“Someone?” He barked a laugh.
“I won’t disclose who.” Mariko smiled in return. “But a certain someone might seek retribution for you showing me this kindness.”
“No one would dare. Lest that certain someone find himself perishing of starvation. You idiot boys don’t even know how to cook rice properly, much less anything of substance.” With this final pronouncement, Yoshi pushed her in the direction of the hillock to her left. Then he rolled the bundle of hemp cloth and took to his feet once more, intent on finding Ren and the missing lengths of bamboo.
Distress flashed through Mariko. She briefly considered flouting Yoshi’s orders. Or perhaps even lying about it later. But the churlish cook would learn the truth, and he would not be pleased that she’d failed to meet with the metalsmith for yet another day. Not to mention the dishonor of unnecessary deceit. It wasn’t that deception by its very nature troubled her. Mariko realized its necessity, especially when paired alongside survival. But bald-faced lies were not the same thing. So, with a sigh, she began walking toward the small hill nearby, drawn to the feather of smoke rising from the fabric wall at its crest. One side of the hill was shaded by a looming stone protuberance—one of the many small outcroppings that eventually burgeoned into the snowcapped mountain in the distance. On her second day there, Mariko had realized how strategically positioned the camp of the Black Clan was. This collection of outcroppings offered them natural fortification, preventing anyone from attacking their flank.
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.”