Risuko: A Kunoichi Tale (Seasons of the Sword #1)(61)

“It’s true. They kill now and again. Serpent-girlie?” He whistled. “Yeh’d be dead and yeh wouldn’t even know it, and she’d be out o’ the house with a smile and not a hair outa place and no one the wiser till yeh hit the ground. But some? Some of ‘em have the talent o’ findin’ things out. Take Flower-girl that teaches yeh the music.” He gave a snort. “Not a killer, that one. But she’s very good at makin’ menfolk very happy and talky, so’s they tell her all the things they’re not supposed to, and when she’s gone, all they can remember is how much she made ‘em laugh.”

“But she... Sachi said her hunting...?”

“There’s huntin’, yeh see,” said Kee Sun, lifting an eyebrow suggestively. “An’ then there’s huntin’.”

“Oh.”

“And some of ‘em are good at keeping folk from gettin’ hurt. Dressed up like a serving girl if they want, or a cook, or a lady’s maid, or a nun, and no bandit watchin’ some silky lady go by in her little box is goin’ t’think that our girlie is ever a bodyguard, but that she is, and a good one.”

“Oh.”

I walked over and peered into the pot.

Kee Sun leaned down and took a deep whiff of the steam from the now-simmering soup. “Yeh’ll be glad t’hear that Masugu was askin’ about yeh.”

“He was?” I sniffled.

“Ayup. Durin’ one of the times when he wasn’t sleepin’. Seemed quite put out that yeh’d been snoopin’ on him and Serpent-girlie from atop the Retreat.” Kee Sun turned and winked. Seeing my face, he sobered and turned back to the soup. “Kept talkin’ about the chimney. I think he was worried yeh’d fall.”

I actually laughed at that.

“And as I was walkin’ back to strain the soup before yeh got back, I ran into Ghostie-girlie tryin’ to sneak in to see him. All flustered and pink she got, too, when I caught her. Told me it wasn’t her moon time yet, and she just wanted t’see that the good lieutenant was all right.” He snorted. “Told her he was sleepin’ fine, and that she was too late anyway—he’d already asked yeh to marry him.” He chuckled, and I tittered along with him, even though I had already heard too many jokes on that subject.

I walked over and looked into the enormous pot. The vegetables looked delicious—red, brown, white and green in the clear, golden broth. Perfect. I took a deep whiff. “Kee Sun?”

“Hmm?”

“Doesn’t it smell a little... bitter?”

He grunted and took a sniff. “Huh. Perhaps. A bit. Must’ve overcooked the stock. A bit o’ garlic’ll take care o’ that. Mince some up for us, Bright-eyes.”

Without even thinking about it, I went over and found a garlic bulb and the small chopping knife. I had that garlic reduced to fine bits in no time—and I wasn’t even feeling sorry for myself as I did it. I brought him the bowl into which I’d scooped the garlic.

He took it from me and poured it into the pot. He inhaled deeply. “There yeh go.” He motioned me closer. “Take a sniff now.”

I did. “Mmm.”

“Right!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Grab us the big tureen there, and all o’ the bowls.” Quickly, he transferred most of the soup into the big serving bowl—the tureen, as he always called it—and covered it with its flat lid. The bowls stacked easily on the lid. “Now, let’s see if all o’ that rock carryin’ has done yeh any good. Can yeh pick that up without droppin’ it?”

Carefully I lifted the big bowl, and all of the crockery.

He hung a huge serving spoon from one of the handles. “There yeh are. Now bring that out to the Retreat and to the guesthouse. I’ll serve the lady and the Little Brothers.” He gave me a smile, his scars twisting, and opened the door to the outside, letting in a blast of chill wind. “Get on with yeh! Don’t let that soup get cold! And I’ll wait t’ eat till yeh’re back. A body shouldn’t eat alone.”

“Hai, Kee Sun-san,” I said, and carefully made my way out into the rapidly gathering gloom of the winter evening.





32—Chicken Soup


Snow began to fall again—light, tiny flakes that seemed to appear from nowhere. I struggled to keep the soup from sloshing out of the tureen and the bowls clattered and threatened to fall every time my feet slid on the slick gravel, but I managed. Soon I was at the Retreat. I knocked on the door.

A familiar whisper answered. “Yes?”

“Emi!”

She sighed. “Hello, Murasaki. Do you have our meal?”

“Yes! It’s chicken soup.”

I heard several of the women inside groan with hunger.

“Open the door,” I whispered, “and I can help you serve it out.”

“Oh,” Emi said, sounding uncertain. “I think you’re just supposed to leave it.”

I kept my voice low; I didn’t want anyone but Emi to hear. “But I need to bring the tureen to the guesthouse to feed Aimaru and Masugu-san.”

“Oh.” I heard movement inside, and the door opened—just a crack. The air inside was hot and stale. I saw a dozen grumpy faces looking toward me. Emi stepped out, finishing wrapping herself in a jacket to to keep out the chill. The women began to press toward the door.