Mage dropped the katana and grabbed the chain, trying to loosen it, but Tamenaga was stronger and heavier. Mage let go of the garrote and jabbed back with his elbows, but he only succeeded in smashing his funny bone into the kuromaku’s chain mail. He dropped to his knees, but Tamenaga held on fast.
“It was a good effort, Magistrale-san,” croaked Tamenaga. “But it seems I’m going to have to kill you anyway. Sumimasen.”
Mage looked up at the Musashi painting of Hotei and the fighting birds and saw the birds fly out of the frame, over his head and toward Tamenaga’s eyes. Tamenaga, startled, raised his left arm to cover his face, letting go of the chain an instant too late. Mage broke free, reached for the fallen katana and turned to face the kuromaku. Tamenaga had hurled the birds back into the painting, but blood was pouring from the remains of one of his eyes as well as his innumerable other wounds.
“You’re going … to have to do … better … than that,” Tamenaga panted as the shotgun wounds in his chest suddenly stopped bleeding. “Such a simple … trick. Thank you … for teaching it to me … Magistrale-san. If I’d known about this … I would never have let myself … become so old.” His hair darkened suddenly from iron-gray to black, and his face became more youthful, until he appeared only slightly older than Mage. He laughed raspingly. “Wonderful! I might even … live forever.”
“One-eyed and full of poison?”
Tamenaga smiled. “A temporary inconvenience.” He was silent for a moment, concentrating, and Mage took a half-step into the kuromaku’s blind side and slashed at his neck with the katana. The Murasama blade was sharp enough to decapitate, but Mage’s skill wasn’t equal to it; instead, he sliced through the loop of braided hair around Tamenaga’s neck. The focus fell silently to the floor, and the old magician’s mankiri-gusari became mere tattoos. Tamenaga stared at Mage and staggered backward, holding the wound in his neck closed with his fingers.
“Two million,” he wheezed.
Mage shook his head, and Tamenaga wavered for a moment, then lunged for the fallen focus. Mage thrust the katana into the floor like a stake, blocking his path, then grabbed the focus and saw himself on the other side of the office, out of Tamenaga’s reach. The kuromaku looked up at him, opened his mouth to speak, reached for the hilt of the katana and succeeded only in grabbing the blade, then died without another sound.
Mage, exhausted, leaned against the shelves and waited until he was sure the old man was dead, then stared at his hand and saw it whole. The pain remained, but he was almost glad of it. Ignoring the treasures in the room, he collected the pieces of Kelly’s shotgun and saw himself into the corridor, standing near the mujina’s body.
The house guard had passed out. Mage considered helping him but decided against it; he knew there were other guards nearby, who would almost certainly find their way up here before long, and he didn’t have the strength or the will left to fight them.
He knelt by the mujina’s body and tore her silk dress open. The monster had dark, eye-like spots where her nipples should have been and a large navel that he suspected was actually a mouth. There was no sign of the focus. He glanced at the featureless yellow-gray of her face, noticed the blood-spattered platinum wig and reached down to pick it up. The focus was sewn into the hairnet. “Shades of ‘The Purloined Letter,’” he muttered, then shoved the wig into his pocket and saw himself in Takumo’s apartment.
He opened his eyes an instant later and stared into the smiling face of a bald, fat Japanese. Mage dropped the pieces of Kelly’s shotgun, knowing that he had no energy left for fighting, and collapsed on the tatami.
Mr. Magistrale?”
“Yes?”
“Congratulations, sir. But there’s no need to kneel. I don’t insist on ceremony.”
Mage opened his eyes warily. The intruder wore a thin orange robe and did not appear to be armed. “Who are you?”
“A good question. People—and gods—call me Hotei, and I don’t remember ever being anyone else, so I suppose that Hotei is who I am.”
Mage blinked and tried to remember the Japanese mythology Takumo had taught him. “The God of Gamblers?”
Hotei shrugged, and his massive belly shuddered. “I suppose so.”
“You made the foci?”
“Did I? I’m afraid I don’t remember that, either.”
Mage shook his head, as though trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn idea. “Do you want them back?”
“No, they’re of no use to me. Keep them, or give them to someone deserving, or whatever you will. You’ve earned them.”
“Have I?” Mage sat up painfully and stared at the god, his expression sour. “You know, I get the horrible feeling I’ve been set up. You arranged things so that Amanda would meet Higuchi and I’d meet Amanda, and Charlie, and that maniac with the machine pistol …”
The god merely smiled broadly.
“Why did you do it?”
“There was no one else I could trust who could have learned how to use the focus in time. You had the vision and the courage—you’re much braver than you believe—and you were the sort of man who would follow the ghost of a girl halfway around the country without wasting time wondering why. And I didn’t think Tamenaga would be able to buy you; that was a gamble, I admit, but—”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Tamenaga had had the foci for too long,” said Hotei gravely. “He was hoarding too much luck, becoming an oppressive force. If you hadn’t reclaimed them, he would have destroyed your country economically and left it with only one asset to hire out—its military capabilities. America would have become a geopolitical soldier of fortune, working for the highest bidder.”
“You mean Japan.”
Hotei shook his head. “The yen will collapse within a decade, and you heard that from the God of Gamblers. I mean Tamenaga. He owned politicians in both countries; Japanese politicians need a lot of campaign funds. Do not try to hate a whole nation, Mr. Magistrale—the Japanese people do not deserve it, and besides, you cannot possibly imagine so many people. Even I could not, and I have had centuries of practice.”
“And you have the advantage of being Japanese.”
“Maybe I have—I don’t know,” said the god, wrinkling his massive brow. “I can’t remember anything earlier than, oh, two centuries ago, and I think I’ve been Hotei for much longer than that. I suspect I was mortal once … I’ve no way of being sure. But you see, the rich and the powerful don’t need gods. The poor do.”
“Is that why you created them?”
“It’s more likely that they created me,” said Hotei cheerfully. “Billions of poor have a lot of imagination—or faith, if you prefer. And they believe in luck.” He stood and waddled toward the door, then turned around. “And don’t judge gods too harshly, Magistrale-san. You may be one yourself one day. Good luck.”
He bowed deeply, and Mage yelled, “Wait!”
Hotei paused and looked up from his bow. “Yes?”
“Did you create me?”
“Of course not,” the god replied, a little huffily.
“Then how long have you been interfering with my life?”
“Only since the day Amanda Sharmon wished for someone like you to come along—slightly less than a month. I’m a busy god.” He grinned. “It takes a lot of work to create someone like Charlie Takumo.” And he vanished, leaving Mage with the three foci and a thousand questions.
Epilogue
“No,” said Takumo firmly. “I don’t want it, and I won’t take it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it scares me. I’m allergic to power, even more than you are. Besides, I’m no magician; my mind doesn’t move in those sort of circles. Look what happened last time. I might hurt someone, without meaning to.”
Mage thought of the dead kunoichi and winced. He turned to Kelly, who was lounging on the sofa with Oedipus on her lap. “Don’t look at me,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared o
f power.”
“No …” she replied carefully. “Only when it’s abused.”
Was I really expecting a straight answer from a lawyer? Mage wondered, and shrugged. Then he stared at her long and hard for nearly a minute. “Go look in a mirror,” he said mildly.
“What? Why?”
“Go into the bedroom. Take a good long look at yourself and tell me what you see. Humor me, okay?”
She stared at him, puzzled, before stalking off into her room. Mage waited and then heard a shriek. Takumo leaped to his feet, but Mage shook his head.
“You bastard!” she screamed. Mage blanched, turning to stare at the closed door. Oedipus hid behind the sofa, and Takumo blinked. “I think you’d better split,” he whispered, and Mage saw himself into the stuntman’s apartment an instant before Kelly, naked to the waist and protecting her breasts with one arm, threw the door open and stormed into the room with murder in her face.
He sat in the darkness until he heard the unmistakable growl of Takumo’s Ninja from the car park, and then he walked slowly over to the kitchen and filled the kettle.
“Where’s Kelly?”
“Back home. Sorry I’m so late, but she was really freaking out badly and I didn’t want to leave her alone; if my bike hadn’t been there, I probably would’ve stayed the night.”
“Yeah, I used to use that excuse too …” Takumo glared. “Sorry. You know, I used to think I understood women.”
Takumo laughed and latched the door. “Yeah? I used to think there was a Santa Claus.”
“Why did she—”
“How’s she going to explain to her friends that her breast grew back? Tell’em she got a freakin’ transplant? She’ll be weeks just getting used to the concept.” He shook his head. “Most of us just aren’t equipped to handle miracles, man. I’m not sure that I am, not without being seriously stoned. Okay, so we all managed when we didn’t have a choice, but like, we have to live in the real world. Okay, so maybe we don’t have to—personally, I’m just visiting—but it has its creature comforts, and Kelly likes living there. Come to that, so do I. You—”
“It’s not my town.”
“I wasn’t just talking about L.A., man, and you don’t have a town. You don’t have a job, and you sure as hell don’t have a home. If you want my advice, you’ll split as soon as this murder rap has blown over, go back to being the wandering magician, and hide the other two foci in a safe place until you meet someone who can use them— and you will. It’s a big world out there, and there’s nowhere you can’t go.”
“Nowhere …?”
The magician spent the afternoon at the Victoria and Albert Museum, looking at the netsuke and the Japanese porcelain. A few people noticed his camera: an old Hasselblad, equipped with oversized controls and designed to function perfectly in free fall. His tan marked him as a recent arrival, probably fresh off the plane and still jet-lagged. They had no way of knowing that he had spent the morning in a darkroom in Boulder City and would sleep the next day in a youth hostel in Inuyama, or that he had just cured himself of the worst case of sunburn in human history.
In the Littrow region, east of the Mare Serenitatis, rest the relics of the last men to walk on the moon: the lower stage of a LEM, a Lunar Rover, an array of scientific instruments, and assorted items not wanted on voyage. And the footprints, which give a human scale to the picture. A few of the footprints were made by size eleven Reeboks, and in the compartment under the Rover’s seat, there lie two braided loops of black hair.
Glossary
aisha: manipulating an overly sympathetic or softhearted person
bakemono: Japanese goblins
bakuto: gambler; one of the traditional occupations of the yakuza
chambara: martial arts movies or TV shows emphasizing action over authenticity
chi: literally, “breath.” Life force, inner energy.
chunin: ninja officer
dai-sho: pair of swords, the katana (dai-to, great sword) and wakizashi (sho-to)
dosha: taking advantage of a person’s bad temper
fukiya: poisoned darts, usually fired from a blowgun
fukumi-bari: pin-sized darts, held in the mouth and spat out at point-blank range
fundoshi: loincloth
genin: lowest rank of ninja
giri: duty
gojo-gyoku: principle of five feelings and five desires: aisha, dosha, kisha, kyosha, and rakusha
irezumi: large and elaborate tattoos worn by the yakuza
jonin: ninja general
kabuto: samurai helmet
kamikari: praying mantis
karayuki: girls forced into prostitution (not to be confused with karaoke, which is legal)
karima kunoichi: a girl or woman recruited by a ninja clan as a spy or assassin
katana: samurai longsword
ki: see chi
kirisutegomen: “killing and going away”: the samurai’s traditional right to kill any commoner who offended him
kisha: taking advantage of an enemy’s lechery
kitsune: fox
kobun: “child role,” yakuza term for an underling
komuso: wandering priest
kuji-kuri: ninja method of focusing ki, using finger movements
kumo: spider
kunoichi: female ninja. See also karima kunoichi and shima kunoichi
kuromaku: literally “black curtain”; yakuza term for the power behind the throne
kyosha: taking advantage of an enemy’s cowardice and phobias
kyotetsu-shoge: ninja weapon, consisting of a length of rope with a heavy ring at one end and a double-bladed knife at the other
mankiri-gusari: a heavy chain, weighted at both ends
mujina: a bakemono with the power to appear human. A mujina’s true face is a featureless, terrifying void.
mukade: centipede
neko: cat
neko-de: “cat’s claws”; a band fitting around the ninja’s hand, with claws protruding from the palm. Could be used for climbing or combat.
netsuke: small ivory carvings
ninja: “invisible person”
ninjato: ninja sword
ninjo: compassion
ninjutsu: “the art of invisibility.” Often used to describe the training of the ninja, including stealth, climbing, unarmed combat (taijutsu), and weapons skills
Nisei: second generation
nunchaku: Japanese flail; two short clubs joined by length of chain or rope
obi: sash
oyabun: “parent role,” yakuza equivalent of “godfather”
rakusha: taking advantage of an enemy’s boredom
ronin: “wave man,” a masterless samurai
rukoro-kubi: human-looking bakemono, with the ability to separate its hands and head from its body
sarakin: yakuza loan shark
sarariman: “salary man,” employee
sawa: scabbard
shima kunoichi: a girl born into, trained by, and loyal to a ninja clan
shinai: bamboo sword
shinobi shozuko: ninja costume
shoto: shortsword
shuriken: ninja throwing weapon, frequently star-shaped
shurikenjutsu: art of throwing shuriken, knives, and other small weapons
shuten-doji: a bakemono, similar to a European vampire
sumimasen: so sorry
Sumiyoshi-rengo: a Tokyo-based yakuza syndicate
sumo: Japanese wrestling style
sumotori: sumo wrestler
tabi: thick-soled split-toed “shoe-socks”
taijutsu: ninja unarmed combat style
tatami: woven straw mats
tenuki: badger
tessen: iron war fan, usable as a bludgeon or a parrying weapon
tetsubishi: caltrops
tsuba: sword guard. Katana and wakizashi traditionally have ornate tsuba; ninjato have plain square tsuba, large enough to use as a step.
wakizashi: shortsword
yadomejutsu: “the
art of arrow cutting”; the technique of parrying arrows, shuriken, and other thrown weapons
yakuza: the Japanese criminal underworld
yama-no-kami: mountain deity
yojimbo: bodyguard
yubitsume: yakuza ritual of slicing off a finger joint to atone for a mistake
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Richard Curtis, Jim Frenkel, Tara, Ralph, Keira, Chris, Helen, Terry, Jack, Cappy, Scott, Harlan, Susan, Terry, Bill, Leanne, Robin, Richard, the IYHF, STA Travel, the strangers who paid my departure tax at LAX when I was broke, and to everyone who’s ever given me a meal and a place to sleep.
About the Author
Stephen Dedman’s award-nominated short fiction has appeared in most major genre magazines, including The Magazine of Fantasy and Science fiction, Asimov’s, and SF Age, and in such highly regarded anthologies as Little Deaths and Dark Destiny III. He lives in Perth, Australia.
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The Art of Arrow Cutting Page 23