at him that he is the deadliest man in the galaxy, the champion player of the Musashi Flex, that loose agglomeration of duelists who fight for fame and sometimes money . . .”
Too sugary? Too pat? Well, that was the easy part, the writing, she could do that anytime. Once she had the visuals, the words would come. Anybody could write.
Later, she would figure out a way to approach him, get an interview, maybe even some scenes of him fighting, but she didn’t want to rush it. She was platinum at the moment, and gleaming in the sun. Best to enjoy it while she could.
Mourn didn’t know how long the woman had been following Weems. He didn’t spot her until Weems sat down at an open-air place called Cafe Du Monde and ordered coffee and one of the sweet confections the locals called beignets, but it was her, Sola, the girl from Madrid. He smiled at the memory. She was tenacious, he had to give her that. She had found out that Weems was here, and was now shadowing him. Being cautious about it, too, but that was no guarantee she hadn’t been spotted—Mourn had tagged her, and he couldn’t claim any more skill at detecting tails than her quarry.
At the moment, Mourn was across the narrow street, inside a little shop, loading a handbasket with pecan pralines, whatever the hell those were, with plenty of cover. He could barely see the two, and if they looked his way, they wouldn’t be able to see him, not enough to ID him.
He did note that Weems had his cane with him. It was hooked on the edge of the table a few centimeters away from his right hand. He had gone to the carbon fiber, so it was said, because he hated putting dings in his custom-made hickory or snakewood sticks, made for him by a master canesmith and fighter named McNeill. McNeill made the carbon-fiber jobs, too, but reportedly under protest—they were just so . . . plain and ugly. Still, while the customer wasn’t always right, when you supplied the weapons for the top-rated Flex player, it didn’t hurt your sales, so plain and ugly he wanted, plain and ugly he got.
Weems had bashed enough heads with the carbon-fiber suckers and never broken one of the canes, so the old saw about form following function seemed valid enough.
But here was the woman, who, far as he could tell, didn’t have a clue Mourn was here. Of course, she wasn’t looking for him, she was focused on Weems, that was her error. Maybe Number One hadn’t tagged her or Mourn yet. He would, eventually, no question of that. You simply could not tail somebody of his caliber for very long without being burned, not unless you did it electronically and from a distance. One person alone doing a sub-rosa surveillance had only a limited time before a hinky target would see him. Or her.
Mourn himself had no intention of staying on Weems that long.
He knew what Sola was up to, given their visit, but he didn’t know how she was going to play it, and it was a risky thing for her, though she probably didn’t know how risky. Weems liked his privacy, more than most players. He lived for the contest, and all the rest of it was, as he had been heard to say, rat feces, as far as he was concerned. He might not take kindly to being watched by a spindoc, even one who planned to make him look good. He didn’t care how he looked.
Well, it was not Mourn’s biz. He had come to check Weems out, strictly strategic and tactical stuff, that was all. He’d mark the man’s moves, try to get a sense of what he was about, and move on. Whatever happened to the woman was her problem.
Moving on meant to another world, too. He had gotten what he had come to Earth to learn, the art of pentjak silat, and the only way to get better at that was to go off and practice it for a couple hours a day for ten or twelve years. Along the way, he was sure to come across some other esoteric martial art that would call to him, and probably he would try to learn it.
Mourn grinned at the thought. There were some principles in silat he
Too sugary? Too pat? Well, that was the easy part, the writing, she could do that anytime. Once she had the visuals, the words would come. Anybody could write.
Later, she would figure out a way to approach him, get an interview, maybe even some scenes of him fighting, but she didn’t want to rush it. She was platinum at the moment, and gleaming in the sun. Best to enjoy it while she could.
Mourn didn’t know how long the woman had been following Weems. He didn’t spot her until Weems sat down at an open-air place called Cafe Du Monde and ordered coffee and one of the sweet confections the locals called beignets, but it was her, Sola, the girl from Madrid. He smiled at the memory. She was tenacious, he had to give her that. She had found out that Weems was here, and was now shadowing him. Being cautious about it, too, but that was no guarantee she hadn’t been spotted—Mourn had tagged her, and he couldn’t claim any more skill at detecting tails than her quarry.
At the moment, Mourn was across the narrow street, inside a little shop, loading a handbasket with pecan pralines, whatever the hell those were, with plenty of cover. He could barely see the two, and if they looked his way, they wouldn’t be able to see him, not enough to ID him.
He did note that Weems had his cane with him. It was hooked on the edge of the table a few centimeters away from his right hand. He had gone to the carbon fiber, so it was said, because he hated putting dings in his custom-made hickory or snakewood sticks, made for him by a master canesmith and fighter named McNeill. McNeill made the carbon-fiber jobs, too, but reportedly under protest—they were just so . . . plain and ugly. Still, while the customer wasn’t always right, when you supplied the weapons for the top-rated Flex player, it didn’t hurt your sales, so plain and ugly he wanted, plain and ugly he got.
Weems had bashed enough heads with the carbon-fiber suckers and never broken one of the canes, so the old saw about form following function seemed valid enough.
But here was the woman, who, far as he could tell, didn’t have a clue Mourn was here. Of course, she wasn’t looking for him, she was focused on Weems, that was her error. Maybe Number One hadn’t tagged her or Mourn yet. He would, eventually, no question of that. You simply could not tail somebody of his caliber for very long without being burned, not unless you did it electronically and from a distance. One person alone doing a sub-rosa surveillance had only a limited time before a hinky target would see him. Or her.
Mourn himself had no intention of staying on Weems that long.
He knew what Sola was up to, given their visit, but he didn’t know how she was going to play it, and it was a risky thing for her, though she probably didn’t know how risky. Weems liked his privacy, more than most players. He lived for the contest, and all the rest of it was, as he had been heard to say, rat feces, as far as he was concerned. He might not take kindly to being watched by a spindoc, even one who planned to make him look good. He didn’t care how he looked.
Well, it was not Mourn’s biz. He had come to check Weems out, strictly strategic and tactical stuff, that was all. He’d mark the man’s moves, try to get a sense of what he was about, and move on. Whatever happened to the woman was her problem.
Moving on meant to another world, too. He had gotten what he had come to Earth to learn, the art of pentjak silat, and the only way to get better at that was to go off and practice it for a couple hours a day for ten or twelve years. Along the way, he was sure to come across some other esoteric martial art that would call to him, and probably he would try to learn it.
Mourn grinned at the thought. There were some principles in silat he
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