Matadora (3 page)

But Bork's voice stopped her. She risked a quick glance at him.

The big man was rubbing his left arm with his right hand and shaking his head. He didn't look hurt, only disgusted.

Dirisha looked back at the figure in the gray robe and hood. It—he? she?—had both hands raised and both index fingers pointed at her. She knew if she were to risk the throw, she wouldn't make it before it fired. She relaxed slightly, allowing her hand to sag a few centimeters. The figure in gray immediately dropped both hands by its sides. It turned its head slightly and focused bright blue eyes on Bork. "First Rule?" it said. Or, rather, he said, for the voice was masculine. And odd-sounding, somehow.

Bork said, "But I was bringing her—"

"First Rule."

"'Students must be prepared for attack at any time.'" Bork said. "My fault."

"You thought you were safe because you weren't doing ordinary things, which is why the First Rule was created," the gray man said. "What do you consider a fair subtraction?"

'Ten points, I guess."

"Call it five. I don't want you to think I'm a tyrant."

Bork grinned. "Why, none of us would think that." He turned to look at Dirisha. "This is the guy I was telling you about. Meet Pen, Dirisha."

Bork left them alone in a room which was, Dirisha supposed, an office.

Save for a table with a computer terminal and two chairs, the room was bare.

There was a window which looked out into a courtyard lined with trees and bushes, but apparently Pen wasn't big on furniture. He sat in one of the chairs and Dirisha took the other.

"How did you know I was coming to Renault?" she asked, once they were alone.

The edges of the blue eyes crinkled and Dirisha knew Pen was smiling. He said, "When you used your credit tab to buy passage to Renault from Tembo, I was... informed."

"That's unlikely. You would have to have agents on fifty-six planets and over eighty wheelworlds to be certain of picking up such a transaction."

"Not really. Think about it for a moment."

Dirisha did so. The answer came suddenly. "You had me watched?"

Pen nodded.

Her first reaction was to jump from the chair, but she contained herself.

She tried to sound calm when she spoke. "Why?"

"Emile Khadaji had great hopes for you," Pen said. "He thought you might find your way here one day. If you hadn't decided to come when you did, one of the school's agents would have eventually contacted you and asked you to do so."

"Again, 'Why?'"

"We want you to become a student here. And a teacher. Most of us do both, at this point. Pass on what we know, learn what we don't know."

"You say Emile wanted this?"

"Yes. He thought highly of you, along with some others he met along the way. I have a list of those he wanted us to contact. You were high on it."

"You have a list. Did you know him yourself?"

"I knew him. Long before you met on Greaves, I knew him."

"Well, this is all nice, but I really don't need lessons in how to become a bodyguard."

"No? I take it your protection of Bork in the hall was an example of your skill?"

Dirisha felt her face go hot. "I could have thrown the dart before I realized it was a game."

"Recall the sting you felt on your hand — the one holding the dart? If it had not been a game, you would have been down — if I had been using potent loads in my weapon."

Dirisha bit down on her anger. That was true enough. But it raised another question. "What if I hadn't noticed in time? I could have killed you, not knowing it was a test."

"Doubtful. Even with stinger ammunition, I would have been able to disable your hand so you would not have been able to complete the throw."

"How? I could have taken a sting or two—"

"But not a dozen stings, or more, perhaps."

Her inclination was to laugh or call him a braggart, but Dirisha did neither.

His voice was matter-of-fact; not so much confident as assured. What he said was not a guess— in his own mind, at least—but an actuality. And, despite the concealing robe, there was a hint of Center control which showed through when they'd walked to the office. From what she had seen and what Bork had told her, Pen was some kind of adept. At what, Dirisha didn't know, but at something.

"You expected something different," Pen said, interrupting her thoughts.

"I suppose. I'm not sure what, but yes, something different."

"And you aren't particularly interested or impressed with our little operation."

Dirisha inclined her head briefly, acknowledging his perception.

He leaned forward slightly and brought the tips of his fingers together into a tent. "You're a ronin, playing the Musashi Flex, hoping to reach enlightenment. Maybe you can find it here."

Dirisha laughed. "Really? I've been to a dozen planets and nearly that many wheelworlds, studying. What makes you think you have something I couldn't find elsewhere?"

Pen stood, a move so smooth it seemed effortless. "If you would follow me."

He walked from the office without looking back, but Dirisha felt as if he were aware of her every movement.

They retraced the path Bork had used to bring her into the building. Once outside, Dirisha finally saw more people, a dozen or so, doing stretching exercises on the rockfoam. There were four women and eight men and they were dressed in loose-weave orthoskins, as Bork had been. There were enough variations in the cut and colors of the skins so they could not be called uniforms, but they were very similar.

Pen swept past the exercisers toward the lines of footsteps printed upon the spongy ground cover. When he reached the nearest, he stopped. "You are adept in a handful of martial arts, an expert in body control and movement,"

he said. "Can you walk the pattern?"

Dirisha stared at the complex layout of foot positions. She had played fugue now and again and the implication was clear enough: I can do it, can you?

She reached for her Center, felt the comfort there, and took a deep breath.

Without a word, she stepped onto the first diagram and began to walk the pattern. The first five steps came easily. The sixth was more difficult, but she managed it. Years of training gave her the ability to make the seventh step, but she almost fell despite that. She managed to plant her foot upon the eighth step, but from there to the ninth was impossible. Dirisha knew her limits and she had reached them. She pivoted sharply to face Pen.

He nodded, and waved her aside with one hand. She moved, and watched very carefully as he approached the beginning of the pattern. She watched with all the zanshin perception she could muster, trying to see not only his feet but his entire body. She had spent years training, learning how to watch an opponent, to judge his moves exactly; but, even so, she had only the smallest inkling of how he did it. One moment and he was starting; another moment, and he was done. It was unbelievable and yet Dirisha was certain Pen had placed his feet precisely on each of the steps in the pattern; more, he had danced it and made it seem effortless. She was impressed. But she had to know something more important.

When Pen returned to stand in front of her, Dirisha said, "There are masters of a thing and then there are Masters of that same thing." More fugue, but simple enough so anyone with the smallest skill could follow it.

The edges of Pen's eyes crinkled, an obvious smile. He waved his hand at the group of people stretching nearby. "Pick one," he said. "Your choice."

Dirisha nodded. He knew fugue. She had challenged him to answer one of the classic martial problems: you can do; can you also teach? One of the problems with many great artists were that they were personally adept, but could not pass it on. There had been some greats—Lee, Sandoz, Villam—who had not been able to teach for shit.

On the face of it, her challenge had been answered. He must have been certain to offer her the option; still, Dirisha had learned to take little for granted. She turned to face the dozen people in orthoskins. She scanned the faces, looking for some hint of ineptitude. Nothing—wait. She stared hard at a young woman with blond hair cut like a cap. Her face looked familiar.

Where had she seen it? She was certain she had...

It came to her suddenly. On the ferry, the near-collision with the tiny sail craft. That woman had been on the boat. Dirisha remembered her laughing face as the larger vessel had gone by, missing by scant meters. Surely that episode had been caused by a lack of attention or ability?

"Her," Dirisha said, nodding at the blonde.

Crinkle. "Ah, you have a good eye." Pen called out, "Geneva, would you demonstrate the Ninety-Seven Steps for Dirisha?"

The young woman smiled and gave Pen a small military bow. She walked calmly to the pattern, took a deep breath, and began her dance. She was not so smooth as Pen, nor as fast, but she made no missteps Dirisha could see from start to finish. When done, she bowed again, and walked back to her group. That she moved in her Center the entire time was a given. Dirisha nodded again. "What is the style called?"

"Sumito."

"I've heard of it. But I thought it was a religious system, taught only to priests."

"It was, formerly. The Siblings of the Shroud have given us a special dispensation to instruct it here."

"The dance is beautiful and complex," Dirisha said. "But how effective is it?"

Crinkle. "A personal demonstration?"

Dirisha nodded.

"You may attack or defend," Pen said.

"I'll defend."

"Wise."

For a long moment, neither moved. Dirisha stood in her basic relaxed nostance stance, waiting. He would give some indication of his intentions, some tightening before he moved, and she would be ready—

He waved his hands, flicking his fingers back and forth and knotting them into a blur of weaving motions—

Dirisha didn't grin, but she wanted to. Some kind of kuji-kiri, maybe Neshomezoygn, organomechanical hypnosis. He'd have to do better than that, she knew how to avoid falling into the finger-trap—

But he was no longer there, he was behind her, in a motion so fast he almost had her. She spun, slightly off-balance, and lashed out with a quick snap kick. Pen danced away, as if doing the pattern of steps, as if ,h^were alone and Dirisha no more than smoke to him.

Dirisha set herself in a side-stance, offering a smaller target, raising her hands to cover her face and body, but Pen didn't seem interested in striking or grabbing at her. He danced back and forth and his motions seemed an extension of his earlier hand trap. Suddenly Dirisha knew he was using his whole body as he had used the finger-weave. She looked away, using only her peripheral vision to track him—

There were two muted explosions; Dirisha jerked her. gaze back to cover Pen. He was using his spetsdods! Why didn't she feel the sting—?

In her moment of confusion, Pen moved. He twirled, seeming to move away, but his leg became a spinning blade, knocking her feet from under her.

It was unexpected and Dirisha landed on her back, hard, despite the padded surface. She twisted and rolled, to avoid a follow-up, but she felt a soft touch on her temple before she could regain her feet.

She sighed as she stood, then bowed. The touch could have been harder and a shot to the temple was worth the victory.

Pen stood there, looking inscrutable in his robe and cowl.

"More?"

She shook her head. "Not necessary. You know your stuff, Deuce. And judging from your students, you can teach it, too. Where do I sign?"

Pen laughed. What he said then warmed her, in a way the tropical heat could not begin to match. "Welcome home, Dirisha."

CHAPTER FOUR

THE BLONDE'S NAME was Geneva Echt and what she told Dirisha both intrigued and infuriated her. They stood in what was to be Dirisha's room, a large and well-lighted cube containing a bed, couch, table and chairs and a computer, as well as a small kitchen module and a sanitary fresher.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'You were set-up to pick me to walk the Ninety-Seven.'"

"You'll excuse me again, if I don't see how. There were almost a dozen others with you. I could have chosen any one of them just as easily."

"According to Pen, the psychology of a familiar face made it likely you'd go for me."

Dirisha regarded the other woman. She was fair-skinned and it made the idea of natural blondness seem valid. Geneva wasn't a small woman, though not nearly as large as Dirisha, and she seemed well-knit, tightly-muscled under the thin orthoskins. Her eyes were an icy gray, deep set and striking, and Dirisha figured Geneva's age at maybe five years less than her own, call her twenty-five. "The psychology sounds fine, but as far as Pen knew, you could hardly be a familiar face."

Geneva grinned, a happy smile which showed one slightly crooked tooth among all the straight ones.

Dirisha shook her head as she suddenly understood the reason for the smile. "It was no accident," she said flatly. "It was one of the toughest pieces of sailing I've ever been involved in," Geneva said. "We had to make it look as if we didn't know what we were doing while we got close enough for you to see me clearly."

"That much I'll believe—I was fooled. I thought sure you were all fish food." She grinned, then had a thought. "But—how could he have known I was where I could see? I could have been asleep or in the fresher or reading a tape—"

Geneva walked to the computer set upon the long table under the window.

She turned to face Dirisha, still smiling. "The school owns the ferry. We not only knew you were on it, we also knew precisely just where you were all the time."

Dirisha shook her head again, puzzled and still a little angry. "Why? Why go to all the trouble?"

Geneva shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. Nobody knows why Pen does most of what he does. There are others who run things, a council of sorts, but Pen is the real power at the Villa. He wanted to make some point, I suppose.

Someday, in some class, he'll bring it up, to illustrate some teaching or other, and it'll be the perfect thing to say. I've only been here a year and a half, but I've learned that much about Pen: he takes the long view about things.