Minutes seemed to pass before I noticed Ned gazing at me with a question in his eyes.

Involuntarily I reached out and braced myself on his shoulder.

"I think," I mumbled while I turned my back on the ring, "I need to sit down."

"Don't you want to see who wins?"

I shook my head. Still leaning on him, I retreated to the back of the dais. There I seated myself heavily and dropped my legs over the edge.

"Brew?" Ned asked.

"You all right?"

"Yes." I sighed.

"No." Then I made an effort to pull myself together.

"I just realized something."

Ned sat down companionably beside me.

"I know what you mean. Sifu Hong is amazing."

I shook my head again.

"Something else." Of course Hong was amazing. But I'd been gripped by a perception that resembled ecstasy, a moment of intuition so acute that it might as well have been metaphysical.

"Like what?"

I took a deep breath and held it until the pressure grew strong enouah to steady me. Then I let it out. When it was all gone, and my lungs were clear, I told him, "I haven't been taking those chops seriously enough. They're worth killing for."

They were the Body of Christ, priceless to true believers everywhere.

Entire crusades had been fought for less.

If they were genuine.

Ned frowned.

"And you got that from watching Sifu Hong?"

I tried to explain.

"I thought they were just antiques. Worth only what collectors decide to pay. But that kata " Words couldn't convey what I'd seen.

"They aren't antiques. They're religious icons. The kind of thing people venerate."

And kill for. Bernie was dead because of them.

Someone else would be next. The killer wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted.

Ned laughed.

"Then there's nothing to worry about. We'll be done here by midnight.

After that the chops aren't your problem."

Sure, I thought. Not my problem.

The killing had already begun. That made it my problem.

Grimacing, I replied dishonestly, "And I say, thank God. Otherwise I'd feel morally bound to give myself an ulcer."

I wanted to deflect him from the truth. If I didn't, he might get in the killer's way somehow. I didn't want his blood on my conscience.

A minute later, Sue Rasmussen announced the Masters' Kata Champion.

Soon won, with Gravel second and Hong third. Apparently prejudice against the soft styles was alive and well at the IAMA World Championships.

"Judges." Ned dismissed the results with the back of his hand.

"Go figure." Then he told me privately, "But I was right about one thing. I saw the scores before you turned away. Nakahatchi sensei gave his best marks to Sifu Hong."

Somehow I wasn't surprised. Nakahatchi may've been trying to keep himself alive.

Ned went back to his duties, but I stayed put for a while, feeling dazed and essentially stupid. Eventually, however, I summoned the will to resume my own responsibilities. I didn't think the chops were in any immediate danger, so I went looking for an opportunity to talk to someone from Essential Shotokan.

Trying not to be obvious about it, I made an oblique approach to the spot where Nakahatchi had set up his enclave. He sat a bit above me, surrounded by students. The dullness in his eyes made him appear to slump even though his actual posture was erect. Once again his thin hair and the lines beside his mouth gave me the impression that his face was war torn in some way, strewn with the casualties of an old conflict. Despite my need for information, I felt suddenly reluctant to approach him.

I was still reeling from the effects of the Masters' katas.

Fortunately I recognized one of his people, Hideo Komatori. We'd been introduced Friday morning. That gave me an opening.

"Mr. Komatori." Unsure of the real thing, I produced an ersatz bow.

"Axbrewder. We met briefly on Friday."

Like his sensei, he wore white canvas, but his black belt showed less wear. As he stood to return my bow, I saw that he was considerably taller than Nakahatchi which still left him a hand shorter than I was.

I couldn't tell his age. Mid-thirties? To my eye, Asian faces disguised their years. He carried himself with the lightness I'd learned to expect from serious martial artists, back straight, hands ready. But he smiled like he was sincerely willing to talk to me.

Stepping down from the risers, he shook my hand.

"Mr. Axbrewder. You're well? You enjoy the tournament?"

Until he stood right in front of me, I didn't notice the scar that ran from his forehead down through his left eyebrow into his cheek. It was so old and pale that I could only make it out when the light caught it.

"It's a job," I answered.

"That changes how I look at it." Then I asked, "Would you mind answering a few questions?"

He opened his hands as if to show that they held nothing.