man into her office, where he was sprawled now upon the couch. The class had been dismissed and she and Ells were alone. He was not particularly comfortable, one lung collapsed as it was, and having trouble breathing, but she didn't think he was in imminent danger of dying. The shards of shattered bamboo were still buried in him, sticking out of his side.
Wu squatted next to the couch. Why?"
Ells managed to shake his head. Was not going to tell her.
She reached out and lightly touched one of the bamboo spears embedded in him, wiggling it with her fingertip.
Ells groaned. "Don't, that hurts!"
"If I hit this with the heel of my hand, I expect I can drive it all the way into your heart, if it isn't touching it already."
His already pale face seemed to go whiter.
"I haven't called the medics yet. I could have com problems and you could bleed to death and get cold enough so they couldn't bring you back."
"You . . . wouldn't."
"Tell me why."
Ells stared at her, looking for truth. He must have found it. He started to talk. What he said was most interesting. When he was done, Wu called the medics. She watched him carefully until the medical team arrived and took him.
Well. It looked as if she would be leaving Koji for a time. An ancient score had come to light. An old story from long before she had been born, materializing out of the past like a ghost to haunt her. She would have preferred that it had not, but there was no help for it. She would have to attend to it.
It was a matter of honor.
Chapter EIGHT
IN THE HOUSE of Black Steel, Cierto the Patron considered his recently collected data. Most of it was straightforward enough: his quarry had fled Earth for the world of Mtu, in the company of the matador identified as Sleel.
Once there, they had boarded a train-a train, how quaint!-and traveled across the continent to the border of the scientific station colloquially known as The Brambles. Local records showed that the pair had been admitted into the station-an achievement of no small difficulty, Cierto was able to determine. From there, there were no more specifics as to where the two men had gone, at least nothing available to Cierto's stealthware.
The master of the casa stood alone in his private gym, facing a stolid-looking oversize lac generated for wrist-strengthening exercises. The lac shuffled in and brought its blade-a two-handed Mtian broadsword-down in a headsplitter cut.
Cierto stepped back and brought his right hand up with his own sword in an upward block, absorbing the force of the blow. It jarred his wrist, arm and shoulder. As the lac lifted its heavy weapon for another cut, Cierto shifted his sword to his left hand, tossing it easily without looking. He caught the handle and turned his body slightly, sliding his right foot back, leaving his left foot forward.
So. The thief had run, not unexpected. But surely a man who had lived most of his life looking over his shoulder for pursuit by various authorities should be more adept at hiding his trail?
The lac whipped the broadsword down.
Cierto blocked.
The clang was realistic enough, as was the vibration that tested Cierto's grip and arm. The lac shuffled forward for its next attack, a lunge for the heart. Cierto tossed the sword back to his right hand.
The lac thrust the point of its sword at the man.
Cierto used an inward block, holding his sword point up and snapping it across his chest. The lac's stab was deflected; it passed harmlessly next to Cierto's left shoulder. Cierto shifted grips once again for the next attack, the balancing sinister to the previous dexter.
Thrust-
Inward block-
The next attacks were high, a looping slice to Cierto's neck, first on his right, then the opposite side.
Outward blocks stopped both.
The final attacks of the programmed series were low, stabs at the man's groin, identical moves on the lac's part, but once again requiring that Cierto switch hands to meet them. Upward, outward, inward, downward. In