“He’s an old man?”
“Been in the Guild longer than I’ve been breathing, if rumor is true. Hard to tell beneath the suit, I know.”
Yukiko twisted to her feet and peered over the railing, one hand blotting out the sinking sun. Mountains loomed among a growling monsoon on the far horizon: the enormous spine of storm-tossed rock stretching across the north of Shima known as the Iishi ranges. Black spires rose up out of a carpet of scarlet, spear points tipped in white, dazzling snow. The Iishi were the last true stretch of wilderness in all Shima; haunted, if the tales were true, by the restless dead and demons from the deep hells. It was said in the old legends that when the Maker God, Lord Izanagi, had sought the Yomi underworld to reclaim his dead bride, he’d found the gateway in the Iishi. The lands of Yukiko’s birth lay in the western foothills: the once lush and beautiful countryside of the Kitsune zaibatsu, now reduced to a vast lotus field scarred by stretches of smoking, dead earth.
She squinted, barely making out the fire blazing at the jagged feet of one of the mightiest eastern crags. Pulling off her goggles, she frowned at the layer of grime and smoke smudged across the lenses.
“The official story is always the same,” Yamagata said. “Natural fire, nothing unusual about it. Certainly not started by human hands. To even suggest it is to invite trouble.”
“So the Guild lies.” She spat onto the glass, rubbing with the hem of her uwagi.
“You can’t blame them.” Yamagata scowled over his spyglass. “If they acknowledge that an organized group is incinerating lotus fields, they’d be admitting that they’re incapable of protecting their own property—a show of weakness. A loss of face.”
“But that’s just stupid! Everyone up there knows the Kagé exist.”
“People up there don’t matter.”
Yukiko blinked at him, taken aback.
“Farmers. Peasants.” Yamagata waved his hand dismissively. “The Guildsmen don’t care about their whispers, their lives. They care about the Shōgun, the Kazumitsu Elite and their grip over the army. They care about face. Weakness is not something most will admit to. Least of all them. So much rides on perception, the power in appearances. The Guild and the Shōgun’s forces are like an old, bitter couple, locked together in a marriage they detest. If either side ever thought they could seize power entirely for themselves, well . . .” The captain shrugged. “And in the meantime, the radio broadcasts mention nothing of the Kagé, and more and more crops get burned.”
“The old village women used to say the Kagé were wicked kami who delighted in fire. But you speak of them like they’re men.”
“Oh, they’re men,” Yamagata snorted. “Flesh and blood, no fear of that. Who knows why the bastards do it? Disenfranchised farmers out for revenge. Lunatics with nothing better to do. I heard one rumor that they’re a group of gaijin trying to destabilize the Guild, weaken the war effort. White ants, chewing at the country’s foundations. Damn savages.”
“Then the fire at the refinery last week . . .”
“You heard the wireless. The Guild investigators said it was an accident. Believe that if you like.” The captain lowered his spyglass, offered it to the girl as he replaced his goggles. “All I know is that they’re costing the Guild a lot of money. Rumor has it they’ve started transmitting their own radio broadcasts now. Alternating frequencies, every weeksend. A pirate signal the Guild can’t control.”
Yukiko closed one eye and peered through the whirring glass, storm clouds and mountains leaping into focus and swaying with the motion of the ship. Steadying herself with one hand against the railing, she focused on a large field of lotus. Seething tongues of fire were spreading out among the swaying fronds, scarlet blooms blackening in the heat. The tiny figures of desperate farmers were running to and fro, spraying black water with hand pumps in a vain attempt to save the crop. The blaze stretched forth greedy hands, spurred onward by the scorching summer heat. She could see the terror and anguish; men risking their lives for the sake of a poisonous weed, stubbornly trying to hold their ground as Fūjin, God of Winds, drove the flames like terrified horses before the whip. It was obvious that the men could do nothing. The fire would run its course. Yet still they fought, watching their livelihoods go up in smoke before tear-filled eyes.
Yukiko lowered the telescope, feeling a terrible weight in her breast. She thought of the lives ruined, the children who would go unclothed and unfed because their parents had lost everything. Joining the faceless mob in one of the great cities, eking out a living in squalor and dust, choking on chi fumes as their lips slowly turned black.