Flame in the Mist

  She dug her heels into the soft earth and pressed onward, her calves burning from the steep incline. As Mariko walked, her mind continued its unceasing mutterings.

  It was Yoshi who’d first pushed her to take her rendering of the throwing star to the Black Clan’s metalsmith. He’d told her the idea had merit. And he’d not once called her foolish or found her efforts unwanted or out of place. It was a strange feeling. To have one of her enemies be the first among her acquaintances to appreciate her ideas.

  Mariko paused before the wall of smoke-stained fabric, taking in a breath. Seeking courage of a lasting kind.

  “Hello?” she said in a brusque voice.

  When the metalsmith emerged from behind the fabric wall of his jinmaku, Mariko released a pent-up breath, allowing the relief to flood through her.

  Haruki the metalsmith was none other than the boy she’d noticed that first night at the watering hole. The one with the shining skin, who looked as though he’d been taken from a childhood story about a boy who floated through the sky, buoyed into the clouds by an oiled-paper umbrella. Mariko recalled him watching the leaves sway through the maple trees with an almost otherworldly kind of serenity.

  At least this boy would not take it upon himself to torment her as Ren had.

  At least she hoped.

  Haruki was tall and lean, with a narrow face and wide-set eyes. The front part of his hair was too short to fit into its topknot. The strands hung straight and loose. Only his hands and his hachimaki appeared marred by soot. He stood in silence as he studied her. Not a judgmental kind of silence. Not even a silence laced by curiosity.

  He merely gave her leave to speak first.

  “Yoshi said—”

  “I was wondering when you would come here.” Haruki smiled with his eyes, his voice pleasing and precise. “Yoshi told me about you last week.”

  Startled, Mariko stood still. “I didn’t realize he’d said anything.”

  “One thing we all learn early on is to say very little to Yoshi. He likes his gossip almost more than he likes his food.” He wiped both his hands on a cloth hanging from his dark leather belt. Then he mopped the sweat from his neck. When the collar of his kosode shifted, lines of scarred skin became visible, wrapping around his shoulder like a set of monstrous fingers.

  He was badly whipped in his past.

  Mariko caught her voice before it could speak out of turn. And ask questions to which she did not need answers.

  I should not care. I do not care.

  “My name is Haruki.” He dipped his head in a small bow.

  Steeling herself, Mariko returned the gesture. “Sanada Takeo.”

  “I know.”

  She pursed her lips. Was it always necessary for boys to prove they knew more than anyone else around them? “I suppose Yoshi also told you why I wanted to come here.”

  “He said you had something you wished to show me.”

  It was a hedging kind of answer. One that made Mariko immediately wary.

  “And you weren’t . . . curious?” she said.

  “You do ask a lot of questions.” Haruki smiled calmly. “And no, I wasn’t curious. I expected you to come my way when you were ready.” Again he waited for her to speak.

  It was time for Mariko to stop being worried that everyone she met harbored hidden agendas. That Haruki the metalsmith would laugh at her. Or dismiss her. Yoshi had said her idea was a good one. And this was the only way to see if both he and she were right.

  Mariko lifted her gaze to meet Haruki’s. “I wanted to ask if you could make a kind of . . . kunai for me.”

  “A throwing dagger?” He studied her once more, but she could not read his expression. “For you?”

  Yes. Ultimately.

  “No. Not for me.” She inhaled deep. “I meant to say a kunai based on my design. One with many edges.” As she spoke, Mariko knelt before him and began sketching in the dirt with a small stick. “Almost in a circle.” She drew what at first glance appeared to be a sun with six rays curling away from it. “If you curve the blades in the same direction, it can be thrown in a rotating fashion, thereby allowing it to fly farther and faster.”

  Haruki crouched beside her. Considered her design.

  “This would be difficult to make,” he pronounced after a time. “And the amount of steel necessary would be quite costly, especially for a weapon a warrior might discard.”

  “What if you used iron instead? It’s softer and less expensive than steel.”

  Haruki’s eyes grazed over her drawing a second time. Still considering. “Even if it were made of iron, a weapon like this would take far too much time to fashion. I’m sorry. Each of these spikes would need to be individually sharpened.”

  Mariko nodded, trying to tamp down her disappointment. Having a weapon of this sort would have been an advantage to her for many reasons, most of which she meant to conceal in the darkest recesses of her mind. For now. Before she could succumb to disappointment, she shored up her resolve. Recalled this thought:

  True weakness is weakness of the spirit.

  She refused to give up so easily. “What if we could make a mold instead? Perhaps even reduce the number of blades?” Mariko used her stick to smooth the ground over her previous rendering and fashion another. “The mold could first be cast in beeswax, similar to an arrowhead. That way it could be sharpened with relative ease.”

  Haruki stood. Walked around the newest drawing, his head canted in consideration.

  Quite suddenly, the metalsmith stopped pacing. “Come with me,” he said, his tone crisp. Haruki proceeded to march down the hill, his long legs carrying him fast. Mariko ran to keep up as he strode toward another tent across the way. A larger tent, with a guard posted at its entrance. The tent to which Mariko had been trying to gain access ever since she was first brought to the Black Clan’s encampment against her will.

  The tent of Takeda Ranmaru.

  Outside the entrance, several younger members of the Black Clan watched two weathered veterans play a game of Go. All appeared to be betting on the outcome, copper and silver links dotting a worn tatami mat. Several smaller coins had been thrown to the wayside, almost slipping out of notice. Mariko slid one beneath her sandaled foot, to surreptitiously pocket it later.

  There could be a time I might need money.

  Before Mariko had a chance to collect the coin, Haruki paused near the entrance, waiting for her. With what Mariko hoped was an innocent smile, she moved forward, quickly dragging the copper coin beneath her straw sandal.

  Haruki began speaking to Ranmaru even before Mariko came to a stop beside him. Despite what she’d initially thought, the metalsmith was not one to linger without purpose. “His idea isn’t a bad one. The weapon itself would be small. Light. Much easier to aim than a traditional kunai. But the time and cost it would take to make it almost negates its value.”

  Of course the leader of the Black Clan did not look surprised to see them. Nor did he appear surprised to learn of Haruki’s conclusion.

  As Mariko had suspected, Yoshi had told Ranmaru about her invention.

  Mariko opened her mouth to speak. And was unceremoniously pushed forward by the tent’s newest arrival. An arrival whose scent made his presence known even before he came into view.

  Warm stone and wood smoke.

  By the grace of the old gods, Mariko managed to remain mostly in place when Ōkami rammed an elbow into her side, clearing the path before him.

  “I sincerely apologize,” she said to Ōkami, trying her best to keep her store of sarcasm in reserve. “I guess it must be quite difficult to see that which is directly in front of you.”

  Well. She did try.

  “No.” Ōkami’s face wore a silent challenge, his eyes glinting as he glanced back at her. “I saw you.” For an instant, Mariko thought she also caught a trace of amusement as
he brushed by. “And even if I hadn’t seen you, I definitely smelled you. When was the last time you bathed?”

  That same awful feeling of being mocked took hold of Mariko. Vicious, unrelenting hold. Making her feel so much smaller than those around her. So much less of everything when all she wished to feel was taller and stronger and braver. So much more. It made her afraid to be herself. Afraid these men would see how every step she took each day was a lie.

  Enough. This is not the time to be weak.

  Instead of letting the fear allow her to shrink into herself, Mariko let it feed her.

  It collected in her stomach. Twisting in her throat.

  Reshaping into anger.

  No. She did not have time to be angry with Ōkami. Being angry with him meant she cared. And she absolutely did not care. It was far easier not to care.

  Mariko pursed her lips, glowering at the leanly muscled back before her.

  When Ōkami realized she’d kept silent at his provocation, he peered at her over one shoulder. The confusion that passed across his face almost made Mariko’s efforts worth the trouble.

  Absentmindedly ruffling his hair, the Wolf glided toward a corner of the tent, settling on a pile of silk cushions. Then he closed his eyes as though he meant to rest.

  “How was Hanami?” Ranmaru asked Ōkami, disregarding his friend’s obvious desire to sleep.

  At her right, Mariko heard Haruki sigh to himself.

  Ōkami ignored the metalsmith’s quiet judgment. “As one would expect.” With a yawn, he burrowed into the cushions.

  Hanami?

  Of course this lazy boy with little regard for honor frequented the most infamous pleasure district in Inako. That, at least, offered Mariko an answer as to where he’d been disappearing every other day.

  Hot on the heels of this newest realization came a different series of questions.

  Inako was several hours’ ride from the forest.

  “You went to Inako?” Mariko asked automatically. “Why would you journey so far simply to go to Hanami? Are there not pleasure houses nearby?”

  “Pleasure houses?” he scoffed. “It’s clear Lord Lackbeard does not have the first clue about the joys Hanami has to offer.” Though his eyes remained closed, one side of Ōkami’s lips curled upward. Ranmaru frowned in response.

  Mariko bristled. “Though I’ve never seen Hanami myself, I have every idea what happens in a—”

  “Liar.”

  She crossed her arms. Irritation snaked through her chest. Yet Mariko made the decision to say nothing, as she’d found it to be the best response in situations like these.

  When she knew words would not serve her well.

  Ōkami’s dark eyes flashed open. Mariko had to admit it was an admirable feat. How he was able to shift from casual apathy to absolute awareness in a single breath. “Interesting.” He unfurled to standing. Glided toward her, once more the shark seeking blood in the water. “I called you a liar, yet you’ve said nothing to refute that. Unusual, considering your regard for all things honorable.”

  The closer Ōkami moved toward her, the more Mariko’s worry collected. The more she wished to retreat. Sometimes he saw her too clearly for comfort.

  Again the irritation gathered in her stomach. Knotting into anger.

  I will not yield to my emotions.

  Ōkami stared down at her, just as he had that night they’d first met. Mariko stood her ground, disregarding her desire to flee.

  “It’s obvious you haven’t the faintest clue what Hanami is,” he said softly. “You lie as freely as you breathe, yet claim to value honor above all else.” His laughter was a brush of air and sound. “What other secrets are you hiding beneath that cool head of yours, Sanada Takeo? And what would it take to steal them from you?” he whispered, his eyes shimmering like black ice.

  Blood rushed up Mariko’s neck, into her face. As before, she stoked her fear into fury. Into a strange kind of heat that began to swirl in the space between them.

  “You don’t know the beginning of me.” She trembled as she spoke. “And . . . you will never see the end.” It was as close to a threat as she dared.

  His smile was cool. Appreciative. “I’ve made you angry.”

  “Anger can be a good thing,” Ranmaru interjected, his features unreadable. “It can harden you. Make you stronger.”

  “Perhaps my kind of strength isn’t the same as yours. Perhaps my kind of strength is as light as a feather.” As deadly as an idea. Her hands continued to shake beneath their gazes, yet she returned Ōkami’s measured stare.

  The Wolf nodded, but Mariko did not see mockery in the gesture. Merely the same strange intensity. As though he truly approved. “Master your anger, Sanada Takeo. Anger is an emotion that poisons all else.”

  “I am not angry. It’s possible you do not know me as well as you think you do.” Mariko willed him silent, determined not to argue with him any further.

  Arguing with Ōkami was like trying to catch smoke.

  His only reply was another half smile punctuated by a white scar. But his smile was not the playful sort. No. Despite his barbed attempt at banter, the Wolf was not playful. Not at all. He was a boy who liked to set fire to things and watch them burn. Mariko’s anger quickly slid to animosity. It irked her that Ōkami could provoke such strong emotions from her with so little effort.

  Ranmaru stepped between them. Separating them. Dissipating the heat that had risen in the air. “I’ll make you a deal, Lord Lackbeard,” he said. “If you succeed in helping Haruki find a way to make this—what do you call it?”

  The metalsmith moved to reply, his lips already forming the words.

  “A throwing star,” Mariko said before Haruki could speak, her words clipped. Her attention lingered on Ōkami as he returned to his cushioned corner, his hands now laced beneath his head. At this moment, it did not behoove Mariko to look away from him.

  As he’d once warned, she should never bare her neck to a wolf.

  Ranmaru continued, his manner contemplative. “Successfully fashion a throwing star, and the next time Ōkami travels to Hanami, we will accompany him.”

  At this, the Wolf stood again, unfailingly graceful, despite a glimmer of annoyance. A snakelike smile spread across Ren’s face just as Ranmaru broke into a pleased grin. It was clear this newly formed proposal appealed to the leader of the Black Clan. Perhaps simply because he was antagonizing his best friend. A feat Mariko guessed to be rather difficult.

  In answer, Ōkami stepped closer, his jaw tight.

  A tacit threat. For her benefit or for that of Ranmaru, Mariko could not be certain. Nor did she care. For it pleased her, too, to rankle the Wolf.

  Ranmaru’s grin widened. “While in Hanami, we can—how did you say it that night, Lord Lackbeard?—teach you how to enjoy such things.”

  At the flagrance of his words, the blood began to drain down Mariko’s neck. “I—don’t think that’s necessary.” Her eyes flitted around the tent; her skin now cast a sickly pallor. “As I said before, I am fully aware of what happens in Hanami, and—”

  “When you’re about to lie, don’t look to the skies first,” Ōkami said. “The old gods won’t help you.”

  “In the future, I’ll be sure to heed your advice,” she retorted quickly. Curtly. Her gaze locked on the scar slicing through his lips. “But I was busy making a promise to remedy their past mistake.”

  His brows raised in question.

  “This time, I promised to cut out your tongue instead of simply leaving a warning.” Mariko almost gasped as the words fell from her mouth.

  These were the words of a different person.

  Wild. Dangerous. Without fear.

  Perhaps Sanada Takeo had far more nerve than Hattori Mariko. Perhaps Takeo didn’t mind risking punishment if it meant earning respect. Though the beat of Mariko’s heart
raced through her veins, she kept her expression fixed. Unmoved.

  The Wolf’s eyes narrowed. The muscles along his jaw twitched. Whether it was from anger or amusement, Mariko dared not guess.

  A spell of tense silence passed. Then Ranmaru laughed. Loudly. A thoughtless, heedless kind of laughter. Different from any she’d heard pass his lips before. Even Haruki and Ren seemed startled by its sound. When Mariko’s tormentor made to shove her as punishment for her insult, she shifted beyond his reach. Ren pressed forward, intent on teaching her a lesson. His persistence forced Mariko to step in the space occupied by either Ranmaru or Ōkami.

  Without thought, she shifted to the left.

  Beside her sandaled foot, a copper coin winked into view.

  A harrowing beat passed before Ōkami bent to retrieve it. He did not move away as he aimed a bladed smile at her. Mariko bumped against him, suppressing a cringe. He returned the coin to her, all while standing close enough that she smelled the wood smoke on his clothes. Felt the warmth radiating from his skin.

  A low hum began to form around him. Immediately Mariko swallowed the urge to cower, grateful for the shadows that concealed the color in her cheeks.

  Was it from anger, then? Did anger unleash Ōkami’s abilities?

  Was he angry with her? Or amused? Why was it so hard for her to read this accursed boy?

  “So now you’ve become a thief as well,” he said softly, his dark gaze filled with an uncanny light. “Fashion your throwing star. Take your winnings to Inako. But don’t feel fortunate when you do. The streets of the imperial city are only slightly less forgiving than I.”

  —

  The leader of the Black Clan waited until Ren, Haruki, and Sanada Takeo were far beyond earshot. He glanced at his best friend. His closest confidant since the darkest of times.

  “What do you think of our newest recruit?” Ranmaru asked.

  Ōkami scowled in the direction of the tent entrance before replying. “He’s . . . quite smart. And equally odd.”