What was he still doing here?
He stopped amidst the crush, people pushing past into a broad, cobbled space. He realized he’d wandered to the Market Square, following the tide without thought. Gawpers and fanatics. Beggars and streetwalkers. One or two bushimen amidst the mob. And up ahead, in the sunken mall surrounded by four looming chunks of blackened stone, there they stood. Four Guildsmen in tabards of the Purifier Sect, the pristine white stained ugly gray. Black rain beaded on burnished brass, the horrid, blood-red eyes aglow, scorch marks smudged about the flame-spitters at their wrists.
Yoshi pulled his hat over his eyes, toxins dripping from the brim in a treacle waterfall. A Purifier stepped forward, hands held aloft. He spoke in a voice like dying lotusflies; a snatch of scripture from the Book of Ten Thousand Days: “Soiled by Yomi’s filth,
The taint of the Underworld,
Izanagi wept.
Seeking Purity,
The Way of the Cleansing Rite,
The Maker God bathed.
And from these waters,
Were begat Sun, Moon and Storm.
Walk Purity’s Way.”
A few hoarse cries went up from the mob, a few fists raised. The crowd swelled, threatening to knock Yoshi off his feet. Desperate faces and desperate stares—the wax-paper look of people running on no sleep, no food, families starving and children weeping. Refugees from the northern fronts, shell-shocked faces hidden behind dirty kerchiefs. Neo-chōnin merchants who’d lost their fortunes in the unrest. All of them drawn to this place like moths to flame—this one semblance of order remaining from better days.
Even if it was the worst those days had to offer.
A second Purifier unfurled a scroll, rice-paper stained by filth-spattered skies.
“By order of the First Bloom of the Lotus Guild, the Purifier Sect is charged with purging the taint of yōkai in Shima’s bloodstream. The corruption of the spirit world, the poison of beasts in the minds of men, the stain of Impurity. As always, at this weeksend Purification, a one and two-thirds measure of chi and five iron kouka shall be granted any loyal citizen who walks the path of righteousness and brings forth any Impure for judgment upon the Altar of Purity.”
The Guildsman rolled up his scroll, peered into the crowd with bloody eyes.
“Are there any who would lay accusation?”
“I do!”
A graveled bellow from the crowd. The sea parted before a burly man, a stalking tiger inked down his right arm, three linked rings of the merchant guild on his left. In one muscular arm, the man held another fellow, head lolling, barely keeping his feet.
“What is your name, citizen?” demanded the Guildsman.
“Tora Watari, a humble merchant. I run the Geisha House on Arena Boulevard.”
“Come forward and be heard at this Altar!”
The merchant pushed past the gawkers, dragging the second fellow with him. Yoshi could see the man was elderly—long gray hair in bedraggled knots, skin cracked from a life beneath the red sun.
The merchant stopped before the sunken mall, cast a steady gaze about the Burning Stones. The Purifiers looked up at him, eyes aglow, merciless and insectoid.
“The cleansing of the Impure is our most sacred duty, commanded in the Book of Ten Thousand Days by the Maker God himself. But you should know, citizen, any bearing false witness against their fellows will take their place upon the Altar. To pervert this sacred right with slander is to pervert the will of the Maker God himself. You understand this?”
“I do,” the merchant nodded.
“Then level your claim.”
“This bastard,” the merchant shook the old man, “moved into Arena Boulevard a few nights ago. A flute slinger who busked on corners. I thought little of it. But then I heard from my girls that he made the corpse-rats dance for the gutter-waifs’ amusement. I saw this with my own eyes. The vermin moved to his music, standing on their hind legs as if they were people. And when one child asked how he did it, the old man said it was a gift from the gods.”
“Blasphemer!” cried one of the mob.
“Burn him!” went the cry.
Yoshi shook his head. All the shit this world was in. All the chaos right outside those walls. Gaijin armies poised to wipe the lands clean. People set to fight and die against an army of iron and black smoke. And these fools waste time with this madness?
“Still yourselves, citizens!” The Purifier’s shout drowned out the screeches. “Claim is leveled. Bring him forward, brothers, that we may know the truth of it.”