The other boys noticed how Mao liked to walk with his servant. They wondered if they might poke some fun at this. A gang of eleven, including Lingmon and Hing, gathered and followed the two boys as they went down to the stream. They were headed by Junho, the oldest in the group. He was a rather tall and good-looking boy with a nasty temper when things did not go his way. Mao and Keihan were naturally silent, while the group laughed and joked behind them.

  When they reached the stream, Keihan began to fill the pails. One of the rude boys jumped forward as if to help, but really to cause mischief as he splashed into the stream and falling over, grabbed the pails so that they fell into the middle of the stream.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” shouted Mao.

  “Quick boys, grab the buckets before they are swept away,” said one of the other boys, giving Keihan a shove.

  “Oi! Leave him alone!” shouted Mao.

  “And what if we don’t?” said Junho evilly. For too long Mao had sidestepped his taunts and challenges. Here, at last, was a way to get Mao to lose his temper.

  Mao clenched his fists and struck.

  Junho blocked easily and laughed.

  Hing grabbed Junho’s sleeve. “Wait a minute. No fighting – it’s against the rules.”

  “Who’s going to tell the monks?” Junho snarled.

  The two mortal enemies weighed each other up.

  Keihan held Mao back by the sleeve.

  “Master, let it be. Don’t fight because of your humble servant.”

  “What?”

  “This is not your battle,” Keihan insisted. He stared at Mao, daring him to contradict.

  Mao saw that Keihan wanted desperately for him to leave. He did not understand but felt that if he were a friend he could not do otherwise. So he walked past Junho and called to Hing. He did not look back.

  “Hey, where do you think you are going?” Junho shouted. “We have unfinished business, you and I! Hey!”

  But Mao did not look back.

  “What about your little boy?”

  Mao did not stop. The other boys wavered a little, and then followed Hing and Mao.

  “I’ll hit him!” Junho yelled.

  He struck Keihan, hoping that his cries would bring his master running. But Keihan took the blow that floored him, in silence. Junho lashed out with his foot. Keihan remained silent; he hardened the muscle at the target areas to minimise injury. Unable to get a sound out of the boy, Junho gave up, and sulked back to the temple. But he knew Mao’s weakness now, and so, over the next week, he would kick out at the boy, throw stones his way, stick out a leg to trip him up – whenever Mao was present. The fact that Keihan was dextrous at sidestepping the nuisances when they occurred should make Junho think, if he wasn’t so obsessed with rousing Mao’s ire.

  The only time Junho could trip Keihan, as he swept the halls, was when Keihan saw Greson Monk approaching around the corner, and fell flat on his face. But before Mao could get there to pick him up, Greson had interposed. The taskmaster had seen, unmistakably, the way Junho had stuck out his leg at the last moment, right in Keihan’s way.

  “If I ever see you do that again, I will see you out of this temple, Junho. I will see you are expelled in full disgrace!” Junho cowered before the big monk’s fire.

  The taskmaster helped Keihan to his feet and then saw the livid bruises on his chest. It so happened that Keihan’s belt was loose, so his jacket was tugged aside.

  “What’s this?” the taskmaster exclaimed.

  “I climbed a tree and I fell,” said Keihan. Unseen by the monk, he allowed a little smile which cut through to Junho’s very bone.

  That snivelling little worm. Junho itched to strangle him.

  “What were you climbing a tree for?” asked the taskmaster.

  “No reason … I just wanted to climb.”

  “Well, it is dangerous, so don’t do it again. You could have killed yourself.”

  “I won’t, Master Greson.”

  Greson nodded, and went off. He was a busy monk.

  “It was you, Junho, wasn’t it?” Mao said, as soon as the monk was out of hearing.

  Junho did not reply. He turned on his heel, pushed down the rage in his belly, and left.

  Keihan kept Mao from going after Junho.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Keihan, “he won’t do it again. He wouldn’t dare.”

  ~~~

  Greson Monk found Seiskein Monk doing some research in the temple’s vast library.

  “That Junho fellow has been beating up my little boy,” he said, without preamble.

  “Pardon?” said Seiskein, putting down his writing brush.

  “Remember that little boy you told me to take care of?”

  “Yes …”

  “One of the disciples has been beating him up, and I am certain it was Junho.”

  “Are you sure? That is quite serious,” said Seiskein. “Did you actually see Junho beating up the little boy?”

  “Not with my own eyes, but I saw him stick out a foot to trip him up … and then I saw some bruises on Keihan’s body, so –”

  “I don’t quite follow, Greson. You say that this little boy was tripped up and from that he got bruises –”

  “No, no. The bruises were there from before … I saw Junho stick his foot out, and it was definitely no accident –”

  “And from this you draw the conclusion that he must have done some injury to the servant beforehand?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Who else?”

  “My friend, unless you saw it with your own eyes, you can’t make such a serious claim. It could have been any one of the six hundred odd disciples we have – although you could safely discount the ones under the age of ten. As for the tripping up, it may be deliberate, but it is no major offence. Boys will be boys. I doubt any one of us could claim to be a saint while we were growing up. I will certainly not make a note of it. Also, Wai Sihfu has recommended that Junho be one of the disciples going up to the senior level this spring. When that happens he will have less time for mischief. In my opinion, Junho is a fair disciple and the higher study will refine him.”

  “But you are missing the point. Somebody bullied that little kid.”

  “Did he say whom?”

  “No,” Greson admitted. “He said he fell out of a tree.”

  “Then that ends the matter, my friend.” Seiskein picked up his brush and prepared to write.

  “No, it doesn’t. If he had really fallen out of a tree there would be scratches, but there wasn’t. So clearly, he was covering up out of fear.”

  “No name, no culprit, nothing to be done,” said the venerable monk. His brush poised over a fresh sheet of paper. “If you really want to pursue the matter, then you should keep an eye out for further incidences. A bully – as you insist there must be one – will certainly bully again. Also, while you are at it, you should note how much time that little kid spends sweeping. It seems to me that he spends an inordinate amount of time doing the job in the junior yards.”

  “He does?” said Greson, eyebrows raised. “Do you mean to say he might be lingering so he can learn Shaolin martial art in secret?”

  “I am just observing that he spends rather a lot of time in the training yards – at least, that seemed to be the case last time I checked,” said Seiskein. He found his place in the book and began to make notes.

  Greson left the library frowning. He had searched out Seiskein with one worry, and now left with another. He made his way to his kitchen and, passing through one of the yards, he came across Lazuro talking to Keihan. He took the broom out of Keihan’s hands and thrust it into Lazuro’s, saying, “From now on no more sweeping for you little boy.” And he bustled off.

  Nonplussed, Lazuro and Keihan stared after him.

  “What was that?”

  “Beats me,” said Lazuro. “What was that you wanted to say?”

  “Oh, I was going to ask … actually, it’s a bit beside the point now, considering … I was going to ask if you’d like me to sweep up around the inner yards, but no matter.”

  “Ah. Well, you wouldn’t have needed to in any case because keeping the inner yards tidy is a chore for the senior disciples.”

  ~~~

  It was the middle of a freezing winter. Everyone started to dress in thick, padded jackets and leggings and hats with earflaps, except for the wizen monks in their perpetual robes. A letter arrived for Mao and after reading it, he ran off to find Keihan. “Hey, we are going home. One of my dad’s men is at the village below waiting for us,” he said when he found him chopping up some wood. “Hurry, we can get there by this evening, and start our journey home tomorrow.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, come on,” said Mao. “You’ll meet my grandpa who is just super!”

  Keihan got up and followed Mao as he ran off to his room to pack. Mao flung open the little chest and pulled out his clothes. He found they did not fit him and was annoyed. He wrapped the whole lot into a bundle, except for two thick fur-lined cloaks. “I’ll just have to wear what I have on now and get proper clothes when I get home. I’ll get some for you too.”

  “Do you really have to go home?” asked Keihan.

  “My father demands it, and grandpa is looking forward to it. Of course I have to go. But it is just for a visit. We’ll be back here by springtime.”

  “Oh, alright. I could do with a break,” Keihan remarked.

  Mao laughed and tossed one of the cloaks to Keihan. He wrapped the other one around himself. He put all the old clothes into a knapsack and thus the two boys left, after giving word of their departure to their respective mentors.

  After a fifteen-day journey on horseback, they arrived at the sprawling castle town where Mao’s family lived in their ancestral seat, Aramond Castle. Before they reached the castle, Mao stopped at a tailor shop to buy two sets of clothing, one for himself and one for Keihan. Mao would not hear of Keihan’s protest, stating that he could not possibly introduce his friend to his family dressed in servant garb.

  The guardsmen had sent word ahead of their arrival and Lao Aramond was waiting at the castle gate to greet his grandson. They exchanged a joyful embrace, and then Mao introduced his friend, and asked where his father was.

  Old Lao commented that his Maoi had grown taller, and was much too heavy to swing in a circle, even if he had the strength. He told them that the duke was ensconced in a council with his advisers and captains and was probably not in the mood to be disturbed. They exchanged gossips of what had happened over the year, and as they walked through the castle, Mao greeted the elders, his sisters and cousins. Lao asked Keihan a few questions, but when he only got monosyllabic answers in return he stopped asking, and lavished all his attention on his beloved grandson. At dinner, Lao went to his own room, as was his custom. Mao was to go to the grand hall, and he took Keihan with him and made him sit next to him at the lower end of the high table. When the meal was finished, Dao Aramond greeted his son for the first time and told him they would speak first thing tomorrow morning.

  Mao got one of the servants to make up a guest room for Keihan, and then after calling on his mother to ask after her health, went to his own bedroom. The next morning, he knocked on his father’s door.

  After a few pleasantries, Aramond asked Mao what had he learned during his time at Shaolin.

  Mao blinked. “Er …”

  “Follow me,” said Aramond curtly, after a few minutes of awkward silence had passed. He led the way to the central garden. He snapped his fingers at a passing soldier.

  When they were assembled in the middle of the garden, the duke ordered the soldier to attack Mao. The soldier hesitated.

  “Go on,” Aramond ordered. “Don’t be afraid you’ll injure him. I want to see if the Shaolin Masters have taught him anything useful.”

  The soldier towered over the little boy, and bunched up his fists to attack. Mao blocked and with a twist, got behind the soldier and with a well-aimed kick, felled him. The soldier scrambled up.

  “Draw your sword,” said Aramond.

  The soldier obeyed and attacked again. Mao dodged and blocked, and after a few close nicks, Aramond ordered, “Enough!” and dismissed the soldier.

  “It seems the Shaolin Masters have taught you nothing,” he said. “Maybe I shall have to take your education into my own hands …”

  Mao did not know how to answer. Aramond began to walk, so he followed mutely. After a few minutes, he spoke up, “Actually, father, I think I should go back.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. It would spare you the trouble.”

  “It would …”

  “There are many supreme masters at Shaolin –”

  “Ah! You find them very impressive?”

  “– Their reputation is not undeserved – And I have made numerous friends –”

  “Yes. I see you brought one of them here.”

  Mao nodded. “There’s lots of things to learn at Shaolin – I have barely started!”

  Aramond pondered a few minutes and then nodded. “Very well. Return to Shaolin, but if I see no great improvement next time, I shall think of something else.” He dismissed his son.

  Mao thought it odd that his father made the comment about taking his education into his own hands. He wondered if the duke really meant he would take it upon himself to teach his son. During a game of chess, he asked his grandfather about it.

  Lao sighed, “I don’t think he meant it. He has many things weighing on his mind …”

  Mao moved his queen and captured Lao’s knight.

  “Ah-hah!” Lao swiftly counter-captured, and smiled.

  Mao frowned at the board. Keihan was sitting on a stool watching the game intently. Mao glanced at him hoping for some inspiration or help.

  “I heard that he has lost the favour of the court,” Lao commented after a while. “So that is one reason for his discontent. In my opinion he spends too much time wishful thinking. The borders are quiet and there has not been much opportunity for warring against other nobles lately …”

  “Oh? That should be a good thing!”

  “I don’t know …”

  After the boys left for Shaolin, it occurred to the duke to ask Lao if he had learned anything about Mao’s new friend. Lao had little to report.

  “But don’t you even know the boy’s background?” Aramond asked.

  “What of it? He seems a good friend and frankly that is all I need to know,” said Lao peevishly. “Your trouble is that you think the whole world answers to you. It doesn’t. And the sooner you realise that, the sooner you will be content.”

  “But doesn’t it bother you?” said Aramond, ignoring his father’s advice. “The fact that you don’t even know this little boy’s background? Don’t you think that a bit strange?”