Ned chuckled.

"You'll see when it's his turn."

The woman in silk began before I could ask another question.

In sharp contrast to Soon's kata, hers seemed to be formed entirely of silk. It was a graceful flowing dance, full of sweeping arms and legs, deep crouches and whirling leaps, but I didn't see one honest blow.

Maybe she planned to frustrate her imaginary opponent by smothering him in her clothes. Her approach sure as hell wouldn't do him any other harm.

The applause this time was more spotty. Stylists in silk cheered uproariously as she knelt beside Soon. Other reactions were distinctly tepid.

"Someday," I murmured to Ned, "I'll have to ask you what that was for."

"I'll need at least an hour." He chuckled again.

"And even then I probably won't convince myself I understand it."

"Who is she?"

"Sai Ma. She calls her style "Flying Crane." Other than that, I don't know a thing about it."

Flying Crane, forsooth. No wonder I was so impressed.

Brick went next. If appearances counted, he immediately began killing people left and right. I heard every exhalation, hard as a punch.

Hell, I practically heard his gi tear with each attack. He didn't move with anything like Soon's speed, or the woman's, but his knuckles strained into his blows, his kicks went off like gunshots, and his eyes glared white whenever he yelled. If he put any more effort into it, he'd rupture himself.

When he finally bowed to the judges, he splashed sweat onto the carpet.

The audience loved it, but Ned was less polite.

"That and two bucks," he told me confidentially, "will get him a cup of coffee. He couldn't handle a real fight. He'd wear himself out posturing."

I wasn't sure I agreed. If Brick ever decided to kick me again, I didn't intend to stand still for it. But Gage was the expert here. I kept my opinions to myself.

After those three rounds, the judges showed their score cards to the record-keeper. Nakahatchi, I noticed, had given Sai Ma his highest marks.

During the pause, I asked Ned why Nakahatchi wasn't competing.

Ned shrugged.

"You'll have to ask him. But I can tell you why Sifu Hong is."

"OK," I said, just being helpful.

"Why?"

"Because Nakahatchi sensei offered to be one of the judges. Sifu Hong wants to intimidate him, at least metaphorically. Nakahatchi sensei's ownership of those chops costs every Wing Chun stylist here face." Ned gave me a laughing glance.

"In case you hadn't figured that part out for yourself."

I had, actually. After T'ang Wen's explanations, even I couldn't miss it. But I didn't waste time saying so.

"What about the scoring? Why do you think Nakahatchi rated Sai Ma so highly?"

Ned shrugged.

"I'm guessing here, but I'd say it was face again. Nakahatchi sensei is sensitive about the chops. He wants to compliment the soft stylists. He'll probably rate Sifu Hong even higher." He frowned his disapproval.

"On the other side, Tae Kwon Do and Shotokan have a lot in common. They both grew out of Okinawan styles, primarily Shorin-Ryu and Sheri-Ryu.

Nakahatchi sensei may have downgraded Master Soon because he doesn't approve of the direction the Koreans have taken.

"Personally. I would've done the opposite. I wouldn't challenge Master Soon on a bet." Then he grinned fiercely.

"But I'd love to find out what Sai Ma is made of."

He could have her. I preferred Deborah.

From then on, the scoring took place at the end of each kata. Another hard stylist went next. Then came Parker's turn.

Surprisingly, he no longer sagged. Even his skin looked taut, as if he'd condensed himself to pure force. Instead of competing with Soon's speed, Sai Ma's flow, or Brick's exertion, he shifted through the steps of his kata slowly, with the effortless solidity of a boulder and the precision of a javelin. Each of his strikes etched itself against the air, marked in place by the acid snap of his gi. Wherever he set his feet, they seemed to put down roots. From start to finish, he conveyed the impression that he'd transformed himself by turns into both an irresistible force and an immovable object.

"Wow," Ned breathed through the applause.

"See what I mean?"

I nodded in spite of myself. If I moved that slowly, I couldn't hit a blind four-year-old. And yet Parker had definitely proved something. I just didn't know what to call it.

Whatever it was, the judges liked it.

Another ch'uan fa kata followed. This one made marginally more sense than Sai Ma's, but neither the spectators nor the judges were impressed.

Next Sake Bob Gravel took the ring. He was a slight man with greying hair and a flare of keenness in his pale eyes. A patch on his gi said Malaysian Fighting Arts. Before he began, I asked Ned what soke meant.

"Founder," he told me. Apparently Gravel taught a style which he'd designed himself, based on a number of Malaysian arts with names I didn't know Amis, Silat, Kali, Muay Thai.

Certainly his kata looked like nothing I'd seen before. All of his stances were either deep cross-legged crouches or upright assaults.

Occasionally he waved his arms like Sai Ma, but more often he did nasty things with his elbows. He pumped his knees a lot, pawed several kicks, and swung his legs in long sweeps that torqued his hips into impossible positions.

By the end of his performance, I knew I could take him if you gave me a loaded shotgun and a good head start. More than anyone I'd seen so far, he convinced me that he was daneerous.

By degrees I was being forced to revise my opinion of the martial arts.

Despite my prejudices, I had to acknowledge that some of these people knew a thing or two about real violence.

When Sifu Hong took the ring, I almost stopped breathing.

On one level, his kata resembled what I'd seen from the other soft stylists. As soon as he began, however, I found that I couldn't watch him in those terms. He made me believe that he performed a fight against actual opponents. Somehow every movement every punch, kick, grab, jump, block created antagonists in the air around him. Everything he did instantly demonstrated its purpose by forcing me to visualize the attack it countered, the body it struck, the blow it avoided.

While his kata lasted, I understood everything about it. No part of it was flamboyant or wasted. Even his smallest gestures and shifts were charged with intent. They all had use.

I hardly heard the ovation he received. Astonishment left me practically deaf. I felt like I'd just witnessed the birth of a religion the moment when violence was transfigured by skill and devotion into something ineffable, almost sublime.