Ryouma was at the back of the cluster, as usual for any crowd in which he stood more than a head taller than the shortest, which meant an awkward sidle between Haruka and Kasumi and then trying not to bang into the doorframe. The rest of the candidates trooped after him, which rather defeated the point.

The Quartermaster's office looked like a demented tailor's warehouse. Rows of shelving stretched nearly to the reinforced beams of the ten-foot ceilings, with every space crammed full and not a one labeled. Wada, the spectacled assistant, and a plump woman with a grandmother's smile looked up from the tables where they sat at chattering sewing machines surrounded by mounds of black fabric. There were bins of kunai, trays of bandage rolls, a table heaped with shattered and bloodied armor. Painted masks glared down from the supports between the shelves: foxes, insects, rats, boars, birds, shapes that refused to assemble into a face. Ryouma rather liked the look of an open-mouthed roaring dragon near the ceiling, but they probably saved that for the fire-breathers.

"Stand here," Morita said, indicating a low, broad wooden box on the floor. Ryouma approached cautiously, and stopped beside the box.

"Hmm," the Quartermaster said, drawing a flexible tape thoughtfully between his slender hands. "Yes, perhaps you'd better stay down here." He circled Ryouma once, head tilted like a curious bird, and stopped just behind him. Ryouma's shoulderblades itched; he forced himself not to turn.

"Vest, shirt, and hitai-ate off," Morita announced. "Keep the pants."

Takeshi would have cat-called, but Takeshi wasn't here. Ryouma unzipped his vest and dropped it on the floor, peeled his shirt over his head and wrestled the sleeve off over his bandaged hand. He placed his hitai-ate more carefully on top of the pile, then straightened. His skin prickled with cold, and everyone was staring at his tattoos. He braced his hands on his hips, and let them look their fill.

Morita circled again, stopped in front of Ryouma, and reached out to tap the bright, glittering eye of the coiled dragon tattooed over his shoulder and heart, just above the silver nipple-ring. "Lovely design. Personal meaning?"

"Yeah," Ryouma said.

Morita waited a polite moment for him to elaborate. Ryouma rode it out.

"Very personal, I see," the Quartermaster concluded, unruffled. He took Ryouma's left hand and turned it thoughtfully, splaying the long fingers out. "Ninjutsu user. You'll want fingerless gloves." He tapped Ryouma's forearm, where a livid red scar cut through an older line faded to white. "Block with your forearms a lot? Reinforced guards. What's your weapon of choice?"

Ryouma blinked.

"Bare hands, for preference," he said finally. "Basic kunai and shuriken otherwise. I'm not bad with a ninjato."

"Ever try a naginata?"

Ryouma shook his head. "That's more a samurai weapon, isn't it?"

"For the unimaginative," Morita sniffed. "I have one. You should take it with you. Aiko, grab me the one, you know which."

The plump woman eased her foot off the treadle of the sewing machine and hoisted herself to her feet, limping back into the rows of shelves. Ryouma tried to imagine himself swinging a six-foot spear around and then...what, dropping it in the mud while he performed the seals for the Nikutai Tokasu? The whole point of his fighting style was to get close enough to land even a glancing hit. Maybe he could use it to spear fish.