me. She spoke only Spanish, but she made clear by gesture and example what was expected, and I appreciated it. She gave me a small fork for tasting the snails—which were not bad, actually—and indicated that I should taste a little bit of salt and lemon juice in my hand before attempting the potent tequila. Even so, it was more than I liked, and I reached for a rich red drink I supposed was tomato juice to cool my gullet.

  Lufita cautioned me with a gesture, and I paused to take stock of that other beverage before actually sipping, despite the alcohol burning in my throat. It was warm and thick and not actually the hue of tomato, and the odor "El toro," she murmured, and nodded at the cup, barely smiling as she sipped her own. I lifted mine to match the toast, then realized that it wasn't a toast, but a point of information. Toro—that was Spanish for—I stared into the rich warm fluid, but could not bring myself to imbibe. It was fresh blood from a slaughtered bull.

  After that I confined myself to the mild Spanish cider, preferring to avoid the extremes of alcohol and el toro. Even so, my head soon grew pleasantly dizzy, and my bladder urgent. Later I learned that that innocent-seeming cider had more than twice the alcohol content of beer.

  My gut was bursting by the time dessert came, and I could only pick at the fancy tropical fruit dessert, not even wondering what it might be. This high living was too rich for me.

  At last the table was cleared, and I waddled to the ballroom proper, excusing myself en route for an imperative stop at the men's room. I discovered I had lots of company; the facility was crowded with unhappy warriors of the table. Whale was breaking wind gustily as he waited in line for a toilet. Mustapha the boxer was puking into a sink, and several others looked as though they wished they could do the same.

  Mustapha raised his head and spied me. For the moment we were not Black and White, but two sick Americans trapped far south of the border. "I don't know if it was the pickled quail eggs or the fried caterpillars," he gasped, wiping the spume from his lips. "Or maybe that damned black doll laughing when she told me. Bitch!"

  I had noted his date. "I thought she was original African."

  "She is. Her folks were never slave. To her, I'm a honkey. Over one-sixteenth white, you know. God, my stomach!"

  "You should have stuck to regular fare, as I did."

  He raised an eyebrow. His nose remained in bad shape, but he appeared to have avoided facial damage after Takao's smash. "You mean those fritters you were stowing away? Those were made of calves' brains. I checked everything out after I ate one of those chocolate-covered ants. Or do you mean that roasted spider monkey meat?"

  My stomach spoke. "Move over!" I yelped, putting my face to the stinking sink.

  In due course I found my way back to Lufita, who was sitting demurely at the fringe of the dancing area. I dropped into the seat she had saved for me, hoping no spatters of vomit showed on my tuxedo. Chocolate-covered ants!

  The music played. Lufita nudged me unobtrusively, signaling that the men were expected to dance and not sit out. All around the ballroom I saw men rising, some very uncomfortably, in response to similar hints from their partners. I almost laughed out loud; it was so like a junior high school prom, with the girls willing but the boys slicked down and hating it. Had Pedro set this up deliberately to humiliate the men who retained their physical prowess? I moved out and danced with her, feeling like a puppet on strings. She was very good, which was fortunate, as I was not. I had never been much for this sort of thing.

  The movements of the dance brought out the diverse costumes of the men. The Japanese were wearing formal black silk kimonos with trousers and wooden sandals. Makato the Korean had white trousers and a black hat and sandals. Wang Hsu, the Chinese kung-fu sifu, wore a luxurious silk robe with a golden dragon embroidered on the back; I knew without asking that the thread was genuine gold. But the younger kung-fu disciple, Pung Lii, was austere in contrast, in a simple Mao suit. The Russian wrestler, Oleg Usk, had the traditional baggy peasant trousers and blouse with voluminous sleeves, plus a fur hat. The Thai kick-boxer wore a saffron robe down to his ankles, tied by a black sash. The Argentinian boxer was in a gaucho outfit, with riding boots, leather pants, a wide colored shirt, black hat and even a whip.

  And more—but I was receiving warning nudges from L
ufita for rubbernecking. Yet it was a dazzling spectacle.

  After a few minutes of mixed pleasure and agonybecause I hated trying to dance, but liked holding a woman of her shape and gracewe sat down, and I began to regret my inability to converse with her. I had assumed that all the girls were hired prostitutes, but now it seemed that geishas might be the more appropriate term. Talented entertainers deserving of respect.

  "How do you do, sir." I turned to the voice to find Hiroshi, the little aikido sensei, on my other side. He was, in his black pleated skirt, the epitome of the Japanese elder.

  "Glad to see you," I said, somewhat at a loss. My broken finger gave a twinge, and I had a faint notion how Takao felt. It was embarrassing to receive an injury at the hands of this man, because only grievous blunder by the other party could put even that stigma upon him. But how did one apologize for receiving injury?

  "I trust your hand is better?" he said. "I regret that my inexcusable carelessness—"

  "Much better," I said quickly, though it wasn't.

  "I would not presume to interfere with another man's business," he said obliquely.

  I caught the hint. Was it about Takao? "Please feel free to speak without concern for offense," I said.

  "Our host, while generous and effective, is a peculiar man. Perhaps he might be considered unreasonable by some, in certain respects. Yet he has a consistent rationale."

  Hiroshi, old and discreet as he was, was not the type to gossip idly. What was he driving at? "He certainly has been strict about the festivities," I said. "But it is a nice enough dance, with no expense spared. Good experience for us all, I'm sure."