Beneath an Opal Moon (7 page)

Now the shadow was spurting across the adjacent building's rooftop, the image abruptly blossoming. But so swiftly did it move, that Moichi only recognized it for what it was as it landed on their own rooftop.

It was a man dressed all in matte black clothing: wide trousers, sash, open-necked shirt. His face, too, was black, hidden by a mask which left only a narrow band of flesh—just enough to give him unhindered vision—exposed. He came toward them, over the polished wood, dancing, his feet seeming to glide through the darkening air. In one hand he carried what looked like an oval box, also matte black, flat on top and bottom. It dangled by a black rawhide cord. His other hand was empty.

“Jhindo.” Kossori's breath in a hiss, close beside Moichi.

Moichi had heard of these legendary creatures. They were hired as assassins and spies and, it was said, they knew so many methods to kill and maim, to disguise themselves and to escape any trap set for them that they never failed in their clandestine missions. This was the first time, however, Moichi had seen one in the flesh and it recalled to him the tale the Dai-San had told him of the Jhindo who infiltrated the citadel of Kamado to kill Moeru but who, instead, was slain by his intended victim. So Jhindo were not invincible after all. But, he told himself soberly, Moeru had been a Bujun and there were no greater warriors in all the world.

Now here was a Jhindo seemingly come against them.

Kossori stood very still, eyeing the figure who now approached them slowly. He raised his hands, palms outward, calm and seemingly unperturbed. “Please continue your journey. We wish you no ill.”

The Jhindo said nothing but slowly lowered the oval box until its bottom sat on the roof's flooring. He let go the cord. He was a tall man and now, as he spoke for the first time, he seemed to somehow gain in height. “It is your ill fortune that you happen to be here at this particular time. I cannot proceed further until all evidence of my departure has vanished.”

Kossori did not turn his head away from the Jhindo but his low words were directed at Moichi: “Do not interfere, my friend. And, above all, do not turn your back on this one. Jhindo possess many small metal weapons which are quite lethal when hurled with precision. Face them and you have a chance.”

“I urge you to be on your way,” Kossori said to the figure facing them.

“Yes,” said the Jhindo, “I will be on my way. Just as soon as you both are staring sightlessly up at the stars.”

He came at Kossori then, flinging out his left arm and Kossori ducked away. The movement now was almost too rapid for Moichi to see clearly but the Jhindo had feinted and from somewhere had brought out a thin twined cord, knotted in the center. This he whipped about Kossori's neck and, stepping behind him, jerked back on the ends so that the knot jammed against the other's windpipe.

Kossori rose into the air with the force of the motion.

“Ugh!” Moichi heard Kossori's brief cry and moved to help. But as he circled the two he saw that there was nothing he could do; they were so tightly locked that any sudden movement might bring Kossori under the attack of his blow. He waited, restlessly prowling.

It was an awkward position for Kossori and he was kicking himself for letting the Jhindo get the edge on him. His breath was already laboring and the muscles in his neck were going numb from the rapid loss of blood. His head throbbed and he knew it was just a matter of time until the cord would cause him to lose consciousness. He used his legs first but the Jhindo saw this coming and danced his own legs away. Then Kossori used his elbows, ramming them hard, as if it was all he had and he heard at length the answering grunt and the cord went slack for just long enough for him to turn around so that he was facing his opponent. A small blade flew out of the Jhindo's left cuff, into the open palm of his hand and Kossori let him have it, watching the slash ballooning in toward him, anticipating the angles vectoring on the final approach. He used his right hand, knowing that, for him, it did not matter, for a blow on the inside of the Jhindo's wrist—and the blade flew out into the night, skittering brightly across the wood planks, coming to rest at last, bright as a droplet of blood, shimmering. But in its place was a jitte, a double-bladed knifelike weapon, and now the Jhindo's other hand was wrapped with a row of black metal spikes arching over the knuckles.

The jitte flashed in a blur, the Jhindo's spiked hand following hard upon it, a lethal one-two strike. The Jhindo was appallingly quick, faster, perhaps, even than Kossori himself but there were many other elements that must be considered.

The jitte ripped aside Kossori's white robe and his flesh shone palely underneath in the wan monochromatic light of the newly risen moon.

Then the row of spikes went home, sinking themselves into the flesh of Kossori's right shoulder.

It was the end for the Jhindo and, to his credit, his eyes registered this knowledge a split second before Kossori's rigid fingers, held at a peculiar angle, slashed down upon him. They moved more swiftly than the eye could follow, the enormous force of the blow snapping the Jhindo's right wrist as if it were made of bamboo and, in the same motion, sweeping upward now in concert with the other hand, breaking both of the Jhindo's shoulders. And before his sagging body had time to sprawl upon the wooden rooftop, Kossori had delivered a final strike as quick and devastating as a living lightning bolt, shattering the Jhindo's vertebrae.

Moichi came up beside Kossori, feeling as if he were moving through water. He had practiced with his friend many times, had even seen the killing art of
koppo
used on wood and metal. But never on another human being. He was awed by the devastation so few short bits of motion could wreak. No wonder Kossori was never armed. What need he of conventional weaponry when he possessed the secrets of
koppo?

“Where
did
you learn that, Kossori?”

The other was staring down at the broken body of the tall Jhindo. Blood pooled darkly, seeping through his ebon garb. “We'll have to call someone to clean up this mess,” he said, almost distractedly.

“Kossori?” Moichi put a hand gently on one shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Quite good, this one.” Kossori's voice was like a ghostly spiral of smoke, dissipating on the night air. “So fast.”

“Kossori.” Moichi stepped around in front of his friend, saw the other's eyes come slowly into focus.

He smiled and shook his head. “It takes a little time, my friend. The mental strain is the true difficulty in mastering
koppo
. And, of course, one tends to get caught in a kind of killing vortex. Otherwise, we'd never have the strength—” He put out his hand and Moichi glanced down at the humped body as broken as a discarded marionette ripped apart by a vengeful child.

Kossori ripped off a strip of fabric from his robe and bound up the four puncture wounds made by the Jhindo's strikes. “I was lucky,” he said. “Those things could have been poisoned.”

Moichi went the short distance over the wood to where the oval box squatted, flat and ugly. “I wonder what he was up to?”

Kossori joined him. “Nothing good, of that I am certain. Open the box. No doubt a clue to his night's work will be found therein.”

Moichi stooped and opened its lacquered lid.

He saw the queue first, blue-black, gleaming with fragrant oils that must have taken hours to apply. The hair was carefully and expensively coifed. This, too, had taken much time to achieve. Below, the brown almond eyes were open as if in surprise, the thick lips parted as if in incipient protest, the yellow teeth still shining with a film of saliva. Blood had pooled about the stump of the neck, a dark and brooding pond, coagulating slowly, held inside the vessel only by the thin coat of lacquer covering the interior.

“I do not want any part of it.”

“I am asking you as a personal favor. I—”

“My friend, let me tell you, I am no good at mysteries. Never have been. That is an area of expertise over which you preside. I would be a fool to dabble in anything about which I have so little understanding or natural facility.”

“But that's just it, Kossori. If you will just listen to me, I will explain how you can help me.”

“Hmph!” Kossori eyed him suspiciously but was now silent.

They were sitting at a rough plank table in a tavern on Iron Street that was crowded and bustling with business. Set before them were huge pewter plates filled with charred fowl and vegetables seared in hot oil and sesame seeds. Between them sat a fired-clay flagon of yellow wine but their handleless cups were empty.

“Last night there was a murder—”

“Uhm, yes. I imagine so. One of several hundred in Sha'angh'sei. What of it?”

“If you will stop interrupting, I mean to tell you.”

Kossori grinned and spread his palms placatingly. “By all means, say on.” He commenced to eat while Moichi spoke.

“The strange thing is,” Moichi concluded, “that the two were killed in disparate fashion.”

Kossori's shoulders lifted, fell. “It only means that there were two killers. Simple.” He wiped grease from his mouth with the back of one hand.

Moichi shook his head. “Not so simple, really. Omojiru was killed swiftly, efficiently and coldly as if by a—a machine.”

Kossori looked at him quizzically. “Machine? What is a machine.”

Too late, Moichi realized that he had no way of explaining this concept to his friend. He himself had never seen a machine but had had it described to him by the Dai-San during their long trek through the thick jungles surrounding Xich Chih. He would have to settle for a close equivalent. “I mean to say a nonhuman source.”

“I see. And the other? This outlander from—where did you say?”

“Kintai.”

“Yes. Well. How did he die?”

“Oddly. Very oddly. Something about it was very disturbing.” He described what had been done to the man's heart.

Kossori had put his eating sticks down beside the plate of half-eaten food. “Extremely unpleasant, I agree. But there are more ways in this world, my friend, to get information out of a human being, than either you or I could collate in a lifetime. The Bujun, it is said, are most adept at this kind of thing. How do you suppose I can help?”

Two Greens came through the front door, glanced around the large room for a moment, then chose an empty table just to the right of the door. They sat down, one facing Moichi. They began to talk.

“I don't know, really. Just a feeling.” He shrugged. “Perhaps there's nothing after all.”

The waitress approached them but they waved her off.

Kossori patted Moichi's stout wrist. “Anyway, it's good that you have an interest. This city's not good for you, you know.”

Moichi smiled. The Green facing him had looked over once; he had seen it out of the corner of his eye. But when he'd taken a look, the man's eyes had already slid away. Now he was careful not to glance their way. He seemed deep in conversation with his companion. “I find myself more and more these days thinking of home, I am afraid.”

“But that's all to the good, don't you see?” Kossori popped a last bit of vegetable into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Time you went home.” He smiled. “You don't know how lucky you are to have a family.”

Moichi had changed his angle slightly but he still could not see their hands. He reached into his sash, withdrew some coins. “Finished?” he said, and, not waiting for an answer, spilled the copper onto the table.

“You're leaving way too much,” Kossori observed. “Wait for the change.”

“Get up,” Moichi said in an intense whisper. “We are leaving here right now.”

He kept the Greens in sight until they had closed the tavern's door behind them. On Iron Street, with the crowds already somewhat thinned by the lateness of the hour, he took them left then left again. They moved quickly and silently. Into an alley which led out onto Green Cricket Lane. Darkness closed about them within the alley's dense shadows. At either end, the brief yellow flickering of the wider streets' night lights.

“All right,” Kossori said as they paused for a moment “What did you see?”

“Those Greens.” He was peering ahead, then behind. “I think they were looking for me.”

“But why?”

“Offhand I can think of several reasons.” He told Kossori about the early-morning attack. “Let's go.”

But they had only taken several paces when he stopped abruptly, put his arm across the other's chest. He nodded. “In front of us.”

The sounds of boot heels rattling against the ground, scraping against refuse. The skittering of rats.

“Who goes there?” Moichi called, drawing his sword. Beside him, he felt Kossori's muscles tense as he readied himself.

For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Even the tiny scavengers were still, sensing the tension in the air. Moichi saw his shadow and Kossori's flickering along the dank walls in front of him, elongated past all human recognition, limned by the night lights along Blessant Street behind them. They seemed grotesque and monstrous in the terribly confined space.

“Moichi Annai-Nin.” Out of the darkness in front of them. “We have come for you.” A solid voice, used to command.

“By what authority?” Moichi inquired.

“By the supreme authority of our tai-pan, Du-Sing of the Ching Pang.”

“Let's take these scum,” Kossori hissed in his ear. But Moichi ignored him.

“What is it your tai-pan wishes of me?” he inquired.

“That is for Du-Sing to say,” the voice replied from the darkness.

Moichi saw that now there was no light coming from the exit ahead to Green Cricket Lane.

“Please do not attempt anything foolish,” the voice said. And at that moment, their shadows disappeared on the wall as bodies blocked out the light from Blessant Street behind them.