… the distance …
.… a brood of six, gathered on the body of a dead beggar. Her siblings scattering like lotusflies at the sound of approaching boots. She looked up from her meat, glittering black eyes, fur and whiskers slick with blood. Squealing in anger.
Soldiers. Polarized goggles. Naked steel. And her belly wasn’t even full.
A split-toed boot descended toward her head …
“The rats,” Hana breathed. “Oh shit…”
She looked to Yoshi, his eyes losing focus, growing wide as they met hers.
“Shit’s about the size of it.”
“There’s at least a dozen…”
“Out back maybe. Look in front.”
“What is it?” Jurou asked, glancing between the pair.
“Bushimen.” Yoshi pulled himself to his feet, wincing in pain. “Lots of them.”
“Who says they’re after us?”
“You fixing to wait and find out?”
Daken slipped out through the tiny window, darting across the eaves below and crawling up a downspout onto the roof. Jurou disappeared into their bedroom, returning with four bulging satchels of what could only be coin slung over his shoulders. No time for questions—Hana grabbed Akihito by the hand, and the four were slipping out the door without a backward glance.
Yoshi took the lead, bloody hand pressed to his side, the other on the iron-thrower at the small of his back. Jurou brought up the rear, Akihito second, Hana stumbling between them, eyelid fluttering as she rode Daken’s sight. They avoided the stairwell, padding to the broad rice-paper window at the end of the hall. Yoshi tugged at the swollen wood, and the window gave way with a rust-red groan, opening out onto the three-story drop between the ramshackle tenements. The sun’s scarlet glare was sharp on the cobbles and gutter below, shockingly bright.
Hana crawled out first, clinging to a corroded downspout. She scrambled down spider-quick, Yoshi close behind. Slinging one leg over the sill, Akihito hauled himself out of the window, grasping the pipe with hands as broad as dinner plates. He descended using only his upper-body strength, his good leg scrabbling against the brick. Jurou had more trouble, slipping and cursing his way down the spout, doubled over like a monkey and shimmying down the last twelve feet.
Yoshi gave a soft wolf whistle, whispered up at the other boy.
“Fine view down here. But you might want to up with the hurry.”
“Shut up, you’ll make me fall.”
“I’ll catch you, Princess.”
Jurou managed to scramble low enough to drop to the ground, hitting the concrete and rolling to his feet with something approaching flair. Yoshi gave a small round of applause, pulled his kerchief up over his grin. Upstairs, they heard heavy boots in the stairwell, followed by splintering wood and angry shouts.
“Time to go.” Hana pulled on her goggles.
“Doubtless.”
Yoshi slipped down the exhaust-choked alley on the tips of his toes, the others following close behind. Hana reached out to the nearby corpse-rats again, mind awash with rich gutter-scent and maddening flea-itch. She could still sense a few rogues in the drains out front, but the pack at the building’s flank had scattered when the guards approached. Too few eyes. Too few breaths. Fright drawing her stomach tight, her gums chalk-dry, lips sticking to her teeth.
The quartet stole eastward along one crud-ridden alley, Akihito’s hand wrapped in hers. She glanced at the big man. His face was cold and hard, his kusarigama clutched in one fist, blade glinting in the scorching light.
Her voice was a whisper. “Do you think they’re—”
“Daken seeing anything, Hana?” Yoshi glanced over his shoulder.
“He’s up top.” Hana scanned the rooftops, voice cracking. “The way out front is no good, we’ll have to—”
Yoshi and the bushiman rounded the corner simultaneously, ran straight into each other at almost full tilt. Yoshi’s face bounced off the soldier’s breastplate and he staggered back, hand to nose, cursing up a storm. The bushiman fumbled for his naginata—a long spear with a three-foot blade—bringing the weapon to bear and adopting a front-foot battle stance.
“Halt in the Daimyo’s name!”
Yoshi blinked away tears, the red knuckles he wiped across his nose coming away bloodier. The bushiman was clad in scarlet and black iron, tigers embroidered on his tabard in gold thread. His jaw was set, stance fierce, naginata’s blade glittering and death-sharp.
“Against the wall!” A bark of command. “Now!”
“Corpsefucker, I think you broke my nose…”
“I have him!” the bushiman yelled over his shoulder. “He’s here!”
Hana heard the heavy drum of approaching boots. Metal on metal. Shrill whistles. More soldiers on the way, corpse-rats fleeing into the drains as the bushi’ thundered across the cracking concrete, beggars and lotusfiends scattering.
The bushi’ fixed his glare on Akihito, blade leveled at the big man’s chest.