Ice curled down her backbone at the thought.
As quickly as the fear rippled over her, it melted away. If the Black Clan had known who she was, they would have killed her already. And Mariko would not have been allowed even the limited freedom she’d been granted thus far.
Mariko sighed. Each step she took brought with it another question. She needed to know why the Black Clan had taken her to their camp. Who they were exactly. But most of all, she needed to discover why they’d been sent to kill her.
And by whom.
She glanced at Ren sidelong as they made their way toward the center of the encampment. Through the haze of the afternoon sun, his yellowed eyes reminded her of a snake lying in wait in the summer grass. How it would slither in the shadows while it pursued its prey, lulling everything around it into a false sense of safety.
Perhaps the best way for Mariko to gain answers was for her to do the same. To stop being difficult. To start paying attention.
Follow orders. Engender trust.
First she needed to find a way to be useful to the Black Clan. Then—when the men were lulled into a false sense of safety—she would strike. Discomfort twisted through her chest as she pondered this course of action. For it was not one of honor; it was one of deceit. Unsettlingly more so than her choice to don the garments of a boy and seek out the Black Clan.
A true warrior would face her enemies without flinching. Not slither about in the shade.
But there was so much Mariko wished to know. So much she wished to learn.
And she was beginning to realize that honor did not serve her well in a den of thieves.
Briefly Mariko toyed with the idea of asking Ren how ōkami’s powers worked. The fool thought knowledge did not win wars? Knowledge was everything in a war. Especially in a war of wits. She could trick the evil twit into revealing damaging information. Learn how Okami was able to move as he did. Why the use of his powers seemed to take such a harsh toll on him.
As she glanced one last time over her shoulder, Mariko discovered she also wanted to know where the Wolf was going.
And to whom.
But for now she would lie in the shadows and wait.
WEAKNESS OF THE SPIRIT
The man with the wooden leg hovered over a steaming pot, peering into its contents with the focus of a mother hen. He paused to stoke the fire beneath the iron cauldron. A sooty box bellows groaned as he fed the flames with a blast of air.
As Mariko had first suspected, this Yoshi was the cook.
When another gust of steam rose from the pot, Yoshi stepped away, something akin to a smile spreading across his face. He was slightly portly in the middle. His reddened forehead shone with sweat, and one of his ears appeared larger than the other.
Yoshi leaned forward when Mariko and Ren approached. His eyes were still fixed on the contents of the pot.
“Yoshi-san.” Ren prodded Mariko closer by digging his shoulder into her back. She refrained from scowling when she stumbled forward.
“Are you still here?” Yoshi muttered without even turning around.
His dismissive tone reminded Mariko of her father, though Yoshi appeared several years younger than Hattori Kano. She pursed her lips. “I’m not certain I have a choice.” She pitched her voice low. Gave it a grating quality, as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. It was true Mariko had decided to cooperate, but she knew only a fool would appear pleased to be the Black Clan’s captive. At least not so soon after being taken prisoner.
“Of course you have a choice,” Yoshi said.
“I fail to see what it is.”
He turned to face her fully, a long wooden spoon hanging from one fist. “You could run.” His tone was circumspect, the lines around his mouth deep-set.
Mariko paused in consideration. Wondered what could prompt Yoshi to make such a point. “I’d be caught.”
“It’s true.” He nodded, drumming the spoon against his thigh in almost rhythmic fashion. “You would likely be caught.”
“Then why bother with the risk?”
“Without risk, life is far too predictable.”
Mariko stared at him, forcing her expression blank. She had not expected to find a philosopher buried beneath the cook’s worn exterior. “We are born. We live. We die. All that matters in life is predictable. A rock settles into the soil. A blossom gives off a fragrance. A—”
“A blossom can split through a rock, given enough time.”
“And enough sunlight. Enough water. Enough—”
Yoshi laughed sharply. The sound warmed through her in a way that troubled her. Mariko did not want to like any member of the Black Clan. Much less this portly fellow brandishing a wooden spoon. Yoshi continued laughing, his surliness causing the sound to spike into the patches of light above. He turned back toward his precious pot of steaming liquid, lowering the spoon into its depths with that same sharpened awareness.
Her curiosity growing with each passing moment, Mariko leaned closer to peer into the boiling vat, determined to see what Yoshi labored so painstakingly to prepare.
The bubbling liquid shifted as he stirred. A familiar object swirled into view.
Eggs?
“You seem disappointed.” Yoshi eyed her askance.
Mariko frowned. “They’re just eggs.”
His lips protruded in a scowl as Yoshi removed one egg from the pot and gingerly dropped it into another bowl of water nearby. “These are not just any eggs.” Using the tip of his spoon, Yoshi began rolling the egg in the water.
The silence that descended on them stretched uncomfortably thin. Mariko could no longer keep quiet. “Why are you washing the egg after boiling it?”
“This is cold water,” Yoshi said as he took the egg from its chilled bath and raised it into the light. “Two extremes make for one perfectly cooked egg.” He tapped the rounded end of the egg against the side of the pot. Then he did the same to the pointed end. He lifted the egg to his lips and blew hard, as though he meant to cool it entirely in a single breath.
The egg flew from its shell into Yoshi’s waiting hand.
“Eat it.” He offered it to her.
The last time Mariko had consumed an offering by a member of the Black Clan, she’d awoken to find herself thrown across the back of a horse. Nevertheless hunger overcame her the instant she took hold of the egg. A stronger warrior would have refused to eat any food offered by the enemy. But in this case she was not a strong warrior. She was a starving sparrow.