Naruto: SL Ch. 02

Sunlight hurt like a motherfucker.

That was Shikaki's first thought as consciousness dragged him back to the land of the living. The second was that someone had apparently replaced his tongue with sandpaper soaked in ass. The third was calculating exits, because old habits died harder than Konoha ninjas in a suicide mission.

Door: guarded, footsteps every forty seconds meaning amateur on duty.

Window: height unknown, doable if desperate but his left leg was maybe 40% functional.

Ceiling vent: might fit his arm. Maybe.

Survival odds if he ran now? 15% on a good day.

Survival odds if he stayed? Unknown, but probably better than 15%.

"Simple math," he muttered, then immediately regretted it when his throat reminded him that talking was now a premium service his body couldn't afford.

The door opened and a servant entered with a tray. Young woman, maybe sixteen, hands shaking like leaves in a thunderstorm. She took one look at him and went pale.

"Food," she squeaked, setting the tray down so fast some soup sloshed over the edge.

Shikaki looked at the tray, then at her, then back at the tray. "Don't worry," he said. "I only eat people on Tuesdays."

The tray hit the floor. The girl hit the door running. The soup hit everything in between.

"Should've said Thursdays," he told the empty room. "More believable."

Twenty minutes later, the door opened again. This time it was Sāra, and she looked annoyed. Good. Annoyed was better than suspicious.

"You scared my staff," she said, trying for stern but landing somewhere around pouty.

"Your staff scares easily."

"She said you threatened to eat her."

"I specifically said I don't eat people on... what day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"See? She's perfectly safe."

Sāra stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if he was joking or insane. Finally, she sat in the chair beside his bed, robes pooling around her. "The healers say you're recovering remarkably well."

"I'm remarkably hard to kill. It's my only talent."

"Besides being a merchant."

"Right. That too."

She leaned forward, and there it was, the curiosity that would either save or damn him. "Tell me about your routes. We get so few traders here."

Fuck. Should've prepared a better lie. But then, he'd been too busy dying to plan for interrogation by teenage royalty.

"The northern routes," he said, buying time while his brain spun up a story. "Through the Shadow Valley."

"Shadow Valley?" Her eyes lit up. "I've never heard of it."

Of course she hadn't. He was stealing it from a movie he'd half-remembered from... before. From the other life that felt more like dream than memory now.

"Past the Land of Snow," he continued, warming to the lie. "Where the mountains get so tall they cut the sky in half. Caravans have to pay tribute to the Sand Walkers or risk getting lost in the storms."

"Sand Walkers?"

"Desert nomads. They control the passes." He was mixing Star Wars with Dune now, but she wouldn't know. "Crazy bastards ride these huge lizards, paint themselves blue for their god."

"Blue?"

"Something about the sky spirits. I don't ask questions when the people holding swords are also holding my profit margins."

She was fascinated, leaning so far forward she might fall off the chair. "What goods do you trade?"

"Whatever people aren't selling." Safe answer, vague enough to be meaningless.

"That's not very specific."

"Specificity is bad for business. Soon as you specialize, someone undercuts you."

"But surely you have main products?"

"Sure. I mainly sell things to people who want to buy them."

She laughed. "You're impossible."

"I'm a merchant. It's basically the same thing."

The door opened and a man entered who screamed 'guard captain' from his posture alone. Mid-thirties, scarred hands, eyes that catalogued everything twice.

"Sāra-sama," he said with a bow that managed to be respectful and dismissive simultaneously. "I heard our... guest was awake."

"He is," Shikaki said. "He can also hear you."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "A merchant, Sāra-sama says."

"That's what the business cards say."

"We found no business cards."

"That's because I'm bad at business."

"What company do you work for?"

"Independent contractor. Company of one. Very exclusive."

"That's convenient."

"It's actually pretty inconvenient. Meetings are boring when it's just me."

The guard wasn't amused. His hand drifted to his belt, not quite reaching for a weapon but making sure Shikaki noticed the possibility. Then, with the casual air of someone who'd done this before, he let his dagger slip from his belt.

The metal hit stone with a sharp ring.

Normal merchant would've flinched. Jumped. Something.

Shikaki watched it fall, counted the rotations, and didn't move.

"Your reflexes," the guard said slowly, "are interesting for a merchant."

"Your dagger dropping is interesting for a guard captain."

"Most people react to falling weapons."

"Most people haven't spent three years on the northern routes where reacting to every little sound gets you eaten by snow leopards."

"Snow leopards."

"Big ones. White as fresh coca… eh, I mean, white as snow, and twice as dangerous."

Sāra intervened before the guard could respond. "Masaru, perhaps we could—"

"Silk," Masaru interrupted, eyes still on Shikaki. "Current market price?"

Ah. The knowledge test. The Nara clan did have merchant contacts, part of their information network. He knew some prices, but showing too much knowledge would be as suspicious as too little.

"Fifty ryō per bolt," he said.

"It's thirty-five."

"For the shit they sell in the capital, maybe. I deal in northern silk. Moth-woven, not worm. Completely different texture."

"Moth-woven silk isn't real."

"Tell that to the nobles paying me triple for the novelty."

Masaru tried another angle. "Iron ore, per ton?"

"Depends on purity. Raw? About six hundred. Refined? Two thousand if you know who's buying."

That was actually accurate, or had been six months ago. Masaru couldn't argue without revealing his own information was outdated.

"Chakra metal?" The captain's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

Trap question. Chakra metal wasn't publicly traded.

"Not for sale," Shikaki said. "Not unless you want ninjas up your ass asking uncomfortable questions about supply chains."

"But you know the price."

"I know enough to know I don't want to know more."

Sāra cleared her throat. "Speaking of chakra metal, the healers mentioned unusual burns. Chakra burns, they said."

Shit. The Ryūmyaku exposure left marks.

"Mining accident," Shikaki said, the lie coming smooth as water. "Five years back. Some idiots thought they'd found a chakra metal deposit. Turns out it was just iron with trace amounts, but they used explosive tags to crack it open. Chakra-infused metal plus explosives equals..." He gestured at himself.

"You survived that?" Masaru's skepticism was thick enough to spread on bread.

"Barely. Still get the shakes during thunderstorms." He held up his left hand, let it tremor. The tremor was fake, but the inspiration was real, copied from a teammate who'd taken nerve damage from a lightning jutsu. Poor bastard shook like that until the day he died.

Which was three days, no, four days ago.

Fuck.

"Chakra metal explosion," Sāra mused. "That must have been terrifying."

"Terrifying. Painful. Expensive. Mostly expensive. Lost my entire investment and spent two years paying off medical debts."

"Is that why you were traveling alone?" she asked. "No money for guards?"

"Guards are an advertisement that you have something worth stealing. I prefer looking too poor to rob."

"That clearly worked well," Masaru said dry as the desert outside.

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

"Barely."

"Still counts."

Masaru looked like he wanted to continue the interrogation, but Sāra stood. "I think our guest needs rest."

"Sāra-sama—"

"That wasn't a suggestion."

The captain bowed, stiff and formal. "Of course." He picked up his dagger with deliberate slowness, making sure Shikaki saw him secure it properly. "I'll post a guard. For your protection, merchant."

"Thoughtful of you."

"I'm a thoughtful man."

After he left, Sāra lingered. "You don't like him."

"I don't like anyone. It's simpler that way."

"That's sad."

She studied him with those too-young eyes that held too much responsibility. "What are the festivals like, where you're from?"

The question caught him off-guard. "Festivals?"

"We have harvest celebrations here, but I've always wondered what they do in other places. My mother used to tell me stories, but..." She trailed off.

Shikaki thought of Konoha's festivals. The memorial services disguised as celebrations. The way they honored the dead while making more of them.

"Loud," he said finally. "Lots of drinking. Fireworks that sound like explosive tags so all the veterans dive under tables. Dancing that looks more like controlled falling. Food that's trying to kill you with grease."

"That sounds wonderful."

"It sounds like chaos."

"Same thing." She smiled, sad and wistful. "I've never left the city."

"Good policy. Outside world's full of assholes."

She laughed, surprised. "My mother never let me curse."

"Your mother's dead. Curse all you want."

Sāra's face went through about six emotions in two seconds before landing on something between shocked and amused.

"That's horrible."

"Yeah, but I'm honest about it."

"You're honestly horrible?"

"Better than being dishonestly nice."

She laughed again, fuller this time. "You're nothing like our usual traders."

"Your usual traders probably aren't half-dead smart-asses with questionable humor."

"No, they're fully alive boring people with no humor at all."

"See? I'm an improvement."

Her eyes landed on something in the corner, his salvaged belongings. "Is that a shogi board?"

Fuck. He'd forgotten about that. "Travel set. Good for killing time between trying not to die."

"You play?"

"Badly."

"Play me."

"Sāra-sama—"

"That's an order."

Well shit. Refusing would be suspicious. But beating royalty at strategy games was historically bad for your health.

She set up the board. Not expert, but not amateur either. Shikaki deliberately fumbled his opening, made moves that were good but not great.

She took his bait, pushed her advantage. He let her, making just enough mistakes to seem believable. When she trapped his king, he made sure to look surprised.

"You're not bad for a queen," he said.

"You're terrible for a merchant."

"Merchants are supposed to be good at shogi?"

"Merchants are supposed to be good at strategy."

"I am. My strategy was letting you win."

Her eyes sharpened. "You didn't."

"Didn't I?"

"Play properly."

"Sāra-sama—"

"Stop calling me that and play properly."

So he did.

Eight moves later, her king was trapped with no escape.

"That's cruel," she said, staring at the board.

"That's shogi. Want to learn why you lost?"

"You'll teach me?"

"I'll try. Can't promise you'll get better. Natural talent is a thing."

"Once a week."

"What?"

"Once a week, you'll teach me." It wasn't a question.

From the doorway, Masaru watched with calculating eyes. Shikaki gave him a little wave, which earned a scowl.

"Your captain doesn't trust me," Shikaki noted.

"He doesn't trust anyone."

She reset the board. "Show me what I did wrong."

So he did, walking through each mistake with the patience of someone who had nothing better to do. Which he didn't. Being half-dead limited your options.

When she finally left, hours later, Shikaki was alone with his calculations.

Survival odds if he stayed: 78%. They clearly needed something, even if they didn't know what.

Odds if he ran: 45% and dropping. Desert, wounds, no supplies.

Odds they discovered he was a ninja: 100%, eventually.

Odds they'd care: Unknown variable.

Sāra was desperate for connection, that much was obvious. Girl was lonely as fuck in her tower, surrounded by people who saw her as symbol rather than person. He could use that.

The thought should've bothered him more than it did.

Masaru was a problem but not immediate threat. Man was suspicious but bound by hierarchy. As long as Sāra wanted Shikaki around, the captain could only watch and wait.

The city itself was perfect for disappearing. Isolated, insular, forgotten by the world. If he could maintain the merchant cover long enough to heal fully, maybe he could actually build something like a life here.

"Life," he said to the empty room. "What a troublesome concept."

He tried to sleep but the dreams came like they always did.

He woke at 3 AM, sheets soaked with sweat.

The window showed a city sleeping peaceful under stars.

No burning buildings.

No screaming.

No dying children calling for their mothers.

"Still not Tuesday," he told his reflection in the glass. "Can't eat anyone yet."

The reflection didn't laugh.