Mack didn't change into his black silks until he reached the shadows at the base of the stone wall to the mansions highest and most fortified entry point. The exotic cloth held well through the years, and was still shiny, as if some magic the dirt could not gain a hold on it. The right sleeve of the shirt had been torn away by Mack, to make both his mask (for he unrolled the headband down to the tip of his nose, with eye-holes cut in appropriately) and a strip of cloth that he tied about his upper right arm to hide an easily identifiable tattoo.

As he had expected, almost all of the security had gone down to watch the heavyweight bout on pay per view. The main doorway was guarded, he noted as he crossed about the side streets and back alleys, as were all the entry points to the mansion proper.

But Mack was Shinobi, or a close approximation at least, and he didn't need a doorway. So he moved to the back wall, out of view, and donned his black silks.

He glanced around, hearing distant sounds of growing celebration. He saw no guards in the area and held confidence that any who were supposed to be here behind the structure and thus blocked from the merrymaking, were likely away from their posts, watching the fight in the lower level living room area.

He couldn't be sure, though, and that truth gave him pause. "But you were trained by the best." he reminded himself, his grin widening beneath the black mask.

Mack fell within himself. He thought of the Princess, of the Queen, and used the feelings their touch had inspired to reach that corresponding energy within his Qi. If he had enough Qi in his possession he could have floated off the ground, he knew, but even without it, even just remembering its effects, Mack lightened his body greatly. He reached up with one hand and pulled himself up the wall.

Like a spider he scrambled, his hands and feet finding grooves in the brick. So weightless had he become that it mattered not how deep the ledge or how firm his grip. In less then half a minute the Samurai had scaled the seventy-five feet of the highest wall, all the way to the one narrow window on this back side of the structure. He peeked inside, then settled himself securely on the ledge. With a look all around at the wide and glorious rolling countryside south of the capital, he slipped into the dimly lit room.

This was the trappings of royalty, he knew at once from the many valuables, paintings, tapestries, vases, and a plethora of other trinkets and utensils and artworks. The Samurai rubbed his hands together and went to work, looking for his mistresses bedchambers.