Risuko: A Kunoichi Tale (Seasons of the Sword #1)(23)



At a cutting table just to the side of the fire pit, the blue-clad man we had glimpsed earlier stood with his back to us, his shoulders working and the woodpecker sound of his knife clacking away as he shredded some vegetable. This must be Kee Sun, I realized.

I was confused, however—I had thought we were coming in for dinner, and while the kitchen was full of the smell of the hot fire, spices and cabbage, there was nothing cooking.

The man turned and stared at Fuyudori, then at us. His face was broad and flat. A scar ran horizontally, from his right eyebrow into his scruffy beard below his left ear. As he looked us over, he ran his tongue over his lips. “Well, Ghostiegirl, what have yeh brought me for my supper today?”

His speech was perfectly clear yet incredibly difficult to understand at the same time, hard-edged and musical.

Fuyudori smiled politely. “Kee Sun, these three will be taking over kitchen duty from Shino and Mai. Emi. Toumi. Risuko.” She pointed to each of us in turn.

As he smiled, Kee Sun’s scar twisted too. “Never seen a scrawnier crew.” He shook his head. “Least there’re three of ‘em.”

He squinted at me, then at Toumi and Emi. “Gotta get better names for yeh all. I can never remember those silly Japanese handles.” He scratched his chin and pointed at Emi. “Yeh’re easy. Yeh’ll be Smiley. Yeh,” Kee Sun said to Toumi, “I think I’ll call yeh... Falcon. And I won’t trust yeh with any fish, either.” He grinned at Toumi, who looked as if she had no idea what to do with this strange man.

Kee Sun rolled his eyes back to me. “Hmm... Much harder. Did Ghostiegirl here call yeh ‘Squirrel?’”

I nodded.

He shook his head and ran his thumb along his scarred cheek. “I don’t think so.” Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Bright-eyes! That’s yehr name, there, right enough!”

I bowed my head.

“So yeh’ll all be working for me here, and out in the hall, cleanin’, fetchin’ from the storehouse, cleanin’, fetchin’ from the gardens, choppin’, and cleanin’ again. Understood?” He fixed us all with a glare until we had nodded that we indeed understood.

He looked to Fuyudori, who turned to address us.

“These duties are yours for as long as you are the youngest here,” she said. “It is your honor to help Kee Sun as he sees fit in the kitchen, and to assist in serving the food. You will eat after the rest of us have finished.”

I looked to the girls beside me. Toumi was fuming, as I might have guessed, no doubt angry at being forced to do such menial work. Emi, on the other hand, looked plainly confused. “Fuyudori-san,” she began, and then stopped, chewing on her lip.

“What is it, Emi-chan?”

“Well,” Emi continued, “didn’t you say we weren’t to speak to the men?”

None of us had any idea what Emi was talking about. Then she went on, “If we’re not supposed to talk to men, how are we supposed to answer all his questions?”

Fuyudori goggled at Emi, and then looked to Kee Sun.

He smirked, put his hands on his hips, and said to Emi, “I don’t count as a man, yeh see, Smiley. I’m a Korean. And besides,” he said, a smirk twisting his scar, this time into a frightening mock grin, “as long as the grub is good, Lady Chiyome don’t give a hoot what’s goin’ on in the kitchen.”

For the first time since I had met her, Emi burst out into loud, belly-rumbling laughter.

Fuyudori’s eyes went wide in surprise, but Kee Sun roared along with Emi, and, soon, so did I.





13—A Banquet


We began by fetching a large bag of rice from the storehouse. A pair of rats stared up at us when we entered, but Toumi growled at them while I swooshed the long stick that Kee Sun had given us to shoo them with, and they scattered. The bag was heavier than I was, and it took the three of us to drag it to the kitchen. Toumi muttered the whole way, and I would be lying if I said that Emi and I didn’t join her once or twice.

Kee Sun kept us busy, hanging pots over the fire to steam the rice and soy beans in, lowering a battered metal grate to serve as a grill, fetching more charcoal. As the sunlight began to fade from the room, we lit candles in the kitchen and in the hall.

When we came back into Kee Sun’s lair, we were overwhelmed by the thick scent of the strips of sizzling, black-marinated beef that were laid out over the fire.

I remember a few times when an old cow had died in the village, everyone coming together for a feast, roasting the poor, stringy old thing. There had not been even such a cow in a long time, however—not in our village.

And still, as good as that beef may have smelled and tasted, it was nothing to this. The air was rich with the scent, and we all stopped, our mouths watering.

“Don’t stand there lookin’ pretty like a bunch of Kwan-um statues!” snapped Kee Sun. “Grab the kimchee from that barrel, there, put it into these six serving bowls and get ‘em out to the tables. Quick, quick!” he yelled, hands clapping.

The bowls were beautifully glazed, pale green like the ocean on a sunny day. Gingerly I picked one up and carried it over to the barrel. Balancing the bowl in one hand I tried to open the barrel-top.

“Both hands, both hands!” shouted Kee Sun over his shoulder, one hand flipping the strips of meat with long chopsticks, the other painting them with a black sauce. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted me to hold the bowl with both hands, hold the wooden lid with both hands, or somehow to manage both two-handed, like some four-armed demon.

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