Entering the Housen Grounds

The iron chain around my wrists had nine heavy links, and none of them gave when the sergeant drove his boot between my shoulder blades.

I went down on the wet flagstones inside the gate. The stone tasted of old river mud and sulfur, cold enough to numb my lips before I could push myself up. Behind me, the iron portcullis dropped with a dull, shuddering groan that rattled the perimeter wall. Four Meisho conscripts stood outside the iron bars, holding their polearms at a rigid slant, their rain cloaks dripping into the canal moat that separated the outer cordon from the Housen Grounds.

"Two paces back from the threshold, deserter," Souta called from the raised observation walkway.

He leaned against the wooden rail, his oiled officer cloak pinned with the silver fan of the Meisho Supply Directorate. He was smiling down at me. It was the pleasant, tidy smile he wore whenever he signed a requisition that sent somebody else to starve in a trench.

"The gate is locked," I said, getting my boots under me. The mud sucked at my worn leather soles. "You can take the cuffs off."

"In a minute, Kiyomi. Procedure first." Souta drew a bamboo cylinder from his belt, shook out a rolled scroll, and tapped it against the rail. "By order of the High Directorate of Meisho, your sentence for abandonment of duty at the Seta Redoubt is hereby commuted to perpetual occupancy. You will hold the western perimeter of the Housen estate. You will harvest the required core quota every fourteen days. You will not step past the outer canal after the fourth bell of dusk."

He tossed a heavy brass key ring through the bars. It clattered against the stone by my knee.

"If I step past the canal?" I asked.

"Then the ward snaps, the Shigai drowns the district, and the archers on the south battery put six iron quarrels through your throat before you reach the market road." Souta tied the scroll back into its case with precise, delicate motions. "Your predecessor lasted twenty-two days. Try to beat the record. It reflects poorly on my requisition budget when we have to process replacements twice in a month."

He nodded to the guard beside the winch. The locking pins slid into place with an oily thud. Souta turned his back and walked toward the covered stairs leading to the cordon barracks, his escort falling in behind him without a word.

I picked up the key ring. The brass was pitted with corrosion from the mist. It took three tries to work the small key into the wrist cuffs because the tumbler had rusted, but the spring finally gave with a sharp pop. I rubbed the red grooves where the iron had pressed against the bone, rolled my shoulders, and looked at the courtyard.

The Housen Grounds sprawled across five tiers of rising stone terraces, backed against the sheer black basalt cliffs of the southern gorge. Once, three hundred years ago, it had been the country manor of a high minister. Now the cedar eaves sagged under the weight of wet black moss. Half the tiled roofs had caved into the floorboards below, leaving jagged wooden ribs exposed to the gray drizzle. Weeds with thick, fleshy leaves pushed through every crack in the flagstones, their stems bruised with the sickly purple stain of the Shigai rot.

The air smelled of damp mold, bitter vinegar, and old iron.

"You are standing in the kill lane."

The voice came from the shadow of the central gatehouse. It was low, dry, and entirely flat.

I looked up. A man stood on the stone landing above the courtyard steps, resting one hand on the pommel of a sheathed service blade. He wore the dark navy uniform tunic of the Meisho garrison, but the insignia had been stripped from the collar, leaving four pale stitch marks where the rank cords used to sit. His dark hair was pulled back into a severe warrior knot, not a strand out of place despite the damp wind coming off the gorge. His jaw was set with the rigid discipline of someone who had spent his youth drilling in the capital yard.

"I just got through the door," I said.

"The gate line is thirty paces wide," he said. He did not move from the landing. "The Shigai drifts from the gorge at sunset. If a Shimi crosses the canal, this courtyard funnels it straight to where you are standing."

"Good to know," I said. "Where do I put my pack?"

He looked at the small canvas satchel the conscripts had tossed after me. It held three days of dried barley cakes, a dull skinning knife, and a spare pair of socks.

"You are Kiyomi," he said.

"I am."

"The deserter from the Third Siege Regiment."

"The paperwork is very thorough," I said. "They even spelled my name right on the warrant."

He stepped down from the landing, his boots striking the flagstones with a measured, even cadence. He stopped four paces away. He was taller than me by half a head, his shoulders broad and set with the heavy posture of an infantryman who had trained with a long spear. The silver ring on his right thumb caught the pale light.

"I am Naoto," he said.

"The second occupant."

"The senior occupant," he corrected. His tone was as cold as the canal water. "I have held this perimeter for eight months. The ward holds because I maintain the routines. If you follow orders, you might survive until the next supply drop."

"I am very good at surviving," I said. "It was why they had to drag me here in chains instead of carrying me in a pine box."

His expression did not shift. He looked at me the way an officer looks at a cracked wagon wheel on a muddy road—something broken, inconvenient, and bound to fail at the worst possible moment.

"The eastern wing is mine," Naoto said. "The central hall is common ground for supply sorting and core surrender. The western wing is yours. Do not cross the central corridor after dark. Do not light a fire on the upper balconies. Do not touch the harvested cores in the central drying racks."

"Is that all?"

"No," he said. "If you panic during a breach, stay inside your room. Do not run into my sector. If you get in my line of sight while I am engaging a Shimi, I will cut through you to take the core."

"A charming neighbor," I muttered.

"This is not a settlement," he said, turning toward the central hall. "It is a tomb with an open gate. Go find your quarters before the light fails."

He walked away without looking back to see if I followed.

I watched his back until the heavy oak doors of the main hall swung shut behind him. The latch clicked into place with a crisp, well-oiled snap. At least one person here had grease for hinges.

I picked up my canvas satchel, slung the strap across my chest, and turned toward the western wing.

The western gallery was in far worse shape than the central pavilion. The covered walkway had collapsed in two places, forcing me to climb over piles of rotting cedar beams and shattered roof tiles slippery with slime. The stone drainage ditch along the foundation was choked with dead reeds and gray sludge, backing up water into the crawlspace beneath the floors.

I paused at the entrance to the lower corridor, listening.

The manor was quiet, but it was not an empty quiet. The wind hissed through the broken lattice screens. Farther down the hall, water dripped with a steady, rhythmic tap against rotting wood. Underneath that, faint and low, was a dry rustling sound—like dried husks scraping against paper.

I unhooked the dull skinning knife from my belt and kept it against my thigh.

My training in the Third Siege Regiment had not been about honor or glorious charges. They had put us in the wet earthworks outside the fortress cities, digging counter-saps and clearing out collapsed tunnels in the dark where a spear was useless and a man died because he did not hear the dirt shift above his head. You learned to read the weight of timber by the way it groaned. You learned to smell blood before you saw it.

The ground floor of the west wing was a death trap. Too many collapsed walls, too many blind corners, and the subfloor was rotted through to the mud. If a rot-beast broke through the exterior screens, there was no defensible choke point.

I found the exterior staircase at the corner of the pavilion. The steps were thick heart-oak, green with mildew but solid under my boots. I climbed slowly, testing each riser with my weight before committing my full stride.

The second floor was drier. The roof above this section had held, although several ceiling panels had warped and fallen inward, leaving dark gaps between the rafters. At the end of the long gallery, I found a corner room that faced the inner courtyard canal.

I pushed the door open. The iron hinges shrieked, then settled.

The room was five paces square. The tatami mats had long since been pulled up, leaving bare pine floorboards that were gray with age but dry to the touch. Two of the walls were exterior stone, thick and mortared with lime. The window was narrow, reinforced with vertical iron bars, and looked out over the canal where the water ran black and swift toward the gorge. The single interior door had a heavy crossbar resting in iron brackets on the jamb.

I dropped my satchel on the floor, went to the window, and tested the iron bars. They were seated deep in the stone sill.

"Defensible," I murmured to myself.

I needed water, a solid latch, and a clear line of sight to the door. This room had all three. If Naoto wanted to play garrison commander in his spotless east wing, he was welcome to it. Out here on the western edge, I had two stone walls between my back and the Shigai fog.

A sudden chill cut through the room.

The air thinned, turning sharp and metallic on my tongue. The temperature dropped five degrees in the space of a heartbeat.

The world stopped.

The drip of water in the hallway ceased.

A shadow detached from the rafters above the broken ceiling panel.

Two red embers ignited in the dark.