And the gloom reflected his mood. Much as he wanted to be with Gaby, help keep her spirits up during the tests, he knew he’d probably say something stupid, hurtful. Knew that her eyes no longer lit up when he appeared. Most of the time, when she saw him she looked guilty, unhappy.
Finished with the front splits, he turned sideways, his legs straight out to either side, and bent forward, trying to touch his forehead to the floor. He never could quite manage to split his legs out to a 180° angle, but he could get close. His muscles protested as he pressed his forehead to the cool floor; he held the pose.
He relaxed and rose. Enough stretching. He lowered himself into horse stance to begin the first of his forms exercises . . . and spotted someone in his peripheral vision. He turned his head slightly to get a better look. It was Noriko, lingering in the shadows near the door.
Come to study him, as she studied everything, with her solemn expression and unblinking gaze? He smiled to himself. Well, as long as he had an audience, he might as well put on a show.
He decided against one of his traditional forms sets and instead conjured up the mental image of Sonny Walters, positioning him in the far corner of an imaginary boxing ring. It was time to replay that fight, see where it had gone wrong. Do it right this time.
Hands high, body in motion, Harris advanced on the Smile.
He still had to advance. Sonny had the reach on him; there was no other way to fight it. No mistake there.
In the real fight, after the first couple of rounds, Sonny had begun nailing him just as Harris moved in close enough to strike and just before Harris drew back out of Sonny’s range. Transitions, just as Zeb had said. But why not before—why not in the first two rounds?
Sonny must just have been studying Harris. Soaking up a little punishment while he catalogued Harris’ inventory of moves and approaches. Okay, then. Harris moved into range of the phantom Sonny’s attacks, and his sparring partner didn’t attack. A few inches closer, still bouncing and weaving, and Sonny was in range of Harris’ kicks, but still didn’t strike. That was the way Harris remembered it.
Harris moved into arm range and threw a left-hand feint. The phantom Sonny blocked, came back with a right hook. This time Harris knew not to try to stop it with his knifehand block; strong enough for most opponents, that move wasn’t strong enough for Sonny Walters. Instead, he threw a middle block, bringing his left forearm in on Sonny’s extended arm, battering it out of line.
A good pose from which to launch his spinning backfist. He started a clockwise spin but only turned a few degrees, then disengaged his left hand and snapped it into Sonny’s exposed face, right into his nose. The phantom looked surprised, moved back an involuntary step, and took Harris’ follow-through right front kick right in the guts.
Zeb had said to work on his stomach; why hadn’t Harris listened? Zeb must think he was a complete idiot. Harris had marched in, mistaken Sonny’s cool, collected analysis for passiveness, and settled into the tactics that would lead him to painful defeat.
Not this time. He kept his own critical faculties working. Sonny had kept his guard lower than usual, probably protecting pained ribs. Harris exploited that now; every one of his combinations included at least one blow aimed at the bigger man’s torso, and it was often one of his more deceptive blows. He didn’t have to hit hard, not yet; he just had to leave Sonny with the impression that he could get through to his gut anytime he wanted.
All the while, his silent audience, Noriko, watched. Harris caught sight of her whenever the phantom fight faced him in the right direction. She had to be taking stock of his style, looking for weaknesses . . .
No, that wasn’t right. There was something about the way she stood. She had her back to the wall but wasn’t leaning against it. Her arms were crossed, but it wasn’t a relaxed pose, and seemed just a little awkward and uncertain. It reminded him of something, someone else.
Then she turned away and moved toward the door, and Harris had it. High school algebra, and Mary Francis Richards tensely standing by as class let out, trying to figure out how to ask a question of the teacher without sounding stupid; she never could stand for people to think ill of her. Her pose had been the same. That didn’t seem right, not like Noriko, but . . .
Harris gave a flick of his fingers. The phantom Sonny, an annoyed look on his face, disappeared. “Noriko.”
At the door, she turned. “Yes?”
“Were you going to ask me something?”
She didn’t answer.
“Go ahead.”
She took a long breath. “Would you . . . would you teach me how to kick as you do?”
“Sure.”
Noriko blinked and came forward a step. “When?”
“Well, if we get started right now, we can be through in three or four years.”
She managed a little smile. “I would not be intruding?”
“Nope. Tell you what, though. If you teach me a little about the way you use that sword, we can call it an even trade.”
“I would like that.” She moved forward to join him.
“That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”
“What?”
“Asking.”
She took a moment to answer. “Maybe.”
“Well, try to take it easier on yourself next time. I don’t bite.” He shrugged. “Is that what you wear to work out?” Her outfit was gold-yellow and cut much like her evening pants suits, but was not new and looked more like common linen than silk.
“Yes. Is it suitable?”
“Just fine. So. We’ll start with a little history. What I do is called tae kwon do, which means the art of kicking and punching. Truth in advertising. It was developed in Korea, a country in the same place as your Silla . . . ”
Duncan spoke the last words. As ever, they were like a switch, turning on the tap to the reservoirs of his endurance. He felt strength flow from him, a sensation that was simultaneously comforting and worrisome.
Then there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees around his outdoor stone circle. But he could feel the energy hovering out there, just at the limits of his circle; it built in focus and intensity, wove itself into a pattern too complex for any but the most sophisticated devisers to comprehend.
Behind him, one of the men coughed. Costigan, probably. The cool winds flowing over this upstate campsite were aggravating the young man’s injured throat. Duncan shook his head. He’d have to get the boy to a doctor. And Phipps, too, to repair his broken arm. Duncan had chosen the two of them and Dominguez for their knowledge and loyalty, not for their current physical condition, because the latter could be dealt with once they were on the fair world.
There it was—the shriveling of grasses as the devisement demanded more power than Duncan had given it. Like a shockwave, the ripple of death spread away from the circle, consuming the lives of plants and insects before it.
Then the trees began to stretch . . . He heard his men gasp.
A moment later, it was over. One big, ear-hurting pop, and they were somewhere else, at one end of a vast wooden hangar.
And fair world men waited there. One was Angus Powrie, rushing across the border of the conjurer’s circle painted on the floor. The redcap helped Duncan to his feet. “Sir. Glad to have you back at last.”
Tired by his devisement, Duncan leaned heavily on the redcap’s arm. “I’m so glad to be home, Angus. I’d like you to meet my chief lieutenants: Costigan, Dominguez, Phipps.”
The three grimworlders still stared around, trying to take in the changes they’d just experienced. They snapped to attention for the introductions.