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

by James Calbraith

  At the end of the red line was silence. She felt a tingling of another mind nearby. She called out Bran’s name. The words did not come out of her mouth, but reverberated through the darkness from every direction at once. Something stirred: a waking presence. The darkness lit up with a crimson glow.

  Nagomi? Is that you? Bran’s voice boomed from a distance.

  “Yes, it’s me!” she replied. The two sound waves met and mingled around the priestess. It was difficult to make out the words at first — it was like listening to two people shouting at each other inside a cave.

  “I can hear your voice in my mind, like Shigemasa’s. How are you doing this?”

  “It’s a spell I learned from Torishi-sama.”

  “Is he here? In Naniwa?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’s coming soon ...”

  “He may be too late to find us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “In a few days we’re moving against the castle.”

  “You’re going to rescue Sacchan!”

  The glow around her turned a warm, bright yellow: the colour of the summer sun.

  I’m inside his mind, she remembered and felt shame at peering so deep into his inner thoughts.

  “I’ve arranged everything with Takasugi. And whether we succeed or not, we’ll have to flee this city, too.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she sent a firm thought.

  The pause, while it lasted, seemed to take hours. When Bran’s answer finally came, she knew it had only been a few seconds.

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. You’re safe at the shrine.”

  “You know I have to. The sole reason I came here was to find Satō.”

  There was another pause, shorter this time. The glow turned red again.

  “Is this a safe way to communicate?”

  “Safe? In what way?” Now that he asked this question, she remembered Torishi’s warning. The humming was growing nearer and louder.

  “The Grey Hoods can sense me if I use the Farlink to reach the Otherworld,” he answered.

  “I don’t think anyone can spy on us here. But the Shadows—”

  “The Shadows are here?” The glow turned a cold, dark purple. Is this his fear? “Then you must go.”

  “No, Bran, I don’t want to—”

  “You have no idea what they’re capable of.” She felt herself pushed away by an unseen force. “I will send for you when we decide on a date for the assault.”

  “Bran! Don’t—”

  The portal threw her back out into the room. The golden button fell to the floor and rolled on its axis.

  At night, against the starry sky, the immense donjon tower of the Naniwa Castle resembled a mountain even more. Beyond the many layers of brightly lit whitewashed ramparts, the dark shadow rose in five tapering layers, black upon black, with only a few dim lanterns aflame at the topmost floor.

  Several dozens of armed guards patrolled the perimeter in groups of four, but other than that, both the main courtyard and the keep itself remained quiet.

  “See, I told you,” said a voice speaking out of the pitch darkness underneath the mulberry tree growing atop a raised causeway from which they watched the castle. The kiheitai scout was invisible in his black cloak, into which had been imbued a rudimentary glamour charm — not enough to fool a trained eye, but more than sufficient to conceal the scout under cover of night. “The castle is unmanned. There’s barely a skeleton crew on the walls.”

  “Just as I thought,” said Bran. “They don’t see us as a threat anymore.”

  “It’s still madness,” replied Takasugi, shaking his head. The two of them also bore the imbued cloaks. The spell was one of many found in the notes Takasugi had found on Shōin’s body. “This is the mightiest castle in Yamato. The first Taikun besieged it for two years with his entire army.”

  “The first Taikun didn’t have a dragon,” said Bran, a slight boast in his voice. “Besides, we don’t want to capture the castle — just get Satō out. It’s a quick operation.”

  “Are you really sure she’s here?”

  “Of course — can’t you see it?”

  Bran handed him the Bataavian spyglass. Takasugi strained his eyes. The foreigner had been trying to teach him the secret of the True Sight for the past couple of weeks, with mixed results.

  “I see ... many strands of magic,” he said. “Too many to tell. Red and purple, gold and silver ...”

  “The silver ones are the same I sensed in Heian,” the Westerner explained. “At the pool of frozen water. The dark red mist swirling around is Blood Magic. They’re there, all right.”

  “And ... Takashima-sama?”

  “There is the potential of Western magic around the castle. It’s either her, or another powerful Rangaku. Reason enough to strike.”

  “If we fail here — if your plan doesn’t work ...” Takasugi hesitated. “Are you ready to die for her, Gaikokujin?”

  The night lay heavy with his silence.

  “Are you?” Bran replied at last. “Chōfu will need you and your men. You should be thinking of getting back to your domain, rather than wasting your time here.”

  “I am capable of keeping track of two plans at the same time,” Takasugi said. “Takashima-sama is one of us. The strongest — now that Shōin—” He choked. “We mustn’t leave her in the hands of the enemy.”

  “We should be going,” the scout remarked. “The spell will expire soon — and it’s a long way back to Sakai.”

  “Have you seen enough?” Takasugi asked Bran.

  “No. But we won’t see anything more tonight.”

  They reached an old, abandoned shrine marking the entrance to Sakai, a district of tea merchants on the southern outskirts of Naniwa. By night, it was an illicit gambling house, filled with the bawdy chants of winners and the curses wailed by the losers. Two guides in common garbs waited in the shadows of the shattered gate.

  “All set, then?” said Bran.

  “Yes. I will give out orders to my men. Expect my signal as planned.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  With this, the foreigner followed one of the guides into a dark alleyway. Takasugi gulped, and whispered a quick prayer for his safety. He still couldn’t bring himself to trust the men who were responsible for finding the accommodations for the kiheitai officers: each night, a different safe house; a different secret room at a different inn — a gambling den, or a massage parlour. Takasugi’s kimono stank of Cursed Weed smoke and saké lees.

  He felt disgust at the thought of having to rely on the help of these bakuto — gamblers, smugglers and peddlers of illicit goods who controlled Naniwa’s nightlife. But there was no other choice — only they could conceal an entire regiment of fugitives out of sight of the Taikun’s troops, in the very shadow of the mighty Naniwa Castle.

  Following his silent guide, Takasugi reached a dilapidated warehouse overlooking a murky canal, too shallow and overgrown to be used for transport anymore.

  “Top floor, yah?” said the guide. He moved aside a rotten board, revealing a hole in the warehouse’s wall — the main door was fallen in and the locks rusted solid. “Tha’ stuff’s already there.”

  Takasugi climbed a rickety ladder to the loft. It smelled of rat droppings, mould, and rotting tea leaves. He suppressed a sneeze. At least the mattress was dry, as was the chest in which he found his collection of papers and documents. A single tallow candle stood in the corner, emitting more stench than light. He drew a fire rune in its waxy flesh, and the flame grew brighter.

  He wiped a swathe of the floor clean from debris and rubbish, and spread out a map. Roughly drawn, it covered the entire capital district, from Sakai to the mountains north of Heian and the shores of the great Biwa Lake. He then read through the reports from the spies and scouts, marking the positions of allies and enemies on the chart with igo tokens.

  Despite the disaster at Heian, the rebels were far from beaten. In fact, the entire countryside was ablaze with
insurgent activity, keeping the Aizu army busy rounding up pockets of resistance around the mountain villages and swamplands of the hinterland.

  Having finished with the map, Takasugi carefully picked up another bundle of papers — Shōin’s notes. He found the place where he had last finished deciphering the tiny, dense writing, and continued from there. The chapters had long since moved from magical theory to more abstract matters of society, class, and economy. Despite himself, Takasugi was drawn into these musings with great curiosity.

  He heard a rustle downstairs. He blew out the candle, and his hand clenched on the short sword. In the darkness, he had to rely on his newly acquired True Sight. On the floor below he spotted the faint, flame-like radiance of a human soul. The intruder moved about blindly, in silence, until his hands touched the ladder. Takasugi drew the sword by the length of a thumb.

  “Hirobumi-sama,” the man below spoke in a kind, but forceful voice. “I do not possess your gifts. Please bring the light back.”

  Takasugi breathed a sigh of relief, sheathed the blade, and flicked the candle aflame.

  “Koyata-sama!” he said, after helping the policeman up the ladder. “I must say, it’s rather disconcerting how you can always find me in these hideouts. I thought we weren’t supposed to know where each other is dwelling.”

  “Somebody has to play the messenger,” said Koyata. “Don’t worry, the bakuto tell me only as much as I need to know.”

  Takasugi scoffed. “We put too much trust in these ... ruffians.”

  “We talked about it before, Hiro-sama. These eta, these — low-castes — are all we can count on in these dire circumstances. You know Yoshida-sama would have agreed with me.”

  “Pah.” Takasugi crumpled the piece of paper in his hand. “I never should have let you read these writings. Now you throw Shōin’s words back at me.”

  “It only works because you believe he was right.”

  “I’m not convinced yet. These ideas ...” He put the notes back in the chest. “No one but a commoner’s son could think them up. I’m a noble. It’s difficult for me to overcome my—”

  “Prejudices?” Koyata added helpfully.

  “Breeding,” Takasugi replied with a scowl. “Something you wouldn’t … I’m sorry.” He wiped his brow. “This is uncounted for. It’s this heat getting to me. This stuffy storehouse ... I miss the sea breeze.”

  “That is something I can’t help you with yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Still no news of the ships, then?”

  Koyata shook his head. “I believe it’s time to start thinking of an alternative way back.”

  “We will never pass through the Ikeda lands undetected — and there’s too few of us to fight our way through.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Koyata smiled. “When was the last time you made a count of all the allies who have joined your cause since Heian?”

  “There can’t be more than a few hundred disgruntled rōnin, and—” Takasugi started, but as his mind inadvertently summed up the numbers from the reports he’d read earlier that night, his eyes widened. He reached for the map and his notes. “Five hundred holed up in Sagano ... a hundred around Kohama ... a thousand — no, two thousand ... and then some! But that’s even more than we started with! Why have I not seen it before?”

  “You’ve let your despair blind you,” said Koyata.

  Takasugi leaned back against the mouldy wall and ran the numbers in his head again. “I don’t understand. Why is this happening? We’ve lost. We were routed, slaughtered.”

  “But you fought — you alone took a stand in support of the Mikado’s decree.” Koyata stretched and yawned. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my brief career in Heian, it’s that the people here loathe the Taikun, and all his clansmen. They still haven’t forgiven him for moving the capital to the north. They’ve been waiting for a chance to fight back for centuries.” He pointed at Takasugi’s chest. “And you’ve downed a dorako.”

  Takasugi pushed the papers away. “It doesn’t matter. Three hundred or three thousand ... As soon as we all gathered in one place, we’d be routed again. And when the Black Wing returns — and return it will—” He reached for the water flask and took a gulp. He winced and spat — the water was lukewarm and stank of mud. “Last thing I need is a bout of the runs,” he said. “Do me a favour and bring me some saké next time, will you? And some good news about the ships.”

  Koyata reached into his sleeve and produced a small, flat clay flask. “Here. It’s warm, but it won’t make you sick.”

  With a focused effort, Takasugi drew an ice rune on the flask. It fizzled out. “I can’t even do that. Kuso. I bring shame to the Meirinkan.” He uncorked the vessel and gulped down the warm liquid.

  “You still haven’t asked me why I came here,” said Koyata.

  “You mean this isn’t just a friendly visit?” Takasugi chuckled.

  “I passed through the Sumiyoshi Shrine on the way here.”

  Takasugi sat up. “You spoke to Itō-sama, then? How is she?”

  “Safe, and well-rested ... But I think Heian still haunts her. She told me ... she told me to tell you she knows about your plans, and awaits a signal to join you.” The doshin paused and looked Takasugi deep in the eyes. “What are your plans, Hirobumi-sama?”

  “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,” th
e 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.”