The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (12 page)

“It’s nothing that would concern you,” the wizard replied. “The less people know about it, the better. I just want her to be safe.”

How did Nagomi find out about the planned attack?
Takasugi pinched the tip of his nose in thought.
Did Bran tell her? But how — they shouldn’t have been able to meet these last couple of days ... There’s no way the foreigner could sneak into the Sumiyoshi Shrine — and she was not supposed to leave ...

Koyata seemed sceptical. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You’re still a youth, Hirobumi-
sama
.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“At your age you might let emotions cloud your reason.”

“I am the chief strategist of the
kiheitai,
” Takasugi replied. “And you’d do well to remember this,
doshin.
”

Koyata smirked. Outside, a couple of cicadas chirped aloud, the first before the dawn. The
doshin
stretched again. “Is it that time already? I better go.” He stood up. “I trust I can bring you some better news next time.”

“It would be most welcome.”

Takasugi helped the other man to the ladder and they exchanged farewells, but his mind was elsewhere.

Come to think of it,
his thoughts raced, Itō-
sama never explained how she found Bran after Chōfu. Do they have some secret way of communicating?

His fist clenched on his knee.

Damn that barbarian. Was Takashima-
sama
not enough for him?

Bran followed his
bakuto
guide away from the lanterns of Sakai. Across a dried-out riverbed and through the mud-caked rice paddies, they ventured further and further off into the empty, quiet countryside. Unlike the rest of the
kiheitai,
Bran had no need for a safe house — and there was no safe place in the town for a foreigner on the run.

The mud at his feet shimmered and undulated as he walked, disturbed by the
tarian
shield. He was now in the habit of having it around him all the time, even in the presence of supposedly trusted men. They reached a raised embankment overlooking a narrow irrigation canal. Beyond it, bathed in the silvery haze of the August moonshine, stretched a featureless plain of rice fields, dotted with what Bran assumed were young bamboo and cedar groves.

The guide dropped to the ground, pulling Bran with him. The boy looked carefully over the embankment. Some fifty yards away, along the top of a levee, a man walked, or rather swayed and staggered, putting a gourd to his lips from time to time.

“It’s just some drunkard,” Bran whispered.

The guide picked up a small stone and cast it over the embankment. It splashed into a puddle behind the man on the levee. In an instant, he froze rigid, watchful, hand on sword.

“There ain’t no drunks ’ere at this hour,” the guide said in that singing-lilting dialect that the locals were so proud of, and slid down the embankment into the shadow. “We’ll have to wait ’ill ’e’s gone.”

Bran lay flat in the warm mud, in the darkness filled with the croaking of a million frogs hungry for each other’s company. After several long minutes passed, he climbed over again. “The field’s empty,” he said.

The guide nodded, and slowly, they picked themselves up from the ground. “Haa-ah!” he chuckled, as they climbed down the other side of the embankment.

“What’s so funny?” Bran asked.

“I jus’ never thought I’d ever meet somebody of a lower caste than me.”

Bran didn’t understand at first. “Me? I’m not a low caste, I’m the son of an officer.”

“That may be, but it ain’t counting for naught in Yamato, yah? ’Ere, even I, a lowly
eta,
could kill thee with impunity. Tha’re worse than a criminal.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“Nah, tha wouldn’t.” He chuckled again, and stopped. “That’s fa’ ’nough.”

They were standing on a low mound, by a moss-covered statue of
Butsu
, next to a rotten, ruined shrine box. About a mile off loomed a darker straight line of a forest.

“Tha’ll know thee way from ’ere, yah?”

Bran nodded. He could clearly sense Emrys, sleeping in a glade in the woods.

“Why are you people helping us?” he asked.

The guide, with his back already turned, stopped. His ears twitched like a dog’s. He scratched the back of his head.

“We know ’ow this ends,” he replied.

“You — you do?” Bran stuttered. “But not even the shrine Scryers know that.”
Not even Nagomi
. “Do you have soothsayers of your own?”

“No.” The guide chuckled again. “But we ’ave summat be’er.”

The man faced Bran again. His eyes glinted silver in the light of the moon, making him look almost like a Faer Folk.

“We are the dung gatherers, and the kitchen maids, the gravediggers and the flesh peddlers,” he continued, a proud streak rising in his voice. “We follow t’armies in their wake, and we eavesdrop on the generals. We sleep on the roofs, and live in the gu’ers. Tha’ve ’eard of the
shinobi,
mas’er spies and assassins, yah
?
It is they
who come to
us
for news. We ’ear and know all there is ta know in Yamato.” He bowed, mockingly, and stepped backwards, down the slope, vanishing into the shadows. “And we always choose the winning side.”

CHAPTER VIII

It’s that dream again.

A soft glow illuminated the dusty plain.

Behind Satō rose a tall spire of gleaming white marble, splotched with stains of dark rusty red. Before her, at some distance, a stone staircase climbed out of the dust, its summit disappearing into darkness. The shadow creatures she’d seen earlier swarmed on and around the staircase, slithering over each other in a struggle to reach the top.

Two silhouettes appeared on the horizon. They approached Satō in shimmering, sliding flashes. They were the two samurai from before, the tall, charcoal-black one and the one in the old Western armour and ruff collar.

“Glad you’ve managed to find the time to visit us again, Queen of Shadows,” said the Yamato samurai. Last time she’d seen him, he’d asked her to call him the Fool. “We missed you.”

“Stop calling me that,” she replied. “My name is Takashima Satō. I have no idea who this Queen is.”

“Of course, whatever you wish, Your Majesty.” He bowed with a mocking smile.

She scowled. “What
are
these things?”

“You know, I’m not sure myself. I thought you’d know.”

“Why … why me?”

“Because they only came after you’d opened the passage.”

The passage …?

“He means the sacrifice spell,” the black samurai spoke for the first time. He had a heavy, staccato accent. As he came closer, Satō noticed that it was only the dim light of this world that had made his skin seem black — it was more a polished bronze, like the skin of a roasted chestnut, or mahogany wood. A massive, Qin-style halberd was slung over his back.

“What kind of
yōkai
are you?” she asked.

“I’m not a
yōkai,
” he answered indignantly. “I’m a man, like you or him.” He pointed at the Fool. “Well, more like you. I don’t know what
he
is.”

“I’ve never seen a man like you before.”

“And I’d never seen men like your people before the Vasconians brought me here.”

“Brought you? From where?”

He shrugged. “Half a world away. Doesn’t matter now. All I remember is the name of my village, Yasu.”

“And that’s why I’ve always called him
Yasu,
” added the Fool, with the air of a patient teacher. “Or My Bodyguard. Or ‘Hey, You.’ Actually, I don’t call him that much. He’s sort of always around.”

Satō chuckled, despite herself. The Fool was true to his name, adding all sorts of comical poses and gestures to his words. Meanwhile, ‘Yasu’ stood morbidly serious, observing the antics of his companion — or master? — with tedium.

“They came from over the mountains,” said the Fool. He pointed towards a line of white on the horizon. “To answer your next question.”

“What did — oh.”
I wasn’t going to ask that.
“I didn’t think there would be mountains here.”

“Well, not here, in the twilight lands,” the Fool agreed. “This is the abode of the living, and there’s nothing here but the mind towers, or whatever you’d call these things.” He looked up at Satō’s spire. “There’s something wrong with yours, by the way.”

She turned and saw the rusty splotches growing and joining, covering now more than a third of the white marble surface.

“I don’t know what’s doing this,” she said. “I don’t understand any of it. Wait — you said abode of the living … Does this mean the Shadows come from the land of the Dead?”

“I told you, you’ve opened them a passage,” said the Fool. “Didn’t I tell her that yet?”

“You did,
tono,
” Yasu replied. “But you didn’t explain what that meant.”

“Oh, right. Well. What else could it mean? They were there, beyond the impassable Mountains of Time … Now they’re here, clamouring to reach the top of the stair. What do you call it if not opening a passage? Or a gate, I suppose. Not
The Gate,
mind you. That’s up there.” He nodded at the stone staircase. “You didn’t think there would be
no
price to pay for what you did? It isn’t called a sacrifice spell for nothing.”

“A price …” She put a hand to her forehead.
He’s talking too fast. I want to wake up.

“And for a silly thing like that!” He kept on babbling. “You know, there were lords that gave away their entire castles for the right to use that spell to save their loved ones … And you bought a
leg.
A
Gaikokujin’s
leg, too — that’s, like, half a leg, really.”

“You mean what I did to save Bran!” She finally realized. “I brought on the Shadows … because of that?”

The Fool glanced at Yasu. “She’s catching on fast, isn’t she?” He rolled his eyes. “Of course, the Renegade did most of the work there. You were just a vessel. But we can’t have the Renegade be the King of Shadows, can we? Who knows what he would tell them to do.”

“I can tell them what to do?” It was difficult to make sense of everything the Fool was saying. The words flowed fast from his mouth, interspersed with chuckles, ‘hmms’, ‘oohs’ and ‘aaahs’ in a disjointed cacophony of human sounds.

“I think so. Why else would they have bowed to you?” He looked at the Shadows and rubbed his chin. “Hmm, can’t seem to pay much attention to you now, though. These stairs draw them in too strongly. And I
think
there’s a bit less of them than there used to be. Hey, You, what do you think?”

“You’re right,
tono,
” replied Yasu. “Especially since the
Obon
incident.”

“What’s at the top of the stair?” she asked.

“Why don’t you go and see?” He wriggled his eyebrows.

“But the Shadows …?”

“How many times … they won’t hurt you. Go on, try.”

He nudged her in the direction of the staircase. The Shadows slithered out of her way, clearing a path. She started climbing — the stairs were wet, soft, and slimy, just as she remembered. They were taller than she remembered, though. The stairs tapered, leaving just enough place for her feet near the summit. The Shadows here had to drop away and hit the dirt below with a sickening splatter. The red glow gave way to darkness, with only a ray of silver light coming from above.

She reached the summit and entered a narrow black tunnel. Its far end was enclosed with a glowing sheet of silvery metal. She pushed it with her hand — it yielded like stretched leather. She knew she could break through it with ease and then all the Shadows lined up behind her would pour out through this gate.

Why would I want to do that?

“Do you remember last summer, back in Gwynedd?” Bran asked. “We thought it was hot
then
.”

Emrys snorted. The dragon was tired and sleepy. Heralded by the awakening of the cicadas, the dawn crept over the rolling ridge rising to the north-east, and with it, the relentless, dazzling sun. The straight trunks of the cedar and bamboo grove Bran had made camp in would scarcely be enough protection from its rays. The moisture in the air made it impossible to escape the heat.

Bran climbed underneath a canvas canopy spread over the branches of a young cedar and lay down on the grass. At least the morning dew gave his burned back and shoulders some respite. It would do nothing for the thick-scaled dragon. Emrys licked his snout and snorted again. Its wings were spread wide across the glade, steaming hot to touch, lazy tail swaying from side to side in a wafting motion. The dragon was definitely not in the mood for anything as wearisome as flying.

And the hot season had only just started.

How much more of this did Takasugi say? Six weeks? How can anyone get anything done in this weather?

He rolled on his side, yawned, and closed his eyes. It was hard enough to fall asleep in the stuffy heat. Worrying about Satō didn’t help.