She bowed him in and set him to practicing his djuru. He only knew the first one, but it was obvious he had been practicing away from class.
Anot her month or two and he’d be ready to start the second djuru.
Pretty quick. She’d been four months before Guru had given her Djuru Two.
After about fifteen minutes, she called a stop.
He’d worked up a pretty good sweat, his shirt was damp and the headband was soaked. She walked to where her jacket was folded next to the wall, bent, and pulled the kris in its sheath from under the cloth.
She walked back to Alex and showed him the weapon.
“Look at this.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Is this Indonesian?” “Yes. It’s called a kris. K-r-i-so.
Sometimes spelled with an E after the K, sometimes with a double S. My Guru presented it to me when I went home for Christmas. It belonged to her great-grandfather. It’s been in her family for more than two hundred years.” She handed it to him.
He pulled it from the wooden sheath and looked at the blade.
“Wow. How’d they get that color and texture?” ” “The shape is called dapor. This one is a kris luk, the wavy blade pattern.
The waves are always an odd number. There are also straight kris. The blade is made by welding and hammering various kinds of iron or steel together, then forging them into one piece. It’s etched, they use lemon or lime juice and arsenic on the blade to darken and bring out the patterns in the steel. The surface pattern is called pam or. There is a lot of meaning attached to what kind of dapor and pam or a blade has, and who crafted it and how.” “Security didn’t say anything when you brought this in?” “I told them it was a paperweight. Feel the edge.” “Not very sharp,” he said, testing it with his thumb.
“That’s because it is primarily a thrusting weapon.
One doesn’t use a kris for household chores, only against an enemy or a wild animal. It’s pretty much a ceremonial weapon, although it can certainly be used to kill in the hands of somebody who knows what he or she is doing. It was the traditional execution weapon for a long time.” He hefted the weapon.
“Interesting. Is it valuable?” ” “Moneywise, probably worth several thousand dollars. But the real value is in the thing itself.
“The kris are considered little temples by many Indonesians.
The makers are called Empu, and depending on how one produces the kris and the wishes of the client, certain… magics are included in the forging. Many of the traditional kris are designed to be lucky, in war, or love, or business.” “Which is this one?” She shrugged.
“I’m not sure yet. The magic apparently changes a little with each new owner.” Lucky in love, she hoped.
“You aren’t going to stick me with it, are you?” She smiled.
“And piss off Security? No, I thought we’d start with the wooden knife for practice. But I wanted you to see it.” He put the dagger back into its sheath and handed it to her.
“Thank you for showing it to me.” She took the kris, went back to her jacket, and rewrapped the weapon.
Back in front of Alex, she said, “Okay, let’s work a little on applications from the djuru. Throw a punch, right here.” She touched the tip of her nose.
He stepped in and shot a weak straight right at her nose.
She double-blocked it without any effort.
“That’s not a punch!
And let me see the other hand bracing the right.
It’s not that much slower, and remember, this hand”–she raised her right fist–“never goes into battle without this one.” She put her left hand on her right forearm.
“Just like the djuru.” “Can I ask a question?” “Sure.” “Why?” “Because silat is based on structural principles and not raw power. You have to have base, angle, and leverage, but you must use proper technique to get them. See, you are bigger and stronger than I am, and if you punch really hard, I might not be able to deflect it using pure muscle. But if I brace my block thus, and my hips are corked properly, I have a mechanical advantage. Remember, this stuff was created with the idea that if you needed it, your attacker was going to be bigger, stronger, faster, probably armed, and there might be four or five of him. They might also be as skilled as you. You might be able to muscle a guy your size or smaller, but you can’t out muscle three or four who are bigger and stronger.” “And faster,” he said. His voice was dry.
“And as skilled.” She laughed.
“Yes. But speed and power and even skill are not nearly as important as timing. Ask me what the most important thing is about comedy.” “Huh?” “Go on, ask me.” ” “Okay, what is the most important thing about–” “Timing!” she said, cutting in.
He smiled.
“Got it.” “You will, you will. Practice makes perfect.
Now, again.
Punch.” He stepped in, and threw another right, harder this time, and braced with his left hand.
She blocked it and demonstrated the counter.
“Good,” she said.
“Again.” This was going well. Maybe the kris was lucky in love.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
Chapter 24 Tuesday, January 11th, 9:50 a.m.
Bombay, India
Jay Gridley walked into the small storefront tobacco shop to the jingle of a spring-mounted warning bell on the door frame.
The bell tinkled again as the door closed behind him with a solid chunk!
The smoke shop was not far from Government House, on one of the danker streets facing Back Bay.
The time was late 1890’s, and the British Raj was still in full sway; Bombay was, of course, Indian, but the English flag draped heavily over the city, as it did the entire country.
Rule Brittania.
Inside, the shop was dark and hazy with fragrant blue smoke. The man behind the counter was also dark, a native, dressed in a white shirt and summer suit, and the smell of his blended pipe tobacco hung sweet and heavy in the still air. He took another puff from his heavy, curved briar, and added that smoke to the already abundant cloud.
A month-old copy of the London Times lay upon the counter next to a large glass jar full of cheap cigars, a small wooden box of strike-anywhere matches, and a metal tray of cedar lighting sticks.
Jay himself wore a white linen suit and a tan planter’s hat.
He nodded at the shopkeeper.
“You have other newspapers?” He waved at the Times.
“Yes, sir, we have them in the back, next to the humidor,” the man said, in that singsong lilt of a native Indian who’d learned English only as an adult. He exhaled smoke with the words.
Jay touched his hat brim and moved to the shelves to the left of the counter, next to the closed glass door that led into the humidor room where the good tobacco and cigars were kept.
He glanced at the papers. There was The Strand, the New York Times, and some thing from Hong Kong in Chinese. Not what he was looking for–ah, there it was. The Delhi Ledger, a small publication put out in English that sold mostly to expatriate Brits homesick for King and country. Or was it Queen and country? Sure, must be Victoria, it being the Victorian age and all. He ought to know his English history better, he supposed.
He thumbed through the cheap newsprint and smudged the ink, getting it on his fingers. Well, at least that was a nice touch.
Ah, there it was. The reference he had been trying to run down. The article was ostensibly about Danes come to visit India, but there in the fluffy travel piece was the name he wanted: The Frihedsakse.
Once upon a time. Jay would have thought it was odd to find a bit of information about Denmark in an Indian info net, but not anymore.
Information was like dust; it blew around in the wind and wound up in places you’d never think it would.
The logical place to start hunting for information on a Danish terrorist organization would be in Denmark, or at least in the Scandinavian countries, and certainly he had combed through those nets with the best search engines and squeekbots Net Force had, but he’d come up empty. So he’d widened his search, and this was the first real hit he’d had. Time was passing–it had been a week without any real leads–and while it had been quiet, there was no guarantee it would stay that way.
He took the paper to the front, paid for it, and went out into the Indian afternoon. It was overcast. What time of year was it? Monsoon season? He was getting slack in his old age.