Smoke in the Sun

by Renee Ahdieh

  She laughed softly. “You weren’t brought here. You came here, hurling accusations and destroying things like a lovesick fool.”

  The images swirling through Kenshin’s mind came into sharp focus. The last thing he recalled with absolute clarity was this: the maiko Yumi revealing that he—Hattori Kenshin, the Dragon of Kai—had been the one responsible for the attempt on the emperor’s life. At her words, his thoughts had gone blank. Wrath had barreled up his throat, protests forming on his tongue. And then something had ripped across his vision. A weight had lodged between his eyes, the pain sharp and intense.

  It was as though his mind had been split in two.

  The pressure on his skull had become unbearable. Like water passing through a crack in a dam. How could he have been the one to commit such an act of treason? How was this possible? It wasn’t. It was all a lie. One carefully constructed to distract him from learning how Yumi had snuck into his chamber. What she was doing on the imperial grounds, dressed as a boy, bearing a forbidden weapon.

  It had all been too much for him in that moment. Kenshin had fallen to the floor and lost consciousness. He remembered nothing after that.

  “Are you ready to return to the castle?” Kirin asked. “Prince Raiden has voiced his concern for you. We sent word with respect to your whereabouts.” She paused. “My lady delivered a message to your sister yesterday.”

  Kenshin shook his head. “I am not going back to the castle. I’m going home.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” The girl crossed her arms, again the portrait of impudence.

  “Excuse me?” Kenshin sputtered.

  “No one can travel past the outer gates of the city. Not with all the rioting there.”

  Kenshin pressed his hands to his temples and blinked hard. “I know nothing of what you’re saying.”

  “Right. Because you were so drunk.” Kirin nodded. “The districts along the outskirts of the city have been overrun by looters. They appear to be afflicted by a strange plague. The emperor has cordoned off the innermost parts of Inako in order to prevent the unrest from spreading to the castle, so we are safe in Hanami. For now.” She sighed. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to assist with your departure. I am still amazed that my lady allowed you to remain here, much less in her own home, after the manner in which you treated her.”

  Kenshin stared blankly at the girl.

  “You don’t even recall that?” The girl sniffed. “You accused my mistress of treason, in front of five high-ranking advisors to the emperor. I must say, they all found your story quite amusing. They even offered you drinks afterward.” Irritation creased her brow. “Until you began throwing things, that is. Now that you are recovered, my lady wishes you safe travels on your way home.” She bowed at him smartly. Cheekily.

  The gaps in Kenshin’s memory struggled to settle, like blurred lines on a hot summer’s day. But his mind had failed him on more than one occasion of late. It had left him weak. Vulnerable. He bristled against the idea. Kenshin was a samurai of great renown. Warriors of his ilk knew better than to let their emotions dictate their actions. He would marshal his irritation with this rude maidservant, so that he would not lose the chance to confront her mistress again. He had not forgotten how Yumi had knocked him off his feet with less effort than it took to swat a fly. Only a studied combatant possessed those kind of skills, and the maiko would be unlikely to disclose who had trained her. Not without some … convincing.

  “Is your mistress here now?” Kenshin tried.

  Kirin nodded once. “But she has no intention of seeing you.” Another knowing smile. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

  His legs wobbled from disuse when Kenshin stood. He offered the girl a halfhearted bow. “Please convey my regret to your mistress. My behavior was inexcusable. It shall not happen again.”

  The maidservant tilted her head in amused disbelief. “I’ve heard that before.” With a snicker, Kirin left his freshly cleaned garments in a pile by his feet.

  As Kenshin dressed, he considered how best to confront Yumi. The welt on his shoulder had turned the shade of an eggplant. Though Kenshin did not want to admit it, it frightened him to know that he might have done something else he could not recall. That he could still be acting beyond his own control.

  When Kenshin slid open the silk-screened doors, he found Kirin waiting outside with his weapons. She led him to the main gate, making sure never once to leave him alone. With a curt bow, she passed him his swords and led him onto a side street of Hanami, bolting the gate behind him once he’d left.

  Kenshin stood outside the stacked stone wall. Considered his next course of action. It was still early in the afternoon. Hanami’s tree-lined lanes would not be filled with patrons for many hours.

  He made a decision.

  If Yumi did not want to see him in her home ever again, he would just have to wait until she came outside.

  The sun had just begun its descent when Yumi finally ventured past the gate of her okiya. Kenshin watched her from behind the branches of a gingko tree, like an unsavory outlaw picking his next mark. He made no moves as the maiko gazed about her, her grey eyes vigilant. The kimono she’d chosen for the outing was simple, her hair styled in a plain fashion. Though she took pains to draw a length of pale silk over her head to conceal her features, her beauty could not be missed. She moved from the side street onto a larger thoroughfare nearby, her zori clacking in an easy rhythm.

  Kenshin followed her at a distance, pausing now and then to ensure Yumi would not suspect anyone of trailing her. The crowds Kenshin had hoped would aid him in this endeavor were much thinner than he’d expected, as though a spate of bad weather had descended on the city. But the sky above was clear, the setting sun glorious, a balmy wind wafting through the cherry trees. Earlier today, Kirin had warned him of riots in the farthest reaches of the city. Perhaps this was why there were so few people milling about the streets of Hanami. From Kenshin’s perspective, he did not sense any signs of a threat close by.

  Perhaps the cheeky maidservant had been lying.

  Yumi continued moving swiftly toward the main thoroughfare of Hanami. Again Kenshin was surprised by how few people loitered along the route. Many of the little shops were closed. Some had been boarded shut. It struck him as highly unusual, as did the strange air hovering about the space. It felt akin to fear.

  This troubling sentiment did not stop men from looking at Yumi with covetous glances. A part of Kenshin disliked the way their eyes followed her every motion. As though her beauty were a thing to be consumed.

  Strings of papered lanterns were being lit in front of the most stalwart vendors, the ones determined to go about their business, despite the tinge of malice in the air. Hanami was meant to be a place of excess. On normal afternoons, the wares sold along these lanes offered evidence of this: delicate candy of spun sugar, stalls of vibrant dyes imported from the east, porcelain jars of nightingale cream and finely milled pearl powder.

  But many of these vendors had chosen not to open their stalls today.

  When Yumi paused at a merchant selling stacks of fine paper, Kenshin ducked into a small shop across the way, specializing in scented oils. One of only three shops welcoming customers along this particular street, out of more than twenty. He’d not been there but a moment when a strange wailing began emanating from outside. Followed by the splintering of wood and the shattering of porcelain. Several lanterns hanging in front of the oil shop started to sway. Kenshin watched two patrons along the road turn around, their eyes going wide, their features gathering with confusion.

  Then the wailing turned to screams.

  Yumi stepped outside the paper shop just as Kenshin made his way into the street.

  Their eyes met.

  She did not seem surprised to see him there.

  But now was not the time for them to react. Less than a quarter league from where they stood, chaos had begun to take shape. People fled as items were tossed through the air,
smashing the wooden stalls on contact. The shapes of those responsible for the destruction were indistinct. Silhouetted by the setting sun. When Kenshin squinted, it looked as though a group of lurching figures was set on destroying everything in sight.

  If these were the looters Kirin had mentioned earlier, it was clear they’d managed to break the barriers protecting the innermost portion of the imperial city. But still he did not feel immediate cause for concern. These looters moved about as though they were drunk. And there did not seem to be that many of them.

  Why had the imperial troops failed to cut them down where they stood? It did not make sense. A single battalion should have been enough to quash the efforts of these ravagers.

  When an elderly man tried to prevent one of the looters from decimating an abandoned stall, a lurching figure whipped out a sword and silenced him without warning or explanation. Angered by the looter’s inexplicable cruelty, Kenshin stepped before the man, the setting sun momentarily blinding him, though his right hand grasped the hilt of his katana.

  “Stand down,” Kenshin demanded.

  The lurching figure shifted into focus.

  What Kenshin saw next caused the blood to drain from his face. The man’s features were filthy. Distorted. He looked as though he were caught in a perpetual scream. The outline of a crest was visible on the front of the man’s armor, but it was too covered in blood and dirt to discern which noble family he served.

  The man—this looter—was a samurai.

  And he was obviously not of his right mind.

  The crazed warrior barreled toward Kenshin, his eyes filled with terror and his sword angled above his head. When Kenshin moved to disarm him, another mute creature flung herself closer, her bloodied fingers scratching through the air. Kenshin shoved her into a wooden wall, which splintered from the impact. The stench of her fetid breath washed over him, nearly causing him to be sick. Behind her followed a pack of barely human … things. Maniacal demons. They said nothing while they destroyed everything in sight. The wizened vendor of the oil stall shoved a rusted blade into the samurai’s gut. The creature screamed, blood flowing from his stomach as he writhed on the ground, his strength starting to fade as the light fled his eyes.

  So the demons could bleed. They could be injured, which meant some part of them still lived. But they were not whole. Something was fiercely wrong with their minds.

  Kenshin had never witnessed mayhem before. He’d only heard of it in passing. This kind of mayhem wasn’t like battle. In battle you knew who to fight. You knew how to win, where to go. What to do. In a battle of honor—a battle between true samurai—there were no innocent bystanders. Bushidō did not permit it.

  Up until this point, the chaos had unfurled slowly. Now it spiked to a feverish pitch. People ran every which way, their screams rending through the air as the lurching creatures—these poor souls bereft of their own minds—continued obliterating everything in their path. Kenshin flung shattered objects aside and unsheathed his blades. A part of him did not wish to cut down a creature in the throes of madness. He, too, had been guilty of losing his mind more than once in recent memory.

  From the corner of his eye, Kenshin saw Yumi struggle with one of them—a man wearing mud-caked armor emblazoned with the crest of the Sugiura clan. The maiko ducked the fallen samurai’s attempts to silence her, but he appeared to possess inhuman strength. The only weapon she brandished was a small dagger. Against folded steel.

  Kenshin dodged a wooden sign as it flew through the air. He came up to Yumi’s side just in time to parry a downward blow.

  “Get out of here,” he demanded to Yumi.

  “I don’t need your help, Hattori Kenshin.”

  Kenshin kicked the crazed warrior square in the chest, sending him careening backward into the stall of fine paper. Colorful pages flew everywhere, like leaves caught in a storm. Taking advantage of this distraction, Kenshin grabbed Yumi by the wrist and ran. They flew around one corner, then two, and still Kenshin did not stop. He kept the point of his sword angled downward, ready to engage in combat at any moment.

  When he attempted to turn right, Yumi jerked his arm to the left. “This way.”

  Kenshin did not question her. They continued to fly across the packed earth. The length of silk Yumi had wrapped around her head blew into Kenshin’s face, disorienting him.

  He did not see her twist around to knock him off his feet until it was too late.

  When Kenshin came to, he almost laughed. The knot on his head throbbed. His wrists were bound at his back. He sat in a darkened space that smelled of hay and dried dung. A horse stall from the look of it.

  The point of the knife in his back did not surprise him. In truth, Kenshin hoped for precisely this outcome when he first set out to follow Yumi. He’d wanted her to lead him into a trap, so that he could meet face-to-face with the warrior who’d trained her. Kenshin had suspicions as to her teacher’s identity.

  And now it would finally be revealed.

  “You have my attention, Lord Kenshin,” a male voice growled from behind him. “What is it you want?”

  “You’ve been busy, Lord Ranmaru,” Kenshin shot back. “Especially for a boy who recently escaped the claws of death.”

  Laughter emanated nearby as a wooden gate slid open. Yumi crossed toward them, a smile curling up one side of her face.

  “Let the fierce Dragon of Kai go,” she said. “After all, he did rescue me.”

  “Then I suppose my thanks are in order,” the gruff voice replied.

  Kenshin could hear the boy’s amusement. The sound infuriated him. After Kenshin had assisted him that night beneath the castle—against his better judgment—this foul boy thought it wise to taunt him?

  Insolent swine.

  As soon as Kenshin’s bonds were cut, he staggered to his feet. Yumi waved her small blade beneath his chin as a warning. His nostrils flaring, the Dragon of Kai whirled around to come face-to-face with …

  … a boy who was not the son of Takeda Shingen.

  “Where is Takeda Ranmaru?” Kenshin demanded, looking about. “Where is the leader of the Black Clan?”

  The boy standing before him with the broad forehead and toothsome grin crossed his arms. Bowed with a flourish. “I’d like to make a deal with you. I will bring you the leader of the Black Clan.” He paused as if in consideration. “In chains, if you like.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “You will send for your sister. She and I have important matters to discuss.”

  Kenshin glowered at him. “Who the hell do you—”

  “Tell Mariko the nightbeast needs to see her. Now.”

  Unmoored

  Mariko leapt from the jinrikisha, still garbed in her court finery, her feet flying as they raced toward Yumi’s okiya.

  A message had been delivered to Prince Raiden earlier this evening. Hattori Kenshin’s condition had worsened following his drunken altercation in Hanami.

  The beast of night had overtaken him.

  It had been the work of an instant for Mariko to understand the message’s hidden meaning. Immediately she’d asked Raiden to allow her to leave the castle so she might tend to her brother’s needs, but her new husband had advised against it. Though the imperial troops had managed to keep the districts nearest to the city center free of looters, he did not think it wise to test their bounds. Only this morning, he’d admitted to Mariko that his brother’s warriors functioned without direction. Absent the wisdom of a leader at their back.

  It appeared nothing could drive the emperor to take action on behalf of his people. Not even the threat of losing the imperial city. The death of Roku’s mother had taken a heavy toll on him. Any protections put in place over the last few days had all been installed at the quiet behest of Raiden. And he would be unlikely to receive praise for it from his brother. Roku was still furious that Raiden had failed to apprehend Takeda Ranmaru. Even more furious that they were now confined to the castle, delaying the possibility of his vengean
ce even further. Mariko knew—at any instant—that the emperor could fly into an inexplicable rage. Lash out at anyone without reason.

  But it was worth the risk of going to Hanami against her husband’s advice.

  Tsuneoki—the beast of night—was waiting at the teahouse to speak with her.

  After Raiden had forbidden her from leaving the castle grounds, Mariko had gone to see his mother. Mariko had relayed the sad tale of Kenshin’s recent misfortune, and Kanako had agreed to help her. Indeed she’d almost delighted in the chance to subvert the wishes of her son. With an easy smile, Kanako had led Mariko to an enchanted maru and shown her how to enter and exit the castle grounds without being noticed. She’d warned Mariko to return soon. Before Raiden realized his wife had gone missing.

  Mariko rapped her knuckles against the gate of Yumi’s okiya. As soon as her fist touched the wood, Kirin slid open the bolt to allow Mariko entrance.

  “Where is he?” she asked the maidservant without preamble. She dropped her voice. “Where is the nightbeast?”

  Kirin bowed. “Please come with me, my lady.”

  Mariko removed her zori, and they glided through a courtyard lit on all four corners by hanging lanterns fashioned of hammered copper, toward the sliding doors leading to Yumi’s personal bedchamber.

  The moment she heard his gentle laughter, Mariko raced toward Tsuneoki and threw her arms around his neck. As soon as she’d done so, her face turned hot. She tried to pull away—after all, warriors did not show their emotions in such an exuberant manner—but Tsuneoki laughed again and held her tightly.

  “Why did you come to Inako?” she asked him in an urgent whisper. “Every imperial guard in the city will be on the lookout for you. If you are caught, the emperor will—”

  “I’ve heard.” Tsuneoki grinned. “He will set fire to all I love and force me to watch as he murders my grandmother, my sister, my aunts, my cousins, anyone I hold dear.”

  Yumi arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should not be so flippant with a threat against my life.”