It was the beginning of the third month of the year before Mao received word from his father to visit home again, and to arrive in good time for his grandfather’s Big Sixtieth. When they got there, preparations were well underway for the event. The whole town was decked in bright flags and red banners wishing the old man great fortune and many more decades to come. The castle was chaotic with servants busying preparing all manner of things to eat, and accommodation for the expected guests. On the day of the celebration the two boys had hardly any opportunity to keep company because Mao, being the favourite (only) grandson, was monopolised by the old man on this happy occasion.

  Left to his own devices, Keihan took advantage of the constant flow of drink and soon collapsed under the table.

  In the chaos of the party it was of little account but Aramond noticed, and signalled to Martin, his captain of the guards, and said, “See that young man? Get a couple of men and take him outside the castle. Find a quiet corner and deal with him – make it look like an accident, or better – a street brawl.”

  Martin nodded and was about to go when Aramond checked him, and added, “Be careful. He knows Shaolin martial art.”

  Then Aramond went to give his father another deluge of happy returns for the day and make sure that Mao was too distracted to notice a group of guards helping Keihan to his feet and slipping out of the party hall.

  Later in the quiet of his room, Aramond was reading correspondence when Martin was announced. The captain entered and Aramond was shocked by his appearance: his bandaged head, his bandaged arm, and his splinted leg necessitating a crutch.

  “I take it that the young man put up a fight? I did warn you he is dangerous,” he said dryly. “Is he dead?”

  “No sir, we failed,” said Martin. “He slipped away from us and there was a struggle. He knows some sort of Shaolin crazy drunk boxing. One man died during the fight, and the other five were grievously wounded. The doctor does not expect two of them to make it through tonight.”

  Aramond showed his surprise. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I was knocked out and when I regained consciousness he was nowhere in sight. Shall I organise a search?”

  “No. No need. What is that sour smell? Is it you?”

  Martin looked contrite. “Sir … at one point he leapt up onto a rooftop to escape us, and then he … vomited … a lot.”

  Aramond’s lips twitched. “That will be all.” The captain saluted and hobbled away. He sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers together thoughtfully.

  The next morning, Mao had difficulty bursting into the guest room Keihan was lodged in because the door was partly blocked by Keihan asleep on the floor.

  Rudely awakened by the nudging of the door, Keihan got up and clutched his head with both hands, his eyes tightly squeezed.

  “Ah! my poor head. Stop capering about like a deranged monkey!” he moaned, “I had the weirdest dream –”

  “You shouldn’t drink so much if you can’t hold it,” Mao advised. “How did you get those bruises?”

  “Let me tell you about this weirdest dream!”

  The two boys made themselves comfortable on cushioned stools.

  “I remember drinking a lot, right, and then I must have fallen asleep. Here’s the thing, I don’t remember one step of how I got from the party to here at all! But in this weird dream there were a bunch of men walking alongside and then, suddenly, for no reason, they attack me! So I was going to use Shaolin kungfu to defend myself, but then I realise I was too drunk to remember any of it, and the next thing I know is that I’m dodging them, somehow, and then there is a scream – it could’ve been me screaming – it could’ve been the man I pushed off the roof – then I don’t know … things just wouldn’t stop spinning … I kept bumping into things … a street cart, a house corner … a really ugly woman – could have been a man disguised as a woman … then blackness. Somehow I remembered my way back here, then I must have passed out. Weird, huh?

  “Yeah … does that hurt?” Mao poked at a particularly colourful bloom on Keihan’s left cheek.

  Keihan batted his hand away. “Of course it does. I don’t recall how it got there. Maybe it wasn’t a dream.”

  “You pushed someone off a roof? It must have been a dream. You don’t know any Shaolin kungfu. You must have got really drunk and bumped into a whole pile of stuff on the way from the hall to this room,” Mao commented. “Or maybe you fell up a flight of stairs,” he added and laughed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “My son, and his good friend,” said Aramond smiling at them from the doorway. He stepped in casually. “May I come in and wish you both a merry morning?”

  Mao eyed his father suspiciously.

  “Ah, the youth these days have no stomach for drink. When I was your age I was out carousing all night with friends and hardly much worse for wear the next day! You should exercise more in the early morning! Build up some stamina. Go and get some fresh air Mao! There is nothing like it for curing the excess of the previous night.”

  “I’ve had some morning air already, father,” said Mao. “Thank you,” he added.

  “Breakfast? That is also another good thing to have,” said Aramond.

  “I was just waiting for Kei.”

  “Go and wish your grandfather a good morning,” said Aramond striding across the room to sit on the stool by the side-table. He flipped open the beautiful wooden box resting on it and started to set up the pieces for a game of chess. “Join me for a game, Keihan. Mao tells me you are a genius at this.”

  “When did I do that?” wondered Mao.

  “I am not, sir,” said Keihan.

  “Ah, so modest,” said Aramond. “Please, indulge an old fool. What do you want to be? Black or red?”

  Keihan shrugged. “I don’t mind, sir.”

  “I’ll be red. I’ll go first.”

  And so, for twenty minutes, the game was played in silence. At this point, Mao decided that his father had no ill intention towards his friend, and so left them to it.

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  “I wonder if you remember what I said to you last time we spoke,” said Aramond, as he captured a knight with a minister, after a particularly long pause.

  “What about, sir?” Keihan counter-captured the minister with a knight.

  “About what happens when you gain mastery of the art.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Keihan.

  “Do you understand it?”

  Aramond moved his remaining knight into the opening created by the sacrifice of his minister.

  “Yes.” Keihan decided to capture a soldier. There were more captured red pieces than black.

  “Oh?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Excellent.”

  Aramond moved his cannon to attack. “Check.”

  Keihan was surprised. He moved a soldier to block. Aramond moved his remaining knight again next to the soldier. “Check and, I believe, checkmate.”

  Keihan could not move the defending soldier to capture the knight. He moved his king. Aramond pointed out that the red queen covered the spot. Keihan conceded. Even though Aramond had fewer pieces, Keihan was too hampered by his own pieces to be able to move out of the checkmate. Aramond smirked. “Youth! So impatient to win you don’t see defeat until it is too late. Tell me, Keihan, is Mao a senior disciple yet?”

  “No, he is not, sir.”

  “Oh? Well, he never had the inclination for martial art, unlike you. Are you at this senior level?”

  “I might be,” said Keihan defensively.

  “Let us not crap the bull or piss the breeze. I understand your nature, Keihan. Even if you were to learn all the secrets of Shaolin you would still hunger for more …”

  “What of it, sir?”

  “I have been thinking … I could be your next sihfu. In my youth, before I returned home and took power, I followed many sihfus and masters and learned many styles of the East and North. Have you heard of the famous Northern Fist? I could teach you that.”

  “Why – what do you want in return?” asked Keihan.

  “Oh, many things,” Aramond smiled. “I shall tell you exactly what those things are when you work for me.”

  There was silence. Aramond packed away the game pieces and got up. Before he left, he said, “Think on it if you will. The offer remains open for as long as you need to … think on it.”

  Keihan thought about it, and then put it out of his mind.

  ~~~

  On the journey back, he asked Mao to tell him how many martial styles there were in Shaolin.

  “Sixty-Four. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Is that all there is?”

  “I’ve heard there is some sort of secret scroll that you learn after you have mastered the Sixty Four styles,” said Mao.

  They were about two days journey from the foot of Shaolin Mountain when they were attacked –

  A group of bandits spotted the three travellers and knew warlords would pay dearly to have Mao Aramond as a hostage. At first they were confused as to which of the two boys it was that they needed to capture, but by trailing them and listening, they learned and chose the moment to attack –

  The guard was quickly dispatched with a swift blade. Mao put up some resistance made difficult by the fact they needed him alive, but they finally had him trussed up –

  “What shall we do about the other boy?” the second-in-command asked the brigand leader.

  “Kill him,” said the brigand leader without wasting a second’s thought.

  “But wouldn’t it be better if we left him to run back to the duke and tell him that we have captured his son?”

  “Good idea,” said the brigand leader. “Off you go, young man!”

  The band made off with their prize and the three horses, failing to notice the calculating look with which Keihan regarded their departure.

  There was a great deal of jubilation as the bandits set up camp for the night and discussed how much they would be able to get out of Aramond as opposed to how much various warlords would bid. They failed to notice a shadow creeping about the camp taking a measure of their numbers and positioning.

  There were five tents, each of which provided sleeping for up to five people. There were two lookouts: one east and one west of the camp. In the centre, there was the campfire on which there was a huge cooking pot and nine men seated around it. Keihan dispatched the two lookouts by sneaking up to them (very easy because they were both sitting on their provision-packs drinking wine from saddle skins), and applying pressure to certain nodes – accompanied by small gusts of Qh’i. Then he sneaked into each tent and did the same to the men he found trying to get some sleep, despite the level of noise being shared by the brigand leader, the second-in-command, and others sitting around the campfire having a late night snack and sing-song.

  He chose a moment, when the men around the campfire were throwing back their heads and roaring with laughter, to leap up and immobilise two of them with pressured neck pinches and another with quick stabs to his torso pressure points. The remaining men leapt up and grabbed their blades. Keihan faced them grounding his feet smoothly and raised his arms in readiness.

  Two men attacked. Keihan stepped smoothly into the space of one who immediately collapsed with a breath-removing ‘Ooommph,” doubled up from a relentless elbow crushing his guts. Keihan lifted a hand and took the blade out of his nerveless fingers and used it to block the down sweep of the second man’s blade. Then tossing the blade aside, he punched him in the stomach and watched him collapse in agonising pain. Then smoothly he readied himself for the second onslaught.

  The second-in-command pushed two men forward then raised his own blade –

  Keihan dispatched one of the men with a double punch, and the other with a swift, well-aimed kick. Then he dodged the descending blade and grabbed hold of it by the blunt edge. He sent a measure of Qh’i along the blade meaning to jolt it out of the man’s fist, but the blade had once been broken and reforged. It snapped where it was weak at the join.

  “Hah!” shouted the brigand leader. “How can a lanky kid be that powerful? He is just showing off! Get him!” he ordered the rest of his men. Not one of them moved.

  The second-in-command looked at his sword hilt and gibbered. Then he cast the hilt down and hastened to put much distance between himself and the Shaolin-trained bodyguard. The men saw this and, those who could still move, followed his excellent example. The brigand leader looked at the backs of the departing brigands, then looked at the men collapsed on the grass, blood on their lips, the men sitting next to the fire unable to move a muscle, then he looked up at the young man with dangerous eyes who tossed the blade piece aside, grounded his feet smoothly and raised his arms casually – in his direction. Then he too saw the sense in making use of his legs and seeing how fast he could run.

  Keihan crept back into the tent where he had found Mao, unconscious with his arms and legs tied up with thick bands of rope. He used a bandit knife to cut through the ropes. Mao woke up.

  “Shhhhhh,” whispered Keihan with a finger to his lips. “Can you move?”

  “Give me a minute,” whispered Mao. He rubbed his arms and legs until he got some feeling back into them. Then the two boys crept between the three brigands in their sleeping-mats, out of the tent, and away from the camp, passing behind the brigands who were still sitting up. If the brigands attempted to move, even one muscle, it brought such excruciating pain that it was better to remain absolutely still. They sat until they eventually slumped over from fatigue. It would be two whole days before the pressure points wore off, and by that time they were much too hungry to care that it was far too late to give chase.

  “Well! That was easy,” said Mao, after they had galloped some distance from the camp, having recovered their own horses, and frightened away the rest. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

  Keihan smiled. “Don’t mention it, Maoi. Of course I had to get you out of there – what kind of servant shows his face at Shaolin without his master?”

  The two boys laughed. Then Keihan said, “Hey, you know the signpost? The one where the road forks towards Hempvale and Shaolin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Last one there is a stinky egg! Heeeyah!”

  Mao laughed and shook his head. Then he snapped his reins and kicked his horse into a gallop after his friend.

  When the two boys arrived at Shaolin, they explained their sorry appearance by the fact they had been ambushed. And Mao wrote to tell his father about the demise of his expendable soldier.