Failing Marks, page 13
Remo looked at the marks on the floor. To him, they looked like a mass of dirty footprints.
“If you say so,” Remo said dubiously.
A fire burned in the great iron furnace in the cellar, heating a huge cauldron of water, which in turn warmed the chilly air within the house. This method of heat dispersal had not become popular in the West until the twentieth century. The Master’s House had enjoyed this luxury since the time of Plato.
Chiun’s caretaker and the man who had lit the fire in preparation for the Master of Sinanju’s arrival was an aged villager named Pullyang. The man who had contacted Chiun at Folcroft, Pullyang stood near the archway that led into the next room. He rubbed his hands together nervously.
“Master, I believe the thief was here, as well,” the anxious caretaker said, voice tremulous.
Chiun marched boldly across the room. Remo trailed him reluctantly, hands stuffed in his pockets. Pullyang indicated an open door off of the next room. Remo and Chiun peered in around the frame. Crazed dust patterns swirled in the beams of hot yellow light that poured in through the lone window.
Remo knew the room to be a sort of library for the House of Sinanju. This was where nearly all the records of every past Master of Sinanju were kept.
When Remo had first seen the room years before, Chiun had promised him that one day the scrolls of Remo’s own masterhood would be placed in here beside the rest.
“Whoop-de-do,” Remo had said.
Remo was not so glib today. He knew how much the histories of Sinanju meant to his teacher. The look of pain on Chiun’s face was almost enough to make him forget his desire to get back to America in order to continue the search for Adolf Kluge.
Remo saw the streak of upset dust at the same time as the Master of Sinanju.
“Brigand!” Chiun cried when he realized what was missing. “Robber!” he shouted as he bounced over the debris field that was the floor. “Bandit!” he wailed, after he had made certain the ancient wood carving had not fallen to the sturdy old floor.
“What was it?” Remo asked, stepping gingerly into the room. He had to climb over a pair of stone slabs.
“A map to a treasure forever lost. A piece of a puzzle whose other fragments were scattered to the winds of history. An invaluable reminder of the folly of fools.”
“It doesn’t sound that bad,” Remo offered encouragingly.
“Bad?” Chiun moaned. “It is terrible.”
“I’d say you made out okay,” Remo said. “A couple of gold coins and a useless puzzle piece. We should get a lock for the front door. Maybe an alarm system.” As Chiun continued to stare at the vacant spot on the shelf, Remo turned to Pullyang. “Is there electricity in this rathole of a village?” he asked.
“Only in the Master’s house,” the caretaker ventured.
“See, Chiun,” Remo said. “An alarm system would be easy. I bet Smith could fix you up real nice.”
Chiun refused to be encouraged. His eyes never wavered from the barren spot on the shelf. Beside the marks in the dust, an ancient rusted battle helmet sat on the counter. A corroded falcon was locked in a perpetual struggle to take flight on the front of the headpiece.
The look on his teacher’s face was so forlorn as he stared at the shelf Remo couldn’t help but feel a welling sadness of his own.
Remo felt uncomfortable with someone else seeing Chiun in this inconsolable state. The old caretaker was hovering at the edge of the room, the mass of wrinkles around his aged eyes pinched to narrow slits.
“We can handle it from here,” Remo whispered softly to Pullyang.
The aged caretaker wasn’t certain if he should take the suggestion of the Master of Sinanju’s white pupil.
“Master?” he asked.
Chiun didn’t say a word. He raised a long-nailed hand, waving it dismissively. Pullyang bowed respectfully from the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed.
The Master of Sinanju continued to stare morosely at the empty spot on the shelf.
This was not like Chiun. His angry reaction to the missing gold coins—that was Chiun. But by his own admission, the item stolen from this room had been worthless. Yet he seemed to grieve more for its loss than for the loss of his beloved gold. To Remo, it didn’t make sense.
“Chiun?” Remo said gently. “If it means that much to you, to hell with Kluge. We’ll go after whoever did this. I promise you’ll get everything back.”
Chiun at last looked up. There was still sadness in his eyes, but there was a sliver of pride, as well. “You are a good son, Remo,” Chiun said. Remo felt his heart swell.
“Look, I know what this stuff means to you. It means something to me, too. It’s our history.”
Chiun nodded. “It is that,” he said glumly. “More than you know. Come, Remo, sit down.” He indicated the two stone tablets on the floor. Remo obediently sank to a sitting position on the nearest slab. Chiun joined him on the other, arranging his orchid kimono hem neatly around his scissored knees. He settled easily into his role as instructor. Chiun closed his eyes, taking a deep steadying breath.
“You know, Remo, of Master Bal-Mung,” Chiun began.
Remo nodded. “I know he’s not on the A list,” he said.
There had been several Masters of Sinanju in the long history of the ancient house of assassins who had in some way or another disgraced their ancestors. Most of them were stricken from the official history. Bal-Mung was one of the lucky ones. As part of his earliest lessons, Remo had learned Bal-Mung’s name along with all of the other past Masters. However, he had learned nothing more. Until today, Bal-Mung had just been a name on a list with no connecting story.
“I have never told you the tale of Master Bal-Mung,” Chiun began, “because it is a story that shames our House and all it represents.”
It pained Chiun to even discuss this. In deference to his teacher, Remo resisted making a smart-alecky remark.
“What did he do?” Remo asked gently.
“Bal-Mung committed the most grievous of sins. He squandered his masterhood on a fool’s search,” Chiun said bitterly. “Before him, there were two other Masters called Bal-Mung. After the time of his disgrace, their names were changed in our records so as not to cause them the shame of being associated with such a one. Shame to you, Bal-Mung of the Fruitless Quest.”
“He must have been pretty awful for someone to change the names of previous masters.” Remo frowned.
“In truth, this was not so,” Chiun lamented. “Until the time of his disgrace, Bal-Mung served his House and ancestors well. He was not on the level of the Great Wang, of course. But he was still not entirely inadequate.”
Chiun’s voice grew less inflected as he somberly related the painful tale of Bal-Mung’s disgrace.
“This occurred in the Sinanju Year of the Fire Petals, by your Western reckoning prior to 500 A.D. It happened that at that time Bal-Mung the Waster of Precious Time was known as Bal-Mung the Good. Not Great, for that is a title bestowed only at death. But Good. Good is not bad, Remo, remember this.”
“So Bal-Mung,” Chiun continued, “who at that time was considered good, journeyed far from his home to toil in the employ of a great king. This king was named Siegfried and he did rule the people known as the Nibelungs. The king had conquered this race years before and had taken as his own their abundant treasure. This wealth was so vast that it was deemed worthy of a name. Called the Nibelungen Hoard, this store of riches and its possessor became known the world over. News of the Nibelungen Hoard spread even to these shores where Master Bal-Mung was resting between assignments. So taken was he with the stories he had been told, Bal-Mung did abandon his rest in order to venture to the land of the Nibelungs.”
“He smelled the cash all the way from Korea,” Remo interjected.
“I did say, Remo, that he was good,” Chiun reminded him. “And so Bal-Mung and his servant did travel far across the great desolate mass of land to the west. For weeks they trekked through dangerous terrain. The people they met grew paler of skin and rounder of eye. The Master’s servant was greatly afeared of these cloud-skinned men, afraid that his master had led him to the land of the dead, and that these were ghosts whose curse it was to walk the frigid land with eyes of an improper wideness. But Master Bal-Mung did allay the fears of his youthful companion. Sinanju had worked for whites for many years, having toiled in Greece and Rome. But to his servant, this was all new and so he continued on in fear.
“Eventually they did find the court of King Siegfried, and the Master did offer his services as protector of both sovereign and gold.”
“I’ll bet I know which one he was more interested in,” Remo grumbled.
“The gold, of course,” Chiun sniffed.
“No surprise there.”
“And there should not be, for as I have told you, up until now Bal-Mung had demonstrated the qualities of a Master of Sinanju destined for posthumous greatness.”
“So did he get the gig?” Remo asked.
“Of course,” Chiun said. “The reputation of Sinanju had spread even to this barbaric part of the world. The king immediately retained Master Bal-Mung as his royal protector. You have heard, no doubt, that Siegfried possessed a powerful sword, as well as a cloak of invisibility.”
“To tell you the truth, the only Siegfried I know was on Get Smart,” Remo admitted sheepishly.
“Your lack of education aside,” Chiun continued dryly, “history records that the Nibelungen king owned both of these items. History—as so often happens when it is recorded by whites—is wrong. The name of Siegfried’s powerful sword is said even by those in the West to have been called Balmung. It is a distortion of the Master’s name but not of his performance as defender of King Siegfried.”
“I assume he was also Siegfried’s cloak of invisibility?” Remo asked.
“That is true,” Chiun confirmed. “At that time, the ability to shield oneself in darkness was long known to Sinanju. So the two things for which the greatness of Siegfried’s rule are improperly credited are in fact rightly attributable to Sinanju. All hail the House of Sinanju.”
“Okay, you’ve given me the background,” Remo said. “But how did Bal-Mung the Good become Bal-Mung the Not-So-Good?”
“Master Bal-Mung did labor in the service of King Siegfried for many years. So many, in fact, that Siegfried did come to think of him as a friend.”
“Whoops,” Remo said. “I’ll bet that cost him a pretty penny.”
Chiun nodded. “It is a mistake to assume friendship in a royal assassin,” Chiun agreed. “And it is right to take advantage when a king relaxes his guard. If only to instruct future kings on the folly of this presumption.”
“Bal-Mung shafted him big-time, didn’t he?” Remo said knowingly.
“It was agreed upon as a final tribute to the greatness that is Sinanju, that the entire wealth of the Nibelungen Hoard be bequeathed to Sinanju upon Siegfried’s death. With the provision that the death come late in life and be of causes not unnatural.”
“I presume Bal-Mung somehow got the shit end of the stick,” Remo offered.
“Siegfried was murdered by a knave named Hagan at the behest of the Valkyrie Brunhild. There is his battle helmet,” Chiun said, indicating with a sweep of his hand the shelf behind him on which sat the ancient rusted headgear and its attendant falcon. “Found near his slain body.”
“So we forfeited the loot,” Remo said.
Chiun seemed genuinely surprised. “Why should we have?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious. You said natural causes late in life. The guy was murdered.”
“And for kings, there is no more natural a cause for death than treachery,” Chiun said with bland surprise.
“Oh, boy,” Remo said warily. He knew where this was heading. “What about late in life?” he challenged.
“There is no later point in anyone’s life than the point of death,” Chiun replied simply.
“Bulldookey,” Remo said. “Bal-Mung lost the booty fair and square. Case closed.”
“While I do not agree with your childishly silly reasoning, your conclusion is one that would have served Bal-Mung. Would that he had considered this a closed case. He would not have squandered years in search of the lost Nibelungen Hoard.”
“Lost?” Remo asked. “When did it get lost?”
“Before his murder, Siegfried sent Bal-Mung off on a pointless journey to Gaul. While he was away, Siegfried hid the gold in a secret treasure cave beneath a mighty river, thought by many to be the Danube. The precise location was known only to Siegfried. It was said that those who had constructed the tunnel and moved the gold were executed in order to forever preserve the secret.”
“I guess old Siegfried wasn’t as big a dope as Bal-Mung thought he was,” Remo said. “He stashed it away as an insurance policy.”
“It did him no good,” Chiun noted. “When the Master returned, he found the body of the Nibelungen king. Had Sinanju been at his side, his death would have been avoided. Bal-Mung spent the remainder of his masterhood in search of the Nibelungen Hoard. He never found it.” Chiun hung his head as if this was a personal disgrace.
“So what about the thing that was stolen from here? The puzzle piece—was it Siegfried’s or Bal-Mung’s?”
“It is believed that it was meant for Sinanju. Before his death, Siegfried commissioned a carver to make for him a four-piece map that detailed the resting place of the treasure. A quarter of this was found by Bal-Mung near the body of the king. It had fallen in water and was doubtless overlooked by his attacker.”
“So where are the other three pieces?”
“Hagan—Siegfried’s murderer—was believed to have one in his possession. One was thought to have been sent to the Burgundian king Gunther, who was brother-in-law to Siegfried. Another was said to have been passed down to Siegfried’s own illegitimate son. None of this is known for certain, for each piece of the puzzle was guarded to the point of paranoia by its possessors. Each one coveted the prize. Several of the principal players vanished in their attempt to search for the Hoard themselves. Bal-Mung hunted for the Nibelungen Hoard for many years but never recovered it. He finally returned to Sinanju, where he died in disgrace.”
“And no one could figure out from their own section where the dough was?”
Chiun shook his head. “Each piece of the map detailed only a portion of the Hoard’s true location. It was designed in such a way that, without the other three, a single piece would be useless. When this room was constructed, the Sinanju piece was placed on that shelf as a reminder of the folly of Bal-Mung.” Chiun’s eyes were sorrowful as he looked at the barren shelf.
After hearing the story, Remo found it difficult to work up much enthusiasm for going after a scrap of wood. However, Chiun meant more to him than anyone else in the world. If it was important to Chiun, it was important to Remo.
“I’m sorry, Chiun,” Remo said, “but I think it could be a lot worse. But my promise still goes. If you want to find whoever did this, you can count me in.”
Chiun nodded. “It is important to preserve our history,” he concluded. “Future generations should not forget the lesson of the foolish Bal-Mung.”
“Okay,” Remo said, getting to his feet. “I’ll give Smith a call and see if he has any ideas.”
Chiun rose to his feet as well, revealing the square of stone he had been sitting on. The Master of Sinanju began padding to the door.
Remo craned his neck around to look at the spot where Chiun had been sitting.
“There’s been something I’ve meant to ask for a long time,” Remo said suddenly. “What are these?” He nodded at the two stone tablets on which they had been sitting. There was some kind of ancient writing burned into the surface of each. The tablets appeared to have been shattered at one time and fastened back together. Ancient fissures crisscrossed the stone.
Chiun shrugged. “They were of some significance to the Hebrews at one time. A Babylonian prince awarded them to the House as a bonus after a relatively easy assignment. More worthless junk. My grandfather used them as bookends.” With that, Chiun left the room.
Remo peered at the inscriptions in the rock. There were five separate lines on each. Ten in all.
He remembered Charlton Heston smashing similar tablets in an old movie.
Not wishing to think about the possible significance of what he and Chiun had been using as stools, Remo quickly exited the Sinanju library.
Chapter Fourteen
A good night’s sleep had done nothing for Smith’s persistent headache. It had, however, beaten back the fatigue he had been feeling for more than two weeks.
He arrived at Folcroft late, coming in at the lazy hour of 7:00 a.m. He had just taken his seat behind his desk and was opening his drawer for the morning’s first dose of aspirin when the blue phone rang.
He tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear. “Yes,” he said crisply as he twisted the aspirin bottle cover.
“Only me, Smitty,” Remo’s voice announced. “Chiun and I need a little favor.”
“What is it?” Smith asked. He tossed two pills back into his dry throat. Quickly he picked up a glass from his desk and swallowed a mouthful of tap water.
Remo hurriedly explained the Sinanju legend of Bal-Mung and the objects taken from Chiun’s home. In conclusion, he said, “So I guess what we need to know is if there’s some way you can track either the coins or the wood carving.”
“That might be possible,” Smith said. He turned on his computer, quickly logging on. He continued to talk even as he typed. “Do you believe there might be a connection between this and Four?”
“Why should I?” Remo asked.
“I assumed that was the point of your call,” Smith explained. “The story you have described is the Nibelungenlied. It is an epic German poem of around 1200 A.D.”
“Chiun, you didn’t tell me these people were German,” Remo said off the phone.
“Forgive me, but I assumed in you a level of cultural erudition,” Chiun’s squeaky voice called from the distance. “Obviously an error on my part.”
