A man in a blue silk robe bent over a table. He held a syringe in one hand. The other balanced something round and flat and flesh-colored on the tip of one finger.
The finger was long and pointed and blue. It gleamed like a metal talon.
When he turned his head to see better, Remo's neck sent shooting pains into his brain, so he never completed the action.
His slight movement caught the attention of the tall robed man as he finished pumping a poisonous orange solution into the round skinlike pad.
An incredibly wrinkled face turned in Remo's direction. Eyes like obsidian chips regarded him with reptilian steadiness.
The dry mouth parted. Words like the rustling of a viper through autumn leaves reached his ears.
"Please do not attempt to rise," the voice said.
And to his surprise, Remo obeyed. He didn't know why. He wanted to get up very much. Instead, he watched helplessly as the tall man-he was Asian, Remo saw as his face hovered over him with clinical detachment-reached behind one ear.
Remo heard a ripping sound and wondered if those blue talons were tearing at his skin.
Then the other hand reached behind his ear and the warm ink swept over his brain again.
He seemed to see in his mind's eye rills of black liquid collect in his brain crevices. They looked evil-like spreading black veins. But he knew this was impossible. How could he see his own brain? It was behind his eyes, not in front of them.
Wasn't it?
Chapter 32
The first thing the Master of Sinanju noticed, as his pony topped the rise and the provincial capital of Sayn Shanda lay revealed, was the activity in the gers studding the surrounding pastureland.
Mongols moved between the tents, grooming their horses for battle. Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed.
"What transpires here?" he demanded of the Chinese woman.
"The Mongos have been incited by foreign elements," Fang Yu told him in a disinterested voice.
They were not challenged as they rode into the city.
Fang Yu led them to a run-down section of town where saffron-robed lamas walked the grounds of a dilapidated monastery, which looked as if it had been closed for the seventy-odd years Communism had held sway over Outer Mongolia.
Shaven-headed lamas stabled their ponies. Two helped Zhang Zingzong off his horse. He needed help because his hands were tied to the pointed pommel of his saddle with cords of braided bamboo. He had resisted being led to Sayn Shanda until two Mongols fell upon him and bound him to his horse.
After that, he was quiescent. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips.
"Follow me, please," Fang Yu said as Zhang was set on his feet.
The three of them walked into the monastery through a heavy wood door studded with iron spikes.
Chiun's nostrils recoiled at the strong odor of incense that permeated the dim interior. Under it was the heavy cloying weight of musk.
The lama gestured them to follow. He carried a yakbutter candle in an ornate brass stick. It threw light on the colorful walls-idealized paintings of the Buddha and other religious subjects. Here and there, sections of wall lay exposed, where gold or inlaid panels had been ripped free by looters.
Through twisting passages they walked, the lama's feet making slipper sounds on the stone floor. Zhang Zingzong walked with the heavy tread of a condemned man, his head hung low. No sound attended the Master of Sinanju's footsteps. He had left off his Mongolian attire, and wore instead a tiger-striped kimono. The play of candlelight on its shifting silken stripes was like the muscles of a great cat rippling under a true tigerskin.
They came at last to a great double door of hammered bronze panels depicting a looping dragon battling a fiery phoenix.
Outside the door stood a wiry man in a black chauffeur's uniform. He stood proud as a caliph's eunuch, his arms folded, his head slightly bowed, so his black cap shadowed his features.
As they approached, he lifted his face, exposing a domino mask of polished onyx. His eyes showed through the almond slits like black opals that had been sanded of their luster. They looked dead.
The black-masked chauffeur turned and threw open the doors with a double-handed flourish. He watched stonily as they passed by, then fell in behind them.
The room was a great vaulted chamber. At the far end, a throne of ivory and rosewood stood on a low stone dais. And on this throne sat a man.
Old he was. His eyes were sunk into their sockets as if retreating from all sound, all light. They were black and filmy, but their bright intelligence showed through the film like dim diamonds.
The old man stood up with a feline grace, causing the silken folds of his filigreed mandarin gown to fall and shift. The golden hem of his gown touched the floor, making him resemble a pillar of green-gold flame with a human head on top. On his head rested a black mandarin's skull cap decorated with a tiny coral button.
The Master of Sinanju stepped forward, his face impassive.
The black-masked chauffeur leapt to the dais protectively. The tall Asian motioned toward him with long fingers tipped with intricate nail-protectors of blue jade.
"Sagwa!" he hissed.
The one addressed as Sagwa subsided. Chin lifting proudly, he folded his arms and took his place at his master's side.
Without a word, Chin got down on his hands and knees in the prescribed full bow of Asia. His forehead touched the cold stone floor twice. His face was as cold as the stone, and harder.
He stood up and his lips parted, but barely moved as low words came out.
"To behold you with these old eyes," he intoned, "is to hear thunder from a clear sky. I had believed you ashes, Wu Ming Shi."
"Paper cannot wrap up a fire. It served my purposes to have Asia believe this for a time," said the mandarin Wu Ming Shi. His wrinkled vellum countenance barely moved with his words. It was like the preserved mask of a mummy actuated by mechanical assistance. "The Communist Revolution crushed my hopes to assume the ancient Dragon Throne as China's next emperor. I knew that they would fail, so I slept until a time when revolt troubled the air. Now."
"Your wisdom is boundless. Even I, your former servant, thought you no longer among the living."
"You honor me, you who are in your way as great as I am in mine."
Chiun inclined his head toward the unmoving chauffeur.
"I see you have a new servant," he remarked.
"A former pupil of your late nephew. He was to have been the first of a new line of night tigers, I had hoped."
"He knows Sinanju?" Chiun asked in surprise.
"Some. He is no Master. His true expertise is in the White Crane school of kung fu."
"Ah, I have heard of it. It approaches the perfection of our art."
The chauffeur's proud chin lifted slightly. It fell at Chiun's next words.
"The way a candle approaches the glory of the sun," Chiun finished. "Still, to one unfamiliar with it, it is formidable enough. Why is he masked?"
"In the time I slept, he allowed himself to become famous through playacting in films. This was a mistake. I had his death arranged so the world would think him no more. Now that I am free to move among men once more, I find the mask a regrettable necessity. It also reminds him of his errors, for he came into prominence dressed in these servant's clothes and wearing such a mask. It is a conceit that pleases me to have him play the part of a mere chauffeur in actuality."
Wu Ming Shi's vellum lips twitched slightly wider. The teeth showed as brown as old corn.
"I have brought the one known as Zhang Zingzong with me," Chiun said. "What is it you wish of him?"
"I have promised him to the butchers in Beijing, in return for certain concessions." Wu Ming Shi directed his stained smile toward the trembling Chinese. "They want his head very badly."