Chapter 26
Kaneko
Iexpected Sakurai, not a knock at my door.
It was close to midnight, and I was already dressed in black—but this knock was different, soft and uncertain.
I slid the door open to find a young girl, perhaps fourteen, her face painted in the style of a courtesan-in-training.
I recognized her from the common area—one of the newer acquisitions, still learning the basics.
“Kaneko-san,” she whispered, bowing. “Sakurai-san sent me. He has an errand and cannot come for your lesson tonight.”
An errand?
That could mean anything. A mission, intelligence to report, another target to eliminate, another courtesan to train for Momoko.
Hells, he could have taken a rare moment to do something for himself, though I doubted that.
He’d never shown the slightest interest in amusing himself beyond the erotic nature of his work in the house.
“Thank you,” I said.
The girl bowed again and scurried away, clearly uncomfortable with whatever task had brought her to my door at midnight.
I stood in my doorway, considering, wondering when I last had an entire evening to myself. I couldn’t simply return to bed and waste this opportunity, this moment of faux freedom.
Then Sakurai’s voice echoed in my mind: Practice whenever possible.
And I did need practice. Desperately.
My last attempt with the shuriken had been abysmal—missing the target more often than hitting it. The deadly stars now lay hidden beneath my extra clothing, waiting for me to return to my training.
Tonight, I would practice alone. I would test myself without Sakurai’s watchful presence, learn if I could truly do this work on my own—but the throwing stars would remain behind while I tested myself against the shadows of Bara.
The city spread before me—a painting of midnight with smears of yellow where lanterns still burned.
I moved with purpose, not exploring but training, choosing a route across rooftops—one Sakurai had shown me—and ran it three times, each time trying to move faster while maintaining silence.
On my third run, I made it across without a single sound.
“Progress,” I muttered.
Bored of the repetitive drill, I found a merchant’s compound and circled it from above, studying the guards’ patterns, timing their movements, and identifying the gaps in their patrol. If I’d been sent to infiltrate their location, I would need to know everything, see everything.
But this was practice, not intrusion. I didn’t enter, not tonight, but I could have. I knew it with the certainty of the faithful. That knowledge itself was valuable.
I also practiced listening, crouching on rooftops near taverns and teahouses where the young traded sleep for drink and companionship.
Most of what I heard was mundane—complaints about taxes, gossip about neighbors, crude jokes between drunk men.
I strained to separate meaningful conversation from background noise.
But once, I caught fragments of two men discussed shipments.
One mentioned “avoiding the northern routes” and “damned rebels.” The other whispered about attacks on rice convoys he’d heard whispered among other traders.
Rice was commerce. In some places, it served as currency more than coins.
An attack on a convoy ferrying grain was unheard of, unthinkable.
I committed the conversation to memory, word for word, to report to Sakurai.
This was the work. This was what I was supposed to do. And I was doing it. Alone. Successfully. That brought a flare of satisfaction. I was no longer useless, no longer helpless. I was becoming what they needed me to be. I was making a difference.
The men moved on, so I crept toward the warehouse district next, testing different approaches, learning the layout of buildings while cataloging which had guards and which didn’t.
Before I realized where my path had led, I found myself near the docks. The smell hit me first—salt and fish and tar—familiar smells from another life.
I paused on a rooftop, orienting myself.
The harbor spread below, ships rocking gently at anchor.
And beyond that—
The slave market.
I should turn back, should avoid this place and the memories it holds.
But something pulled me forward. I needed to see it, to prove to myself I had moved beyond it, that I was more than the terrified boy who had stood on that platform and waited for others to decide his fate. So I crossed to a rooftop overlooking the square.
The platform stood empty in the cloudy night, little more than wooden boards and benches. The stage appeared so innocent, giving no hint of the horror it supported in the light of day.
I lay there, stretched on my stomach, staring down at the place where I had been sold, where Momoko had purchased me, where my life had changed forever.
I soaked in the setting, allowing its horror—and the quiet of night—to wash over me.
I remained there until stars peeked through the clouds, and my ribs ached from the discomfort of lying too long on rough tiles. Only then, did I rise to—
Voices.
Below, in the square. Two men clung to shadows at the far edge.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
I forced myself to control my breathing as Sakurai had taught me, to become part of the rooftop.
The men spoke in hushed, urgent tones.
I strained to hear.
“. . . certain it will work?” One voice sounded very nervous.
“The craftsman . . . the bolts are . . . added poison . . . sure . . .” The second voice dropped too low. I missed the words.
Bolts? Crossbow bolts.
My heart rate spiked. This was not idle conversation. This was planning. A conspiracy.
“. . . the Prince?” The first man again.
Prince?
Gods. This was it. This was real. Some kind of attack or . . . an assassination plot.
But against which prince?
There were only a few princes, but the Imperial family was large. A plot to take out a royal could mean death to any number of people. I needed to know more, to know who.
And when? And where?
I scooted forward, careful to remain well away from the roof’s edge.
“. . . won’t know until it’s too late. The angle will be . . . thick woods . . . mountain pass . . .”
Frustration burned through me as the wind carried their words away. I was so close, right there by chance, and I couldn’t hear the details.
Think. What did I know?
Crossbow bolts. That meant distance, but not that of a longbow.
An archer’s position. Somewhere elevated?
A rooftop? A tower? But they said thick woods and something about a mountain pass.
That could be anywhere. The whole damned mainland was covered in woods and mountains. Hells, all the islands were.
And a prince. But which prince?
The way they said it—casual, with no name—suggested they’d discussed this before, that they both knew who they meant.
Haru was now the second prince, behind his oldest brother, Kioshi, the Crown Prince.
For most of Haru’s life, he’d been third in line to the Jade Throne, but his second brother had died of some disease a few years earlier, advancing Haru’s claim to the throne despite his complete lack of desire to rule.
He spent more time dicing and drinking than serving a useful purpose inside the palace.
Killing him might send a message, but it would do little to impact the Emperor or any plans he might have to battle the rebels.
That left Kioshi and his younger brother Taiyo.
Taiyo was only six years old. I couldn’t imagine anyone—even Asami Eiko—targeting a child, but the Akira weren’t known for acting rationally. Rational people didn’t try to overthrow the Son of Heaven, after all.
Everything I’d heard pointed to the Crown Prince, but I had heard Kioshi was away from Bara, traveling somewhere at the behest of his father. If an assassination was planned in the city . . .
Haru. Oh, gods, it had to be Haru.
He was here. He was visible. He wasn’t shy about moving about in public and visited the House of Petals regularly. He would be leaving for Temple Suwa soon—traveling and vulnerable. North or south, wherever the road took him, there would be mountain passes and dense woods.
But I didn’t know anything, not for certain. I was guessing, making assumptions.
Sakurai always said, “Assumptions get people killed.”
But what was I supposed to do with fragments? How could I warn anyone when I barely knew what I’d heard? Was this truly what spying was like, pieces of shattered pottery whose pattern was impossible to see, even when stuck back together?
The men below started to cross the square toward an alley.
I should follow, should try to get closer, should try to hear more.
But that wasn’t my job, not in that moment.
I was only there to practice, to hone my skills at lurking in the shadows, then get back to the House of Petals without anyone noticing I’d ever left.
Sakurai would likely be angry that I’d left without him.
Following shadowy figures around the capital by myself was too far outside my mandate to consider.
I waited until the men vanished, one stage left of the auction block, the other stage right, then pushed myself up and picked my way from rooftop to rooftop until the park spread out below me.
My mind spun as I sat on the rooftop that only a few nights earlier had been so difficult to scale, the one where Sakurai had stood and encouraged me to climb—seven times.
It felt strange, sitting there on the edge, staring down at the park, the House of Petals on the opposite end.
The building looked like a ruby set in a band of verdant silk.
Bitterness suddenly welled within, at my captivity, at my slavery, at how, without Haru’s intervention, I would now be forced to lie with men who disgusted me.
And yet, I couldn’t deny another odd sense as I peered down at the fluttering banners draped from the house’s eaves.
In a strange way, this gilded prison had become my home, given me purpose, pointed me in a direction and offered me ways to serve that I might never have found without .
. . without the mistress purchasing me like a slab of meat on a butcher’s shelf.
But sulking in the darkness wouldn’t change anything. I needed to get back inside and get some rest. Sakurai would return with more trials, and I needed to be sharp. The path he offered was unusual, but it offered the clearest way out of my captivity I could see.
I pressed my hands to the tiles to push myself up and—
Movement.
Something shifted in the trees below, drawing my eye.
A figure emerged, clinging to the shadows, lurking from tree to tree as it approached the House of Petals.
A man? I was fairly certain. He moved with purpose. With feline grace.
I watched, entranced, frozen on the rooftop.
Was this another conspirator? Someone bent on breaking into the madame’s home?
My home?
One of the house Samurai walked his lazy circle about the house, his eyes roaming the darkness without really seeing much. The intruder crouched, hidden behind a large boulder, and waited for the guard to pass.
I should get inside, warn the guard, do something.
But I sat frozen, unable to move, unable to look away.
Clouds obscured the moon. The park fell into deeper darkness. I could see only the silhouette of the man still ducked behind the rock.
Then the clouds shifted. And a sliver of moonlight broke through. It touched his face.
He looked up, his gaze drawn by the brightening sky—toward my position.
My breath stopped.
It couldn’t be.
No!
The man’s face was gaunt and scarred, weathered by hardship into something barely recognizable. His body was lean to the point of emaciation, muscles standing out like rope beneath skin.
But I knew him.
I knew the shape of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. I knew the way he stood—exhausted but refusing to fall.
He looked around the boulder, then he turned back and looked up. He squinted and shielded his eyes. I could feel when it happened.
Recognition flared in his face.
Shock followed by disbelief.
His mouth opened, one word slipping free, echoing throughout the park.
“Kaneko?”