“This is the last of the food,” Bran said, digging a large potato out of the ash and giving it to Nagomi. “It would be better with some salt.”
“It’s fine.” She picked at the potato through a piece of cloth, staining the once-white cotton with ash and soot. “But — what will we eat now?”
“Tomorrow we should reach Heian,” he said. “I’ve had a look at the map — Naniwa’s just across that bay from here.”
If he’d been flying alone, he’d have reached the Mikado’s capital by now, he was certain of it. But he’d noticed Nagomi dozing off in the saddle by the time the sun touched the horizon; he remembered how exhausting flying a dragon had been to him when he was younger. This was only Nagomi’s third time on dragon-back, after all — and they’d already been flying for several days. Despite her insistence on urgency, he’d decided to land for one last night.
He had chosen a small island, shaped like an ox, in the middle of the Inland Sea, somewhere between Honda and Iyo islands. There were fishing villages all over its western and northern coasts, but to the east, along the “ox’s” rump, the forest-covered hills rolled smoothly down to the sea, ending in a wide crescent of golden sand, shielded from the sea by an impassable reef of jagged rocks. They made camp under the trees overlooking the beach, in a spot so desolate and out of anyone’s way that Bran allowed them to start a large, roaring fire.
At Nagomi’s insistence they’d washed first their clothes, then themselves in a fast-flowing brook running down the mountain slope. The priestess was right — after days of flying through clouds and over the sea, their clothes needed a good wash, especially Bran’s Bataavian uniform, thickly-woven and unforgiving of the heat, drenched in salt and sweat. It now hung over the flames on the branches of a sprawling maple tree, next to Nagomi’s kimono and hakama skirt.
I was making such a fuss over being naked when we first bathed in a river, he thought. Maybe it’s because Satō’s not here… I would still feel strange around her.
He remembered the nightmare he’d had last night, and shook his head to make the image of the falling wizardess vanish from his mind.
“What are you going to do once we get there?” he asked. “To Heian, I mean.” They had finally caught up on each other’s news; now was the time to start thinking about the future.
“Find Sacchan, of course. Then, I have to reach the young Prince, somehow,” she replied and blew on the steaming potato.
“How were you planning to do that?”
She glanced at him. “I was thinking — we could just land in the palace? Can you do that?”
He laughed. “That shouldn’t be hard — unless they have some anti-dorako weapons there. But they will probably arrest us the moment we step into the palace…”
He wouldn’t tell her that he’d been sensing another dragon in the vicinity of Heian. With the two in Chinzei, and the third one in Kokura, this meant that most of the Gorllewin army was already in action over Yamato. Would they — or rather, the Taikun — attack the Mikado, though? Did the Fanged feel that strong already? Maybe it’s a show of force.
“It’s here after all, isn’t it,” he said.
“What is?”
“The war.”
She stared at him with frightened eyes.
“Everyone we’ve met was always talking about it ‘coming’ or ‘the darkness approaching’,” he said. “And now it’s happening, almost without anyone noticing.”
“Is it? It’s not like any war I’ve heard of in the stories…” she mused, staring into the fire. “Shouldn’t there be armies on the move? Great battles? Famous generals?”
“Who needs armies when you have dragons,” said Bran. “You saw what I did with the Ogasawara fleet on my own. And the Black Wings are so much stronger than Emrys… it took three normal dragons to stop one over Kiyō.” Did they manage to stop her? It didn’t seem like they were much of a match to that monster, even together…
“Then… what chance do we have?” She bit a nail on her forefinger. “And it’s not just the dorako… The Fanged — we barely defeated one of them… and those — Shadow creatures. Do you — do you think it’s already too late?”
There was no point lying. “I don’t know,” he said. “But, we’re still here — alive and well, against all odds; we’re about to meet with Satō and the rest of Chōfu’s wizards. My father’s in Kiyō, with two of his best riders — and that’s quite a force, let me tell you. Saga domain is bringing Master Tanaka’s machines to the rebellion. Even the Qin may be willing to help against the Fanged,” he added, remembering his conversation with Li. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll try, like we tried on Ganryūjima. What are your visions telling you?”
She rubbed her eyes. “Darkness and fire.”
“Well that’s not very encouraging,” he said, and smiled a wry smile.
“No. But there is always a light at the end,” she added wistfully. “Jade green light, just like the Prophecy said. I used to think it was your dorako.”
“And you think we’ll find it in Heian?”
“I hope so.”
She laid her head on his arm; a cascade of copper-red hair flowed down his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her. She stifled a yawn.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“Not yet,” she replied. “I want to stay like this. Look, the squid boats are out.”
She pointed towards the dark waters of the Inland Sea. The littoral was dotted with points of light, bobbing on the water: paper lanterns, tempting the schools of squid and calamari to the surface.
Moths in the air, squid in the water, men on the ground, he thought. We are all aiming for a light in the darkness. Even if it means our doom.
For a moment, the lights flickered, one by one, as if something was moving in front of them, faster and greater than any bird. Bran reached out with his mind; another dragon…? Not a Black Wing, that’s for sure… But it was too quick, and he was too sleepy to hold on to the vanishing Farlink. Once it disappeared in the night, he wasn’t even sure if what happened was real, or just a waking dream. I’m imagining things, he decided.
“Did you see that, too?” he whispered. Nagomi did not answer — she was already asleep.
The saw slid back and forth one last time, and the big pine plank dropped to the sawdust-covered grass. Samuel grabbed its one end, and a villager grabbed the other, and they shambled off towards the beach.
Like every able-bodied man in the village, Samuel was helping with the creation of the sloop. The fishermen knew their job, and despite the unfamiliar clinker design, the construction was progressing at a lightning pace under Nobelius’s watchful, skilled eye.
Samuel and the Yamato waded across the wet sand, and dropped the plank onto the pile next to the canvas tent that was the shipwrights’ workshop. The doctor sat on the pile to rest, and watch as a couple of carpenters worked a tall, slender beam of cypress wood. The beam tapered to a fine point, and as Samuel looked on, the chief carpenter made one final precise cut and ordered the others to back away.
“Nobe-sama!” he shouted.
Nobelius parted the tent flaps and looked out at the carpenters’ work. “Un,” he said with a nod, then waved his hands upwards and pointed towards the middle of the boat. The carpenters raised the beam and, following the grunts and gestures of the Varyagan, began to set it up in the middle of the hull.
“Oh, it’s a mast!” Samuel finally realised.
“Ja, Doktor,” said Nobelius. “Tva master in the boat. This is stormast.”
“You are doing well, considering the language barrier.”
“Ah, ja,” the Varyagan chuckled. “They are smart volk. Hey!” He waved his hands at the carpenters. “Ratt! Ratt!” He gestured to the right. The chief carpenter stepped away from the mast to assess the angle, and slipped on the wet boards. His foot wedged between the planks, and as the man fell forward, Samuel heard the sickening crack.
He rushed onto the boat to help the carpenter, who was gaspin
g in pain, holding on to his calf, but the other Yamato pushed the doctor away. “No, I’m a physician!” Samuel protested, trying to push through. “I can look at that leg!”
The other workers gathered around the commotion, and helped to carry the chief carpenter, carefully, out onto the sand. They stood in a tight circle around him, not letting Samuel, or any of the rest of the crew, near, until somebody brought the bamboo stretcher from the village.
The circle of villagers parted, and the porters carried the carpenter out, past Samuel, who only managed to catch a glimpse of the broken leg. He moved to follow them, but the other villagers formed a wall between him and the stretcher-bearers, crossing their arms before their chests.
“Leave it, Doktor,” said Nobelius. “You can’t go where they go.”
“Where are they taking him? He needs rest, and treatment. That leg wasn’t even in splints!”
“They’re taking him outside the village,” said Nobelius. “In morgon, he’ll be back, as god as new. I’ve seen it before.”
As good as new in the morning… Samuel remembered. Just like the longshoremen in Keeyo…
“I have to know where they’re going,” he said.
“Forget it.” Nobelius shook his grey head. “They would not even take the Amiral there, with his laegg.”
Samuel ignored him. The Varyagan, an engineer, may have been more concerned with his inventions than the mysteries of Yamato medicine — but this was Samuel’s specialty and passion, and he was not letting the chance get away. He smiled at the villagers before him. They smiled back. He nodded — they nodded back. He tried to walk around them — they stepped to the side, barring his way again.
“Ah, Amiral?” he asked, pointing to the big house where Otterson recuperated. The villagers murmured to each other, and then nodded in agreement. The wall opened. Samuel marched towards the big house, accompanied by two brawny, grim fishermen on each side. Glancing between the houses, he spotted the stretcher-bearers, leaving the village in a hurry down the only dirt road, across a low ridge of dunes.
He entered the house, leaving his “guardians” in front of the door. The Admiral was half-lying on the straw mats next to the crackling hearth, waiting for the water to boil in a big cast iron kettle hanging over the fire.
“Ah, Doktor!” Otterson beamed. “You’re just in time for tea. With something ekstra!” He waved the bottle of aquavit.
Samuel put his finger to his lips and tiptoed past him. He walked under a giant tail fin hanging on the wall and peered into the next room — it was a kitchen, empty save the two sunken cauldrons. “Back door?” he asked the Admiral.
Otterson grew serious. “Through the pantry. Out onto the vegetable patch.”
“Perfect. Keep them busy, if they come in,” Samuel said, nodding towards the door. He entered the pantry and crawled through the tiny back door. The vegetable garden was surrounded by a low earthen wall; beyond it, the bamboo grove rose tall and thick. Samuel leapt over the wall and hid among the bamboos.
From the gatehouse overlooking the monastery walls, Satō observed the troops passing below, marching out onto the streets of Heian. First came the armed vanguard, followed by the delegation of the high-born Mori retainers, in ceremonial robes, with Lord Kunishi out in front, bearing the petition in a golden box on a red silk pillow marked with the Mori crest. Behind them, other, lesser samurai, in groups of ten to twenty men, first Chōfu clans, then the allies; all this was followed by a large retinue of servants and porters — each of them wielding a hidden blade under their cloaks.
“This is nowhere near two thousand,” she remarked with a disappointed sigh.
“After the arrests at Terada-ya, we’re lucky to have even this lot,” said Shōin.
“And what about the other clans? I thought we had more allies.”
“The Taikun’s army is out in force. They fear leaving their estates undefended.”
“Even the Tosa?”
“There’s been no news from Tosa. We could not have waited for them any longer.”
A group of noble-born Kiheitai wizards marched under the gate, led by Takasugi.
“I’m not happy about having to leave you here with those peasants,” said Satō.
The Kiheitai force had been split in two. The commoner recruits remained in reserve at the monastery, under Shōin’s command. Lord Kunishi still did not trust their loyalty enough to have them marching at his rear — and they would not have been allowed into the palace grounds, in any case.
“They’re not all peasants, you know,” Shōin replied. “There are merchants, priests, even wrestlers…”
“I don’t care about them,” she ignored him. “It’s you we will need if it comes to a fight.”
“You know I’m no good in a battle,” Shōin replied. “And I still hope we can resolve this peacefully. Isn’t that why we’re doing things this way?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
At least that’s what I told you.
She’d found it surprisingly easy to convince Lord Kunishi to adopt her plan; the samurai had grown as fed up with waiting as she had. The confusion at the court had to be utilised to further their aims. They knew nothing about the new Mikado apart from his name, Prince Mutsuhito; but whether he would have been as radically anti-Taikun as his father, or just another puppet in Edo’s grip — that was still a mystery. For the moment, however, the palace was under the loose control of the regency council consisting of Kōmei’s old courtiers; and as long as that was the case, it was as if the former Mikado was still alive.
“Do you think Tokojiro delivered the message on time?” asked Shōin.
It doesn’t matter anymore, she thought. Master Izumi continued to urge for patience from his prison cell. The message they had ordered the interpreter to pass was clear: they were going to move on the palace regardless of his decision. They would wait until after Kōmei’s funeral, to avoid the crowds, but not a day longer. Master Izumi was free to do with that information whatever he wished.
“I’m sure he did,” she replied. “It will be fine, Shōin. You worry too much.”
His face was still the same grey shade of pale as last night, the skin on his hands thin and wrinkled, as if an old man’s. But then, they were all tired — of waiting, of marching, of preparations — and the real struggle hadn’t even started yet. Maybe it won’t. Maybe Shōin’s right, and we won’t have to fight after all… All we need is a bit of luck.
But then she remembered the real enemy. The courtiers, the retainers, the Mikado, even the Taikun, were nothing but pawns in the real game. She grasped the hilt of her sword. There will be no peace in Yamato as long as even one of these Abominations walks the Earth.
“I have to go down there,” she said. “Remember the signals?”
“Yes. Red flare means the plan worked. Purple means it failed, and you’re coming back. Blue — you’re fighting and need our help,” he recited.
“You forgot the white.”
“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “But I don’t believe it will be necessary.”
The procession moved excruciatingly slowly through the city. Lord Kunishi insisted on maintaining a proper etiquette, especially since great crowds emerged onto the streets to see what was going on. The people of Heian were used to parades of court nobles, or arrivals of messengers from Edo — but a column of armed retainers of a subject clan marching towards the palace was most unusual. Nothing of the sort had happened in nearly three hundred years. On every major crossroads, the marching Chōfu samurai had to wait for the vanguard to clear the throngs of curious bystanders. There was no way for the convoy to move any quicker, and there was nothing left for Satō to do but be on the lookout for ambush — and admire the sights.
The sky was a dazzling, impeccable blue, with not a cloud in sight; the noonday sun battered her face with the heat of a blacksmith’s furnace. The paper fan in Satō’s hand offered only a little respite. The column stopped by the grand stairs of the great Kiyomizu Temple: ev
eryone lined up to splash their faces for luck with cold water springing from the sacred source at the shrine of Benzaiten. They then turned west, towards the bridge which spanned the Tokaido Highway across the Kamogawa River. Here, the procession joined the streams of travellers and pilgrims flowing both to and from Edo. At least the road itself became wide and straight and, at Satō’s urging, Lord Kunishi picked up the pace. She was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole plan.
“How will Shōin manage to reach us?” she asked Takasugi, marching beside her in the second row of the procession. “It will take him hours to get through those crowds.”
“He doesn’t have to use the main roads,” he replied. “I saw him studying the map of the city last night. He’ll find a way. You should put more trust in your husband,” he added.
They turned again, onto a broad avenue lined with dozens of magnificent temples and residences of the rich nobles, and for the moment Satō forgot about her worries, awed by the splendour and beauty of the city around her. But Shōin’s words from Inari resounded in the back of her mind and, despite herself, she started noticing signs of deterioration: gold leaf peeling off the pillars, loose tiles on the roofs, expensive materials replaced by cheaper surrogates. The closer they got to the palace gates, and further from the grandeur of the suburban estates, the worse condition the buildings seemed to be in. It was almost as if the vicinity of the court exuded decay upon its surroundings. When they passed the first burnt-out shell of a house, abandoned to the elements as the owners moved to a cheaper part of the city, her heart sunk.
He was right, she thought. This place is dying.
The vanguard stopped abruptly. The palace gates were within sight, but still a few blocks away. Between them and the head of the Chōfu column appeared a group of some twenty swordsmen, wearing the light blue uniforms of the “new squad”. They stood casually, with swords over their shoulders, some chewing straws or smoking pipes. Their commander, a man with a broken nose and a crooked smile, stepped out front.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, twirling his sword.
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 22