The Master's Wife

"What is justice?" I asked A-Zhe that question twice. The first time I asked him, he was only twelve. Stumbling over the words, he recited his master's dying wish: "Punish the strong... protect the weak, uphold chivalry and justice." Poor kid from another race. Getting two idioms out in a row was a real challenge for him. The second time I asked him was five years later. He had trained through the coldest days of winter and the hottest days of summer. A-Zhe's martial arts had improved by leaps and bounds, but his language skills still made onlookers sorrowful and listeners weep. The difference was that he had finally learned to keep quiet most of the time, so he wouldn't look quite so foolish. The second time, I asked him what justice was. He didn't answer for a long time, head bowed as he wiped the blade his master had left him. The blood on it had not yet dried. It was warm and bright red. I thought he would follow his usual creed, that silence was golden. Just as I was about to get up and leave, I heard him say softly, "Mistress." "Hm?" A-Zhe kept his head down and didn't look at me. He carefully wrapped the cleaned blade, layer by layer, then repeated in a quiet but certain voice, "Mistress is justice." Bad woman vs. loyal puppy of a young man, with a 13-year age gap Note: 1. The entire story is told in third person. 2. Updates whenever inspiration strikes. Not contracted. I'll follow the trail wherever it leads.