Flame in the Mist

  “Akira-san is rarely mistaken about anything.”

  Mariko froze. Refused to turn around. Then thought better of it.

  Now was not the time for indecision of any kind. Death follows indecision, like a twisted shadow. It was something her brother said. A word of caution too often levied her way.

  Though she could not immediately connect the voice to any in her memory of that night, Mariko knew it belonged to the leader of the Black Clan. To Ranmaru.

  Far from its most pliable member.

  But if I can save myself the work of deceiving my way into his graces . . .

  The same instant Mariko turned to face him, Ranmaru walked into her line of sight. Again she sensed a leashed sort of power, like a coil about to spring.

  “If Akira-san says you are water, you are water,” he continued.

  Mariko’s right shoulder lifted, emulating one of Kenshin’s many nonresponses to her frequent questions. She held fast to her composure, though her pulse ratcheted in her throat. “If it gets me another bottle of sake, I can be water.”

  His smile was pointed. “Allow me.” He put his hand out to one side without even glancing to his left or right. The boy with the spiked topknot and the haunted gaze surrendered his bottle of spirits before Mariko had a chance to blink.

  Why do they obey him so unflinchingly?

  Ranmaru leaned close, and Mariko caught the faint scent of pine and steel. He poured a thin stream of rice wine into her cup with steady hands. Hands that were remarkably clean. Hands that made Mariko want to conceal her own filthy fingers in the folds of her nonexistent kimono.

  Just as this realization settled upon her, Mariko fought against it. Fought against the urge to be the proper young woman she’d been raised to be. Hands trembling, she lifted the cup in a salute, then downed its contents in a single gulp.

  Of course this would be the moment she coughed from the burn. A hacking, wretched sort of cough. The men at Ranmaru’s back let loose a chorus of raucous laughter. Save for the boy with the murderous eyes. Mariko shuddered to think what he might find amusing.

  A box of paralytic scorpions? A jar of venomous snakes?

  “This little runt can’t hold his drink,” a burly man with arms of knotted pine and a kosode of burnished black leather announced through his laughter. Though tinged by amusement, the look he gave her bordered on dismissive. Indifferent.

  Unease sparked once more within her. If the Black Clan thought her unworthy of their attention, Mariko would lose this precious opportunity to endear herself to their leader.

  The leader of the men charged with murdering her.

  But she could not readily pretend to be something she wasn’t. And she wasn’t a skilled drinker. Nor was she a skilled fighter. On the surface, she wasn’t a fearsome enemy at all. Mariko was . . . odd. Curious. Clever. Perhaps too clever, as her father always said. It had never been meant as a compliment, though she had always taken it as one.

  But perhaps it was better this way. These men would not want to see Mariko as odd or curious or clever. Those were characteristics that would warrant concern in any unknown. Maybe it would serve her well to don a different disguise. One of a bumbling fool desperately in need of direction. Desperately in need of the Black Clan’s most esteemed guidance.

  Anything to keep them in her thrall.

  Mariko set down her cup, then cleared her throat with a series of raps against her chest, willing her nerves silent. She grinned up at Ranmaru sheepishly. “I’ve recently left home to seek my fortune along the road. And I have not yet spent enough time in such places. Even still, I’m most grateful for the drink. Would you allow me to return the favor?” Her grin widened. “Then perhaps I can learn from you how better to enjoy such things.”

  Ranmaru watched Mariko as he refilled her cup, his gaze thoughtful, his broad lips pursed to one side. “While I would normally—”

  Just then a series of booming footsteps crashed through the underbrush at the edge of the forest, disrupting the peaceful grove of maple trees across the way.

  “Takeda Ranmaru!” An enormous man, standing nearly three heads taller than anyone present, shouted into the night sky. “I will not bear this insult a single day more!”

  Ranmaru straightened. The men at his back stood silent. Unmoving.

  A moment passed in stillness. A moment laced with tension. The sort meant to be bowed by a sword.

  “Then, by all means, state your grievances.” Ranmaru’s smile was wide. Unaffected. “And we shall both face the consequences.”

  FALL FORWARD TO KEEP MOVING

  Takeda.

  Mariko knew that name.

  It sifted through her mind, dredging up a faded memory.

  One of a boy standing in a bloodied square, silently crying to the heavens.

  “Consequences?” Sporting a look of amused incredulity, the giant of a man stepped toward Ranmaru. The thunder in his voice dashed away Mariko’s memories before they could fully take shape.

  In his meaty right hand, the giant held an immense kanabō. He swung the huge club into the light of a nearby torch. “Did you not think I would know it was you?” The metal barbs studding one end of the kanabō flashed dully. “Did you not think we would come to seek retribution?” He nodded to the men at his back. To their generous array of weaponry. These men were exactly what Mariko had pictured a passel of cutthroats to be. Bearded. Unwashed. Uncouth.

  The complete opposite of the Black Clan.

  In fact, Mariko would have staked the rest of her copper pieces—even an entire gold ryō—on the fact that the wretched soul she’d killed in the forest five days ago might have known these intruders.

  Might even have been well acquainted with them.

  Her discomfort rose in a sharp spike. She looked back to the Black Clan. Two sides of her continued their silent war: the part that wished to remain in the thick of things and the part that wished to observe from a distance.

  Ranmaru stayed relaxed. His hands were at his sides, his posture easy. As though a giant bearing a studded club had not stepped into his world, intent on beating him to a bloody pulp.

  “Did you hear me, rōnin?” The giant spat the last word, hurling it into the air with the venom of a curse.

  Rōnin.

  More scattered pieces aligned in Mariko’s mind.

  A reason for Ranmaru’s proper, almost noble comportment.

  Takeda Ranmaru was a masterless samurai. Or the son of a samurai fallen from grace within the nobility. He was—or had been—part of Mariko’s world once. Judging by his age, it could not have been so long ago.

  Again that image of a boy not many years older than she, standing beside stones rusted brown with blood, came into brief focus. Then blurred away, like a reflection rippling across a pond.

  Mariko narrowed her eyes at the rōnin. The idea intrigued her with its ludicrousness.

  A noble thief. A mercenary of samurai lineage.

  Though Ranmaru continued to appear unaffected, she saw his right hand twitch, as if it was aching to take hold of a sword.

  “I heard you.” Ranmaru leaned back on his heels, once more the picture of calm, his words a mocking pronouncement. “Both times, you bumbling colossus.”

  The giant grunted. He swung his kanabō again. It cut through the air with a shrill whisper.

  An unmistakable threat.

  Mariko sank lower in her bench.

  This would not end well.

  She should leave. The last thing she wanted to be was collateral damage in a tavern brawl. But that cursed boy with the murder eyes continued to stare at her intently. It made it difficult for her to think straight.

  The group of men previously standing behind the giant began to unfurl into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder on either side of their leader. Each of their weapons was coated in layers of dried blood.
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  They . . . did not appear to be in a negotiating mood. Mariko caught the distinct sound of air being sucked through teeth, as though in anticipation of a thrill. When her gaze fell upon one of the cutthroats closest to her, she understood something she’d only heard of in passing.

  Bloodlust.

  A hunger nothing but slaughter could slake.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  Ranmaru sighed. Mariko noted that—though his men did not step forward in response to the giant’s threat—many had placed hands on their own weapons. Ready and willing to strike. Ready and willing to defend their leader. The masterless samurai.

  The rōnin.

  Odd that a rōnin inspires such loyalty.

  A boy who would kill an innocent girl for money.

  She took in a measured breath, slowing the speed of her pulse. Her resolve hardened once more. Hardened like folded steel shaped and reshaped under a red-hot flame for countless days and nights.

  Until nothing could best it.

  I will be a reed in the current. A reed of folded steel.

  Even if Ranmaru’s men found him worthy of admiration, Mariko never would.

  Chiyo.

  Nobutada.

  This boy deserved to be hung upside down and drowned in Yedo Bay. Disgraced, for all the world to see.

  Just as the vision formed in her mind, the one-legged man previously standing to Ranmaru’s right stepped between the boy and the bumbling colossus, placing his restless fingertips on the hilt of a dagger. Several more men moved to shield their leader from view. To take whatever blows may come his way, with the honor a samurai would espouse for his lord. Try though she might, Mariko could not understand such reverence.

  Not amongst murderers and thieves.

  As the members of the Black Clan readied themselves for a fight, Mariko recalled something her tutor had said. He’d been a scholar from Kisun, well versed in alchemy and metallurgy. A lover of ancient philosophy.

  One winter afternoon in their tenth year, Mariko had overheard their tutor say something to Kenshin that had taken root in her heart. That had left her in a state of quandary for most of the night.

  Sometimes we must fall forward to keep moving.

  Mariko had not understood it at the time. Only recently had she begun to grasp its meaning.

  Remain motionless—remain unyielding—and you are as good as dead.

  Death follows indecision, like a twisted shadow.

  Fall forward. Keep moving. Even if you must pick yourself up first.

  That was what this young rōnin must have done. Fallen forward to keep moving.

  Into a life of savagery.

  A heated exchange of words tore Mariko from her thoughts. The men on both sides had drawn closer. Bridged the gap even farther. The giant’s men were being stirred into a slow-moving frenzy.

  A charge gathered in the clearing. Like that feeling right before a summer storm. A flash of light, crackling across the night sky. A flare of magic, snapping through the air.

  When the giant took a threatening step toward Ranmaru, all the members of the Black Clan moved in tandem. All—Mariko noted—save the one still sleeping on the bench. Apparently the anvil had yet to fall.

  “This is becoming tiresome.” Ranmaru moved toward the men positioned protectively before him. They parted to let him pass. Several of them unsheathed their swords, their blades gleaming blue and orange in the light of the nearby torches. “If I remember correctly, I already sent word through one of your”—his nose twitched—“men. As we were unaware that particular outpost had fallen under your domain, I offered to repay you the exact amount lost. You demanded more. Try though you might, that will never happen. Even you must know . . . the arm bends only inward.” He spoke in an idle tone, though Mariko caught his dark eyes flashing.

  “An insult!” hissed a scrawny man with a face like a vulture. “You sully our name while stealing our livelihood, and you think a few copper pieces tossed in the dirt will be enough?”

  “I did not sully your name.”

  “You did!”

  Ranmaru frowned. “I most certainly did not.”

  Interesting. Mariko could not help but think this fight too closely resembled a childish squabble. The like of which she’d had many a time with Kenshin. Over such things as the last of the sweetened rice cakes.

  “Since you won’t give us what we are due, you’ve forced us to resort to such measures,” the hissing vulture continued. “Forced us to take you to the nearest daimyō and collect the reward money for your capture.”

  Again Ranmaru sighed. It was almost exaggerated in length and breadth. “If you think the daimyō will gladly hand over fifty ryō and smile as you ride away in triumph, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “Enough of this ridiculous chatter!” the giant bellowed. “Either come with us now, or force us to kill each of your men and take you prisoner anyway.”

  A mirthless smile cut across Ranmaru’s face. “If you intend to take anything, then take my advice,” he said. “This one time only, I’ll offer it without cost: the best way to win a fight is to avoid it.”

  “The words of a thieving coward.”

  Ranmaru grinned. “Despite what you may think, I believe in honor amongst thieves. And I thought we were all in agreement; the enemy is them, not us.”

  The giant spluttered, confusion still marring his brow. “Lies.”

  When the giant heaved his kanabō over his shoulder—readying to strike—Ranmaru lifted a hand. Momentarily staying the killing blow. “I’ll go with you on one condition,” he said. “We shall let it come down to a fight. If you win, I’ll go without a word. If I win, you leave and never come back to this part of the forest. Under pain of death.” The last was spoken with a harshness Mariko had not heard thus far in Ranmaru’s voice.

  A harshness that sent a shiver down her spine.

  The giant grinned. “You want to fight me?” His chest puffed like a sweet bean cake.

  “Best on best.” Ranmaru nodded.

  The sound of the giant’s laughter brought to mind a dog choking on a bone. It made Mariko swallow hard. Once his laughter died down, the giant rested his kanabō across his shoulders. His fingers dangled on either edge. They flexed once. Twice.

  “I’m going to enjoy this, rōnin. Maybe even more than I’ll enjoy the gold I collect from your bounty.” While he spoke, the giant began to step sideways, taking stock of his prey.

  Ranmaru did not unsheathe either of the blades positioned at his left side. Instead his feet moved automatically, mirroring his opponent, as though in a deathly dance.

  After both he and the giant had taken three steps in a matched circle, Ranmaru halted. Cocked his head. And began to laugh.

  The giant’s pockmarked brow furrowed.

  “I just realized”—Ranmaru paused, as if he was still considering his thoughts—“you think you’re fighting me.”

  His eyes narrowing, the giant heaved a great breath. “What?” It was a stutter of air and sound.

  “I said best on best.” Ranmaru grinned. “What made you think I was talking about me?” He backed away, his body never once turning from his opponent. These movements seemed second nature to him.

  Proving that no one ever stood at Takeda Ranmaru’s back.

  Mariko refrained from bristling. It troubled her greatly that she could not readily recall the voices of the men beyond her norimono the night her convoy was attacked. Their sounds had been too muffled, her nerves far too fraught.

  But she was certain one of them had to belong to the leader of the Black Clan. As certain as she was of the sun rising in the east. Takeda Ranmaru and his men had been sent to kill her. And Mariko intended to do whatever needed to be done to learn why.

  She narrowed her eyes at the unflinching boy across the way.

  It’s a
shame you don’t realize another enemy is merely waiting for you in the shadows, rōnin. Perhaps not a fearsome one, but nevertheless an enemy far craftier than the bumbling colossus before you.

  Mariko took stock once more of the other members of the Black Clan.

  Several of them had stood taller at Ranmaru’s declaration. Then a ripple of amusement passed across their collective gazes, save for that of the boy with the haunted eyes and the spiked topknot. His eyes had not once left Mariko’s face until now. Though even he was distracted—unable to hide his anticipation—wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue.

  Mariko could believe this boy to be the Black Clan’s best.

  His eyes screamed murder with every look. Two hooked swords were laced across his back. The type Mariko knew could be linked and swung, severing head from body in a single blow.

  Just as she became certain this boy was to be the giant’s opponent, he, too, stepped aside.

  Only Ranmaru continued watching the giant, his expression a strange mix of hard and soft. Punishing and pitying.

  The Black Clan turned their gazes behind them in force—

  To their lazy comrade, still fast asleep on the bench.

  AN UNMERITED BLESSING

  Kenshin smelled the body before he saw it.

  A sickly sweet scent, mingled with the odor of decaying meat. It caught in the uppermost portion of his throat, scratching at his senses.

  Sending his heart thundering through his chest.

  His sister was not dead. Mariko could not be dead.

  He would not allow it.

  Undeterred, Kenshin continued his low prowl through the darkened underbrush of Jukai forest. Continued searching for his sister’s tracks.

  Then—in the thorny brambles at the base of a pine grove—Kenshin came across the source of the smell. The body of a dirty man, rotting in the underbrush. Unclothed, save for a filthy loincloth.

  At this realization, his heart slowed. Kenshin crouched beside the dead body, on the hunt for any detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

  For the third time that night, he was glad to have left his men behind at their makeshift camp. After tracking for nearly two hours, he was now deep in Jukai forest. Had he not taken care to mark the trees as he made his way, the journey back to camp would have been treacherous.