Thief of Time

monks blurring as they danced across the mat and wrapped Time around themselves.
    Lu-Tze had been right, Lobsang knew. Time was a resource. You could learn to let it move fast or slow, so that a monk could walk easily through a crowd and yet be moving so fast that no one could see him. Or he could stand still for a few seconds, and watch the sun and moon chase one another across a flickering sky. He could meditate for a day in a minute. Here, in the valley, a day lasted forever.
    The blurred fighters became a couple of hesitant monks when they saw Lu-Tze. He bowed.
    “I beg the use of this dojo for a short period while my apprentice teaches me the folly of old age,” he said.
    “I really didn’t mean—” Lobsang began, but Lu-Tze elbowed him in the ribs. The monks gave the old man a nervous look.
    “It’s yours, Lu-Tze,” said one of them. They hurried out, almost tripping over their own feet as they kept looking back.
    “Time and its control is what we should teach here,” said Lu-Tze, watching them go. “The martial arts are an aid. That is all they are. At least, that’s all they were meant to be. Even out in the world a well-trained person may perceive, in the fray, how flexible time may be. Here, we can build on that. Compress time. Stretch time. Hold the moment. Punching people’s kidneys out through their nose is only a foolish byproduct.”
    Lu-Tze took down a razor-edged pika sword from the rack and handed it to the shocked boy.
    “You’ve seen one of these before? They’re not really for novices, but you show promise.”
    “Yes, Sweeper, but—”
    “Know how to use it?”
    “I’m good at the practice ones, but they’re just made of—”
    “Take it, then, and attack me.”
    There was a rustling noise above them. Lobsang looked up, and saw monks pouring into the observation gallery above the dojo. There were some very senior ones among them. News gets around quickly in a little world.
    “Rule Two,” said Lu-Tze, “is: Never refuse a weapon.” He took a few steps back. “In your own time, boy.”
    Lobsang wielded the curved sword uncertainly.
    “Well?” said Lu-Tze.
    “I can’t just—”
    “Is this the Dojo of the Tenth Djim?” said Lu-Tze. “Why, mercy me, I do believe it is. That means there are no rules, doesn’t it? Any weapon, any strategy…anything is allowed. Do you understand? Are you stupid?”
    “But I can’t kill someone just because they’ve asked me to!”
    “Why not? What happened to Mr. Manners?”
    “But—”
    “You are holding a deadly weapon! You are facing an unarmed man in a pose of submission! Are you frightened?”
    “Yes! Yes, I am!”
    “Good. That’s Rule Three,” said Lu-Tze quietly. “See how much you’re learning already? Wiped the smile off your face, have I? All right, put the sword on the rack and take—yes, take a dakka stick. The most you can do with that is bruise my old bones.”
    “I would prefer if you wore the protective padding—”
    “You’re that good with the stick, are you?”
    “I’m very fast—”
    “Then if you don’t fight right now I shall wrest it from you and break it over your head,” said Lu-Tze, drawing back. “Ready? The only defense is to attack well, I’m told.”
    Lobsang raised the stick in reluctant salute.
    Lu-Tze folded his hands and, as Lobsang danced toward him, closed his eyes and smiled to himself.
    Lobsang raised the stick.
    And hesitated.
    Lu-Tze was grinning.
    Rule Two, Rule Three…what had been Rule One?
    Always remember Rule One…
    “Lu-Tze!”
    The abbot’s chief acolyte arrived panting in the doorway, waving urgently.
    Lu-Tze opened one eye, and then the other one, and then winked at Lobsang.
    “Narrow escape there, eh?” he said. He turned to the acolyte. “Yes, exalted sir?”
    “You must come immediately! And all monks who are cleared for a tour in the world! To the Mandala Hall! Now!”
    There was a scuffling in the gallery and several monks pushed their way out through the crowd.
    “Ah, excitement,” said Lu-Tze, taking the stick from Lobsang’s unresisting hands and putting it back into the rack. The hall was emptying fast. Around the whole of Oi Dong, gongs were being banged frantically.
    “What’s happening?” said Lobsang, as the last of the monks surged past.
    “I daresay we shall soon be told,” said Lu-Tze, starting to roll himself a cigarette.
    “Hadn’t we better hurry? Everyone’s going!” The sound of flapping sandals died away in the