The safe house was an unassuming building, crammed between two warehouses, close to the towering sky-spires. Kuro Street was narrow, stubborn weeds struggling through the cracks into a life of suffocating exhaust. Boarded windows. Street courtesans beneath paper parasols stained gray by the toxic rain. Gutters overflowing with garbage, lotus fiends and blacklung beggars—just another stretch of Docktown real estate to any without eyes to see the truth of it.
No One nodded to one of the Kagé lookouts (a twelve-year-old girl inexplicably named “Butcher,” who had the most astonishingly foul mouth she’d ever heard) and walked up to the safe house’s narrow facade. Knocking four times, waiting until a thin elderly woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark cloth, silver hair in a single braid, mouth covered by a black kerchief. Her back bent, fingers worn, old lines deepened by hardship at the corners of her eyes.
“Gray Wolf.” No One bowed.
The old woman motioned with her head. “Come in.”
They walked past a narrow dining area, descending creaking stairs into a dingy cellar. The walls had been knocked out, connecting the basements of the neighboring buildings into one large room, multiple stairwells leading up into the adjacent structures. An impressive collection of radio equipment was arranged on a long table, maps of Kigen on the walls. A young woman with sleepy eyes was bent over the rig, at work with a soldering iron. A few others were scattered around the room, falling still as she entered. The biggest of them—a towering lump of muscle with shovel-broad hands—regarded her with an even stare.
“Who’s this?”
“Our friend in the palace,” Gray Wolf said. “Now come and say hello, you rude sod. You’re not so big I can’t take to you with the wooden spoon.”
The man smiled, and favoring his right leg, limped over and offered a bow. He stood a good foot taller than No One. Strong jaw, thick neck, cheeks that hadn’t felt a razor’s touch in weeks. His right shoulder was tattooed with a beautiful phoenix, his left with the Imperial Sun (she’d learned quickly that city operatives didn’t burn off their ink). He had a handsome face framed by tight braids, hard eyes ringed in shadow. A kusarigama hung from his obi, the sickle blade almost hidden by the folds of his grubby trousers.
“No One,” Gray Wolf said. “We call this unshaven lump the Huntsman.”
No One bowed. “Forgive my rudeness, but I have news.”
The Gray Wolf’s matronly smile evaporated. “What is it, child?”
“The Fushicho clanlords have thrown in with Lord Hiro. They will attend his wedding, and almost certainly support him as Shōgun. The Ryu are apparently set to roll over and ask to have their bellies scratched too.”
Gray Wolf sighed, shook her head. “So easily. I had hoped…”
“Their oaths bind them to the Kazumitsu,” the big man said. “If the dynasty lives, so does their obligation. But without the wedding, there’s no way in hells the Dragons would bow to someone like Hiro. Their army is huge. And the Phoenix hate bowing to anyone.”
“The Kitsune still have not answered. Perhaps the Foxes will choose—”
“Forgiveness, please,” No One interrupted. “But there is more. The Second Bloom was speaking of a wedding gift for Lord Hiro. An inspection tour in Jukai province.”
The Huntsman raised one eyebrow. “What kind of gift?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re building something? A weapon?”
Gray Wolf turned to one of the men by the radio rig. “Sparrow, send word to the Iishi. Ask if the Stormdancer’s Guildsman knows anything about this business.”
“How’s Michi?” the Huntsman asked. “Have you spoken to her?”
“Still under house arrest. All of Aisha’s maidservants are. Lord Hiro has appointed his cousin as Lord Magistrate, a man named Ichizo. He’s questioning the girls personally.”
“At least she’s out of Kigen jail,” the big man sighed. “I told her not to go back there…”
“She said she couldn’t abandon—”
… beware …
Daken’s thoughts flared in the Kenning, dulled with distance, sharp with urgency. She could feel him prowling rooftops to the north, caught a glimpse of the jagged skyline through his eyes, the sun just beginning to crest the horizon as a cruel stink drifted in off the bay.
What’s wrong?
… men coming iron clothes many …
Soldiers?
… yes …
“Gods.” No One glanced around the room, palms sweating. “We have to go.”
“What?” Gray Wolf frowned. “What do you—”
“There are bushimen coming. Lots of them. We have to get out of here. Now.”
“I didn’t hear any lookout sig—”
A brief whistle sounded in the streets above, two notes, faint and sharp. The signal was repeated, closer, drifting down the narrow stairwell.
“Dawn raid…” the old woman whispered.
It seemed to No One the next moment stretched for an age. Gray Wolf and the Huntsman exchanging glances. Faces paling ever so slightly, eyes growing wide. Daken’s urgent thoughts pressing on her own—the image of bushimen in blood-red tabards pouring through the alleyways toward the safe house. And all at once, everyone in the basement was moving; snatching up weapons and radio equipment, tearing maps from walls. The Huntsman grabbed No One’s arm, looked her hard in the eye.
“Were you followed?”
“Of course not!”
“Are you certain?”