Chapter 18: Rice Balls for the Road

By the third night Tomoe had made four hundred rice balls and her hands were swollen pink.

She sat at the tailgate of the supply cart under a lantern.

A washtub of hot rice rested on her knees, and a line of tired soldiers waited in front of her.

"Salt plum or salted salmon?" she said.

"Plum, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am. Hold out your hands."

She wet her palms, scooped the rice, pressed a pickled plum into the middle, and shaped the ball in four turns.

The soldier took it and bit in, and his face changed.

"It's warm."

"That's the idea."

"Everything on the march is cold. We have had dried rice and dried fish for ten days."

"Then come back for another."

He did, and brought three friends.

Ibuki's company numbered a hundred and twenty, camped in a dry meadow in the valley below the high pass.

At first they had stared at the cook with the knife roll who rode beside the former Sword Saint.

Now they sat in a long line along the cart, eating, and the stares had turned into something closer to worship.

"You are spoiling them," Shiori said, behind her.

"They're hungry."

"They will refuse to march on anything else."

"Good. Then they'll march faster toward more."

Shiori sat down on the tailgate beside her.

She wore the sword at her left hip again, and a plain dark traveling coat.

Her face in the lantern light was very calm.

"Ibuki is looking for me," she said.

"She's been trying to catch you alone since the village."

"I know. I have been dreading it."

"Then do it now, before the battle."

Shiori breathed in.

Then she got to her feet and went to find her.

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