"I don't smell human," I said dryly. "I think they'll let me in. But I need an invite or I won't get anywhere, and you've got the connections to get me one." Since you were Mob. I swallowed the words. That was history, wasn't it? Gods, if I could just let one thing be history, what would I choose?

He didn't even hesitate. "Fine. I'll get you an invitation. What'll I do while you're talking to the suckheads?"

"You're going to do some research."

Jado lived in the University District, on a quiet tree-lined street that had been eccentric years ago but was now merely deserted. There was little ambient energy in the air here, mostly because of him; his house crouched far back in a landscaped yard. His ancient hot tub stood on the deck on one side, and the meditation garden was pristine. There was even a sand plot, impeccably raked, with a few rough black rocks buried in the smoothness. The aura of peace, of stillness, was palpable.

I rang the bell, then twisted the knob and stepped in. The front hall was bare; no shoes on the cedar rack underneath the coat pegs. I caught no breath of human thought in the place.

Thank the gods.

I worked my boots off, and my socks. I hung up my coat and my black canvas bag; my guns dangling from the rig as I hung that up too. Nobody would dare to touch them here. I didn't even bother with a keepcharm. It would have been an insult to my teacher, implying that I didn't trust the safety of his house.

Barefoot, feeling oddly naked as usual without my weapons, I padded down the high-ceilinged hall and through the doorway into mellow light, and stepped up onto tatami mats. Their thick, rough texture prickled luxuriously against my bare soles, and I restrained myself from rubbing my feet just to feel the scratchiness.

Jado sat at the far end on the dais, his robes a blot of orange underneath a scroll with two kanji painted on it. Ikebana sat on a low table underneath the scroll; three red flowers on a long slender stem reminding me of the orchids in Caine's office. I suppressed a shiver, bowed properly before I stepped over the border from «space» to "sparring space."

The old man's wizened face split like a withered apple, white teeth flashing. His bald head glistened, charcoal eyes glimmering in the directionless light. His ears came to high points on either side of his head, and his callused hands lay in his lap, in the mudra of wholeness.

He looked like a relaxed little gnome, an old man with weird ears, harmless and slow. "Ai, Danyo-san. Good thing no students here."

I bowed again. "Sensei."

"So serious! Young one." He shook his head, tearing slightly. "Well, what is it?"

"I need to think," I said baldly. Not to mention that sparring was the best way to shake off the chill of death. Sparring, slicboarding, sex—anything to flush me with adrenaline and get rid of the bitter taste of death in my mouth, the lingering chill of it in my fingers and toes. "Look, Jado-sensei, can we stop the Zenmo crap and get down to business?"

His hand flickered. My right hand moved of its own volition, smacking the dart out of the air. It quivered in a ceiling beam, a wicked steel pinblade and feathered cap. "You are most impatient."

I made no reply, watched him. He stood, slowly, pushing himself up from the floor as if his bones ached. My skin chilled instinctively, I dropped into "guard." He clucked at me again. "What would you like? Staff? Sword?"

"I don't have a sword," I reminded him. "Staff or bare-hand, sensei. Either." Need to move, need to think, and need to ask you a favor.

"A warrior should have sword, Danyo-san. A sword is warrior's honor."

I was hoping you'd say that. "After the fight, I'll need a sword. Unless you don't think you can take me, old man."

He blinked across the room to the rack of staves, his brown fingers curling around a quarterstaff. My heart settled into its combat rhythm, eyes dilating, every fiber of my skin aware of him. "I begin to think you need lesson for manners," he said gently, avuncular.

He tossed me the staff, and followed a split-second later with a staff in his own slim brown hands. The crack of wood meeting wood echoed through the dojo.

Spin, kick, the end of his staff arcing up toward my face, half-step back, can't afford to do that with him, he's too fast—

Wood crackled, he jabbed for my midriff and I swung back, the rhythm of staff striking staff lacking a clear pattern. The end of my staff socked into the floor, and I flung myself forward, body loose and flying, Jado narrowly avoided the strike and folded aside but I was ready, landing and whipping the stave out, deflecting the only strike he could make at that angle. Down into a full split, stave spinning backward—a showy move, but the only one I had. Each moment of a fight narrowed the chain of coincidence and angle, Jado moved in as I bent back. I heard the crackle of my spine as I moved in a way no human being should, front heel smashing into the tatami to push me up. My body curved, I landed again and feinted, struck—but his stave was there before me, wood screaming as we smashed at each other.

Propellor-strike, shuffling, my breath coining in high harsh gasps, like flying. Alive. I was alive. The lingering chill of going into Death and bringing Christabel out faded, washed clean by adrenaline, every inch of my body suddenly glowing. Alive. All grown up and alive. Another flurry of cracks. We separated, I shuffled to one side, he countered. Then, the first flush of the fight over and neither of us having made a stupid mistake, we settled into feinting; first Jado, then me, him trying to lull me into a pattern, me testing his defenses. I earned a solid crack on the knuckles by being too slow, blurred back, shaking my hand out, staff held in guard. Red-black blood welled up, coated the scrape along my knuckles and vanished, leaving the golden skin perfect.

I still wasn't used to that.

"What is it, Danyo-chan?" he asked, standing apparently easy, holding his staff in one hand. Tilting forward a fraction of an inch, testing; I countered by leaning sideways, my staff lifting slightly, responding.

"Old ghosts, my friend." My breath came harsh, but I wasn't gasping. Not yet. "The goddamn school. Rigger Hall."

I'd never told him about the Hall. I wouldn't have been surprised at anything he'd guessed, though. I'd come to him for training straight from the Academy, having heard he was the best; he had known me longer than just about anyone, except maybe Gabe.

He nodded thoughtfully, almond-shaped eyes glittering and sweat gleaming on his brown forehead. His mouth was a thin lipless snarl, I'd scored a hit or two of my own. It just felt so good not to have to hold back; humans were so fucking fragile.

Careful, Danny. You're still human where it counts. I swallowed, eased down a little, watching his chest. Any move would be telegraphed there. We circled; another fast flurry of strikes deflected. Sweat began on my skin, trickled down my back. It felt good.

It felt clean.

"And so you bring ghosts to Jado, eh?" He grinned, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Here on the sparring floor, there was no quarter asked or given.

"At least I can't kill you," I shot back.

"Hm." He shrugged, inscrutable as ever. His robes whispered as bare brown feet moved over the tatami; he closed with me in a flurry of strikes. Sweat flew, his and mine. Move move move! I heard his voice from other training sessions. No think, move!

His staff shattered, my cry rising with it to break in the sunlit air. I held my own staff a quarter-inch from his chest. The echoes of my kia bounced off the walls, made the entire building shiver. Dust pattered down from the groaning roof.