For one thing, there was a kink in the thread that indicated something of extreme significance had touched it. That was surely Satan, making his offer. If the man had accepted, how could they stop him without cutting his thread?
Clotho assumed the body. “I will try,” she said simply. She pointed the distaff, extended the thread, and slid down it to the man’s location. Again, it was morning, in the state of New Jersey, and he was at his place of business. This was a dojo, or martial arts establishment.
We should have guessed, Niobe thought. His name is Samurai.
“Which means Warrior,” Clotho murmured. “A pretentious title!”
She opened the door and entered. There was a desk inside with a girl in a gi, or martial arts uniform. “You wish to join for the course?” she inquired politely.
“No,” Clotho said. “I wish to speak to Samurai.”
The girl smiled. “The Master does not sign up students. But in class he will give you the same attention he does all students, and if you have talent you may be able to enroll in an advanced class and receive special instruction.” She eyed Clotho appraisingly. “Of course that is more expensive and requires special dedication.”
“I don’t wish to be a student,” Clotho insisted. “I have more personal business with the man.”
The girl studied her again. Suddenly Niobe was aware of the appearance of their youngest Aspect. She was well dressed—clothing in the Abode was of the highest quality, fashioned of genuine silk, and fitted with magical perfection—and was an extremely well-formed woman to begin with. She was a person to be noticed more than passingly. “I will inquire,” the girl said and touched a button.
In a moment she received an answer. She glanced up. “Take the hall to the left, through the curtain. Oh—and remove your shoes before you enter the office. He’s very fussy about that.”
“Thank you.” Clotho walked down the hall, then paused to remove her dainty shoes before pushing through the curtain of thin bamboo.
The office was like a Japanese garden, with decorative plants and Oriental statuary all around, and a broad mat covering the floor. At the far side, seated on a slightly elevated dais, was a handsome man in a resplendent gi, almost a robe.
Clotho stood bemused at the entrance. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” she breathed. “I have never been to Japan, but—”
“Come forward,” the man said. “Do not be afraid of the tatami.”
She stepped with her stocking feet onto the mat, which was soft but firm. “Samurai, I want to talk to you about—”
“Wait,” he said peremptorily, and she paused in place. “Turn about, woman.”
Clotho hesitated, then turned around.
The man got up, seeming to flow effortlessly to his feet. He strode to a curtained closet in one wall, moving like a lithe panther. He brought out a folded kimono. “Don this.”
“What?”
“I want you properly garbed,” he said. “Go to the changing chamber there.” He gestured at a door. “Put this on. Then we shall talk.”
“Samurai, I don’t know what you think I’m here for—”
“Not for classes,” he said. “Not for business. So you mean to be a geisha.”
“A geisha!” she exclaimed indignantly.
What’s a geisha? Atropos asked.
A Japanese entertainment-girl, high-class, Niobe replied.
Oh, so that’s what they call them, over there! We call them whores.
It’s not the same—Niobe started, but then external events interrupted them.
“You had another intention?” Samurai was saying. Clotho switched to Japanese, spewing out a minor torrent of words. Neither Niobe nor Atropos understood that language, but they got the gist from her mind; she was calling him, in eloquent idiom, a male sexist pig.
Oopsy! Niobe thought.
That girl’s got a temper! Atropos thought, half admiringly.
Samurai’s face turned grim. He took a step toward Clotho. She spun about and ran for the curtained door. She plunged through, paused to pick up her shoes, and froze. A man was charging down the hall toward her.
She turned again and plunged back through the curtain. Samurai was there. She flung her shoes at him. He caught one and dodged the other; he had marvelous reflexes. She dodged to the side and ran across the room.
Samurai followed. Clotho reached out, grabbed a potted cactus, whirled, and hurled it at his head. This time she scored. The clay pot shattered between his eyes, the dirt spreading across his face.
I wish she hadn’t done that! Niobe thought.
She’s one hair-trigger gal! Atropos responded. Maybe we’d better just thread on out of here.
We can’t; she’s got the body.
You mean we can’t take over if we need to?
Not until she lets us—and she’s not paying attention to us at the moment.
Atropos mentally shook her head. Been forty years since the last time I got raped. Going to be about forty seconds till the next time!
A mortal can’t rape an Incarnation! Niobe protested.
You sure about that?
Niobe considered. No. I know no mortal can hurt us, but I’m not sure if rape counts as hurting. It may be just— just an interaction, no blood shed.
No blood for me, no blood for you—but what about her?
Again Niobe considered. She’s as innocent as I was when I married, the first time. Still—
Well, if it happens, let’s see if we can change to me in the middle. That’ll sober him.
Niobe thought of that, and of the likely reaction of the man. She started to laugh, though she didn’t want to; it really wasn’t at all funny.
Clotho, meanwhile, was running down another passage. She plunged through the bamboo curtain at the far end and burst into the main work chamber. About twenty students in white gi’s and white belts and yellow belts were practicing throws, supervised by a man in a brown belt. They paused at the sight of her, for Clotho’s summer dress was a complete contrast to their uniforms. She was in somewhat frilly blue, with a pink sash and a pink rose on the front, and her hair was bound in a western ponytail by a pink ribbon. She was the very picture of lovely young innocence.
Then Samurai burst out after her, the very picture of masculine outrage. Earth stained his pretty robe and smudged his face, and blood dripped from his nose. The students gave way as he strode forward and caught Clotho by the arm. “Woman, you have no—”
Clotho froze for an instant, then tried to tear herself away, but his grip was like iron. She spewed more Japanese at him.
Hoo! Atropos thought, mentally pursing her lips. No girl that age should know concepts like that!
Niobe had to agree. Liberated women evidently learned things younger than did the conventional woman of prior generations, whatever the language.
Samurai’s rage turned to something like awe, then to disgust. He snapped something back in Japanese. It seemed to translate to something like Atropos’ concept of the geisha girl.
Clotho swung her hand at his head. He caught it and drew her in to him. He kissed her. She struggled, but could not escape. Slowly she relaxed.
That man sure can kiss! Atropos thought.
The taming of the shrew, Niobe agreed.
Then Clotho remembered herself. She bit Samurai on the lip. Then, at last, she remembered her powers. She flung out a thread and slid along it.
The man’s arms were abruptly empty, for Fate was insubstantial when sliding. Astonished, he looked about.
There was Clotho, ten feet away. Samurai started toward her—and she slid through him to the other side. The watching students gaped. When he turned and started for her again, she slid to him, ducked down, and materialized at his legs, causing him to stumble over her. Then she slid another foot, passed through him, materialized again, and kicked him in the rear.
Samurai took a forward rolling breakfall and came smoothly back to his feet. “Magic!” he cried. “My sword!”
The brown-b
elt hurried out, to return in a moment with a sheathed katana. Samurai took it and drew the gleaming blade. “I know how to deal with a witch!”
Get out of here, girl! Atropos thought at Clotho. This time the girl heard. She sailed up a thread, out of the building.
Then, in air, she paused. “But this isn’t accomplishing my mission!” she exclaimed.
“Welcome to reality, girl!” Atropos muttered, using the mouth now that they were alone. “If that man wasn’t set to do Satan’s business before, he sure is now!”
“But what can I do? I’ve cost him face!”
“What?”
“Face. I’ve embarrassed him in public, caused him to lose status.”
“You mean he won’t be reasonable now?” Atropos inquired dryly.
“He’s not a bad man, just arrogant! I shouldn’t have humiliated him!”
“Didn’t he call you a whore?” Atropos asked, and Niobe realized that the wise old woman was leading the foolish young one to a reconsideration.
“He thought I was a geisha. That’s—I’m sure he didn’t intend it as an insult. It is an honored profession.”
“Entertainer,” Niobe put in. “Companion.”
“Well, then, girl, go back and apologize!” Atropos snapped, sounding much the way she had when addressing the black teenager.
“It’s not that simple,” Clotho said, torn. “I’m a liberated woman. I don’t hold with—with—”
“You’d rather tell him to go to Hell?” Atropos demanded.
“No! When it’s a matter of face—I didn’t mean to do that!”
“Didn’t mean to jump to a conclusion and bawl him out in gutter-Japanese?” Atropos asked.
“I—the old ways—all my life I’ve opposed—”
“Girl, you think your new ways look any better?”
“No,” Clotho whispered. “I—overreacted.”
“Well, we’d better go back and try to explain,” Niobe said, “or we’ll have to cut his thread.”
“No!” Clotho cried in anguish.
“She’s not that liberated,” Atropos said.
“Well, he is quite a man,” Niobe said.
“Quite a man,” Clotho echoed ruefully.
“Look, girl, you go on back there,” Atropos directed Clotho. “But this time listen to us. We’ll help you, same’s you helped me with that homework. Ain’t none of us knows it all, if you want it in my dialect. We’ll get that man re-faced, somehow.”
Clotho laughed, somewhat hysterically. “It won’t work! It doesn’t work that way!”
“Let’s try it anyway,” Atropos said. “He’s a man, and you’re one good-looking young woman. He’ll listen. What’ve we got to lose?”
Clotho shrugged fatalistically, then slid back down the thread.
The class was already back in session, but the brownbelt cried out the moment Clotho materialized. She walked by him and into the hall to the office.
Samurai was there, sponging off his face. He froze as he saw Clotho in the mirror.
Apologize, Atropos ordered.
“I—I came to apologize,” Clotho said.
Samurai turned. “Only blood will make this right,” he said grimly.
“I—I can’t give you that.”
“Who are you?”
Clotho hesitated. I don’t think it would be smart to tell him our nature, Niobe thought. It would seem like a threat.
“I—I am a supernatural creature,” Clotho said. “That is why I could not—”
“A witch!” he exclaimed.
“No. A woman. But not—like others.”
Almost, he smiled. “Not like others,” he agreed.
“Samurai, how can I make it right?” Clotho asked. “I did not mean to—you made me angry—”
“Because I thought you a geisha?”
“This is America! Women are independent, not the playthings of men!”
He nodded. “I mistook you for Japanese.”
That stung. “I am Japanese—but liberated. I—I left my family because I—would not follow the medieval ways.”
“Those ways are good ways!” he said.
“Will you accept my apology?”
“No. Only blood will scour that humiliation clean.”
She spread her hands pleadingly. “Samurai, I am immortal. I cannot give you blood. But if we cannot work this out, I will have to take yours.”
He touched his nose. “You have already done that.”
“All yours,” she said.
“Then take it!” he exclaimed. “Bring your champion to meet my katana! Then will the debt be settled.”
Accept! Niobe thought.
“But—”
“Today,” he said. “Here in my dojo. Before my students, where the insult occurred.”
Accept! Niobe repeatedly urgently.
“All right,” Clotho said faintly. “This—this afternoon.”
Samura seemed surprised. “You accept?”
Now tell him our business, Niobe thought.
“Yes. I will—bring my champion here. To meet you. Now may I tell you why I came here?”
Samurai inclined his head. “You do intrigue me, woman.”
“Someone will come to offer you something, for a service—”
“He already has.”
Clotho paused. We’re closer to the deadline, Niobe thought.
“You must not do it!” Clotho said.
“Why not?”
“It is Satan making the offer. He means to bomb the United Nations—”
“What do I care about the United Nations?”
“This—if this happens, there will be discord among the nations, perhaps war—”
“What’s wrong with war?”
Baffled, Clotho stared at him.
He’s a martial artist, Niobe thought. A warrior. He likes combat.
Ask him if he wants his soul to go to Hell, Atropos suggested.
“If you do this, if you serve Satan, your soul will be his.”
“How can you know this?” Samurai demanded.
“I—know.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Better tell him, after all, Atropos thought, and Niobe agreed.
“Because I am Fate,” Clotho said.
“Now you are insulting my intelligence!”
“What proof do you require?”
“No proof, woman! I will not be mocked!”
Ask him what Satan offered, Niobe thought.
“What did Satan offer you, to deliver that package?”
“You cannot imagine the value of—” He broke off. “It wasn’t Satan.”
“One of his agents. It doesn’t matter who came to you; it is Satan’s offer.”
Samurai considered. “He offered the secret of the finger death.”
“The what?”
“I have searched for it for years. A blow so light it may be struck with a single finger that causes death within the hour. It causes the autonomic system to malfunction progressively until the body cannot cope.”
“You want to kill someone with one finger?”
“No. Merely to have the ability to do it.”
“And for this you agreed to bomb the UN?”
“No. Just to carry a package there. And I haven’t agreed; I will decide tomorrow.”
“You must turn it down!”
“That is not for you to say. Who is your champion?”
Mars, Niobe thought. He will help if we ask him.
“Mars.”
“Who?”
“The Incarnation of War.”
“Still you mock me!” he exclaimed. “There are no such things as Incarnations of Fate and War! I will not tolerate mockery after injury!”
“But he will come here!” Clothe said.
“I will allow no stranger here today!”
We’ll bring him anyway, Niobe thought. Samurai thinks he is being mocked, but he will believe when he sees Mars!
“We will be here,” Clotho said. T
hen she extended a thread and slid away, barefooted.
Back in the Abode, they reviewed what had happened. They agreed that Samurai had not intended to insult Clotho by his reference to geisha; he had honestly mistaken her purpose in approaching him. Probably he encountered a number of young women who wished to have a personal or sexual relationship with a master martial artist. So Clotho’s angry reaction had been unwarranted. They also agreed that Samurai was basically a decent man whose thread should not be prematurely cut, and that his loss efface had to be compensated for. But not by blood!
Clotho promised to consult with the other Aspects before she exploded like that again. She had been ready to commit suicide after being cast out other family, and that militancy of reaction remained. She tended to go too far. “After all,” she conceded, “some male sexist pigs may be decent sorts, when allowance is made.”
And here was a delicate aspect, “If you could get Samurai to turn Satan down, by being what Samurai took you for,” Niobe asked, “would you do it?”
Clotho suffered a siege of sheer rage. Then she calmed, realizing that she was about to react exactly as she had promised not to. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
As it had been with Chronos, Niobe thought. When she herself had been Clotho. The role of Fate required its sacrifices, not so much of conscience as of image. The current Clotho thought of herself as liberated, but she was bound.
“Now we must recruit Mars,” Niobe said. “I know him of old; he will help. But I do not know this particular office-holder, and it is better that he not know my past; that is one secret we must keep from all until we deal with Satan. So Clotho should approach him her way, and put the matter into his hands.”
Clotho sighed. “This office and Aspect have many burdens!”
Niobe laughed. “What else is new? Would you trade it?”
“No.”
Atropos smiled. “I think we’re getting it together.” Clotho rode the thread to Mars. He was near the Iran-Iraq border, supervising a locally savage skirmish. “These folk of Babylon and Persia are really dedicated to my purpose,” he remarked with satisfaction as Clotho approached. Then he took a second look at her. “Well, Clotho, you have changed! Did that sweet Hungarian girl get tired?”
“She fell in love,” Clotho said, as if Lisa had died. Mars laughed. “That’s a liability of your type! You’re all right until you get mushy about a man, then you sag into—”