"Please," Natsumi gasped to the flurry of orange robes and rosaries. Shaven heads turned; she choked on a drought-dry throat. "He's--dying. Fever." She dredged up more words. "Infected wound. If he dies--"

"We will do our best, shinobi-san," a low, gentle voice promised. The monks eddied again, like autumn leaves in the wind, and reformed around a very tall old man with stooped shoulders and a kind, ironic smile. He, too, carried a heavy string of wooden prayer beads. She must have interrupted them at their pre-dawn meditation. But, gods--merciful Buddha!--she was here; she could give up now...

Several burly monks were already hefting Asuma's limp body, chattering cheerfully to each other as they carried him away. Natsumi tried pushing herself to her feet to stagger after him, but her legs gave out before she'd made it more than a few inches off the paving-stones. The old abbot pressed a long, papery hand to her shoulder. "We will care for him," he promised. "And for you, as well. Were you followed here?"

Natsumi's eyes burned. She shook her head sharply. "No. They're all dead. Except--" She fumbled vaguely at the bundle tied to her belt. Gentle hands pushed hers away again, and untied it. Someone gasped.

"That goes to the daimyo of Heijo province," Natsumi said. "And the sword, too. He expects it three days from yesterday. If you look after Asuma, I could--"

This time she got one foot under her before the pain took her breath away. Another burly monk caught her before she fell, sweeping her up into arms nearly as strong as Asuma's. Someone else murmured disapproval, but the old abbot touched her feet, stripping away the tattered cloth bindings. They came away bloody.

"I will send a messenger to Heijo to complete your mission," the abbot said quietly. "And another to Konoha, to report on your arrival. Rest, shinobi-san. You are safe here."

At last, Natsumi believed it.