Bowing profusely, and trying not to cry despite the disgrace of a reprimand, the apprentice collected his materials. He hurried off, almost crashing into the house servant who escorted the summoned visitor to the Lord’s dais.
The Tong Master, the Obajan in the ancient tongue, was a man of immense breadth and girth, but not one ounce of fat. Save for a long scalp lock tied high and cascading down his back, he had a shaved head tattooed in patterns of red and white. His nose was flat, his skin deep tan, and his ears multiply pierced. His jewellery consisted of bone pins and rings that jingled lightly as he walked, and his belt held loops sewn into the leather, each of which held a variegated array of instruments of death: a half-dozen daggers, a weighted strangling cord, throwing stars, knuckle guards, picks, vials of poison, and a long metal sword. While considered an outlaw by Tsurani standards, he demanded the respect due a Ruling Lord from any he encountered in person. He was accompanied by two assassins, clad in black, as much of an honour guard as Tasaio would permit. The Tong Master came to Tasaio and bowed his head slightly, asking, ‘Are you well, my Lord?’ His voice was an ominous rumble.
Tasaio ignored him for a long, pointed moment. Then he nodded once, acknowledging he was well. But the Lord of the Minwanabi did not inquire after the Tong Master’s health, a pointed insult.
Silence wore on the Tong Master. As if the metal wealth he had received from the personage on the cushions suddenly left a taste like curdled milk, the chief of the tong spoke in sour tones. ‘What does my Lord require?’
‘This: the name of the one who hired your tong to assassinate five servants in my house.’
The Tong Master unwisely raised his hand. The warriors arrayed behind Minwanabi’s dais instantly shifted their positions, as if to attack, causing the huge man to freeze. But he was not a slave, nor a man of weak nature. Fixing his host with a level gaze, the Master of the Hamoi Tong slowly raised his hand to scratch his chin. His tone bit as he replied. ‘Lord Tasaio, the order was your own.’
Tasaio jumped from his cushions with a speed that had the two assassins slap hands to their own swords. The Tong Master motioned for them to resume their former positions. ‘I?’ demanded Tasaio. ‘I ordered this? How dare you utter such a lie!’
The Tong Master locked stares with Tasaio, eyes narrowed in the flickering light of the torches. ‘Harsh words, my Lord.’ He hesitated an instant, as if weighing the need to take offence at the insult to his honour. ‘I will show you the document, with your signature and your personal chop.’
Dumbfounded, and clumsy for the first time in his life, Tasaio sat back down. ‘My personal chop?’ His manner turned icy. ‘Let me see.’
The huge man reached into his tunic and removed a parchment.
Tasaio all but snatched the item out of red-stained hands. He sliced the ribbons with his dagger, cracked the rolled document straight, and studied the contents with a frown. He twisted the paper this way and that, and barked for a slave to hold one of the torches closer, turning his back upon the Obajan. He scratched a fingernail over the ink-marked chop. ‘Turakamu’s breath,’ he murmured. Then he looked up, a light of murder in his eyes. ‘What servant delivered this message?’
The chief of the tong picked at an earring. ‘No servant, my Lord. The order was left in the usual place for such communication,’ he said calmly.
‘It is a forgery!’ Tasaio hissed, his hereditary Minwanabi temper breaking free of restraint. ‘I did not write a word of this! Nor did one of my scribes.’
The Master of the Tong’s face remained impassive. ‘You did not?’
‘I just said that!’ the Minwanabi Lord spun suddenly, his hand clenched fast to his sword hilt. Only a gesture from their leader prevented the assassins from again making ready to strike.
Tasaio stalked from one end of the dais to the other and rounded like a hungry predator upon the bulky figure of the Obajan. ‘I paid you a fortune in metal to serve me, not to wreak havoc in my own house, or to jump at the orders of any rival with the wits to forge documents! Some fool has dared to copy the Minwanabi family chop. You will find him for me. I want his head.’
‘Yes, Lord Tasaio.’ The Master of the Tong touched his forehead with his left hand, signifying agreement. ‘I will have the message traced, and the culprit sent to you in pieces.’