"There's something else I'd like to ask you, if you don't consider it disrespectful. How does your sensei happen to own those chops?"

How did a Japanese karate-kain the US gain possession of what might well be a Chinese national treasure?

I hoped that Komatori might squirm a bit, but he didn't.

"A common misconception, Axbrewder-sczn," he assured me.

"My master doesn't own the chops. He holds them in trust.

"Less than a month ago, he visited his own sensei, Mato Hak-atani, in Japan. When he returned, he brought the chops here. They were placed in his care by Hakatani sensei, who purchased them many years ago from a perhaps disreputable dealer in Chinese antiquities." Komatori's manner conveyed refined distaste.

"Since he purchased them, Hakatani sensei has been troubled in his mind. They were sold as genuine, but at a price much below their apparent worth. What's to be done with them? What's the course of honor?

"If genuine, they're of inestimable value to the Wing Chun schools of China. To make a gift of them would be fitting. But there are many Wing Chun schools, many traditions. Which should Hakatani sensei choose? He doesn't wish to slight any style or tradition.

"Also there's the problem of governments. They're inclined to claim such gifts as national treasures. The intended recipients might never see them."

Komatori paused briefly, then added, "And if they aren't genuine Making a gift of them might be considered as an insult."

I thought he was chewing more than he could bite off. But he didn't ask my opinion, and I didn't offer it. Instead I suggested, "Surely you can authenticate them somehow? That would solve at least one of your problems."

He nodded.

"That's why Hakatani sensei wanted the chops brought here. Of course, the necessary expertise is available in both China and Japan. But Hakatani sensei feared that any Chinese" for an instant Komatori's tone suggested discomfort "or Japanese authority might be tainted by self-interest. Personal or national gain might inspire a false judgment. In this country, my master may find an authority whose assessment supports confidence."

It was my turn to nod, so I did. Antiques appraisers weren't thick on the ground, but they weren't exactly scarce either. In Garner, the Land of Recreational Income, there had to be a few who could date the chops accurately and wouldn't give a shit about their status as icons.

But Komatori hadn't finished.

"In addition," he said, "Haka-tani sensei is elderly. He no longer feels able to guard the chops effectively. As a mark of esteem, he gave them to Nakahatchi sensei.

"Finally, Hakatani sensei believes that if the chops are genuine, they're too precious to be held privately. Such a treasure must be shared. In Garner, karate-ka from coast to coast will be able to see the display."

I understood the sentiment, but I wasn't persuaded.

"Maybe so. But the more people you let in, the greater the risks.

"Which means," I added sharply, "your teacher is in deep shit if anything happens."

Again Komatori didn't hesitate. Instead he replied with another display of inscrutability, "If the chops were lost, and my master could not recover them, he would end his life."

That sounded like craziness to me, honor exaggerated to the point of fanaticism. Nevertheless it fit the intuitive picture I'd picked up from Sifu Hong's kata. Under the right circumstances, there was no limit to the amount of blood those chops might cost.

If I heard much more of this, I'd go crazy myself.

"Well, thanks, Mr. Komatori," I muttered.

"I'll let you go now. I've taken too much of your time."

He made a deprecating gesture.

"Please, Axbrewder-san. Your interest honors us."

Nakahatchi nodded as if in assent. Giving us his blessing.

That did it. I positively could not stomach so much courtesy. Leaning toward Hideo confidentially, I asked, "Then tell me one more thing. How did you come by that scar?"

Like it was any of my business.

But he still refused to take anything I said amiss.

"A training accident," he answered. His smile hinted at self-mockery.

"When I was vounaer."

I raised my eyebrows.

"You train with live blades?"

I'd spent my life surrounded by people who took things amiss.

He shrugged gently.

"Only when the student suffers from arrogance."

In other words, his benign and insufferable teacher had taught him a lesson that nearly cost him an eye.

Charming. I was so impressed I wanted to retch.

As I walked away, I itched to wash my hands of this tournament, the IAMA, and all martial artists. I was wasting my time here. I wanted to go after Bernie's killer. That crime, at least, I could hope to understand. Intuitively, irrationally, I believed that it was linked to the chops. But I also believed that it had nothing to do with Nakahatchi's and Komatori's refined notions of honor and politeness.

Regardless of what I wanted, however, I still had a job to do. The tournament continued to trudge along, doling out trophies like communion wafers, and I was being paid to act diligent until all of the lAMA's elect had received their validation.

Too fed up to watch any more events, I spent my time chewing on the question of how I proposed to track down the heavy-set man.

My only connection to Bernie's killer.

Unfortunately I was in Garner, not Puerta del Sol entirely out of my element. I didn't know the city, hadn't spent years among the lost men and women who frequented Garner's shadows and angles and alleys. Those benighted souls almost certainly knew what was really going on. At home I could've found the drop just by asking around. Here I had no idea who to approach.

Much as I hated the prospect, I'd need Marshal's help. Or Detective Moy's.

To pacify my chagrin, I left the tournament to go look at Moy's mug shot. With no success. An hour and a half later, I was back.

Apparently no one had missed me.

Time passed. Events ended. Trophies were awarded. New events began.

And eventually Sue Rasmussen announced a supper break, during which the IAMA functionaries would clear the floor for Fumio Demura's demonstration. The Grand Championships would follow when the rings had been reset.

I considered taking the opportunity to call Marshal, but I decided against it. He might not appreciate hearing from me on a