After a time, Ito said, “You are surprising, Tuk-Liam.” He punctuated that with a subtle bow.
“So much so I surprise myself at times,” Liam agreed. No doubt a ka-ranked trader would call him a fool for giving away a piece of information that Command would find so valuable, but he had to believe that Ondry and the Grandmothers would approve. And even if they did not, they would understand. Liam watched the passing city and smiled. Then he hit his knee on the back of the seat in front of him and cursed the Rownt gods of travel. Damn that hurt.
Ito laughed. “Cursing in every language sounds the same.”
“It does.” Liam leaned back against the seat and rubbed his knee.
Kensho Part Three
Now that Haru had madea mental connection between Tuk-Liam and Ryota Ito, he could not stop seeing similarities. True, his own father had been a slight man, as many from the island were. Even before joining the Rownt, Sergeant Munson had been a far sturdier individual than Ryota. Now that the Rownt had somehow changed him, he was built like a professional athlete. As they crossed the street from the parking lot to the antique store, everyone turned to stare.
It was not often that a seven-foot tall, broad-shouldered man strolled through the shopping district with the confidence Munson showed. A dozen individuals had gifted Munson with looks that could only have been called salacious. One word, and any of them would’ve invited him into a bed. Haru’s father had been the same, and like Munson, he had ignored or perhaps not even noticed the reactions. Haru’s mother, Souma Ito, had been endlessly amused in her own quiet way. Over tea she would comment on the foolishness of women who would set their sights on a man who had no interest in them.
Haru wondered if Munson was asexual or if the rumors of his relationship with Tuk-Ondry were true. Command had forbidden the rumors, but that had only driven them underground where the fires burned hotter and spread faster. Besides, if Captain Mora changed loyalties, he had already told Munson how many people whispered about the illicit sexual possibilities. Tails, tentacles, and oversized genitalia were popular in certain types of erotica. Haru could not feign innocence himself when it came to the entertainment value of such appendages.
“This is it.” Haru stopped outside the store. He pressed his hand to the scanner to open the door. Politeness would have dictated that he allow Munson to request entry, but Tsang was famous for not opening the door if an unfamiliar person sought it. Haru could only hope that this introduction didn’t backfire. His superiors would not be amused if Munson took offense to something Tsang said. And Tsang did enjoy offending.
After a wait that was too long to be polite, the front door clicked and the light flashed. However, Tsang did not appear. Haru opened the door and gestured for Munson to go ahead of him. Over the years, Haru had visited the shop many times. His wife loved the botanical prints that Tsang offered. Other officers complained that their wives wanted off-world trips, even during this time of war when transportation was difficult and expensive, so Haru had very little reason to complain when he shared his wife’s love for antiques.
Watching Munson, however, was a new experience. He walked around the tables filled with small, colorful vases with an exaggerated caution that was almost comical. By the time he reached the end of the first aisle, Munson had wrapped his arms around his waist, but his head swiveled around as he took in the art that filled every corner. Antique wood screens covered one wall with hundred-year-old scrolls displayed on another and modern art filling a third. The center was a riot of pots and vases and statues, some five hundred years old and some new.
Haru gestured toward an arch that led to a second room in the back. “The Aizen Myo-o is back there,” he said.
Munson moved carefully, detouring around the male Fu dog that guarded the back room. The matching female stood on the other side of the arch, her stone gaze watching them. The back of this inner room had a clear security wall protecting a pair of thousand-year-old vases, a folding screen from the 17th century depicting a dragon and a tiger, an Edo Period Samurai armor set with a helmet, and the last painting by Heidòng, an artist so secretive that no one knew his or her real identity. And to the left was Aizen Myo-o.
He wore a fierce expression that had always fascinated Haru. Munson moved closer, his expression rapt as he studied the statue. Aizen Myo-o wore a lion head as his crown and carried a bell, a lotus, a vajra, and his always-present bow and arrows. The artist had carved each in exquisite detail. The gilded wood statue stood sixteen or eighteen inches high, but it was set on a golden lotus bowl with a sun disk behind it. Haru would trade every piece he owned for the Aizen, but Tsang had refused to give him a price.
As if summoned by the thought, Tsang appeared at the office door. He crossed his arms and got an unpleasant expression when he saw Haru looking at the Aizen. No doubt he would enjoy verbally eviscerating Haru in front of an audience. After all, he had made it clear that if Haru asked after the art one more time, Tsang would ban him from the shop.
Before Tsang could say anything, Munson spoke. “Mr. Tsang. I should start with an insult, but I am too impressed by the quality of this work.” Munson continued to look at Aizen for a few seconds, but then he shifted his attention to Tsang.
Munson must have had magical powers because Tsang shut his mouth and stared at him for an uncomfortable length of time. And instead of filling the air with awkward or useless words, Munson stared back. Haru liked Munson more with every passing second.
Tsang cleared his throat and walked into the room, closing his office door behind him. “An insult? Why would you start with an insult?”
Munson’s smile was slow and dangerous and utterly charming. “Because I assume you are confident enough in your skills that you do not require or appreciate compliments from someone you just met.”
