I say nothing, my bones aching with unsatisfied pravda. The monk blinks, confused.
“But perhaps you wonder the same thing,” he muses. “Is that where I have found you today? Questioning?”
The monk grins entirely too much. And he moves too quickly for a man of his stature.
Carefully, I circle toward my musket. The flintlock leans against the stucco wall, its bayonet protruding like a broken finger. My left hand settles on the ivory handle of the sheathed khanjali where it traces its familiar line along my thigh.
The monk throws his hands up, laughing gently. “Oh, I certainly don’t wish to engage you, Tsar Peter,” he says. “I represent the Maratha. We are here to stop this siege and rescue your company, of course. That’s why the sahib attacked this morning. It was his last chance before your reinforcements arrived.”
Glancing at the gate, I see the flag of the Maharashtra is being raised. A local army of reinforcements are threading through the city. The monk speaks the truth.
“Peter,” he says, “my name is Batuo. And I am here to set you free.”
31
SEATTLE, PRESENT
The first blow sounds like a knock, the second like a detonation.
Batuo stands without a word, dwarfed by his massive desk. He yanks a red-tasseled spear from its display on the wall, holding it lightly in one hand with surprising familiarity. Darting out of the alcove, he pauses under the sprawl of hanging artificial arms and legs, a chubby silhouette against the candlelight of the cathedral room.
“Protect that relic,” he says to me. “If her servants fail, Leizu will come for you herself.”
Batuo walks away, resolute, the long spear flexing with each stride.
Through the alcove archway, across the marble floor, the metal security door shivers with an impact. A bullet spits through, leaving a spiral of twisted metal like confetti. Batuo drops to his stomach and rolls gracefully out of the way as the door’s metal surface erupts into a frenzy of puckered holes and shreds of metal.
Finally, the whole frame collapses in a haze of smoke. Batuo calmly stands back up and dusts off his robe. He retrieves his weapon and faces the door.
The thing that calls itself Talus strides through the doorway like a demon, still wearing torn leather motorcycle armor. He tosses a smoking machine gun to the ground. In his other hand, he carries a short black scabbard with a round hilt protruding.
Protect the relic.
Scrambling, I rush around the alcove, scanning the walls for anything I can use as a weapon. Ancient bows and broadswords aside, I finally settle on something that looks like a bone saw, an electric tool, sterile and white. Clutching the thing in both hands, I depress a button. A shining circular blade on the end sings as it spins up to speed.
This is more my style.
“Herr Talus Silfverstr?m,” calls Batuo from the other room, “I am afraid you are not invited, sir.”
With the weighty saw in both hands, I creep under the archway and along the outer wall of the cathedral-like room, circling toward where Peter lies unconscious on the surgery machine. My vision throbs with the beat of my heart as I try to breathe quietly and force myself to move slowly.
“I do not need your medical attention, Batuo,” says Talus. “You have given harbor to our enemies. Our pact is void.”
Batuo has planted his feet and taken a wide stance, leaning on his back foot. He lifts his left knee and angles the spear down like a scorpion’s stinger. The monk looks perfectly lethal—except for the ridiculous basketball sneakers on his feet.
Talus circles carefully. His face is patched up, long blond hair hanging over the worst of the damage, but I can see ragged gashes where my shotgun pellets penetrated his skin earlier. His upper lip is twisted into a permanent sneer.
“There are so few of us now,” says Talus. “I admire that you’ve made it this far. But the time has come…your anima is due.”
With a flick of his wrist, Talus draws the short, stocky sword and tosses the wooden scabbard to the ground. It’s a Roman gladius, the round pommel polished, blade oiled. The antique has been maintained as a fighting weapon, but the blade is nearly black under a patina of time.
“I respectfully disagree,” says Batuo, shifting slightly, causing the red tassel to swing hypnotically from the tip of his spear. Talus changes direction in response to the small movement, circling the other way.
“You are an old dog with old tricks,” says Talus. “The last Shaolin soldier monks died out centuries ago. Elderly people practice your miraculous forms in the park. It isn’t even a true martial—”
Sensing some near imperceptible flicker in Batuo’s stance, Talus spins away as the nurse robot charges from the shadows, lunging at him in stumbling jerks. The robot was waiting for Batuo to maneuver Talus into place before it attacked.
Far too slowly.
Reversing the blade, Talus steps back and buries his sword in the hard plastic carapace of the machine. Savagely, he twists the blade with both hands. Sneering at Batuo, Talus withdraws the blade slowly and lets the robot drop in a heap.
“Worth a try,” says Batuo, stepping forward.
While they are distracted, I slide around a pillar and trot over to the low white surgical table where Peter’s body is resting. The bone saw is heavy in my sweating hands. Heavy, and probably useless.
“Peter,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. Batuo said he had some power left. I can only hope he hears me.
In the middle of the vast room, Talus and Batuo have fallen into a blur of movement. Batuo is a flurry of brown robes, twisting and spinning, the precariously long bamboo spear flicking out like a snake’s tongue. Talus advances relentlessly, jerking his body through short, vicious feints and dodges, hacking at the spear.
Almost dancing, his movements economical and beautiful, Batuo lands the butt of the spear across Talus’s midsection. Staggered, the next blow nearly takes off the blond man’s head, but he raises both forearms in time to catch the spinning shaft. A crack like a lightning strike echoes into the candlelit heights.
“Listen,” I whisper to Peter’s body, “I think I understand what you want me to do. And if I had five years and a laboratory full of people smarter than me, maybe I could figure out how this relic works.”
Talus is up, blade whirling, a smaller knife in his other hand. Ribbon slices of Batuo’s robes are curling through the air as he dodges. Each fighter is predicting the moves of the other, lending a lilting delay to their feints and counterfeints.
“But I can’t do this,” I continue. “I’m not like you. I’m not as strong.”
The spear absorbs an impact, splintering and shattering into two pieces. Batuo spins away with a hitch in his step, one hand clasped to his side. Under his flayed robes, I can see the structure of his rib cage.