Still walking, Remo glanced at the pale blond man in the spotless white suit.
The East African was somewhere in his early to late forties. His cool outer demeanor wrapped a cold angry core. His grin was flash-frozen conceit.
Remo had a sudden desire to plant his hand, wrist deep, into that pale, smug face.
Instead, he screwed his mouth shut and kept walking.
"You must register properly if you are going to advertise your services in East Africa," Deferens insisted.
"Advertising's for amateurs without reputations," Remo muttered, paraphrasing an old Sinanju tenet. "The truly great don't have to hawk themselves in the classifieds."
At this, Deferens shook his head. "You don't strike me as a fool. If you are here now, you are serious about your business. Given your performance in the restaurant, I don't think there's any question what that business is. Of course, we take a relaxed attitude toward that sort of thing here. But not commerce. You must register within the twenty-four-hour required period or face the consequences."
"I won't be here that long," Remo promised.
Deferens tipped his head thoughtfully. "Pity," he said.
A business card appeared in one soft hand. If he'd been carrying it since he'd left the restaurant, it didn't show. Despite the intense heat, there wasn't a sign of perspiration on the cardboard. He slipped the card into Remo's hand.
"If you decide to stay and need work, contact me," Deferens said seriously. "If we do not see each other again, it has been a distinct pleasure to meet you."
Braking behind Remo, Deferens stepped briskly to the curb. His car stopped obediently. The door sprang open as if from its own volition and Deferens climbed inside. With a thrum of its powerful engine, the car was absorbed into traffic and slipped off down the busy street.
Alone on the sidewalk, Remo looked down at the card in his hand. Deferens's name, title and Bachsburg number were printed in black, raised letters.
A manipulation of fingers brought the card from thumb to pinkie. By the time it had gone from one side of his hand to the other, the card had been slit into five neat strips.
He let the sections flutter to the concrete. "Dipshit country," Remo muttered to himself. For a brief instant, he was angry at Chiun once more for abandoning him. But almost as soon he realized that the East Africa the Master of Sinanju knew would almost certainly not have anything in common with this one. Chiun would have as difficult a time interpreting the customs of this modern Sodom as he was having.
The revelation brought little comfort.
Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Remo wandered off down the busy Bachsburg street.
Chapter 7
And thus it was that a Master of Sinanju did return to the land of Kwaanga Luzu, discovered by Master Nuk in the year of the Dead Milk Sky. But, lo, the nation to which this current Master did come was not the rich and prosperous land described by Nuk in the Master's Scrolls...
AS THE TRUCK bounced along the rutted path, a cloud of thick dust rose in its wake. The Luzu tribesmen accompanying Chiun jounced on their threadbare seats. Beside his Luzu driver in the front seat, the Master of Sinanju could have been frozen in amber. Though the rest were thrown from side to side, the old Korean remained suspended in space, as if beyond the vicissitudes of tire ruts and bad driving.
Although his face was an inscrutable mask, his thoughts were deeply troubled.
Nuk had painted an image in the Sinanju histories of a Luzuland blessed with rich soil and full crops, with a people strong and proud. But where Chiun expected to see fields of gently waving grain, he saw mile after mile of barren wasteland. Where he thought he would see powerful men and robust maidens, he found emaciated husks of human beings.
They had left the rented limousine in Bachsburg. Chiun had been transferred to a battered GMC Suburban at the edge of the East African capital. He was glad Remo hadn't been around for that disgrace. The big truck bounced and creaked its way along the winding, rutted road in the desert wilds north of the country's urban center.
"Who are these pitiful creatures?" the Master of Sinanju queried as they passed a miserable collection of people squatting forlornly in the dust at the side of the road. He assumed they were vagabonds from some other tribe who had found their way to Luzuland.
His driver had stripped off his jacket and tie. Most of his dress shirt buttons were open.
"They are Luzu," his young driver said, shame in his voice. His name was Bubu.
"How is this possible?" Chiun said, a hint of bewilderment in his squeaky tone. He shook his aged head. "These dirt eaters cannot be the children of Kwaanga."
"They are, Master Chiun," Bubu insisted. His jaw quivered in impotent fury at the admission. There was much strength in the young man, although his well of disgrace ran deep. They passed many more pitiful Luzus on their way to the main village, yet Chiun said not another word. But when they reached the main settlement, it was all the old man could do not to cry out in shock.
Houses of peeling clapboard and pitifully thatched roofs lined the dirt streets of the poverty-stricken shantytown that was the heart of the Luzu civilization. The Suburban and the other truck containing Chiun's steamer trunks slowed to a stop in the broad cul-de-sac that was the town's dead center.
Chiun was stunned at the appearance of his welcoming committee. He had hoped that the people they had passed along the long road to the Luzu city had somehow found themselves in disfavor with the current chief. To his horror, he found that he couldn't have been more wrong.
The people who waited to greet him looked as if mere existence were an effort. Their secondhand clothing was threadbare and drained of color. Their eyes were sunken and bereft of hope. Skin was pulled taut and dry around fat, protruding bones. Teeth jutted forward in large and yellowed overbites of malnutrition.
Chiun hid his stunned disgust behind a look of imperious indifference as the Suburban rolled to a stop in front of the largest of the ramshackle buildings. Behind the first truck, the other vehicle squeaked to a groaning, dusty standstill.
A faded purple carpet, gilded along the edge with gold embroidery, extended from the open black mouth of the huge shack in front of which Chiun's truck had stopped. The moment his sandals touched the threadbare rug, a large figure emerged from the shadowy doorway.
The man's fat face glistened brightly. As he strode forward, his voice boomed out over the sullen crowd in the square. "Greetings, O great son of Nuk!"
"Greetings, Batubizee, son of Kwaanga, king of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju replied when the two men met in the center of the rotted carpet.
Each bowed deeply and formally.
Batubizee wore a purple ankle-length burnoose. Although the carpet and robe had once been the same color, the chief's raiments had better withstood the assault of time. The ceremonial purple was rich and vibrant. On Batubizee's head sat a squat golden crown, the front of which held three fused circles. Tiny diamonds were embedded in the front of the headpiece.
Bubu had followed Chiun up the carpet.
"He was possessed of the sign," the young native announced quietly, passing the chief the ceremonial dagger.
Batubizee took the knife, nodding as he did so. "I do not need some trinket to tell me who this is," Chief Batubizee proclaimed. "His bearing alone tells me that this is the true son of Nuk." But though his words were strong, there was an undertone of uncertainty.
Chiun noted the hesitation in the Luzu leader's voice.
"Many generations have passed since the time of Nuk, ruler of the Luzu," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "Nuk has long since sought the repose of the Void. I am son of Chiun, pupil of H'si T'ang."