Clotho’s temper flared again. She spoke a few sharp words in Japanese.
Mars smiled. “And you are the mother of a sickly dog,” he responded in the same language. Niobe and Atropos picked up the meaning from Clotho’s mind.
Clotho was aghast. “You understood!”
“Sweet stuff, War knows every language of mankind! If you wish to quarrel, you have come to the right party.”
Now she was embarrassed. “I came here to ask your help.”
“And right prettily you asked for it. Flower of the Orient! What can I do for you?”
Clotho explained how all three Aspects were new in their roles, so were having trouble handling Satan’s machinations. “Now I have insulted this martial artist called Samurai, and must give him satisfaction before I can persuade him to—”
“Samurai! I know of him! He’s a fine warrior, though perhaps not the match of those whose reputation he borrows. A man of the old school, with that old-fashioned pride. So he took you for a geisha!”
“Yes,” Clotho agreed, embarrassed.
“And you kicked him in the butt before his class.”
“Yes,” she agreed faintly.
“You will have to give him blood.”
“No! No killing!”
Mars made a gesture with his sword, and the fighting in the region ceased. The guns fell silent, and even the moans of the wounded faded out. “Woman, you have cost him face. You know what that means?”
“Yes,” she said grimly.
“He is inflexible on matters of honor. Few like him exist today; he is steel in an age of rust and plastic—a genuine man. I can satisfy him on the martial level, but only you can abate his inner pain, and until you do, he will not do as you request. Nor should he. Death before dishonor, according to the great tradition.”
“But we’re trying to avoid death, to prevent war—” She faltered, staring at him.
“And I am War,” Mars finished. “Woman, your dainty foot has a predilection for your mouth. But I understand. I am an Incarnation, and you are another. I will do what I can for you today, and some other time you will do what you can for me.”
Clotho sighed. “So all males want only one thing!”
“You will adjust your threads to simplify my situation, when I get in a bind,” Mars clarified. “This is the manner Incarnations cooperate.”
“Oh.” Clotho was flushing as well as she was able.
“The reason women suppose that men want only one thing,” Mars continued blithely, “is that that is all women are capable of perceiving in men. Women do not properly comprehend matters like, for example, honor.”
“That’s not true!” Clotho exclaimed.
“Ah, so? Then let’s discuss honor. You have impaired Samurai’s honor; if you want to deal with him, you must yield him yours. You are of course a virgin—”
“How can you know that?” she demanded.
“It is one of the things we male sexists relate to,” Mars said. “Now do you understand the blood you must offer to Samurai?”
Clotho hesitated, appalled.
He’s right, Niobe thought.
It’s the way men are, Atropos agreed.
“You like him, don’t you?” Mars inquired cruelly.
Clotho launched herself at him, clawing at his face.
There goes that temper again, Niobe thought.
Girl’s got spunk, Atropos agreed.
Mars caught her effortlessly. “I can see we’re going to get along just fine,” he said. “I love to have pretty girls leap into my arms. Well, I’ll be there, and I’ll set it up for you. But at the finish, it must be you and Samurai. You’ll just have to decide how bad you want to square things. He’s one fine man.” He set her down and turned away, and the battle resumed.
Clotho stood, angry tears on her face, unable to counter Mars’ insolence.
Let’s get out of here, girl, Atropos thought.
Numbly, Clotho extended a thread and slid back up toward Purgatory. Niobe sympathized with her. The girl had fought all her life for independence and equality, and now she was being thrust into the old sexist role. She was not the same person Niobe had been in her youth, yet she was close enough so that Niobe knew better than to interfere.
They had lunch and adjusted a few threads, preoccupied. Then Clotho donned slacks, low-heeled shoes, and a businesslike shirt, and rode a thread back down to the dojo.
Mars appeared as she landed before it. He was garbed in a white gi. Niobe had never been certain how Mars traveled, but it seemed to be related to his sword. Each Incarnation had a symbol of office that was imbued with much of the magic, and the red sword was obviously Mars’ symbol.
“Follow me,” Mars said, handing her his sword.
Clotho looked at it. The thing was unsheathed—a massive instrument, with a handle almost too big for her small hand to hold, and a gleaming double-edged blade that glowed red from some deep layer. The whole thing had a magical aura of menace; it made her nervous. She held it awkwardly by two hands, the blade pointing straight down.
Even Niobe was astonished. What’s he up to? He never sets aside his red sword!
We’ll find out soon enough, Atropos thought.
The girl at the desk recognized Clotho. “Please leave,” she said. “You are not welcome here.”
Mars leaned over the desk. “I am her champion. Signal your hirelings.”
Two men appeared at the inner doorway. Both were in gis and wore black belts. “The lady has asked you to leave, mister,” one said, stepping forward.
I think we’re going to see some man-style foolishness, Atropos thought with a certain relish. When they don’t have sex on their minds, they do like to fight.
“I have an appointment,” Mars said. He stepped into the man, caught his outstretched arm, spun about, and sent him rolling across the floor.
The other man turned—and Mars’ leg shot out and swept the other man’s foot from under him, so that he landed on the floor with a resounding slap.
“Now go in and announce me,” Mars said. “I expect a full turnout, and the courtesy of the dojo.”
Without further word, the two men hurried away.
“But you could have hurt them!” Clotho protested.
Mars walked back to Clotho and proffered his arm. “Not with a simple hand throw and a foot-sweep; they know how to take falls. I merely showed them a hint of my competence.”
She held his sword out to him, but he demurred. “I shall not be using that here, but cannot trust it to the hand of a mortal. Hold it until we are done.”
Clotho managed to hold the dread sword by one hand, and took his arm with the other. She walked with him through the bamboo curtain and down the hall toward the main chamber of the dojo. “Are you planning to fight all of them?”
“Certainly,” Mars replied. “But—”
“I will run the line. Then it will be your turn.”
“But—”
“Do not be concerned, cutes. It will be all right.”
I hope so, Clotho thought nervously.
He knows what he’s doing, Niobe thought reassuringly. The three of us may not know what he’s doing, but he knows.
They reached the second curtain. “Take off your shoes,” Mars told her. He was already barefoot. She took them off. They stepped through. About forty students were lined along the far wall, standing barefooted on the edge of the big mat. They seemed to be arranged roughly in order of rank, with the white-belts at one end and the black-belts at the other. There were, she noted, several women among them.
In the center of the mat stood Samurai. He turned to face them.
Mars stretched out his right arm. A red cloth appeared in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he wound this belt about his middle and tied it in place with the odd knot that martial artists used. There was a murmur of amazement from the line of students. It was as if they had never seen a red belt before.
Is something significant happening? Niobe thought.
Mars stepped up to the mat, and halted, and bent forward at the waist. He’s bowing to the mat! Atropos thought, finding it funny.
But Clotho had heard of this. “It’s the ritual,” she murmured. “Always bow when joining or leaving the tatami, the mat, for it breaks your fall and spares your bones. Always step on it barefooted.”
Now Mars stepped onto the mat. “You assume the belt of a Master Dan,” Samurai said, as if in challenge.
“You are observant,” Mars replied.
Samurai turned and walked to the black end of the line of students. He dropped into a cross-legged seated position.
Mars faced the class, and bowed to the line. The line bowed back.
Then Mars strode forward and took hold of the student at the white end of the line. This was a young woman, so small and light that her bare feet left the mat when he brought her forward. He can’t attack her! Niobe thought with horror.
Yet no one else protested, or even seemed dismayed. They merely watched.
Mars brought her to the center of the mat and held her by the right lapel and left sleeve other gi. “Try a throw,” he told her.
The girl turned and hauled on his jacket. She got nowhere. Then Mars stepped back, drawing her along with him so that she had to step quickly forward to avoid losing her balance. At the moment her right foot touched the mat, his left foot swept against it. Her foot went up and she fell backward. She landed on the mat, her left arm outstretched, slapping the mat resoundingly, her right arm captive to his grip.
“De-ashi harai,” Mars said. “The Advanced-Foot Sweep. Remember it.” Then he let her go, and she scrambled up, bowed hastily, and returned to the line.
Mars nodded to the next student, a boy in white belt. The boy came out, took hold, and tried a throw of his own. It also got nowhere.
Mars drew him forward, as before, but this time set his left foot against the boy’s kneecap and hauled him into a tumble on the mat. “Hiza-guruma,” Mars said. “The Knee-Wheel. Practice your falls, son, or you’ll get hurt.”
“Yessir!” the boy exclaimed, scrambling up, bowing, and running back to his place in the line.
Mars nodded to the third student, another woman in a white belt. Again he gave her the chance to try to throw him, and she failed; then he threw her spinning to the mat with a hand-and-foot motion that seemed to be in between that of the prior two throws. “Sasae-tsurikomi-ashi,” he said. “The Propping-Drawing-Ankle Throw.”
There was a murmur along the line. “He’s doing the First Course of Instruction!” someone said behind Clotho. She turned to look. A brown-belt had come in behind her, off the mat. It was the instructor of the morning beginners’ class; evidently he had returned too late to join this one, so was watching from the side.
“Is that significant?” Clotho asked.
Now he recognized her. “You’re the—”
“The same,” she agreed. “I brought my champion to meet Samurai.”
“In a red belt!” he murmured, amazed. “That’s ninth or tenth Dan!”
“Is that good?”
“Oh—you don’t know judo?”
“Nothing,” she confessed. “I just came to talk to Samurai, and then things went wrong.”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Just so,” he said after a moment. “Very well, I’ll be glad to explain. The master grades of judo are the Dan, as opposed to the student grades, the kyu. The Dan are black belt. But the very highest grades may wear the red belt. Normally such grades are only achieved as honors for service to the art, by masters who no longer compete. A competitor with a red belt should be the finest judoka in the world.”
“Oh, that explains why the class was so surprised.”
“It certainly does. As far as I know, there is no living, competing red belt today. So this man is bound to be an impostor.”
“He is Mars, the Incarnation of War.”
“Oh? Then maybe he—” The brown-belt shrugged. He returned to her prior question. “There’s nothing wrong with the First Course,” he explained. “They’re all good throws. But once people catch on to the order, they’ll know exactly which throw he’s going to do next. That makes it much harder. It doesn’t matter for the whitebelts, but he’d have trouble throwing me with a throw I expected, and it would probably be impossible with a black-belt.”
Mars threw the next student over his right hip. “There’s the fourth—Uki-goshi, the Floating Hip Throw,” the brown-belt said. “I’ve never seen it done better. But I wonder where he could have gotten his training?”
Mars threw the next backward. “O-soto-gari,” the brown-belt murmured. “He certainly knows the basics.”
The next student fell. “And O-goshi,” the brown-belt said.
“Didn’t he just do that one?”
“No, that was Uki-goshi, a different throw. It looks similar and the footwork is similar, but the feel is quite different. Uke takes a much harder fall.”
“But I thought Uki was the throw, not the faller.”
The brown-belt smiled. “You really don’t know, do you? The one who does the throwing is always called Tori, the taker, and the one who gets thrown is Uke, the receiver. Anyway, the Uki-goshi is done stiff-kneed, while O-goshi flexes the knees, and—oh, there’s O-uchi-gari, the Major Inner Reaping! Beautiful!”
Clotho—and Niobe—were having trouble distinguishing the throws. They were ready to take the brown-belt’s word that they were being properly done. Clotho took advantage of his presence to ask another question. “What is this—this running the line?”
“Well, a challenger shows his superiority by defeating a number of others in rapid order,” the brown-belt said. “For example, a black-belt should be able to run a line of five brown-belts and throw them all, because his skill is greater. When the line is mixed, they do the lowest grades first, the Kyus, and work up to the Dans. Of course, by the time someone has thrown twenty or thirty people, he’s apt to be getting tired, so it gets harder both ways. No one has ever run our full line victoriously; if your friend makes it, he will have proved his rank. Some of ours are Sandans, and one’s a Yodan, and of course Samurai is Rokudan, the sixth level, and the champion of the eastern states. He’ll be world champion one day, if he decides to go for it.”
“He might not go for it?”
“Well, he’s getting old for competition, and judo is only part of his interest. He’s a master in karate, too, and aikido, and his specialty is the sword; no one can touch him there. He’s been searching for this mythical finger-strike, too— Say! Look at that Tsuri-komi-goshi! I’ve never seen a prettier throw! Did you see how he got full extension? I’ve never been able to do that on an Uke my own weight!”
The throw had looked just like all the others to Clotho and the other Aspects, but evidently there was a difference.
“But now he’s into the yellow-belts, and when he hits the green-belts he’ll have to work a little for it. Oh, nice Okuri-ashi-harai! That’s not as easy as it looks.”
Clotho was willing to take his word for it.
“God, I wish I was in that line!” the brown-belt said after the next throw. “It’s a privilege to be thrown by a master like that! Is he really the Incarnation of War?”
“Yes, he—”
“Oh, there’s the Uchi-mata! Samurai himself couldn’t have done it better!”
They watched while Mars moved into the green-belts. They were trying to throw him and failing as dismally as the white-belts had, and had no better success in resisting the return throws.
“That’s amazing!” the brown-belt commented. “I’ve never seen someone give them a chance like that; usually they put them away as fast as they can. He’s got a lot of confidence.”
“He should,” Clotho said, though she was amazed herself.
Then she saw Mars drop down. Someone had thrown him! But immediately the brown-belt opponent fell too. Both of them were lying on the mat.
“Yoko-otoshi! The Side Drop!” the brown-belt exclaimed. “Beauti
ful!”
“You mean it’s supposed to look like that?” Clotho asked.
“Of course. It’s a sacrifice throw.”
“Oh.”
They watched several more standing throws. Then Mars went down again. He had his foot in the other’s belly, and lifted him over so that he did a roll and landed on his back. “Tomoe-nage, the Stomach Throw,” the brown-belt said.
The throws continued as Mars progressed three-quarters of the way down the line. There seemed to be no end to them. But obviously the class was highly impressed.
“Soto-makikomi,” the brown-belt remarked as both men went down again. “I hate to take falls on that one! Of course it’s a power-throw; there’s not much stopping it once it starts. If he can do the next one, the Ukiotoshi—”
It seemed to Niobe that the brown-belt who was Uke at the moment simply threw himself on the mat, but the one beside her whistled softly. “Perfect!”
A black-belt came out of the line. Mars waited while the man tried a foot-sweep without success, then said, “Try another.” There was a chuckle along the line.
“What’s so funny?” Clotho asked.
“The situation. He’s up to the thirty-seventh throw in the Basic Forty. That’s Ushiro-goshi, the Rear Loin. It’s a counterthrow following an attempted hip-throw. Clyde didn’t try a hip-throw.”
Clyde tried a sacrifice throw, without effect; it was as if Mars were an immovable wall. There was another chuckle.
Then, moving like lightning, Clyde tried a hip-throw— and Mars picked him up and threw him to the mat. Clyde had gambled and lost. He got up, bowed, and smiled; he didn’t mind losing to an artist of that skill. “And he did it left-side,” the brown-belt murmured in awe. “Clyde tried to fool him, left-side, and he was ready.”
“Left-side is different?”
“And how! I really sweat on them!”
The last man in the line approached and took hold, but declined to try a throw. “Randori,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Clotho asked.
“That’s our Yodan,” the brown-belt said. “He’s a top competitor; he doesn’t like to do stationary throws. He prefers to counter, or to seize his opportunity. He knows your man will try the Yoko-gake, the Side Body Drop; he wants to make him do it in a moving situation.”
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