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bloomed and crowned Raidon, choking his reply to an inarticulate snarl. His viewpoint conttacted; his anger expanded.
    Chun kicked the table onto its side, simultaneously rushing Raidon, trying for a disemboweling strike. Raidon flipped backward, head over heels three times, rolling to his feet twenty paces away, out in the busy stteet.
    Chun lost the advantage of his attack by stumbling on the overturned table. The thug rushed forward unhindered and tried to shove a dirk into the monk’s face.
    Raidon leaned forward and slightly to his left; the knife flashed past his right ear. Before his attacker could retract his arm, Raidon caught the man’s wtist in a painful grip. He twisted the wrist, levered the man around, and flung the shrieking thug onto Chun’s advancing blade.
    Screams, yells, and a few whistles blared in Raidon’s ears. He hadn’t wanted a fight. He had simply intended to demand that Chun hand over the blade. He hadn’t realized Chun was trained in sword play. But Raidon was committed to seeing through what he’d statted, despite the foolhardiness of engaging in a fight. A tea house in the market district of Shou Town was too public for anything prolonged and bloody. Chun had expertly baited Raidon, made him forget himself; he’d lost his center. Raidon concentrated on walling off his
    anger, separating it from the skill and grace that marked him as a Xiang Temple graduate.
    His enemy, finally clear of the table, charged. Chun’s blade perfectly shielded the center line of his body, and was simultaneously set to deliver any number of killing strikes to Raidon’s head, neck, stomach, or wrists—
    Raidon dropped and swept Chun’s legs with his own. Unprepared, Chun toppled, his sword out of alignment. As the man hit the ground, Raidon rolled onto Chun’s chest, his knees painfully squeezing the man’s sides. He trapped the hand that gripped the sword on the ground with his right hand, and smashed the man’s temple with his left elbow.
    Chun went limp and the sword fell from his grasp.
    Raidon stood. He clutched his grandfather’s daito in one hand, raised it in a salute. Raidon had never held it before, only admired it from afar when his father had shown it to him as a child. It was perfectly balanced, a wonder of craftsmanship. His anger relented. Honor was his once more, and his family’s.
    He allowed himself a nod of acceptance, then noticed seveial newcomers on the scene.
    A gang of tattooed men pushed through the crowded street toward him. They’d been hiding all along, watching Chun, waiting to ambush Raidon should he prove intractable. His anger had blinded him to all the clues of their presence. There were too many to fight. And why should he? He had what he’d come for, and Chun had been shamed.
    He fled.
    Behind him, a call went up. Chun’s voice, bleary but loud, followed. “You’re dead! Dead! You’ve crossed the Nine Golden Swords, whelp! You can’t hide from us! Nowhere in Thesk is safe for you!” The man’s half-hysterical threat faded behind him. But his words rang with truth, Raidon knew. The Nine Golden Swords made examples of those who crossed them.
    He was a marked man.
    Raidon Kane dashed through the market throng, swatting a fat man from his path. The man fell, his arms windmilling, into a fruit seller’s cart. One hand knocked out the bottom row of a perfectly stacked display of ted fruit, causing an apple-lanche.
    Shoppers clogged the streets, mostly locals, but also adventurous tourists from the surrounding city of Telflamm. It was a perfect day for Raidon to lose himself in the crowd. He darted through a shouting match over bok choy, past the live turtle vendot, and into the chicken seller’s shop. He didn’t pause, but hastened through the piled cages and acrid odors, ignored the owner’s shout, and patted the heavy felt material of the shop’s back wall with a swipe of the daito.
    He emerged on an unfamiliar side street. Dark bars clustered here, small,