“His day will come,” Chen asseverated.

“'Pupil shall never overcome master,'” quoted Junko. “Whatever your quarrel with Master Mao, it is best you bury it within yourself.”

Chen leveled a coldly calculating stare at Junko. “The old man no longer has the interests of the Clan in his heart. He has grown sentimental and weak. Our power and influence is slipping. We are not as feared as we once were. Men transgress against us and live to tell about it. It is a mockery of all we are. His time is coming; we will have a new leader.”

Junko slunk across the room, her eyes never leaving Chen's back. She carefully and deliberately extended first her left arm, then her right, making her movements fluid and graceful, suggestive of a spider. “And what would you propose to do?” she purred into his ear as she began to run her fingers down his spine.

Chen remained motionless; his eyes never left the scrap of paper laid out before him. Amidst the innocuous report of this year's rice crops a secret was laid bare. Chen continued to study the script, intent on ferreting out the secret and draining it of all its value. Without acknowledging Junko had even moved from her spot Chen replied, “A spider builds its web in hopes of catching its prey, a hunter conceals his trap and leads his prey into it.”

Junko withdrew, her pride stinging. Without saying a word she slithered out of the room, sliding the rice-paper door closed behind her with a slight hiss. Chen let a flicker of a smile play across his face, the first move had been made. “The rice harvest will be early this year,” Chen announced to the empty room. “We must see it is well attended; such a young crop should be guarded and presented as a gift.” Chen said no more but set aside the note, and began practicing his calligraphy.

A week passed, and as predicted the rice was harvested earlier than expected. The farmers, proud of their crop, were easily persuaded to offer it as a gift to Master Mao. The villages, aflutter with the buzz of excitement over offering the first fruits of a spectacular crop to a powerful lord, were crestfallen when news came that Mao had suddenly closed his doors permitting none but his own to enter. Chen smiled when the villages sent a messenger to him, begging to be allowed to offer the rice.

“We do not wish to offend Master Mao, but he has restricted us from approaching him with our offering,” the messenger was saying. “If you could go before him on our behalf, he will accept you and our gift.”

“You wish me to go in your stead? Would it not be far better for me to convince him to open his doors to you, so you may deliver it yourselves?” Chen asked.

“My lord, such would be a great honor, but we fear the rice might spoil before you should succeed. Rumor is Master Mao is fearful of an uprising and will not open his gates to be lured out into a trap.”

“You think I could not change his mind?” Chen asked.

The messenger squirmed and bowed low, “Forgive me lord! I did not mean such a thing. I am sure you could change his mind, but we would be most honored if you would present the gift on our behalf, rather than bother Master Mao with our petty issues.”

Chen grinned. “I will deliver your rice to the Clan lord. Assure the villages it will be presented with honor so he cannot refuse. Can you have it brought here the day after tomorrow?”

The messenger raised his head from the floor a little, a look of relief playing across his face. “Of course! It will be done.” He bowed once more then backed out of the room and ran to deliver the message. Chen called for his steward, Jin, and instructed him to make the preparations ready according to their plans; the rice would arrive soon.

The day arrived, and the farmers and villagers brought the rice. Their eyes widened at the procession Chen had prepared. Well-made carts were loaded with the baskets of rice; men in bright ceremonial armor filled the courtyard, some on horseback, some afoot. The villagers were humbled that Chen would go to such lengths to deliver their gift, all the while bowing to him and offering their thanks and promise of service. Chen assured them they owed him nothing, then walked to the head of the procession, mounted his own horse, and began the short journey to the castle.

When the gates of the castle came into view Chen slowed the pace of his horse until he was beside Jin and asked, “Has the message been sent?”

“Yes lord.”

“And the response was as we expected?”

“Yes lord.”

Chen grinned.

As they approached the castle the gates were opened before them. They were ushered in by smiling guards to a household of tittering women eager to try new recipes. Junko came out from under the shadow of the porch and escorted Chen, who bore a small chest filled with the rice, to the chambers of the Clan lord.

“What brings my most clever of lieutenants to me on this day?” asked Mao.

“To present you with this chest,” Chen replied, bowing and offering the chest.

“And what does it contain?”

“Your demise, old man.”

Mao flinched, then drew back in terror as Chen sprang upon him, burring a small knife in his throat. Junko, kneeling quietly at the back of the room gasped then screamed, “How dare you! Such effrontery, and in his own house! I'll see you --” but she said nothing further as Jin appeared as if out of nowhere and silenced her forever.

“You are the Clan lord now, master Chen,” Jin said, bowing.

“No. Not yet. I am only an arriviste, for now.”