“Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“It wasn’t anyone you knew.”
“That’s not enough! Who was she?”
Silence. Mage pressed the button on the shotgun light and swept the beam unsteadily across her face. She stared into the muzzle of the gun without any hint of fear. Slowly, he lowered the gun, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
“If you don’t want me,” she said, “any woman in the world—”
He shut his eyes and squeezed the trigger, shooting her in the chest.
28
Kuromaku
He was still standing there, eyes closed, when one of the house guards hurtled around a corner barely ten feet behind him. The guard slowed, then noticed that Mage had dropped the shotgun and seemed to be crying. He hesitated, saying almost gently, “Okay, friend. Turn around.”
Mage obeyed with agonizing slowness—and then pressed a button on his flashgun. The sudden burst of intense light startled the gunman, and Mage looked at the guard’s black uniform, black-leather gloves and black-finished Uzi, and crossed his mind’s eyes. The gun, now a toy of cloth and leather, drooped in the guard’s hand and when he tried to pull the trigger, he found his hand encased in steel, his arms trapped in his metal jacket. He fell backward, and Mage knelt beside him.
“Where is Tamenaga?”
“Go to hell.”
Mage shook his head. “I tried that, but he wasn’t there. Those pants look very tight. If they cut off your circulation, you could get a very nasty localized case of gangrene. I hear that’s what happened to King Herod. Now, where the fuck is he?”
“Let me up and I’ll show you.”
Mage sighed, plucked the limp Uzi from the iron glove and tied a reef knot in the barrel. The guard merely smiled.
“Where is he?” Mage repeated.
“Standing right behind you.”
Mage glanced over his shoulder and saw a burly, middle-aged Japanese in a blood-red silk jacket and black pants less than ten feet away. Tamenaga Tetsuo was looking at the body at his feet and shaking his head sadly. The two magicians stared at each other, and then Tamenaga held his hands out, palms up and empty.
“It seems I misjudged you, Mr. Magistrale. You may be better suited to the job than I had dared to imagine. Why did you have to kill her?”
Mage stood, turning his back on the helpless guard, and didn’t answer.
“Because she betrayed you?”
“She didn’t betray me,” Mage replied, careful to keep his voice steady despite his fear and anger. “That isn’t Amanda Sharmon.”
“What makes you—”
“It’s your creature,” snapped Mage. “The mujina. She actually had me fooled for a minute; I made the mistake of thinking, hoping you’d used the focus to create a phony corpse, instead of looking. Then I noticed that the body language was wrong, and the perfume, but I thought she might still be human—until she forgot to blink, or even to dilate her pupils when I shone a light in her eyes. And her nose didn’t cast a shadow either.”
Tamenaga knelt by the body and turned the head face-up, knocking the platinum wig askew. The mujina, dead, lacked any features, and her skin was the color of old ivory, with the faint sheen of a dull mirror. Tamenaga picked up the key and grimaced.
“A fake. Your own hair, I presume?”
Mage nodded. “But the key was Amanda’s. I thought that was where the magic was stored, but I’ve been experimenting and I found that it was in the hair; the key didn’t make a difference. Whose hair is it, anyway?”
Tamenaga stood. Higuchi had told him how Amanda had tied a key onto the focus, enabling him to open any lock—until she’d stolen both key and focus. Higuchi’s stupidity and her brilliance had gotten them both killed.
“This is no place for a civilized discussion, Mr. Magistrale,” he said rather sadly. “Would you care to follow me?”
Mage cast his eyes around the antiques and artwork in Tamenaga’s office. “Very impressive.”
“They have a certain sentimental value. I suspect you would consider my aesthetic sense rather limited; I find nothing else so beautiful as money.” Tamenaga smiled. “But like you, Magistrale-san, I have taken care to surround myself with beauty.”
“Money doesn’t impress me.”
“I know. You don’t really understand it—so few people do. After all, you’re not a mathematician. You think almost entirely in images: women, landscapes, telling a story in one frozen moment. Like your lady Amanda, I think in numbers, numbers that do not fit in ordinary minds. I can think of hundreds of billions of dollars and know every one of them.
“To you, this may be meaningless. But most of the world’s money now exists only in the form of numbers, in the memories of computers, and I can influence it in subtle little ways: rounding down a decimal on an exchange rate, collecting real interest on imaginary investments, adding a few extra expenses onto a Department of Defense contract. And the stock exchange, of course—you’d be surprised at how a slightly inaccurate quote can cause a rise or fall. I made millions out of the eighty-seven crash.”
“You caused it?”
“Yes and no. It was inevitable; I merely hastened it by a few days. I cannot buy this country—not yet—but I can buy anything in it. I could probably buy New York, if I wanted it. What would you like?”
“Some answers would be nice.”
Tamenaga reclined in his leather-and-kevlar chair, smiling. “Ask.”
“Who killed Amanda?”
“Yukitaka—the rukoro-kubi. The mujina lured her into the car by assuming the appearance of her friend, the Holdridge girl. Yukitaka was waiting in the back seat.”
“Why?”
“Amanda Sharmon stole from my organization; she took the focus from Higuchi, who must have been fool enough to tell her about it, maybe even taught her how to use it. I regret her death—I was impressed by her mathematical work, and she could have been a valuable asset to us. She obviously had a great talent for magic, as well as intelligence and imagination, just as you do—but I cannot allow people to steal from me with impunity; I have a reputation to maintain. I’m sure you understand.”
Mage didn’t comment. “Why did the rukoro-kubi—Yukitaka? —attack me? To recover the focus?”
“He didn’t mean to attack you. He was merely defending himself, he hadn’t expected you to be so alert. Most people who see—saw him late at night refused to believe their own eyes and assumed they were dreaming. You knew better. And we didn’t know then that you had the focus. When Yukitaka didn’t find it on Amanda’s body, we thought she had hidden it, but it had never occurred to any of us that she would give it away.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Tamenaga sighed. “He wanted to take something of yours to plant on her body, or to photograph it with your camera.”
“To frame me.”
“Yes. She might have left evidence somewhere to implicate Higuchi, or even myself—we needed to give the police a more obvious suspect. We assumed that she’d hidden the focus somewhere; I never imagined that she might have given it to you, simply handed over an item of that power to a complete stranger, but perhaps she thought she had no further need for it.” Tamenaga was silent for a moment. “Later it occurred to me that you might have it and that if you were arrested, the focus would probably end up in an envelope full of personal effects—very easy for us to recover. If not, it would give us a lever—your freedom, which was obviously invaluable to you, in return for the focus.
“But, quite frankly, you and your friend astounded us. When it became obvious that Mr. Takumo had also learned how to use the focus, however imperfectly, I decided to recruit you.”
“By sending ninja and a rukoro-kubi to kill us?”
Tamenaga smiled toothily. “A simple test of your ability, no more. You passed. Where are my kunoichi, by the way?”
Mage tried to think of a flippant answer and failed. “We buried them,” he replied bleakly.
>
Tamenaga bowed his head for a moment, his expression neutral. “Any more questions?”
“Who made the foci?”
“A good question; I only wish I knew. They were already old when I found them; the legend attached to them attributed them to the god Hotei, patron deity of the yakuza—but as I do not believe in gods, I find the legend unhelpful. May I ask you a question?” Mage shrugged. “Why did you come here?”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
Tamenaga nodded, careful not to show his triumph. “And where will you go now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come work for me. I’ll need someone to replace Higuchi, and I don’t see why Mr. Takumo couldn’t learn the job. And you—well, work can always be found for a man of your talents. Removing flaws from diamonds should be easy for you, and good practice. Shall we say a hundred thousand a week, to begin?”
Mage was silent.
“Two hundred thousand, then. I know, you’re not interested in money, but imagine all the women you could buy —oh, don’t look so shocked. All women can be bought, Magistrale-san. Your precious Amanda sold herself to Higuchi for a cure for cancer—cheap at twice the price. Others will do it for diamonds, for furs, for Maseratis, for drugs, for a shot at stardom—or for a large donation to Greenpeace or Amnesty, if that’s the sort you prefer. Or for a few effortless miracles.”
“What about the trial?”
The kuromaku smiled. “There won’t be a trial. The police in Edmonton have already found some of the girl’s belongings in a man’s room—the man who held you up in Totem Rock, incidentally. He won’t be able to testify, of course—he blew his brains out last night with a fragmenting bullet.”
“How did you arrange that?”
Tamenaga ignored the question. “Do we have a deal?”
“What about Kelly?”
Tamenaga raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I can find her a job somewhere and triple her salary, if that’s what you want.”
“What if she says no?”
Another shrug. “She needn’t know we had anything to do with it.”
“What if I say no? Hand over the focus and never come back to L.A.?”
Tamenaga studied him and nodded. “If you wish, you may.”
Mage smiled sourly. “And what’s to stop you from having me killed as soon as I walk outside this room?”
“Only the fact that I do not need to, or wish to. Mr. Magistrale …” Tamenaga pulled his jacket open at the collar, revealing the braided black hair looped around his neck. “You’re not a stupid man, and you show considerable potential as a magician, but you are hardly my equal—and I have worn this for nearly half a century. You cannot hope to defy me.”
Mage pulled up his right sleeve, showing the focus tied around his wrist. “Maybe not, but I can’t trust you, either. Maybe I’m no threat to you without this—”
“You’re no threat with it,” scoffed Tamenaga. “Don’t you understand? I can turn any magic of yours around and against you in an instant. I may not have your vision, but I do have a memory. Anything you do, I can undo.”
The photographer shrugged. “Maybe you can.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on Takumo’s apartment, saw himself sitting on the futon bed and staring at the Olivia prints.
He opened his eyes and the vision flickered; an instant later he was staring at Tamenaga, seeing the dai-sho behind him. The old magician smiled broadly. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Magistrale?” Seeing the horrified expression on Mage’s face, he burst out laughing.
Fighting off panic, Mage croaked, “One more question.”
Tamenaga yawned and raised a hand to cover his mouth. His sleeve slipped down, showing the chain tattooed around his wrist. “Yes?”
“Where’s the third focus?”
The inscrutable Tamenaga started, very slightly—a man less observant than Mage would not have noticed it at all—and for a fraction of a second, the answer showed in his eyes as he glanced toward the hallway outside. The mujina had been wearing the third focus—and it hadn’t saved her. Tamenaga recovered his composure instantly and yawned again, without closing his eyes.
Mage stared past Tamenaga’s shoulder at the dai-sho, and remembered glancing through the first few pages of Ronin, remembered the young samurai throwing his katana. If he couldn’t teleport, maybe he could perform some lesser magic, something the older man wasn’t expecting. He concentrated, and the two Murasama swords flew from their scabbards, turned about and headed for Tamenaga. The old magician didn’t even deign to look at them; the chains tattooed around his wrists became mankiri-gusari instantly, and he lashed out, entangling both blades. His tight jacket all but exploded as his irezumi transformed into chain mail and monsters. With a flick of his wrists, he snatched both swords out of the air.
Three pairs of eyes stared into Mage’s and someone hissed, “That was stupid!” Tamenaga touched the tip of the katana to Mage’s throat and smiled.
“Maybe I won’t kill you,” he said. “Yakuza who make mistakes can cut off a finger joint to atone. Which would you rather keep—your cock or your eyes?”
Mage resisted the temptation to shrug; even the slightest movement might cost him his life. The swivel chair, he decided, was too well balanced to be toppled. “I don’t care,” he muttered.
“You don’t?”
“I’d grow them back.”
The sword point retreated by a millimeter or two, allowing Mage to breathe. Tamenaga seemed to be hesitating. “Amanda cured her leukemia, didn’t she?”
No answer. Tamenaga’s face remained inscrutable, but his eyes seemed distant, as though he were meditating. Even the snakes seemed to be fascinated. Moving very slowly, Mage grabbed the blade of the katana and pushed it away. The edge cut deeply into his fingers but he ignored the pain; if he escaped alive with the focus, then he could cure the wound. If not, it hardly mattered. Tamenaga snapped out of his reverie, and the cobra widened its hood and arched its head back, ready to strike. Mage slid out of the chair and ducked beneath the level of the desk. If he were able to teleport away now—
No, he thought. If he escaped now, he would never again summon the courage to face Tamenaga. The rest of his life would be spent running—not merely traveling or wandering, but running. His freedom, which he had given almost everything to keep, would be gone.
Tamenaga stood, slashed downward with the katana and chopped the desk in half. Mage stared into the six eyes above him and waited to die as Tamenaga, his face contorted with fury, raised the sword to strike again.
Mage saw the corridor outside and teleported out, knowing that he had less than a second before Tamenaga brought him back. He grabbed the shotgun he’d dropped near the mujina’s feet and was pumping another round into the chamber when he reappeared in Tamenaga’s office. He saw the old magician’s eyes widen momentarily before he swung the gun around to point it at his chest and squeeze the trigger. The blast sent Tamenaga flying back into his chair, and Mage pumped the shotgun again, leveled it at his enemy’s head and fired. Tamenaga blinked, and the shot parted like the Red Sea, scattering around his face and leaving a halo of holes in the leather headrest. Mage lowered the empty gun and stared at Tamenaga’s chest. The python and the chain mail had absorbed or deflected most of the pellets, though bright red blood was bubbling rapidly out of a few small wounds in the kuromaku’s lungs, and Mage suspected that the blast had broken a few ribs. The python was writhing furiously, obviously in pain, as Tamenaga struggled to control his own heartbeat.
Mage jabbed at Tamenaga’s face with the butt of the empty shotgun; Tamenaga parried expertly with the katana, removing much of the stock, and then kicked the gun out of the younger magician’s hands. The cobra hissed, and Mage realized that Tamenaga—furious and in great pain—had lost control of his monsters. Mage stared at the python, concentrating on it, charming it, directing it—and the great snake twisted its head and bit into Tamenaga’s right arm just as the blade was descending toward Mage’s shoulders
.
Tamenaga, startled, dropped the katana. The python twisted its tail around the kuromaku’s left leg, anchoring itself, and began to tighten its coils, squeezing Tamenaga’s broken ribs into his already damaged lungs.
Tamenaga tried concentrating on the python, willing it back into a tattoo, and Mage turned his attention to the cobra. The serpent struck at Tamenaga’s right ear, drawing blood. The kuromaku flinched, and Mage saw the python swell and resume its attack. Tamenaga, his attention divided, began hacking at the huge snake with his wakizashi; the shortsword sliced cleanly into the python’s scaly hide, but had little effect. Mage could not even be sure of whose blood it was spurting from the wounds—Tamenaga’s or the monster’s. Without taking his eyes from the snakes, Mage reached out for the fallen katana.
The cobra became a tattoo again. Tamenaga, his face twisted in agony, looked away from the snakes and at Mage. “A million,” he whispered.
Mage, holding the katana before him, backed away toward the door and realized suddenly that the old magician, however brilliant he was, had never learned how to heal himself. Maybe he had never needed to, maybe he had never been injured since finding the foci, or maybe his money-cluttered imagination had simply never stretched that far. Mage doubted that Tamenaga would ever have thought of healing anyone else.
A slight movement caught Mage’s eye as the mukade slithered out from under the bisected desk to become an ink drawing on the tatami. Mage looked away from Tamenaga for less than a second and felt him struggling vainly to regain control of his monstrous pets. He heard the old man’s labored breathing, heard his heart beating far too fast —and then heard the popping of cracked ribs as the python tightened its coils about him.
But Tamenaga wasn’t finished yet; he closed his eyes for a mere instant before driving the point of the wakizashi through the python’s skull and into the wood of the desk, then teleported out of its writhing coils. Unable to concentrate long enough to envision anyplace outside the room, he appeared immediately behind Mage and wrapped the mankiri-gusari around his enemy’s throat.
The Art of Arrow Cutting Page 22