by Renee Ahdieh
She sighed to herself. If her detractors could be present now, they would be pleased to admit how right they’d been. Pleased to see her in obvious distress.
True, what Mariko planned to do tonight was foolish. But it could not be helped; she’d already lost nearly five days. Five days of precious time, especially as there could be little doubt that Kenshin was now on her trail. Mariko had doubled back on her path several times. Even resorted to deliberate misdirection.
But her brother would find her soon.
And after five days of creeping through villages and outposts on the westernmost edge of Jukai forest—five days of making quiet inquiries—and having bartered the exquisite jade hairpin her mother had gifted her, Mariko had finally found it late last night.
The favored watering hole of the Black Clan.
Or so that old crone two villages over claims.
After achieving this hard-won victory, Mariko had spent all evening hiding behind a nearby tree a stone’s throw from where she now sat. Hiding behind that tree and determining how she could best use this newfound information. How she could best manipulate it to learn why a band of cutthroat thieves had been sent to murder her on her journey to Inako.
When not a single black-clad man had bothered to show his face last night, Mariko had come to terms with a second, harsher truth: the old crone could very well have fleeced her for the priceless hairpin.
But Mariko would never know if she didn’t try.
This was an experiment, and experiments of all sorts intrigued her. They offered a way to glean knowledge. To use it—shape it, mold it—into whatever she needed it to be.
And this was a different kind of experiment. A different way to collect information. Though it was an admittedly foolish one, and could also have disastrous results.
The watering hole in question was not as grand as Mariko had imagined it would be.
Which makes sense. After all, it’s not exactly one of the fabled geiko houses of Hanami.
She smiled to herself, amending her initial impression. Favoring it for facts.
Sequestered near a farm, the watering hole was awash in the scent of refuse and dank river water. Mud seeped from between a series of misshapen flagstones leading to a weathered lean-to. The structure was fashioned from rotted cedar and bamboo greyed to stone by the sun. Several rickety benches and square tables littered a circle of cleared land enclosing the lean-to. A small fire rose from a lopsided brick oven that served as part of the structure’s only standing wall. Bamboo torches ringed the clearing, bathing everything in a warm, amber light.
In truth—despite its smell, which Mariko would never find acceptable, not even if she lived for an age—it had a certain charm all its own. Hattori Mariko had lived a life disdaining much of the silk and luxury her status had afforded her, and there was a delicious comfort in no longer having to put on airs that had always seemed so foreign to her.
She slouched lower on her bench. Scratched unabashedly at her shoulder. Sat with her feet spread. Ordered whatever she wanted, without hesitation. And met every man’s gaze full on when addressed.
Mariko had been waiting for the past four hours. Upon her arrival, she’d ordered one small earthenware bottle of sake and had nursed sips of the lukewarm rice wine from a chipped cup, watching as the sun took refuge beyond the horizon.
Now it was dark; now the day had given way for the creatures of the night to come slithering from their holes.
Alas, the particular creatures Mariko sought were not of the punctual sort.
Her knee began to jounce beneath the low slab of crooked wood. It was a crude table, perched atop four unevenly sliced tree trunks. If she leaned too hard on one end, the entire structure wobbled like her old nursemaid walking in the wind. To her left, horses drank from a large canvas tarp suspended between bamboo poles staked in the ground.
A watering hole built for both beasts and their drunken burdens.
Speaking of which, where are they?
The more time passed, the more Mariko’s nerves reached a feverish pitch.
The copper pieces she’d won off a drunken peasant in a game of sugoroku two nights past would not last her into tomorrow if the Black Clan did not arrive. She might have to trick more money from someone else tonight. But—though she was beginning to understand the necessity and value of this skill—Mariko did not possess a true taste for thievery, even if she did display a certain knack for it.
Sleight of hand. But faint of honor.
The same kind of thief she’d mocked in the forest.
Before murdering him.
The remembrance pulled at her insides. Washed her cheeks an unbecoming pallor. Not from remorse—as she still did not feel any—but more from the harshness of such actions. The coldness with which she’d taken a life. It unseated her in these quiet moments of reflection. Made her uncomfortable in her own skin.
She took another sip of the sake and stifled a grimace. Despite its warming effects, Mariko had never quite developed a taste for the brewed rice wine. She preferred chilled umeshu, with its sweetly sour plum flavor. But a traveling soldier or a wandering peasant would be unlikely to ask for such a thing. Especially not in a watering hole downwind of a smelly farm.
Mariko let her eyes wander skyward. And breathed deep.
Though she was surrounded by the unknown, that same sense of freedom washed through her, lush and heady. Irrespective of the refuse around her, it could not be denied that this part of Jukai forest was lovely. Lacy red maples fringed the border of the wood, coming together to frame the watering hole on all sides, like a mother embracing a child. The scent of the maples was rich. Earthier than the sharp bite of the pine. Beside the lean-to was a willow, its drooping branches dusting the battered roof in a ceaseless caress.
Mariko had always found willows profoundly sad.
Yet deeply beautiful.
Just as she noticed the willow branches begin a new dance—a slow-swaying undulation—a sudden burst of motion erupted from behind her.
She turned in time to watch the elderly man who had been stoking the lopsided fireplace hobble from its shadow, his hands rubbing at a linen cloth dangling from his waist, removing whatever traces of grime lingered.
“Ranmaru-sama!” he called, his grin wide and his eyes bright. “I’d wondered where you’d disappeared to these last few days.”
A tall figure dressed solely in black bounded toward the elderly man, pulling him into a warm embrace. When the newcomer’s head turned, Mariko caught a brief flash of his features.
He was a boy not much older than she!
But his clothes were unmistakable—black from his chin to his toes. Even his straw sandals and thin socks had been dyed to match.
A tingling awareness flared through her. Mariko was all but certain now; she’d found a member of the Black Clan.
A member of the band of men who’d tried to murder her.
Fury surged beneath her skin in a heated rush. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to remain steady. Anger was a reckless emotion. And she needed all her wits about her if she intended to outmatch this boy.
More men clad in black moved to join him. They were all unmasked and well-kempt, ambling at the leisurely pace of those without worry. The pace of panthers sated from a recent hunt. Another boy and a girl with no more than twenty years to each of their names rushed behind the elderly man, bearing earthenware jars of sake and many small cups, some of them rather worse for the wear.
Curiosity chased after the hot fury still coursing through Mariko’s veins.
She tried her best to avert her gaze. To convey a sense of general disinterest. It would do her no good for any member of the Black Clan to suspect she’d been waiting for them.
To suspect she’d lain in watchful preparation these past two nights.
One immediate realization granted her
reprieve. If they thought it was possible someone was on their trail, the Black Clan surely would not have come tonight. But Mariko had taken special pains not to draw anyone’s notice. To their eyes, the circular clearing surrounding their favorite watering hole was being patronized this night by two older men playing Go, one slovenly young drunk snoring at his own table, and what appeared to be a dirty peasant boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen, distastefully swallowing sips of lukewarm sake.
Indeed, there was not a single threat to be seen here.
Mariko watched surreptitiously from behind another swig of sake as the men in black took their places at the tables nearest to the lean-to. Her eyes roamed with thoughtful slowness. Deliberate languor.
I am a reed in a river, bending and moving with the current.
For now.
Something brushed past her, startling her from her attempt to remain inconspicuous.
It was a final straggler. She did not see his features as he glided past, but did observe several things of note. Unlike many of the other members of the Black Clan, his shoulder-length hair was unbound. Unkempt. Forgoing the traditional topknot of a warrior. He also did not carry a sword. At first glance, it appeared he had no weapon anywhere on his person.
This straggler did not offer any warm greeting to anyone present. No one came running from the lean-to to offer him an embrace and a bottle of sake. Instead he promptly stretched out on a bench and turned his hood backward to cover his face. With his hands stacked atop his chest, he remained at a distance, taking in some rest.
A man of obvious repute.
At the sound of more laughter, Mariko’s eyes drifted back toward the first boy. The one the elderly man had called Ranmaru. A part of her wished to move closer. To be within striking distance. But caution commanded that she keep her distance.
The boy sat as he stood—straight as an arrow. His jaw was strong and squared, his lips broad. Though he was clean-shaven and smiling—oddly affable for a supposed mercenary—he still gave off the distinct feeling of power. A checked sort of power, like that of a strong undercurrent. One that could drag you beneath its depths in an instant.
Ranmaru stood once more, speaking in hushed tones to the elderly man, who nodded and replied just as furtively. Then Ranmaru resumed his place of deference at a rickety low table near the center of the clearing. Even while he continued speaking with the men in black gathered around him, Mariko watched him rearrange his bench, positioning it with care. A care that put to question the unconscious laughter emanating from his lips.
He’s moving the bench into a position where he can see anyone or anything attempting to approach him unawares.
He was smart, despite his age. Exceedingly watchful. A trait Mariko prized in herself. She leaned in, attempting to connect the voices present to those in her memory.
Attempting to prove her suspicions true.
The other black-clad men took their seats, encircling Ranmaru as their earthenware bottles and cups were filled and refilled at steady intervals. From beneath lowered lashes, Mariko also noted that—though he continued drinking and joking alongside everyone else—Ranmaru’s eyes were in constant motion.
Eyes that soon fell on her.
Mariko was struck by how neat and clean he appeared. How . . . proper. Not at all like a member of a notorious band of thieves and murderers. Though his attention lingered on her for no more than a breath, the faintest of flushes crept up her neck. Soon this flush touched the edges of her temples, and Mariko realized not a moment too soon that her fingers were dangerously clenched around her small cup of sake.
Another wash of anger. Mixed with that same, strange curiosity. Again she fought back the desire to situate herself in the center of things. For it was far safer to remain alert and apart.
If Ranmaru was indeed the leader of the Black Clan, this boy was the one responsible for the attack on Mariko’s convoy. For the deaths of Chiyo and Nobutada and countless other lives lost in a darkened wood only five days before.
She lifted the sake to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. Though she knew for certain she did not appear to be a threat, Mariko could not afford for any member of the Black Clan to linger on her for too long. To study her and find an enemy. Or worse, find a prize.
Focus on the task at hand. But never forget.
Now came the difficult part.
Now came the time to put her musings to action.
Mariko had spent the better part of the last few nights writhing beneath a woolen blanket. Plotting through a haze of anger. For these past few days, she’d lived the life of a poor vagabond. And though it had been strangely peaceful to be beholden to no one save herself, she’d still been acutely aware of her purpose. Each night, she’d taken in careful breaths from beneath her blanket—a blanket that had smelled of iron and dirt and had felt even worse against her skin. One of many items she’d pilfered from the stable of a comfortable farm in a nearby province.
A horse blanket. In a horse stable.
She’d climbed into the loft and fallen asleep amongst stale bales of hay. The only time Mariko had paused in her efforts to find the watering hole of the Black Clan was when she’d washed her stolen clothes in a nearby creek, rubbing away the dried blood and musty smell of sweat until her knuckles chafed raw.
All her efforts culminated in this. Everything was risked for this.
Risked on her ability to endear herself to the Black Clan. To ply one of its lowliest members with food and drink until she could befriend the poor bastard and move on to a bigger catch. One that could provide Mariko the direction she desperately needed to keep her family’s honor intact and prove her worth beyond the marriage market.
Prove her worth beyond that of a mere girl.
Of course this all hinged on the Black Clan never discovering she was in fact their intended target. It was all unfathomably frightening. Darkly fascinating.
Her parents would be horrified.
Kenshin would undoubtedly disapprove.
Mariko continued her careful scrutiny of the Black Clan. A group of twenty or so men of all ages surrounded Ranmaru—the boy she suspected to be their leader, despite his surprisingly young age. Everything about him indicated so, from his natural deportment to their natural deference.
She squared her shoulders and coolly assessed those present, her attention fixed on the most pliable: its youngest and oldest members.
The ones most likely in need of a listening ear.
To Ranmaru’s right stood a one-legged man of middle age, balancing his weight on a crude false limb. Alas, this man did not present a good target; he, too, seemed entirely too observant, his fingers drumming against any hard surface within grazing distance. At one hip were multiple small knives of varying size and shape. A pouch with dried leaves peeking from its folds rested at the opposing hip. A cook, if Mariko had to hazard a guess. Or the Black Clan’s resident poisoner. Regardless, she would need a far more pliable target than he. All the cooks Mariko had met in her short life labored to notice even the most insignificant detail. Labored to understand the basic ingredient of all things.
Another, smaller boy around her age was also not a good option. He moved erratically, hovering on the fringes, the tips of his otherwise immaculate topknot standing on end. His eyes had a dull stare to them. An almost haunted look. Glazed over from a past Mariko was not ready or willing to hear.
The straggler sleeping on the bench could be a decent choice. If she could successfully rouse him to drink, which at this rate did not seem likely. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm of total relaxation. Perhaps an anvil dropping from the sky might awaken him. Perhaps.
Along the periphery, another young member of the Black Clan studied the leaves in the nearby trees with such serenity Mariko was certain he’d stepped from a story she’d once heard her mother tell—one about a boy who floated through the sky, carried on
the wind by an umbrella of oiled paper. His face was smooth and shiny, almost like a pebble shimmering beneath the surface of a stream.
So intent was Mariko in her mission to learn everything she could possibly manage about everyone present that she did not see the elderly man looming over her until he was nearly stooped at eye level, the scent of burning charcoal emanating from his wrinkled skin.
“Another?” the elderly man asked bluntly. It appeared his congeniality was reserved only for Ranmaru and his troupe of murdering miscreants.
“I—” Mariko paused to clear her throat. To deepen the note of her voice. “Yes.”
The man pursed his lips, forming radiating lines all around his mouth, much like a judgmental dumpling. “Are you quite certain, young man?”
Immediately Mariko assumed what she hoped was a distinctly masculine posture. She lengthened her spine. Craned her neck to the right as though she were peering down her nose. For this one blessed moment, she was glad to be taller than most girls her age. Glad to be not so delicate. “I’m quite certain. Are you not in the business of selling wine?”
“To those who like to drink it, yes.” A mischievous glint took hold of the old man’s gaze.
Mariko blinked. “I like it just fine.” In her periphery, she noticed the boy with the haunted, almost murderous eyes draw closer, his expression tight.
The old man rasped a laugh. “You might have a lot of water in you, boy, but it doesn’t make you a good teller of tales. The words don’t form well on your lips. They don’t take shape as they should. You should practice more.”
Water? She’d always lacked the fluidity to be water. The natural grace. Her mother claimed she had too much earth in her. That she was far too grounded. Far too stubborn. Almost like a rock, half buried beneath the soil. If Mariko was anything outside of earth, she was wind—disruptive at times, and invisible always.
Never a day in her life had she been water.
“You are mistaken,” Mariko said gruffly. “Both about the water and about the drink.”
