the salesman to take out one after another from the display case.
British, Shiro thought, hearing his crude accent. The salesman was
being exceedingly polite to them, even though they were quite
obviously wasting his time.
To the right of the shop were several small cubicles, little rooms
where the more serious customers (the better class of people) could
be waited on in comfortable privacy while they partook of a little
tea or saki. There were three cubicles in all. The doors to two of
them were open. The door to the third was closed. Shiro was just
about to open it when a very well-dressed salesman approached
him.
“May I be of service, Mr. Kobayashi?”
He was, of course, known in this establishment.
“Who’s in there?”
“A young gentleman, a warlock, ” said the salesman. “I believe
he’s waiting to speak with one of the masters about an
apprenticeship.”
Takeo opened the door, Shiro and the two others close behind
him, their hands inside their jackets. Sitting on the floor, on a
cushion placed behind a low table, was a young Occidental with
shoulder-length, curly blond hair. He was wearing a brown
warlock’s cassock and a headband, with his hair worn outside it.
Some sort of fashion statement, Shiro thought wryly. What was the
point of wearing a headband if you didn’t use it to hold down your
hair? He was mildly surprised to see a western youth seeking
apprenticeship with the House of Nihonto. He looked American. A
student at the university, most likely. He was aware that some
westerners were Japanophiles, often displaying a far greater
interest in the Japanese traditions than many of the local young
people, who seemed to be obsessed with anything that was
American. The young man looked up at them questioningly. He
started to rise.
“Don’t bother getting up, ” said Takeo. He motioned one of the
men behind him to remain in the display room of the shop, then had
the other follow him across the small cubicle and through a curtain
in the back. They came out into a short hallway that extended to