The interior of the establishment was incredibly ordinary. Right at the entrance sat a raised wooden deck designed for storing sandals and boots, while the remainder of the expansive room was lined with pristine tatami mats. A heavy, cloyingly sweet floral fragrance permeated the entire space, hanging thick in the air.
"Please… come this way," the old woman murmured, shuffling her feet across the reed mats as she led them deeper toward a long service counter.
"Old woman, do you run this place entirely by yourself?" Gabimaru asked casually, though his sharp eyes never stopped darting around the corners of the room.
"Ohhh… yes," she rasped, ducking low as she slid behind the counter. "Though I do wish to hire help… it would simply be far too expensive for a lonely place like this."
Behind her stood a massive wooden cabinet that spanned nearly the entire height and width of the back wall. She opened four separate compartments, pulled out four neatly folded kimonos, each a distinctly different colour, and lined them up neatly across the countertop.
"Mmm... I see," Gabimaru answered, his eyes dulling slightly as he maintained his casual, unbothered facade.
"And what of you all? Have you journeyed here from the grand capital school?" she asked, her glassy gaze dropping pointedly toward the hilts of their weapons.
"Ah. Forgive us, but these cannot leave our sides under any circumstances," Yorimitsu responded smoothly, his fingers intentionally grazing the wrapped hilt of his katana.
'What an incredibly sharp, odd young man,' the old woman thought to herself, a flash of apprehension crossing her wrinkled face.
"Ohhh, no... I wouldn't dare ask you to part with them, Samurai-dono," she stammered, quickly turning her head away to avoid his piercing stare. "The rooms are… one Ryo for a single night, and that includes a set evening meal." Her voice shook noticeably, stumbling over nearly every word she forced out.
Yorimitsu reached into his uniform pouch, pulling out a small leather coin purse. He reached inside, drew out four solid, brownish coins, and placed them onto the wooden counter with a distinct, metallic thud.
The old woman's glassy eyes lit up instantly at the sight of the money. Her wrinkled hand crept forward like a trembling spider, greedily scooping up the coins. She wrapped them tightly in a scrap of fabric before stowing the bundle deep within the inner sleeve of her kimono. Bending low, she disappeared beneath the service counter for a few moments before resurfacing with four numbered wooden room plaques, which she placed neatly on top of the folded garments.
She offered a shallow, shaky bow and shuffled off toward the back kitchen. Left to themselves, the squad scattered. Each member claimed a kimono and a plaque before heading down the corridor toward their quarters, a series of adjacent spaces separated only by thin, fragile shōji screens.
After changing into the light garments, they congregated in the communal dining hall near the front entrance of the building.
"She looks far too old to be running a place like this," Gabimaru remarked, leaning back in a relaxed, loose stance on the tatami floor. "I'm worried she might drop dead right over the hearth while trying to cook our food."
Right on cue, the sliding door groaned open. The elderly woman stepped into the dining hall, the porcelain plates clattering precariously against her fingers as she shuffled forward.
"You were saying." Watanabe shot a mischievous eye.
"Tch… nothing," Gabimaru responded.
With slow, but deliberate movements, she set down an array of Zensai appetisers. There was a bowl of salted Edamame, followed by a plate of golden Tamagoyaki, a perfectly rolled, sweet omelette. The final dish she placed before them was a platter of Hiyayakko: chilled silken tofu garnished with a mound of grated ginger, minced green onions, bonito flakes, and a dark drizzle of soy sauce.
"That was impossible fast," Yorimitsu mused, his brow furrowing as the woman silently retreated back down the dark hallway. 'There is no way she had this already… It's almost like she knew that we were coming.'
Shifting out of his relaxed posture, Gabimaru sat cross-legged and split his wooden chopsticks, readying himself to dive in.
"Itadakimasu."
Gabimaru clapped his hands together in a brief, customary prayer and hoisted a piece of the food toward his mouth. But just before the morsel could touch his lips, he froze completely dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in the dim light.
"And I was so damn hungry, too," Gabimaru muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, disappointed drone.
"Huh?" Watanabe asked, turning his head sharply toward him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"It's poisoned," Gabimaru stated plainly. Without missing a beat, he lazily tilted his hand, letting the morsel slip from his chopsticks back onto the ceramic dish with a soft click. "Just as I feared… the moment poison is introduced, the true flavour of the food spoils incredibly fast. It tastes completely off."
Gabimaru set the small plate back down onto the low table and shifted his gaze over to the head of the mat. "What do you think, Taisho?"
"I think there are three distinct possibilities," Yorimitsu said calmly. He picked up his own chopsticks, scooped up a generous portion of the tofu, and ate it.
"Three?" Gabimaru repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yeah," Yorimitsu replied, chewing thoughtfully. "Firstly, it could simply be a matter of material greed. When she quoted us the steep price earlier, she was clearly testing our reactions to see if we were wealthy travellers. The moment I handed over the coins, her eyes lit up with sheer avarice."
"Hey! Slow the hell down, you're going to poison yourself!" Watanabe roared, nearly jumping out of his skin as he watched his leader swallow another bite.
"Relax, Watanabe. A low-grade toxin of this calibre won't do anything to a body like mine," Yorimitsu spoke smoothly, dismissing the concern as he reached for another slice of the rolled omelette. "As for the second possibility… it is highly likely that someone of greater authority ordered her to kill us. And for the last scenario, though highly improbable, it could just be an honest, terrible mistake."
Yorimitsu's eyes suddenly stiffened, the ambient room temperature seeming to drop a fraction of a degree.
"Act as if absolutely nothing is amiss," Yorimitsu commanded in a low, authoritative whisper. "I want to see what her true end goal is."
As he spoke, Yorimitsu's gaze flicked across the table toward Shion. The princess of Iga was already silently consuming her portions of the corrupted food without a single hint of hesitation or discomfort.
'I suppose it makes sense,' Yorimitsu noted internally. 'Those bred from the sovereign lines of Iga are rigorously conditioned against lethal toxins from early childhood. She won't be affected by this concoction either.'
Just as the final words left his lips, the sliding shōji screen groaned open, and the elderly woman re-entered the dining hall, slowly pushing a small wooden trolley bearing the heavy main courses of the meal.