Deadly Flowers

  This time I knew she did not want me to reply. I kept my eyes on my knees.

  “You sneer at Saiko? If I’d had her ten years ago, I could have turned her into a deadly flower every warlord in this land would fear. But that’s not your concern. She has learned enough by now to do the task that is required of her. So have you. Get out. One of your instructors will give you all the details that you need.”

  I bowed again before I left the room, my cheek still stinging.

  Now I knew what Saiko was doing here—learning just enough to help Madame’s latest client dispose of someone he found inconvenient. And Madame, of course, had found a way to turn her temporary ninja to a bit of use in the few days she had spent at the school. It made sense.

  But the satisfaction of having solved the puzzle of Saiko, and the thrill of my first mission, were soured by my humiliation.

  Smiling and simpering and flirting behind a fan—were those skills a deadly flower needed?

  Saiko, a ninja any warlord would fear? A better ninja than me?

  Could Saiko do this?

  It had taken me about half a day to reach my destination, and now darkness, a ninja’s dearest and closest ally, was wrapped tightly around me. The sky hid the moon behind thick clouds. My black trousers and jacket and the hood over my hair might have been made of the night.

  Before me, a moat lapped gently at the shore. High above the black water, a bobbing light traveled like a spirit in the sky.

  Some warlords preferred to live in the center of a town, with merchants and temples and pleasure quarters close at hand. The owner of the castle I was to infiltrate did not. His home was surrounded by farms and fields. A wooded ridge, too rocky and steep to plant, had offered me cover as I waited for the darkness to descend.

  That darkness had been slow in coming. My imagination, with nothing better to do, began to wonder how many battles had been fought before those castle walls, how many soldiers had died here, and how many of their lost and hungry souls might be nearby. I whispered a quick mantra, holy words to protect me from the notice of a defeated samurai whose rage hadn’t died with his body or a common soldier whose far-off family was too poor, too forgetful, or too dead to keep his spirit at peace with prayers and offerings.

  Then I forced my attention back where it belonged. Even if there were ghosts nearby, they were not the greatest threat to my mission. And the light now moving above me was not a wandering soul, but merely a paper lantern in the hand of a guard walking the castle wall.

  The light disappeared around a curve. I stayed where I was, huddled under the cover of a thick-leaved bush, and I counted steadily to seven hundred before it came back and vanished once again.

  I had seven hundred seconds to make my way across.

  Slowly, I slid into the water. No splash betrayed me. My sandals, tied together with a length of cord, hung over my shoulder, and in my hand was a short tube of bamboo. I swam underwater for as long as I could, then slipped a plug of wax out of one end of the tube and placed it to my lips before I eased up to just under the surface. Tugging the second plug out, I carefully let that end of the tube up into the air and drew in enough breath to continue before swimming on. Two more breaths, and my fingers touched a rough block of stone.

  I’d counted to five hundred, so I stayed there, underwater, my breathing tube just breaking the surface, and went on with my numbers. Above me, I knew, the guard’s lantern light was going past.

  When I reached seven hundred, I tucked the tube away inside my jacket and surfaced, shaking water from my eyes.

  Perhaps I’d counted a bit quickly, or perhaps the guard had moved more slowly this time. The light was just above me, spilling a slick yellow glow down the wall.

  But he could not see me clinging to the stones, unless he stuck his head over to peer out. And why should he do that? I’d made no noise. He had no reason to suspect I was here.

  The light moved along the wall and was gone once more.

  Down here, near the water, the wall was at its broadest, narrowing toward the top. That made the climb simple, and so did the cracks between the stones, wide enough for my fingers and toes.

  My first mission, and it was easy. I could have laughed, if I’d dared risk the noise.

  When I got perhaps halfway up, the slope vanished. The wall now rose straight above me, and I’d run out of handholds. The stones were set closer here, and the cracks were too narrow to wedge my fingers into.

  Inside a pocket of my jacket I had half a dozen iron stakes, narrow but strong. Each had one end that had been hammered flat, and one that was blunt and thick.

  Working silently, I wedged the flat end of one stake between two stones. Standing on it, I balanced and placed the next at waist height.

  It was slow and tedious climbing, since I had to reach down with my toes to pull each stake out as I advanced. I could have left them, to be a ladder down when I returned, but I might need to climb another wall, inside. And there was no hurry, after all. It was only the hour of the rat; the night was still my friend.

  The last time the guard passed by above me, I was so close that I could have reached up and tapped his ankle. I smiled as I held my breath, balanced motionless on my stakes, a black spider on a stone wall.

  Suppose I actually did it? He’d look down. He’d gasp. He’d drop the lantern and it would skid down the wall to splash in the moat, its flame drowned in an instant.

  Then we’d be in darkness, and the darkness would be on my side.

  Would I slide down the wall and out of his sight, leaving him to think a ghost had plagued him?

  Would I scramble up and plant a kiss on his cheek before I slid down the interior wall to safety?

  Would I yank his feet out from under him and send him crashing down to drown in the moat?

  Would I kill him?

  Kill some poor soldier whose only fault had been to walk along a wall? No reason why I should not. I was on a mission to kill. I’d been training all my life. I knew more ways than I could count to end a life.

  But I had never actually done it. I’d never killed anything larger than a wriggling trout for dinner.

  Of course I didn’t reach up and tap the guard’s leg as he passed above me. What ninja would imperil her mission like that? Instead I clung motionless to the wall, and his footsteps slowly faded away above me.

  Then I heaved myself up and over the edge.

  FIVE

  Getting down the other side of the castle wall was easier. Some careless person had allowed a beech tree to grow too close. It was just a quick jump to a thick branch, with no more noise (I hoped) than a squirrel would make. Barefoot, I shimmied along the smooth bark of that branch to reach the trunk, and from there it did not take long to scramble down and put my sandals back on.

  Next I got lost in a garden.

  Oh, I was sure this warlord’s gardens were beautiful by day. The winding paths no doubt made a pretty pattern when viewed from the windows of his mansion, high on its hill. His guests must have appreciated the artistically arranged boulders that blocked my path. They probably enjoyed strolling across the graceful bridges that I did not dare use and wrote poetry about the shallow pools that I was forced to pick my way through. I also imagined the warlord laughing at the idea of a stranger trying to find her way through his grounds without a guide.

  I knew the warlord’s home would be at the highest point, so in the end I simply headed uphill, climbing over anything that lay in my way. It meant I left more trampled grasses and broken twigs than I would have liked, but the hour of the rat was slipping past, and the hour of the ox was approaching. I could not wander in this maze until dawn.

  Finally I broke free of the trees, and I could see the cluster of buildings where the warlord and his retainers dwelled—the barracks for his samurai, the stables for his horses, the towering stone keep where he could retreat if danger threatened, and the comfortable mansion for when he felt secure.

  Most of the mansion’s windows and all o
f its doors were shuttered, but here and there lamplight still glowed through rice paper screens. A tiled roof swooped gracefully and conveniently low over the pale white squares. I watched long enough to be sure no guards were on duty. Then I slipped my sandals off once more, ran, leaped, and was up on the roof. My next task was to find an open window.

  It was where Instructor Willow had told me to look. She had given me all the details of my mission, as calmly as if I hadn’t been two inches from cutting her throat the day before. Now I headed for the building’s northeast corner, lowered myself from the roof, and slipped inside. I stood at one end of a long corridor. To my left was a wall made of paper screens from floor to ceiling; behind those screens were rooms where the occupants of the mansion were sleeping. To my right was a wall made up of tall wooden shutters, covering windows like the one I had just entered through.

  I slid the shutter of that window closed and stood still for a moment to listen.

  Deep breathing. Someone snoring. A dog barked outside. Were there more four-footed guardians inside? I didn’t think so. I could hear no claws clicking on bamboo floors.

  I did hear someone whistling softly, far away. Halfway down the corridor, a light was glowing dimly through rice paper. Not everyone in this house was asleep. At any moment, someone might open a screen and step out into a corridor. A soldier might be on patrol. A servant might be hurrying to finish an errand. A guest might be too restless to doze.

  I had never—never—realized how this would feel. I had trained for this, yes. I’d imagined it, certainly. I’d been waiting for my own mission for years.

  But I’d never known how it would actually feel to be alone in a house full of people who would kill me if they found me.

  It felt wonderful.

  My veins were humming with the rush of my blood; my skin tingled. Once, at the school, I had woken up to find a tiny mouse nibbling at the straw of my sleeping mat. I’d trapped it with one hand, and felt its heart thrumming against my palm. My heart seemed to be beating almost that fast now.

  I could float or fly. I could walk through walls. I could tie a knot in a cat’s tail, steal both a samurai’s swords, trim the warlord’s mustache while he slept.

  The dark and sleeping world was my playground. And at playtime’s end—

  A knife. Hot blood on my hands. Death, quick and cold and silent.

  I felt my heartbeat slowing. Which was good, no doubt. No doubt. I was not here to play, and overconfidence is a ninja’s worst enemy, even more so than the moon.

  I felt delicately with my bare feet along the smooth floor.

  A hard, dry grain of rice under my toes. Another. I walked forward carefully, not letting a single slat of bamboo creak under my weight, and passed the lighted window so silently that I could hear a brush whispering over paper inside the room. The rice guided me onward, telling me where to go at each turn in the corridor.

  The trail led me to a corner around which came a soft yellow glow of light. I knelt, keeping my head near the floor, and took a cautious look.

  My body stayed rigid, but my heart jerked inside me like a fish on a hook.

  What was she doing here?

  I got to my feet and edged silently around the corner, making no sound, none at all. But the elegant figure in the pale green kimono, holding a small oil lamp carefully in her hands, turned and bowed humbly to me.

  She could not be humble enough for my liking. What did Saiko think she was doing?

  She had been told to leave the window open and drop the rice for me to follow. And no more! This was my mission. She would ruin everything.

  I quickened my pace a bit, but still walked carefully—I could not risk a tattletale floorboard now. The trail of rice ended at the door where Saiko stood.

  Never let anger make you careless. Anger can be your weapon, or it can be your death.

  “Go. Away,” I growled under my breath as I reached Saiko’s side.

  She bowed again. But she didn’t speak. And she didn’t leave.

  I gestured furiously that she should go.

  She stayed.

  You’ll get us killed! You don’t know how to do this! I howled. Silently. In my mind.

  I realized, with a small, sharp shock, that there was nothing I could do to make her leave if she did not want to go. Should I shout at her? Hit her? Simply invite the warlord and his guards to arrive at a run?

  I glared and reached out to pinch the wick of her lamp between my fingers. If she had to contaminate my mission with her presence, she could at least refrain from announcing to the sleeping household that we were here.

  Darkness swooped in on us, soft and reassuring. I reached out to brush my fingers over the door, feeling for the edge where the paper screen joined the frame. I drew a knife from my sleeve and cut the screen neatly, keeping the slit as invisible as possible. Then I reached inside and lifted the latch.

  The door was well made. It slid noiselessly open.

  I stepped in, Saiko on my heels. Better than having her in the corridor, I supposed. At least she held the skirt of her kimono carefully in one hand, so that it didn’t rustle.

  I slid the door shut behind us. Then I stood still and waited.

  The breath of a sleeper rose and fell, somewhere in the room. It was deep and steady, but not too steady. Little hesitations and deeper sighs now and then told me that the room’s inhabitant was truly asleep, not pretending.

  Slowly, slowly, the darkness opened up to let my eyes in.

  A chest with something draped casually over it—a kimono, no doubt. A window in the far wall. A futon on the floor, with a shape huddled there.

  The shape of—who?

  I did not know. Knowing who my knife would slide into was not part of my mission.

  Some drunken lord, a commander of soldiers, sleeping off his rice wine? Some fat merchant, snorting in his bed? Some young samurai, barely old enough to wear his swords?

  Someone who knew something he should not. Someone who had offended with a careless look or word. Someone whose life had become inconvenient to a man, or perhaps a woman, with enough gold to pay Madame for my time and my skills and my quickness with a blade. A garrote would have been quieter, but a blade was quicker. And I was not sure I could bear to let this take long.

  I eased toward the shape on the bed, my feet slower than ever. There was no rush now, and everything depended on silence.

  Saiko was behind me. She was silent, too; her few days of training must have done her at least a bit of good. Her presence, so close, felt like having a ghost hover at my shoulder. I could not even hear her breathing. I only knew she was there from the stir of air at the back of my neck.

  I wanted to kill her much more than I wanted to kill the stranger on the bed.

  My feet glided, brought me closer, closer. I felt I was swimming through air, or slipping into black water as warm as my blood. Perhaps I, not Saiko, was the one who had become a ghost.

  I slid gently to my knees beside the futon. The sleeper turned. The mattress did not rustle under him, as straw would; it must have been stuffed with wool or cotton. The silk quilt sighed. I waited, motionless. No breath. I would have stopped my heart from beating if I could. I held my knife low. It waited patiently in my hand, the blade blackened with a mixture of soot and grease.

  It was the moon that betrayed me.

  A cloud must have slipped away from its light, because the window in the far wall brightened.

  Everything in the room took on a sharper focus. I could see a pattern, like ripples in water, sewn into the kimono that lay across the chest. I could see the weave of the mats on the floor.

  I could see the sleeper’s face.

  A boy. He was no more than a boy.

  There was time. It would only have taken a moment or two. I could have covered that sleeping face with a pillow; I could have thrust the knife home.

  I did not. He could not have been older than ten. How could a child be a danger to anyone? Who could he have offended? Wha
t did he know that he should not?

  The moon had betrayed me. I betrayed my training. I hesitated. My hand did not tremble, but my knife did not move.

  And Saiko made a sound.

  It was something between a gasp and a sob. I turned, angrily. Her hand was at her mouth.

  I looked back, and the boy was awake.

  He sat up, the quilt falling from his shoulders. His eyes and his mouth were wide in his moonlit face. He was frightened enough by the sight of me, a dark figure with a blade in her hand, but his real astonishment was for Saiko.

  “Older sister?” he whispered.

  SIX

  I should have killed him. I should have killed them both.

  Instead, I stood there with my knife in my hand, its blade cutting nothing worse than air, and stared dumbly as Saiko took command.

  Command of my mission!

  “Silence,” she whispered, and dropped to her knees beside the futon. I might as well have been a pillow on the floor for all the attention either one of them paid me. “He’s planning to kill you, Ichiro. You must come with us.”

  I had a knife, I had a sword, I had a cord for a garrote; I had half a dozen ways to end this. But I could not make myself use any of them.

  Had Saiko planned this? Had she known?

  And what was that boy, Ichiro, doing? He’d thrown the quilts aside and squirmed off the futon, digging a hand underneath, as if he were looking for something. How long before someone—a servant, a guard, a late-night reveler—walked down the corridor outside, heard voices or sounds from this room, and decided to investigate? How long before every armed man in this mansion was hunting us down?

  I’d failed. My knife was clean of blood. And I didn’t have it in me to stab the boy while he knelt with his back to me, as if he’d never dreamed I could be a threat.

  Saiko would have stopped me, in any case. Shouted. Screamed. Unless I killed her, too. And there was no time, no time …

  Could I get the pair of them back through the corridor and to the window I’d used to enter the house? Almost no chance. The boy didn’t know the silent walk, and I doubted that Saiko could keep it up for the length of one corridor, much less several. The bamboo floor would betray us. And neither of them knew how to hide—or, if we were discovered, how to kill.