by Renee Ahdieh
“I think it’s remarkably easy to provoke certain reactions from you.”
Mariko flinched. Opened her mouth. Closed it.
Ōkami smiled. “It’s better when you say nothing. That way I don’t have to point out how freely you lie.” He rode on, the rope behind him losing its slack.
Mariko gritted her teeth, willing herself silent. Her nose scrunched as a cart filled with manure passed by. Flies buzzed before her face, and she fended them off with a wave of one hand.
She did not care if Ōkami found her dishonest. She found him dishonorable.
Which was far worse.
In an attempt to drown out her irritation, Mariko pitched her voice louder. “All matters of love make little sense to me anyway. As do most things that cannot be proved as fact.”
“Why is that?” Ranmaru asked.
“Love is—” She shifted in her saddle, fighting to sit taller, to convey a larger sense of self. “It isn’t something that can be understood or explained. It’s intangible. Like magic. Those who do not possess its power can never fully grasp it.”
Ranmaru inclined his head. “That sounds rather sad.”
“And smells like horseshit,” Ōkami said over his shoulder. “Like the words of a boy with a great deal left to learn.”
Once more, Mariko bristled at his judgment. “Only a boy with a great deal left to learn himself would ever think that of someone else.”
“Or one with a great deal of regret,” Ranmaru said softly. Soberly.
Ōkami did not look their way as he spoke. “There is indeed a great deal of regret in my life.” Even from a distance, Mariko saw a shadow descend on his face. For once she thought she might catch a glimpse of vulnerability in the Wolf. She leaned in closer. Waiting. Her breath bated.
If something—anything—made the Black Clan’s champion weak, Mariko desperately wished to know what it was.
Follow orders. Engender trust.
Strike when they least expect it.
“My life has been filled with death and lies and loose women.” Ōkami pushed back a fall of black hair, meeting her gaze. Holding her there. Rapt. “I regret everything else.” He smiled, his hooded, heavy-lidded eyes brimming with mockery.
Truly he was hopeless.
Mariko almost snarled in frustration. She bit down on her cheek to keep silent. To control her need to rebuke. This time Ōkami definitely slowed the pace of his horse to match that of Mariko. He drew alongside her, though he did not glance her way for some time.
“So you don’t believe in silly sentiments like love.” He fixed that same appreciative look on her from before. The one tinged in approval.
It only compelled Mariko’s need to disagree. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said you preferred things that can be proved as fact.”
“I meant that it’s difficult to prove a feeling as fact. But I’ve seen it happen before.”
Mariko had watched Muramasa Amaya—the daughter of her father’s famed metalsmith—fall in love with Kenshin. Foolishly, desperately in love with him. When they were younger, her brother had failed to notice the signs. But Mariko had seen them. In moments when Amaya thought no one was looking, her attention would flit to Kenshin. Linger for a spell. The look Mariko saw there often left her feeling hollow.
Often left her wishing someone would look at her that way. Just once.
“Did it look like magic?” Ōkami asked, his tone circumspect. Mariko expected him to mock her again, but when she turned toward him—bracing herself for his biting scorn—she did not see any evidence of it.
His eyes were clear pools of deep water, hiding nothing. Two black mirrors, drawing her in. Making her question.
A brush of heat danced across her skin.
“It did.” Mariko fought to keep her voice even. “She looked at me as though I were magic.”
Ōkami’s eyes remained constant. A sky without stars.
It was Mariko who turned away first. Only to catch Ranmaru laughing once more.
With a click of his tongue, Ōkami prodded his horse forward, well beyond earshot, the rope between them going taut. Again Mariko fidgeted in her seat, wishing for all the world that she’d changed the subject. That she could turn back time and begin this conversation anew.
“Have you ever loved anyone?” she asked Ranmaru bluntly, pleased to see him startle, if only for a heartbeat.
Serves him right for starting this mess.
Ranmaru hesitated before replying. “Yes.”
“Did it feel like magic?” Irritation bled into each syllable.
“Sometimes it does.” But his smile was not from the heart. “Other times it feels like an endless siege.”
She shot him a quizzical glance.
Ranmaru smiled brighter. As though he were coaxing himself beyond the truth. “I suspect you will understand what I mean soon.” He sat forward again. Cutting off their conversation before it could start. No longer willing to permit Mariko any glimpse into his life.
Despite her growing curiosity, Mariko knew not to press further.
They continued toward the center of Inako. Toward a winding river, covered in layers of drying petals. When they rounded a bend in the road, an arched bridge of dark grey stone emerged before them, its gritty surface stained green with lichen, dripping with moss. Before crossing, the trio tethered their horses to a post and paid a hunched old man to watch their steeds.
Mariko’s eyes passed over the row of horses already under his care.
At first, it all seemed so silly to her. Anyone with the smallest dagger could rob the old man at any time. But the types of horses left in his charge were fine beasts bridled with brightly colored reins. With tassels fringed in gold and silver. Emblazoned with the crests of Inako’s finest families.
Only fools would steal from the most powerful people in the imperial city.
Fools like the Black Clan.
The river before Mariko flowed at a leisurely pace. The lanterns hanging from the balustrades on either side of the bridge swayed brightly. At its end—along the opposite riverfront—a line of dogwoods interspersed with cherry trees shaded everything from view. Kept it hidden. Secret. The scent of jasmine and musk curled its invisible fingers toward them, beckoning them closer. When Mariko followed Ōkami and Ranmaru across the bridge, a shower of pink and white petals caressed her skin before cascading into the water like thick flakes of snow.
She had never seen anything like this before.
Without being told, Mariko knew they were crossing into one of the most fabled districts of the imperial city.
Hanami.
—
At a distance, the single-storied structure appeared to be nothing more than a teahouse. Mariko, Ōkami, and Ranmaru waited outside a simple gate. Rang a simple, unremarkable bell.
Its liquid chime coiled into an almost summer sunset. A sky lingering in the blue hour, just beyond nightfall. The wicket gate creaked open, and Mariko trailed behind Ōkami and Ranmaru as they followed a clean-faced young woman clad in a silk kimono. Her steps were light. Quick. As though she were skimming across the clouds. She led them to a sliding door, pausing only to allow them passage.
When the sight before her centered, Mariko stopped short. Fought to keep from gasping.
This was anything but a simple teahouse. Not once in her life had Mariko ever dreamed of anything its equal.
The pavers winding across a lush, green garden were smooth and black. Perfectly rounded. Some ingenious system—completely obscured from view—had redirected a bubbling brook and sent it churning down a set of three waterfalls, each no higher than the length of Mariko’s arm. At the base of these falls, swirling foam gathered around glossy lily pads and snow-white lotus blossoms. Tiny golden koi darted beneath the surface of a small blue lagoon.
Every outer wall of th
e main teahouse was constructed of sliding screen doors framed in latticed wood. When Mariko looked closer, she realized the screens were not made of rice paper, as was typical. Instead they were made of thin silk.
Decadent to a fault.
Interspersed between the low-hanging eaves of the roof were many cast-iron lanterns made to look like miniature pagodas. Tongues of blue flame licked between their honeycombed slats. Squat brass braziers perfumed the air with an intoxicating mixture of night-blooming jasmine and clean white musk. Though dusk had only just fallen, the teahouse was ablaze in warmth and light. The sounds beyond the screens were ones of lilting music and shared merriment.
Mariko had expected to find this teahouse in Hanami somewhat sordid. A place men went to lose themselves in fantasy.
Thus far she had seen nothing of the sort. She’d seen only tranquil beauty. Felt nothing but serenity. But Mariko knew better than to trust these feelings. They were obviously part of a ploy to disarm even the most critical of patrons.
Time would soon reveal the truth.
When Ranmaru removed his sandals and stepped onto the landing of the teahouse, Mariko followed suit. She straightened her robes, suddenly conscious of a discomfiting fact: she was not dressed appropriately. Her clothes were far too big. After the garments had first been loaned to her, Mariko had suspected they belonged to Ren. He was the only member of the Black Clan with comparable height. At the time, it had not bothered Mariko to wear something ill-fitting and past the fashions of the imperial city. Nor had it bothered her to wear Ren’s clothing. She’d seen no reason to care what anyone thought of her appearance.
Until now, Mariko had not even paid attention to what her compatriots wore, for it, too, had seemed immaterial. When amongst men, she’d found fine clothing to be of blessedly little concern.
But now—as Ranmaru and Ōkami turned to wait for her—Mariko suddenly felt acutely aware of her appearance. Almost self-conscious. A feeling she disdained.
So much like a girl, despite all her efforts to the contrary.
Ranmaru’s knee-length robe was made of fine, dark green silk. He’d layered it over pleated hakama trousers, and had managed to keep himself immaculate and unrumpled all throughout the long ride from the forest into the imperial city. Ōkami wore a similarly styled robe of rich deep blue, except that his haori hung open, layered atop a kosode of white silk, belted by a black cord.
Though these young men were in truth nothing but a pair of rōnin—and notorious thieves, to boot—they looked as though they belonged here, in an elegant teahouse of wonder and mystery. While Mariko greatly resembled a scraggly alley cat, wrung out to dry after a long spring rain.
I suppose it can’t be helped.
Donning a mask of fortitude, Mariko forced herself forward. Stopped short just beside Ōkami.
He turned away just as swiftly, pausing only to rinse his hands in a basin filled with water, scented by fresh rose petals. Mariko mimicked his actions, feeling all the while as though she did not belong. As though at any moment, someone would tear the mask from her face and reveal her to the world as the fraud she was.
A silk-screened door slid open before them, unveiling another layer of the hidden splendor of Hanami. Another layer of this place of beauty and excess.
Mariko had quietly sneered at the tales of this excess for many years.
Geiko were referred to as living, floating works of art. The very idea had ruffled her sensibilities. That a beautiful woman could be nothing more than a form of entertainment, left to the vices and pleasures of men.
But as Mariko watched—transfixed—while a geiko clad in layers of tatsumura silk drifted across the spotless tatami mats, she realized her first mistake. This young woman did not stand or move from a place of subservience. Nor did she convey any sense that her existence was based solely on the whims of men. Not once did the geiko’s gaze register the newest arrivals. Her head was high, her gait proud. The poise with which she moved—the grace with which she took each of her steps—was a clear testament to years of training and tradition.
The young woman was not a plaything. Not at all.
As she walked, she tantalized. Performed each step as a dancer would on a stage. Painted as an artist would across a canvas. With nothing but the simplest of motions.
Once the geiko had crossed to the other side of the long rectangular tearoom, she turned with studied elegance and knelt in one corner, smoothing the folds of her kimono beneath her knees in one even swipe. An attendant handed her a gleaming wooden shamisen. When the girl closed her eyes and began to strum its strings with a carved ivory pick—her music soft and glowing with the same amber light emanating from the hanging lanterns—Mariko fell upon a second realization. She’d judged something before she’d ever given it an opportunity, the same opportunity Mariko had requested from Yoshi that first day at the Black Clan’s encampment.
The music the geiko played was haunting. A song filled with veiled feeling. Its rhythm was torrid, yet its melody did not burn; rather it hypnotized. The low, constant buzz of the shamisen’s deepest string rumbled throughout the space, lulling Mariko into a near stupor.
There was such pride in the way the geiko performed. Such passion. She played for herself, first and foremost. And Mariko appreciated it more than she could ever have put to words.
Once the song was finished, Mariko, Ranmaru, and Ōkami took their places at a set of individual tray tables on one side of the rectangular room. Two neat rows ringed the perimeter, parallel to each other. The floors were covered in freshly woven tatami mats, their edges trimmed in deep purple silk.
Mariko sat before one of these trays, again catching herself thoughtlessly imitating each of Ōkami’s motions. Hating herself for it. As though she could ever wish to emulate anyone like him. Anyone so smug. So uninterested in anything of import.
Just as Mariko had finished arranging the hem of her robes around her, a bowl of glazed black porcelain—filled with fragrant rice—was placed before her. Lacquered chopsticks were rested atop a stand of polished jade. More female attendants in the same simple silk of the girl at the teahouse gates bore individual servings of food—fillets of amberjack covered in a sauce of fresh sorrel and white miso paste, a cut of creamy bream served alongside a small bowl of ponzu, cool abalone marinated in sweetened soy sauce and topped with finely diced chives.
When Mariko touched the tip of her chopsticks to the amberjack, the fish fell apart in flakes. Flakes that melted in her mouth, buttery and rich on her tongue. Hand-painted flagons of sake and matching cups were set before each of the teahouse’s guests. Soon the room was filled to capacity. And the topic of conversation descended to winking suggestion. Became bawdier. Louder.
Men. Mariko shook her head and looked around, staving off the flush creeping into her cheeks.
Slants of light emanated from matching miniature pagoda lanterns hanging at intervals around the room. The flames within flickered through the intricate slats, creating shadows that danced through the screens, throwing light across the silk-covered walls.
After Mariko finished consuming her food, the sliding door at the opposite end of the main tearoom slipped open. At first, Mariko thought the girl standing before them was simply younger than all the other geiko present. Perhaps even younger than Mariko herself. When the girl began gliding by—each of her steps a gentle brush across the woven mats—Mariko saw the flash of padded red silk positioned in the center of her hair, just above her nape. It was the sign of a maiko—an apprentice geiko who had not yet established her place among the official ranks of floating art in Hanami. The train of the maiko’s long kimono rippled behind her, like a soft swirl of wind. On her best day, Mariko could not imagine the skill it took to walk with such grace when burdened by the weight of three underrobes and a heavily embroidered kimono of brocaded turquoise and pale pink silk. Her obi alone looked as though it weighed nearly a stone, its k
not at her back ornate and immense.
Just as she passed Mariko, the maiko leveled a smile at her. A smile that made Mariko think this girl knew the answer to any question ever asked. The maiko’s prowess in the art of flirtation did nothing to hide the calculating intelligence in her painted eyes. If Mariko had had to guess, she’d have said this girl possessed a formidable mind as well. The touch of hardness in her gaze made her appear all the more mysterious.
Every man in the room was entranced. Ōkami watched the maiko float to the other side of the room and nodded once when she looked his way. Ranmaru followed her with his eyes, ready and willing to catch her should she begin to fall, even from across the room. Though Mariko did not miss the glimmer of pain—the undercurrent of unhappiness—that lingered on the leader of the Black Clan’s face as he watched the maiko pass him by without a single glance in his direction.
This must have been what Ranmaru meant earlier. This maiko had to be the source of his endless siege.
And a possible weakness.
Her interest heightened at this realization, but Mariko held her emotions in check. Just as cool and as even as the Wolf.
Once the maiko faced the wall on the opposite side of the tearoom, she stopped. Turned slowly, her movements perfectly timed with the strum of the shamisen. From the pocket of one long sleeve, the maiko removed two folded silk fans. With a quick snap, she opened them, striking a lingering pose, glancing over her shoulder at the rapt audience behind her. As she faced them, the girl twirled one fan around her first finger in a spinning circle, like a delicate windmill. The other she fluttered across the sea of mesmerized faces, wafting the scent of sweet plum and honeysuckle their way.
She continued floating across the mats, coiling and catching her fans in perfect unison with the rise and fall of the music. Though Mariko did not see anything sensual about the dance, she nevertheless felt titillated at its sight.
Something about it seemed forbidden. Illicit.
Mariko knew she’d been granted a remarkable opportunity. How many noblewomen before her had been inside a teahouse in Hanami? Had witnessed firsthand the famed art of the geiko—an art that had been carefully controlled and kept secret from her kind for so many centuries.