At once Snowhawk felt that she could guess the woman's history intuitively.
Perhaps this lady and a youth she had loved had tried to flee disapproving families. Maybe one was peasant, the other samurai by birth, and none in this small town would tolerate a match that mixed castes. Whatever the reasons, they hadn't escaped; this gentle soul had lost her match. Almost as tragically, she had wound up a prisoner . . . to this inn.
No wonder she had said so vehemently, 'What freedom!' She had never known it.
It was time to take a little chance. Snowhawk wiped her eyes and nodded. Since joining the Grey Light Order she'd had two very satisfying girl-talks with Heron. But they had left her hungry for more. This gracious lady, perhaps a stand-in parent the kami had sent her way, might also give great motherly advice. Snowhawk sniffed. Yes, though in seeking it, she would have to be careful what she revealed. No details.
'You are so very kind.' Snowhawk touched her forehead to the matting. As she straightened up she saw the lady blush at the deep bow, normally given only to warlords or highly respected teachers. 'In fact, we need no haven, but I would still be grateful to talk.' She waved vaguely at the door. 'About him, I suppose. Him and me and things.'
'And I would be honoured to listen.' The lady wiped her eyes. 'Perhaps even to offer advice.' She looked demurely through her wet lashes. 'If only an old fool's advice.'
Snowhawk hung her head with shyness as she began. 'It's true, he's not my brother but we did . . . we do . . . work together.' The innkeeper nodded patiently. 'When we first met, he really helped me out. There was . . . anyway, I was in danger, and he came to my aid when I needed it. Since then, we've worked closely . . .' She looked away, suddenly too self-conscious to go on.
'You have a crush on him, don't you?' The innkeeper gave a cheeky wink. 'He's a handsome little squirrel, I'll give you that. A handsome but strong face, I'd say.'
Covering her blushing cheeks, Snowhawk nodded. 'But lately, I feel that I've failed him, failed our friendship. Failed even the –' she caught herself – 'the people we've been working for.' Her stare fell into her lap. 'I've been angry. Over things done to me.'
The woman folded her arms slowly. 'So either the boy or those you both worked for saw your anger.' She watched Snowhawk nod. 'Did you lose control?'
'To my shame, yes. But only he saw it.' Snowhawk looked up quickly, her voice breaking. 'And he covered for me. Kept it a secret. He hasn't even said a word to me about it yet, but I know I've disappointed him. Betrayed him!'
The first tear rolled down her cheek. She forced herself to sit stiffly, breathe more slowly, regain control. Suddenly it all felt crazy. Why was she turning to a total stranger?
'Poor girl.' The innkeeper shook her head. 'This will make you feel better . . . a little truth, a little straight talk between women, neh?' Her expression grew firm. 'If he's said nothing, he's still watching out for you, caring for you. Nobody continues to do that when someone has really let them down. They back off. No, for now at least, I wouldn't worry about things with him. What you do have to work on, is this anger you speak of.'
'You're so right,' Snowhawk said. 'I know it in my heart, even as you say it.'
'Good, then listen to this and remember it.' The lady thumbed over her shoulder. 'Hear the river? It flows, fed by springs and snow melting up in the mountains, no matter what the season. No matter what the weather. It's like ki, the life force itself, neh?'
'True,' Snowhawk murmured, wiping a cheek. Since she spoke of ki, the lady had to be a healer. That would fit. No wonder she was skilled at helping others to open up.
'The river also teaches us something of how to live life, too. It always flows on. It accepts the rocks it was born in, the ones it was thrown against, then moves on.' The innkeeper pointed directly at the spot between Snowhawk's eyes. 'It's natural to get angry if you are wronged. But not to trap black energy in there. So don't. Forgive who you need to: yourself, them, the dog that bit you, the gods themselves. And be like the river. Find a way to just flow on.'
Snowhawk filled her chest and slowly blew out a long breath. 'That's the wisest advice I've ever heard. Thank you so much. For everything. Forgive me if now, I'm . . .'
'Trying not to yawn?' The lady gave her gentle titter. 'Come, come, I can see you need to sleep now.' She hesitated. 'May I ask you a small favour, sweet child?'
'I'm hardly sweet.' Snowhawk beamed at her. 'But ask. What can I do for you?'
The innkeeper squirmed. 'May I . . . tuck you in? As if you were my daughter?'
After forcing a new lump back down her throat, Snowhawk nodded warmly.
The lady lovingly prepared her bed. She positioned, folded and then fluffed the quilt into a big, puffy envelope that almost reached to the edges of the little room. Snowhawk smiled with anticipation. This just might be her best night's sleep in years.
Travelling as lightly as possible, she had brought no sleeping clothes. Snowhawk took off her pack and roll, keeping the sword hidden, and turned in, wearing her uniform to bed for extra warmth. Once she was snuggled inside the quilt, the kindly innkeeper literally tucked her in, smoothing its top edge into a perfect line that ran under her chin. Snowhawk grinned up at her. This was like being a child again. No, not again. Childhood had never been like this. Her face grew solemn. It was like being a child for the first time.
'One last thing,' the woman said earnestly. 'And I want you to remember this too, for as long as you live.' Snowhawk nodded keenly. The lady smiled. 'Despite what I do for a living, you should really listen to my advice. Take it on its own merits, neh?'
'Yes, of course. I promise I always will,' Snowhawk pledged.
'Good.' The innkeeper stood up and looked down at her. 'That's settled then.'
Without warning she bounded nimbly onto the quilt. As her feet landed, each perfectly on target, they stretched the quilt's top edge tight across Snowhawk's throat.
Wide-eyed with shock, heart pounding in terror, Snowhawk thrashed around and tried to kick upwards through the quilt. It was impossible to raise her knees anywhere near enough. She tried to raise her arms. Immediately they became tangled. In seconds she realised that the quilt had been folded ingeniously. It was a restful-looking trap.
Looming above her, the woman maintained balance effortlessly, riding the tiny waves of each struggle with ease. Abruptly she thrust both hands into her kimono.
As Snowhawk spluttered and bucked, already gasping for air, the innkeeper's face changed. All traces of kindliness left it and every soft line became harsh. The streaks of grey vanished from the lady's hair and her eyes grew larger.
A completely different woman stood over her now, still middle-aged but aglow with a frightening vigour. Her appearance was more youthful, her stare bright . . . and filled with ruthless aggression. Snowhawk stopped struggling. She had to save her strength.
Think! And do it fast. Brute force was not going to get her out of this.
She always kept a tiny flat blade in a sheath deep inside her belly-wrap. It was an old habit, instilled by her former clan. If cornered and disarmed, a Fuma agent was expected to take their own life, the unwavering penalty for failing a mission.
If she could only get to it now, it might serve the opposite purpose. She could cut her way out of this quilt. Then, once free, she'd stand a very good chance because whoever this mystery shinobi attacker was, the scheming hag appeared not to be armed.
Hah! Snowhawk summoned up her resolve. No weapon, eh? This agent didn't know who she was dealing with! That insulting underestimation was going to cost her.
The hovering woman raised one eyebrow. 'Look what I have for you.'
After sliding her feet out to stretch the fabric tighter across Snowhawk's throat, the stranger carefully drew twin war fans from her kimono. They instantly popped open, bright green with black iron spokes. Each spoke tapered into a sharp point.
Fixing her victim with a superior smile, the attacker flexed her fans.
'Don't resist me, chil
d. Cuts from these fan spikes are very fine, very shallow, they won't kill you . . . just make you sleep for your journey home to Fuma . . . with Kagero.'
Moonshadow yawned again and turned over on his bedroll. His room was tiny, its cool air still, the light dim now that most of the corridor lamps were also out. He stretched. Why, despite feeling wrung-out, couldn't he sleep?
Was Snowhawk asleep yet?
It felt like an hour since the innkeeper had led her away to her room. He sighed. Snowhawk! It was probably just as well they hadn't been roomed next door to each other. Exhausted or not, they might have ended up talking for half the night. Again.
He couldn't always follow how her mind worked, but he loved their conversations, the many random topics, Snowhawk's particular way of looking at things. Moon rolled over and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling's pool of black shadow.
Life was strange. In just a matter of weeks she had turned into the best friend he had ever had. Despite their occasional awkward moments, he never wanted to stop talking with her. Or looking at her. Whenever she laughed, which grew more frequent as time passed, a little light came on in her eyes. The very idea that he had triggered it made him feel important and powerful in a whole new way, every single time.
He didn't understand it. But that didn't matter. It felt right.
One nagging concern made him frown. What would happen when the White Nun met her? Would the great seer validate Snowhawk as the latest member of the Grey Light Order? She had to! But what if instead –
His residue-enhanced hearing picked up a distant, muffled sound.
What was that? Moonshadow rose up on one elbow, hanging his mouth open to stretch his hearing even further. Over the background mutter of the river came a sound of impact. Moon flinched. It came from the direction Snowhawk and the innkeeper had gone!
He vaulted from his bedroll to his feet.
So that was why they had been roomed so far apart in an empty inn. He snarled.
An ambush!
Quickly he slid open the door. Louder sounds now, again from the river side of the inn, pierced the thin walls and paper screens. Multiple strong impacts, the unmistakable signs of a violent struggle in progress.
Moonshadow ran down the corridor, ever louder thuds and whacks leading him.
At the end of the passage lay two sliding doors, one to the right, one to the left.
The right-hand door was made up of strips of cedar framing opaque waxed paper. Through it came the diffused glow of a wall-lamp and across its squares ran wild, shifting shadows. His heart began pounding. Snowhawk was under attack.
Opposite her room, the left-hand door – made of solid, dark wood – led outside.
It leads to the river. With that thought, an intense wave of light-headedness rolled over him. Moon's legs turned weak and he sank to one knee in the corridor, just paces from Snowhawk's room.
Go outside, a voice in his head echoed. It was his own voice, but not his thoughts.
Moonshadow grunted and shook his head hard, trying to make it disappear.
See what's outside, the voice said firmly. You know you want to.
'No I don't,' he said aloud through gritted teeth, 'Snowhawk –'
Suddenly he did want to go outside. Leaning on the corridor wall, Moon struggled back to his feet. With each breath, the irrational urge to use the door on the left expanded like a smoke bomb's cloud, attacking his reason, willing him to obey.
No! Moonshadow argued with the compulsion. I-will-not. He cursed, hanging his head. He would force himself to stride, one grinding step at a time, to her door.
Moon looked up at the end of the corridor. His face creased with horror.
Now there was only one door: the door that led outside. Opposite it, where Snowhawk's paper-squared door had been, stood a solid wall of heavy-looking dark timber reinforced with vertical beams.
Moonshadow blinked, reeling with confusion. What was happening?
Go outside now, the voice urged. To the river. Then you will understand.
His feet began to move of their own accord. Moonshadow looked down at them, his mouth twisting. Another wave of light-headedness struck him, stronger than the last.
He staggered forward and fell against the door leading outside, to the river.
'Snowhawk,' Moon murmured. His hands gripped the solid sliding door. He had no say in it; he was going outside, though with all his heart and mind he didn't want to.
A dreadful awareness dawned on him. Where it came from, he had no idea.
He was going down to the river. It was simply meant to be. It was his fate.
There, something ancient, inhuman and nasty would be waiting for him.
Moonshadow tried to say her name again, but instead, he opened the door.
A sound broke the lull: like a person blowing hard through pressed lips.
Kagero's eyes flared with surprise. The tip of a small, flat blade flashed along a perfectly straight line towards her feet, the quilt peeling open behind it. Kagero hunched closer and peered.
Grunting, sweaty and red-cheeked, Snowhawk drove the knife up in line with her own shoulder, cutting the taut band of fabric pinning her throat.
Its last bundle of threads gave way with a snap. Snowhawk hissed and glared up at Kagero, anticipation glazing her eyes. The bounty hunter hesitated, as if in disbelief, as her former victim dropped the knife.
Snowhawk arched her back, brought her knees to her chest and planted her palms at her sides. With a roar she swung her feet up and then thrust backwards, rolling into a handstand that quickly became a double back-kick.
One foot glanced off Kagero's wrist, ramming her fans together and off to one side. The other foot connected hard directly under her chin. Kagero stumbled backwards, snatched at her upper throat and coughed. Her eyes narrowed furiously.
'I hope that hurt!' Snowhawk landed on both feet, snatched up the knife and skipped side – ways to her pack and unused bedroll. Watching Kagero warily, she sank to one knee and thrust a hand into the mouth of the rolled-up reed traveller's mat.
'Stop! You are full of surprises, child.' The bounty hunter grimaced hard and raised her fans, blocking the door in a warlike stance. 'But don't you dare try drawing that sword.' Deftly snagging the edge of her lapel with one fan, Kagero pulled her kimono top open a finger's length.
Snowhawk saw a pouch inside, bristling with curve-bladed Fuma shurikens.
'Let's not escalate the weapons.' Kagero winked. 'You're worth more alive.'
'Slimy old dragon,' Snowhawk shouted, 'I trusted you! I let you give me advice!'
'Aw, so now I'm old, you insincere little squirrel!' Kagero curled her lip. 'And don't disrespect my advice. On the road home to the Fuma's mountain fortress, I'll give you some more if you like. What? Don't pull that face! Even people I've later killed have said I give excellent advice. I once helped one of my employers with his marriage!'
'And later slew his wife, I bet!' Snowhawk felt herself erupt with fury. It was beyond her control, again. 'May death find all the Fuma! Don't you ever call those rat-hole caves home! You want to go home? I'll send you!' She heard her own voice arc into an explosive, nerve-stretching shriek. Its intensity disturbed her, yet the rage plumed on. 'I'll send you on your final journey! Across the River Sai to the land of the dead!'
Kagero's face again betrayed surprise as Snowhawk leapt at her, flying fast and high, slashing wildly with her tiny knife. The bounty hunter closed the fans and ducked, turning sideways and rolling along the reed mat into the heap of slashed quilting.
Snowhawk hurtled over her, crashing into the door of cedar planks and paper.
It tore and splintered apart, debris whirling around Snowhawk as she burst through it and landed in the corridor. She cartwheeled down the passageway, flicking small broken sticks of wood into the air. Using only one arm as she wheeled, Snowhawk slashed behind her with the knife in case Kagero was pursuing closely. She landed and turned. Her attacker had not followed. Why?
Panting, eyes on the doorway, Snowhawk waited for her nemesis to appear.
Still nothing. Instinctively, she backed away down the corridor, knees bent, feet gliding slowly without making a sound.
Her heart had already skipped several beats. Now the full realisation of her plight made it pound like a distant war drum. Unless her attacker was telling a pointless lie, she was facing the infamous Kagero. Long ago, among the Fuma, she'd heard of this veteran shinobi, raised and trained by her former clan, now a man-catcher and killer for hire. Kagero had been one of only a handful of agents to attain elite status, so respected by their masters, it was said, that they were permitted – for an almost impossible sum – to buy their own independence from the clan. On hearing such tales, Snowhawk had wondered whether agents that powerful were truly allowed to buy their freedom out of respect. Or was it that even their masters came to fear them? This Kagero was certainly a frightening opponent, and one with a unique approach to the art of ambush!
Why had she not sensed the presence of shinobi energy when her disguised attacker first appeared? Why wasn't she feeling it now? Snowhawk ground her teeth together. And what in all the floating worlds made Kagero think she could be a stalking predator and a roving wise-woman at the same time?
Give your prey advice? That was as insulting as it was mad!
What was that? Snowhawk's head inclined quickly. Her eyes flicked up.
The white wooden ceiling panel directly above her rose. It flashed to one side, vanishing. For an instant blackness replaced it, then she saw the soles of white cotton tabi boots and the ripple of a silk kimono's hem. Out of the dark ceiling Kagero plunged, feet aimed for Snowhawk's shoulders, trying for the oldest shinobi take-down in the scrolls.
Diving into a forward roll, Snowhawk just avoided it. As she regained her feet, Kagero landed heavily in the passageway behind her. The bounty hunter straightened her knees and bounded forward with uncanny speed, snapping one of her fans downward, eyes slitting at her target. Snowhawk howled as the closed war fan struck from behind, rapping her knuckles so hard that she was forced to release her knife.
The Wrath of Silver Wolf Page 8