The Fifth Profession (46 page)

Like moonglow.

With deep dark spaces between each isolated, recessed, barely perceptible light.

Savage felt overwhelmed, awestruck, as if he entered a temple. The
dojo,
though in semidarkness, exuded an aura. Of sanctity. Of solemnity.

It was redolent of the sweat and pain … the discipline and humility … the mysticism of the Oriental martial arts. Mind and body, soul and sinew, combined as one. A sacred place. And as Savage inhaled its holy fragrance, stepping forward, metal slid against polished metal.

Not a scrape, not a grating sound, not a rasp, but a smooth, oiled, slippery hiss that made Savage's scalp prickle.

Not one hiss, but many. All around him. The dark walls seem to come alive, to swell and give birth. Gleaming objects appeared, reflecting the dim, widely separated bulbs that rimmed the ceiling. Long, curved, glinting blades apparently hung in midair. Then the walls gave birth again, shadows emerging, assuming the shapes of men dressed totally in black, with hoods and masks that covered their faces. They'd been perfectly camouflaged against the walls, and each gripped a sword he'd drawn from a scabbard.

Where Savage stood a third of the way into the
dojo,
he pivoted and saw that he was flanked on every side. His spine froze. He drew his Beretta.

Rachel moaned.

Glancing toward the open door, Savage frantically wondered how he could concentrate on fighting to get Rachel out and at the same time not be distracted by the need to keep Rachel from getting hurt. The Beretta held fifteen rounds. But there were certainly more than fifteen opponents. The shots would be deafening, however, the muzzle flashes a distraction. The swordsmen might hesitate for a couple of seconds, enough time for us to get through the door and start scrambling down the stairs! he thought.

But while he thought, the door was slammed shut. Swordsmen stepped in front of it. Savage's stomach sank. In desperation, he aimed toward the men who blocked the door.

Lights blazed, searing, blinding, the murky
dojo
suddenly as bright as the sun. Savage jerked a hand toward his eyes, frantic to shield them from the stabbing rays. In that instant, his only warning was a swift, subtle brush of air, an unseen swordsman lunging toward him. The Beretta was yanked from Savage's grasp. Powerful fingers paralyzed nerves in his hand, preventing him from firing. Distraught, Savage blinked, fighting to focus his eyes, to erase the white-hot image of multiple suns temporarily imprinted on his vision.

At last his pupils adjusted to the glare. He lowered his hand, his chest cramping, cold despite the heat of the lights, and studied his captors. He understood now that their masks had not only helped to camouflage them in the shadows but that the eyeslits in the masks had guarded the swordsmen's vision from the sudden disorienting glare.

Rachel moaned again, but Savage was forced to ignore her distress, to focus his attention, every instinct, on his captors. Without a weapon, he couldn't hope to fight them with any chance of escaping. He and Rachel would be sliced to pieces!

But the man who yanked the pistol away could have cut me in half while I was Blinded, Savage thought. Instead he stepped back to the wall, his sword raised like the others. Does that mean they're not sure what to do with us, whether to kill us or—?

As if on command—but without any perceptible signal passing among them—they abruptly stepped forward. The
dojo
seemed to shrink. Then they lowered their swords, tips aimed toward Savage and Rachel, and the
dojo
shrank even more.

Another step forward, each of the numerous footfalls almost silent on the
tatami
mats, just a faint sibilance as if the woven reeds exhaled from the weight upon them.

Savage pivoted slowly, tensely, judging the room, searching for exits, for the slightest sign of weakness on any flank. But even if I
do
see a possible exit, a corridor,
anything,
he thought, there's no way I can get Rachel past those swords without a weapon!

The masked, hooded figures stepped forward yet again, blades pointing, gleaming, their presence more constricting, and as Savage kept pivoting, his eyes narrowed fiercely toward the wall opposite the one through which he and Rachel had entered. At the same time, another undetectable signal seemed to pass eerily around the room, and the swordsmen stopped their relentless advance. The
dojo
—virtually silent to begin with—became as silent as the dead.

Except for Rachel's repeated moans.

The swordsmen who'd proceeded from the wall at the far end of the
dojo
shifted to the right and left, leaving a gap through which a man who'd been hidden behind them stepped forward. He too gripped a sword and was dressed in black, complete with a hood and mask. Unlike the others, he was short, gaunt as opposed to lithe, his tentative footsteps suggesting fragility. He pulled off his hood and removed his mask, revealing the almost bald skull and wrinkled features of an elderly Japanese, his gray mustache and dark-yet-glowing eyes the only features that prevented his face from looking mummified.

But Savage had the nerve-tingling impression that the tentative footsteps were actually the product of stealth, that his fragility was deceptive, that this old man could be more adept and dangerous than any of the others.

Scowling at Savage and Rachel, the old man gestured with his sword as if he intended to slash.

He suddenly darted, each stride as fast as an eyeblink.

But he didn't slash toward Savage.

Rachel!

Savage lunged in front of her, prepared to sweep with his arms, hoping to deflect the blade, to duck under it, and chop the brittle-looking bones of the old man's throat. He didn't stop to consider what the blade would do to him if he failed.
He
didn't matter.
Rachel
did!

Savage's gesture was reflexive, his instincts making it impossible for him to do anything else but fulfill his profession's mandate—to protect.

In a blur he braced himself, straining to prepare for the greater blur of the old man's lunge, the flashing edge of the speeding blade so fast that Savage could barely see it. He parried with his arm, though he knew before he began,
knew in his soul,
his attempt was futile.

But I can't just give up!

I can't let the sword hit Rachel!

He imagined the blade flicking through his forearm, the stub of his hand and wrist flipping through the air, his arteries pulsing crimson. But he didn't flinch as he misjudged the old man's timing and parried too soon, his arm exposed as his soul had predicted.

He stared defiantly, and the blade stopped with startling abruptness, as if an invisible force had blocked it. The sword's polished, gleaming edge hovered rigidly against the sleeve of Savage's jacket. With fear-intensified vision, everything magnified before him, and he saw severed threads on his sleeve.

Jesus.

Savage exhaled, adrenaline flooding through him, volcanic heat erupting upward toward his chest.

The old man squinted at him, jerked his chin down, a curt nod, and barked an incomprehensible question.

But not to Savage, instead to someone behind him, though how Savage knew this he wasn't sure—because the old man's searing eyes, as searing as the spotlights, never wavered from Savage's defiant gaze.

“Hai,”
someone answered in the background, and Savage's heart swelled, for he recognized the voice.

“Akira?” Savage had never spoken anyone's name more intensely or with greater confusion.

“Hai,”
Akira answered again and appeared through the gap in the swordsmen. Like them he wore black clothing, almost like pajamas but the material rugged.
un
like them, he had no hood and mask. His handsome rectangular face, seeming all the more rectangular because his short black hair was combed straight from left to right, the part in his hair severe, had a somberness that made Savage frown. The melancholy in Akira's eyes had become more deep, more brooding, more profound.

“What's going on?”
Savage asked.

Akira pursed his lips, his cheek muscles hardening. When he opened his mouth to respond, however, the old man interrupted, barking another incomprehensible question to Akira.

Akira replied, with equal unintelligibility.

The old man and Akira exchanged two further remarks, quick intense bursts that Savage found impossible to interpret, not just the words but the emotion that charged them.

“Hai.”
This time the old man, not Akira, used that ambiguous affirmative. He jerked his chin down again, another curt nod, and raised his sword from the severed threads on Savage's sleeve.

The blade gleamed, nearly impossible to track, as with impressive speed the old man slid the sword into a scabbard tucked under a knotted black belt made of canvas. The blade hissed in to the hilt.

Akira came forward, his expression controlled except for his melancholy, his public self severely in charge of his private self. Stopping beside the old man, he bowed to Savage and Rachel.

All day, Savage had felt hollow, incomplete without Akira, but he hadn't realized how
much
he felt incomplete until now, at last rejoined with his friend. In America, Savage would have given in to impulse and reached for Akira's hand, perhaps in less public circumstances have clasped his shoulders to show affection. But he resisted his Western urge. Because Akira was obviously behaving according to the expectations of those around him, Savage conformed to Japanese protocol and bowed in return, as did Rachel.

“It's good to see you again,” Savage said, trying to imply strong emotion without embarrassing Akira in front of the others by displaying it. “And to find that you're safe.”

“And I, you.” Akira swallowed, hestitating. “I wondered if we'd ever meet again.”

“Because Eko gave me the signal to run?”

“That,” Akira said. “… And other reasons.”

The cryptic remark invited questions, but Savage restrained them. He needed to learn what had happened to Akira and to tell Akira what had happened to them, but other immediate questions insisted.

“You still haven't answered me.” Savage gestured toward the swordsmen.
“What's going on?”

The old man barked again in Japanese, his voice deep and raspy.

“Permit me to introduce my
sensei,”
Akira said. “Sawakawa Taro.”

Savage bowed, repeating the name, adding the obligatory term of respect. “Taro-
sensei.
“ He expected another curt nod in response, surprised when the old man braced his shoulders and imitated Savage's bow.

“He's impressed by your bravery,” Akira explained.

“Because we came in here?” Savage shrugged in self-deprecation. “Considering what almost happened, I was stupid, not brave.”

“No,” Akira said. “He means your attempt to protect your principal from his sword.”

“That?” Savage raised his eyebrows. “But you know the rules. It wasn't something I thought about. I just responded to training and did it.”

“Exactly,” Akira said. “For Taro-
sensei,
bravery means instinctive obedience to duty, regardless of the consequence.”

“And that's all that saved us?”

Akira shook his head. “You were never in danger. Or at least only briefly while you entered. After the door was slammed shut and Taro-
sensei
recognized you from my description, he knew you weren't a threat.”

“What? You mean … ? Those men stalking toward us … ?
The son of a bitch was testing me?”

Taro's aged voice rasped. “Neither a son of a bitch nor a bastard.”

Savage gaped, skin shrinking in astonishment.

“You disappoint me,” the old man said. Though a foot and a half shorter than Savage, he seemed to tower. “I expected more. Never assume that because a stranger addresses you in his native language he doesn't understand your own.” Taro glared.

Savage's face burned. “I apologize. I was foolish and rude.”

“And more important, careless,” Taro said. “Unprofessional. I was about to compliment whoever trained you. Now …”

“Blame the student, not the teacher,” Savage said. With distress, he remembered Graham's corpse behind the steering wheel of his Cadillac, acrid exhaust fumes filling his garage, while he drove for all eternity. “The fault is mine. Nothing excuses my behavior. I beg your forgiveness, Taro-
sensei.

The old man's glare persisted, then slowly dimmed. “Perhaps you redeem yourself. … You learned from your instructor to admit mistakes.”

“In this case,” Savage said, “with regard to information about your country, my instructor was Akira. But again blame the student, not the teacher. He warned me to be careful not to give offense. I'll try harder to behave like a Japanese.”

“By all means,” Taro said. “Try. But success will elude your grasp. No outsider, no
gaijin,
can ever truly understand … and hence behave like … a Japanese.”

“I don't discourage easily.”

Taro's wrinkled lips tightened, possibly in a smile. He addressed Akira in Japanese.

Akira replied.

Taro turned to Savage. “I'm told you're a serious man. What we call ‘sincere,’ a word that should not be confused to mean your strange Western custom of pretending that your public thoughts and private thoughts are identical.” The old man debated. “I may have been hasty. Your offense is forgiven. I invite you to accept my humble hospitality. Perhaps you and your principal would care to enjoy some tea.”

“Yes, very much,” Savage said. “Fear has a habit of making my mouth dry.” He gestured toward Taro's sword and did his best to make his eyes crinkle, trying to sound respectful, humble, and ironic all at once.

“Hai”
Taro inflected the word so it seemed a laugh. “Please”—he bowed—”come.”

As Taro led Savage, Rachel, and Akira toward the swordsmen at the rear of the
dojo,
the old man motioned subtly with his hand. Instantly, in unison, the hooded figures sheathed their blades. The combined slippery sound, the high-pitched metallic
ssss
of polished steel against steel, again made Savage's skin prickle.