At that, Nakahatchi's students clenched like they'd been stung. Their sensei may've been oblivious, but they weren't. Without warning, their indignation crowded the portico.

Nakahatchi wasn't oblivious, however. Still placidly, he intervened by turning to Hong Fei-Tung. With his eyes lowered humbly, he gave the Sifu a deep bow.

He might've been forty-five or fifty, short and compact, with sparse hair and a hint of dullness like fatigue or premature aging in his eyes. His features had more definition than Hong's, but they remained distinctly Asian. The only lines in his face were two deep seams on either side of his mouth that looked like trenches in a battlefield, cut to carry out an old war.

"Forgive my presumption, Sifu Hong." His voice was more guttural than Hong's. If he hadn't spoken mildly, the contrast would've made him sound crude, almost brutish.

"I cannot aspire to your understanding of these matters. To us the chops are precious, and we revere the wisdom they contain. They have been entrusted to my care. It is my wish to share them as openly as I may. without dishonoring them or my responsibility for them."

Hong Fei-Tung snorted disdainfully.

"They belong to China. They are dishonored in Japanese hands."

That was an insult. It must've been even I felt it. Ominously the students set their case down and gathered in a clench around their sensei. But Nakahatchi didn't rise to the offense.

"That," he answered quietly, "is a matter which I must respectfully defer to my masters."

"Sifu Hong," Sternway put in, "we've had these discussions before. They can't be resolved here. Nakahatchi sensei wishes to share the chops in a spirit of martial brotherhood. For the present, that's enough."

When Hong moved, I shifted toward him. If he wanted to start a fight, I meant to stop him.

For the moment, at least, I'd forgotten all about the pain in my stomach.

But Sifu Hong surprised me by aiming an elaborate bow into the air between Sternway and Nakahatchi a flourish that seemed to involve a couple of steps and several complex arm movements.

"Sternway sensei." His tone hadn't changed.

"Nakahatchi sensei. I mean no personal disrespect. These questions will be considered at another time."

No personal disrespect, my ass. If Hong had been any angrier, he would've spit in both their faces.

Nevertheless Sternway and Nakahatchi bowed back like completing an arcane ritual. Giving each other "face," maybe. By degrees Nakahatchi's people relaxed. Talking softly, they went back to their case.

Bernie must've seen me move. He met my gaze and nodded. Apparently he approved.

Sammy Posten looked around in confusion, palpably clueless. Smiling, Deborah Messenger moved away to exchange a few words with Nakahatchi compliments, I assumed. r Then the case slid the rest of the way out of the Dodge, and I I got my first glimpse of the chops.

; I couldn't see what the fuss was about. The case was polished black mahogany with a glass lid, and shaped like a coffin for some odd reason, but larger, maybe five feet by eight. It must've held a hundred or more chops yellowed blocks of ivory nestled in precise rows on a cushion of screaming scarlet brocade. Each one was about as thick as my two thumbs, and intricately carved, but still they conveyed nothing to me. I would've had an easier time placing a value on the elephants that supplied the ivory.

While Nakahatchi's people shouldered the case, Deborah joined me again.

Before her smile could send me back into shock, I asked in a whisper, "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted. Then she explained, "The question of what they're worth isn't simple. Even a forgery that good could be precious, for the craftsmanship alone. But unfortunately the issue here is more than just the difference between, say, a nineteenth-century knock-off and an eighteenth-century original. The content, the information carved on the chops, also matters. I'm told that the originals reveal something important about the martial arts.

Something with authority. If the chops are forgeries, the information isn't authentic.

"In theory a forgery could have been made anywhere, at any time and belong to anyone. But if the chops are originals, they're a Chinese national treasure."

That didn't quite answer my question. I persisted.

"But if they're fake, what does it matter who owns them? Why is Hong in such a snit?"

She shrugged.

"Who knows?" I loved watching her shrug.

"You'll have to ask Mr. Sternway. I don't understand the politics involved."

At last the case was ready to move. Solemn as a cortege, with Sternway and Nakahatchi in the lead, hotel security on both sides, and Bernie bringing up the rear, the display climbed the portico steps. As the lobby doors slid aside, a gust of colder air welcomed the procession into The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.

Sternway put his hand on my arm and pulled me to his side for a moment.

The instant he touched me, my guts remembered the path of Estobal's slug, and I wanted to break Sternway's fingers. But Marshal had advised me to be polite, so I didn't slap the hand away. Instead I matched Sternway's stride.

He didn't glance at me.

"If those two decide to go at each other," he warned softly, "don't get in the way. They'll eat you alive."

Oh, really? Two short middle-aged guys in pajamas didn't exactly terrify me. But it probably would've been rude to say so. Obliquely, I remarked, "I've survived worse."

He flicked me with a look that said, No, you haven't, then let me go.

I was starting to enjoy all this respect. If the situation didn't improve soon, I might tell Marshal to go to hell. Resume my normal charming demeanor. Fuck the job.

Right, I snarled back. And then what?

For maybe the third time already, I wasted a breath ordering myself to relax.

Together, Sternway and Nakahatchi parted the crowd like Moses.

Apparently everyone except me took them seriously. The waters closed behind us, cutting off my retreat, but at least we didn't have any trouble reaching the tournament hall.

Once we were inside, the cortege headed along the bleachers toward the roped-off area at the near side of the dais. I detached myself from the procession to take another look around and think. There were questions I wanted to ask everyone in sight, but they'd have to wait. I wasn't directly responsible for the security of the chops. This job I needed so badly had different requirements.

In the middle of the holding area, Nakahatchi's people stopped, unfolded legs from the display case, and set it down neatly in the exact center of the space. Sternway and Hideo Komatori exchanged a few words with Bernie while the Watchdog advisers listened. Then they all moved outside the ropes, and Bernie put his guards in position.

The other pajamas, including Sifu Hong, had spaced themselves out around the hall, presumably setting up stations for their various schools. At the head table, Sue Rasmussen, the Master of Ceremonies, stood deep in consultation with the Director of Referees, Ned Gage. But Parker Neill, Tournament Coordinator, seemed to be doing the same thing I was taking a last look around before the confusion started. I wandered over to join him.

He was slightly plump, with fleshy cheeks, a nose that couldn't decide on its own shape, hangdog eyebrows, and an unnatural sheen to his dark hair that suggested dye or sweat. His shoulders sagged. If I hadn't become so sensitive on the subject, I might not have noticed the trained ease hidden behind his blazer and his IAMA patch.

He gave me an absent-minded nod, his attention elsewhere.

"Axbrewder." Something that resembled boredom tarnished his gaze.

Since I couldn't look relaxed, I took a stab at affability.

"Call me Brew, Mr. Neill. Axbrewder sounds like a medication.

Something they give you for gas."

He smiled distantly.