“Careful,” he whispered.
“You be careful,” she replied. “They’re watching you.”
Despite the disguise, Torishi was still drawing attention to himself. A couple of young samurai came up to him.
“Hey, big guy!” one of them shouted. “Why don’t you come with us? We could use your strength on the ship.”
Torishi turned around with the biggest, dumbest grin on his face he could muster. He scratched his head, guffawed, and gave them puzzled look.
“Forget it,” the other samurai pulled the first one away. “Can’t you see he’s simple.”
This is our chance, realised Nagomi. She stepped forward boldly, hiding Koro behind her.
“He may be simple, but he’s as strong as four men, and can work all day!” she said, and swallowed.
“Are you his handler, er — ” The first samurai paused, looking at Nagomi. “Kid?”
“He’s our big brother, tono, he is.” she replied, bowing. “He does the heavy lifting, I deals with the money.”
The men laughed. “Money? Who said anything about money? Know your place, kid.” He pushed her out of his way and turned to walk off. Torishi tensed up behind her.
“Wait, tono!” she called, dropping to one knee. “You mentioned something ’bout a ship?”
He swung around. “That I did.”
“We will works for a place on the ship, as long as it sails away soon.”
The samurai raised an eyebrow. His hand tightened on his sword. “Why? Are you on the run?”
“Oh, no, tono!” She waved her hands in protest. “It’s jus’… this place is too crowded! No decent work anywhere for days. We’re starvin’!”
She did her best to sound like a commoner — or rather, how she’d heard Satō pretend to be a commoner — but she heard her efforts were in vain. She could only hope the soldier, bearing the Taikun’s crest on his shoulders, was not familiar enough with local accents to tell.
“Come on,” the other samurai insisted, “we’ll be late. The boss will have our balls on a skewer.”
“Find the Bishamon-maru on the eastern pier,” the first one told Nagomi, before departing. “Tell them Mochinori sent you.”
Nagomi pushed past one last group of merchants trying to hawk their wares to the passing crewmen, and emerged onto the eastern pier. She stopped.
As far as she could see, the harbour was filled with the flat-bottomed military ships she was already more familiar with than she wished. They bore banners of dozens of clans upon their sails, but mostly the Ai of the Aizu and the Mallow crest of the Taikun.
“This must be the Taikun’s entire fleet. How do we find our ship?” she whispered, taking a frightened step back. She bumped into a merchant. He smacked her on the ear, throwing off her bamboo hat.
“Look out, damn you!” The merchant said gruffly and wandered off, not paying her any more attention.
“You’ve gone mad,” said Torishi, picking up her hat. “Going to Heian is one thing, but… going on a Taikun’s warship? Have you lost your mind?”
“You know what they say — the base of the candlestick stays always dark.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” he grunted.
“Better help me find that warship. Look at this place — no other vessel will leave the harbour before this lot is out.”
“How will I know it?”
“It’s called Bishamon-maru, so it should have a big demon with a spear in one hand painted on its sails,” she replied, standing on her tip-toes, but all she saw was a sea of masts.
“You mean like this?” the bear-man pointed at something at the head of the pier. Nagomi climbed on his bended knee.
“Yes!” she cried. The figure on the sail was faded, but unmistakable. The ship was larger than most on the pier, and above the god’s painting it bore the proud mallow crest of the Tokugawa clan.
Nagomi took a deep breath and whispered a quick prayer before approaching the ship’s boatswain. The man stood on the pier, directing the traffic of porters.
“I…” she stuttered, “I was told we could find some work here.”
“Oh yeah?” the boatswain replied, not looking at her. “Get that crate to the right!” he shouted at one of the porters, “you’ll unbalance the ship!”
He turned to Nagomi and only now noticed Torishi, grinning broadly behind the priestess.
“Who told you that?” the boatswain asked.
“Mo-Mochinori-sama.”
“Eeh!” The samurai scratched the back of his head. “Mochinori-dono! I wish he’d consult with me on these things.” He studied Torishi’s broad shoulders. “I can see what he can do, but what can you do?”
“I can tell him what needs doing!” Nagomi replied. “Otherwise he gets a bit confused.”
“Gods. A simpleton and a child. And what about this one?” He nodded at Koro. “A midget?”
“He’s small, nimble, and swims well,” she answered quickly, “I’m sure you can use someone like him on the ship.”
“Fine!” The boatswain rolled his eyes. “Only for Mochinori-dono’s sake. See those crates?” he pointed. “Get them to the bow, but be careful. I’ll be watching you, the smallest mistake and you’re out, Mochinori-dono or not.”
“Where is this ship going?” Nagomi asked, one leg on the gangway.
The boatswain laughed. “Stay long enough, and you’ll find out.”
Takasugi led Satō and Shōin through the crowded evening streets of Heian. She felt uneasy whenever they passed an armed guard, and there was one on every corner of the city. None seemed to pay any attention to them.
“I told you,” said Takasugi. “All the city guards have plenty to do today. It’s the night of Obon — the greatest festival of the year, right? They have to control these crowds.”
“Still, shouldn’t we have waited until night, at least?” asked Shōin. He, too, looked anxious — and suspicious.
“At night, everyone in the city is climbing the Daimonji Mountain to see the fireworks,” replied Takasugi. “The streets will be empty, it will be a lot harder to stay inconspicuous.”
They followed the river and soon reached a bridge. An immeasurable throng of people was moving in the opposite direction to where Takasugi was leading them.
“Don’t get lost,” Takasugi warned them, “and watch out for pickpockets.”
They waded through the sea of pilgrims, nudging, elbowing, and pushing their way through; Satō judged it took them almost an hour to get across the river. At last, they emerged on the other side, exhausted, squashed, and bruised.
“I think my rib’s cracked,” said Shōin, rubbing his chest. “How far yet do we have to go?”
“We are here,” replied Takasugi. He smiled broadly. He pointed at an entrance to a narrowing street, the gate of which was marked with a great red paper lantern adorned with a white plover. The street looked sleazy and dangerous.
“Eeh? An entertainment district?” asked Satō.
“Not just any entertainment district,” said Takasugi. “This is Ponto Village, the seediest part of Heian. A den of smugglers, thieves, actors, geikos, and politicians. In short, the best place in the city to hide from the authorities.”
“That’s crazy,” scoffed Shōin. “We’re in the centre of the city. A few blocks from the Palace!”
“You know what they say about shadows and candlesticks!” replied Takasugi. “Now hurry up, that guard is looking at us. I found us a small tavern by the river. We might even be able see the fireworks from there.”
There was a commotion on the gangway, louder than the usual hauling of a new load on deck. The Bishamon-maru’s crew dispersed before a group of samurai in Aizu uniforms, accompanied by Lord Mochinori.
“I need some of your men,” the leading samurai said to the boatswain, looking around. “Not him,” he added, when his eyes fell on grinning Torishi. “I heard you have somebody small around here.”
Nagomi leapt up to make herself more visible.<
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“Yes, those two will do,” the samurai said, pointing at her and Koro. “Come with me.”
Torishi laid a hand on her shoulder briefly. Be careful, his eyes said.
The priestess followed the man down to the pier and onto another, smaller ship. The samurai led them into the canvas-covered cargo hold on the bow. Inside were several long metal crates with iron handles, several of which slid from their shelves and formed an almost impassable jumble. Underneath it all there was a small opening, too small for an adult man to fit in.
“This cargo is too delicate to use force,” the samurai explained. “Somebody must fit underneath and slide the crates gently off each other. Do you understand, kid?”
Nagomi nodded and proceeded to squeeze herself through the narrow aperture, followed by Koro. She was almost through when her hips buckled the edge of one of the chests. It creaked and dropped down an inch.
“Careful,” the samurai whispered. She twisted her head to see him, his face was pale and covered in sweat.
What is in those crates?
She climbed to the top of the jumble and groped around, trying to find enough leverage to push against the uppermost box. Koro tapped her on the shoulder.
“Here,” he pointed.
She put her foot in a nook between two crates, and pressed her shoulders against the box above her. On a “one-two!” she and Koro gave it a slow, but forceful push. The crate budged and began to slide down. She grabbed at the handles at the last moment — the Ancient did the same on the other side. Something rattled and clunked inside; something metallic.
“Got it!” she shouted. “Ready? Here it comes.”
She let go of the handle and allowed the crate to slide down into the hands of the porters waiting below. She heard another “Careful!” from the samurai, followed by a command: “Next one! Slowly!”
She helped remove the second box and reached for the third, but felt her wrist grabbed by a strong hand.
“That’s enough.” The samurai’s face was now calmer, and more severe. “Get out of here.”
Nagomi bowed and scurried outside, glad to be out of the cargo hold. Her hands smelled of iron, copper, and thunderstorm. She could not yet guess the contents of the metal crates, but at least she knew where they had come from: their rims, hinges, and locks were covered in small Western runes, and the bottoms were marked with the horned sun: a mark of the Heretics.
The boatswain’s whistle sounded off the end of the day watch, and Nagomi fell onto the coiled ropes, exhausted.
They had been working all day, despite this being the night of the Obon — Torishi doing most of the lifting, carrying and hauling, of course, but she and Koro had tried their best to keep up with the other porters. Her joints ached, and muscles in her shoulders and neck she hadn’t known existed were burning as if prodded with a hot poker.
Torishi and Koro sat down beside her; neither of them seemed in the least tired. She was surprised by the Ancient’s endurance, until she remembered he only looked like a child; in reality, he’d proved almost as strong and persevering as the bear-man during the long day.
The deck was quiet at night, and almost empty — the soldiers and the dockers lodged on the land and, at least until the ship set sail, just a skeleton crew and a few guards remained on board.
“See, I told you it would be fine,” Nagomi said, when she was at last rested enough to speak. “Nobody noticed anything.”
“For now,” Torishi replied with a grimace. He’d had to keep his face twisted in a simpleton’s smile all day. “How long can you pretend you’re a boy once the ship sails?”
“It can’t be more than a couple of days. We’ll get off at the next harbour.”
“We don’t even know when, or where, this fleet is going! What if it’s south?”
Nagomi didn’t have an answer to that; she worried about the same thing. For what other purpose had the Taikun gathered such a massive navy, if not for invading the rebellious provinces of Chinzei? Instead of Heian, the Bishamon-maru would be taking them in an opposite direction…
“Chōfu,” said Koro from the shadows, surprising both of them.
“What?”
“It’s Chōfu,” the little man replied. “I hear.” He added a few more words in his tongue.
“He saw the man we met in the city board the ship,” Torishi translated. “And followed him in secret.”
“Mochinori-dono?” asked Nagomi. Koro nodded.
“When we fight in the North,” the little man added, “I learn not to be seen, not to be heard. I small, hide easy.”
“This Mochinori is somebody important,” Torishi continued the translation. “He spoke of Chōfu with some other… shamo. Samurai.”
Nagomi instinctively looked overboard, and across the Dan-no-Ura. A few lights glinted on the horizon: the Chōfu shore, a mere ri away, asleep and unaware of the threat.
“An invasion,” she whispered. “They will deal with Mori-dono first, before moving against Satsuma.”
At least Sacchan is safely away.
“That means we’re going in the right direction,” said Torishi. “Good news.”
“Good news? It’s going to be a…massacre! Mori-dono sent his entire army away!”
The bear-man shrugged. “Nothing we can do about it.”
He rolled on his side, away from the priestess. The Ancient crossed his legs, put his hands on his stomach, and closed his eyes. She knew from last night that this was his preferred way of sleeping.
She lay down among the ropes and crates, leaning her head against Torishi’s broad shoulder, but she could not fall asleep.
Torishi was right — there was nothing they could do to save Chōfu now. And why should they? Mori-dono was not their friend any more. Just like Nariakira-dono, he was playing his own secret games, using Nagomi and her friends for their own purposes. Perhaps they all — the daimyos, their retainers, their supporters — deserved what was coming to them.
If she still cared at all about Mori-dono’s fate, it was because of Satō; the domain was the wizardess’s last chance of a home. If it fell, where would she go? Like Nagomi, she too would become an exile. This was no longer about the war, or about who ruled Yamato; this was personal.
She tossed and turned, uneasy and anxious. What could she do about it? Nagomi looked over the edge of the boat, at the mass of flickering lanterns around her, each marking a ship bobbing on the waves in the darkness. Even if she somehow managed to get the warning to Mori-dono, it was surely too late to mobilise the defences against this kind of force. Shōin’s and Satō’s wizards were the only powers able to stand against the invasion, and they were all on the other side of the domain, if not further…
She gazed into the night sky in search of an answer. The storm clouds had all cleared, and the sky was bright and full of summer stars. She spotted Orihime and Hikoboshi, twinkling to each other across the Milky Way. She recalled how, a long time ago on board Nariakira-dono’s mistfire ship, she had explained the Tanabata festival to Bran.
Bran.
She had promised herself not to depend on the help of others, but it was time to admit the situation was beyond anything she could do on her own.
It took her a while to stir Torishi awake.
“What is it?” the bear-man grunted.
“I need you to open the gate for me,” she whispered. He didn’t understand her at first, but when he did his eyes grew wide open.
“Here? On the ship?” he whispered back. “We’ll be found out!”
“So be careful. I have to reach Bran.”
He bit his lips. “Of all the mad things—”
“Please!” She tugged on his sleeve. “It’s important!”
“I’m sure it is,” he grunted. “But can’t it wait until tomorrow? He must be asleep now, too.”
“Then we’ll wake him up. Please.”
He sighed, resigned, and reached for his bundle. She guessed he didn’t want her to try something dangerous on her own. �
�Get that sailcloth over here,” he told her. “Wrap it across the crates.”
The makeshift screen she created was far from perfect, but there was little else they could do to conceal Torishi’s fire. The bear-man unwrapped his shaman’s box quietly, and looked into the gourd in which he carried his murky brew.
“I’m running out of akup,” he said. “I will need time to find herbs and brew some more.”
“You don’t have to drink it,” she noted. “Maybe in time I won’t need it either?”
He shook his head. “I am Chief of the Kumaso.” It had to suffice for an explanation.
He poured the liquid into two small clay bowls, and prepared a tiny fire in the third. “This is madness,” he kept murmuring, as he poured the embers out from a portable tinderbox onto a handful of straw kindling.
He whispered the words of the prayer over the tiny flame, and as it formed into a portal, leaned back and looked at Nagomi gravely.
“This is too small for the both of us,” he said. “You have to go alone, after all.”
“I understand.”
“You will have very little time. The Shadows will come for you, and the gate will remain open only for a brief time. Whatever you have to say to him, make it quick.”
Nagomi nodded. She felt her hands go cold and clammy with nerves. At Torishi’s behest, she swallowed the milky saké and gagged at the bitter taste. Scraped from the bottom of the gourd, it was much more intense than she’d drunk previously.
The world around her spun, and she was enveloped in red-tinged darkness.
She dropped out of the tunnel of dazzling lights onto the red dirt plane, scraping her knees and elbows. Blood dripped onto the dust, and the earth swallowed it eagerly, without a trace.
I can bleed here, Nagomi made a mental note. Can I die here, too?
“Her” shrine was a few hundred yards away. She started off towards it, and then stopped. She had to contact Bran, somehow, and she suspected it would be easier to do that, if riskier, outside of the safety of her mind’s walls.
She understood little of how this strange world worked, and had to rely on her intuition. Torishi was reluctant to share any of his secrets, still angry at her — though he struggled not to show it — for using his tools without permission.
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 8