Kazuchiyo reached his feet with every intention of giving chase, but then realized that a pair of shop hands had entered the alley in response to the commotion. Upon seeing Kazuchiyo they hurried forward with concern, only to stop short at the sight of Aritaka’s crest embroidered across his back. “Lord Kazumune,” one called hesitantly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kazuchiyo replied, tidying himself as best he could. He no longer had any hope of pursuing the disrespectful snake that had slipped away. “Thank you for your concern.”

Kazuchiyo headed back to the main road. By then the caravan he had spotted from the rooftop had reached the town, and people were gathering along the street to see. Two dozen Aritaka samurai entered through the gate on horseback, some of them dragging supply carts, all clad in full armor that was more for display than defense. At the front rode Aritaka Hidemune, Lord Aritaka’s last living biological son. He was broad-shouldered like his father, but there the similarities ended: his face was round and sour, his whiskers sparse and uninspiring, his posture limp. He had no hint of a lord’s bearing nor did he seem to gather any hint of a lord’s respect. The admiration of the crowd was reserved entirely for his sister.

Mahiro. Also known by such exciting and enviable nicknames as “Bandit Slayer,” “Iron Arm,” and “Oeyo’s Unyielding Gate,” her prowess was well known all across the southeastern quarter of Shuyun. In height and build she easily challenged Sakka’s best warriors, in bravado even more so. Her armor was splashed with vibrant yellows and greens, strips of animal fur patched between them. Her helm was crowned with broad, gold horns, and a wild mane of white horse-hair that spilled over her chest and back. Unlike the rest of her comrades with their weapons sheathed or loaded on the carts, she carried her famed naginata in hand, sometimes bracing it to her shoulder, sometimes brandishing it to the awe of the crowd. As she made her way down the street behind her brother, she flashed grins and laughter at every onlooker, and they adored her for it.

Kazuchiyo pushed to the front of the crowd, which was not difficult with many making way for him. He did not expect to catch Mahiro’s eye, but she spotted him almost at once, and her grin grew wider still. “Kazumune!” she bellowed, and she waved him forward. “Come to greet us, eh? Come jump on my saddle—I’ll deliver both my brothers together!”

Mahiro’s stead, the mighty Suzumekage, had as strong a back as her owner, and could have borne Kazuchiyo’s added weight easily. He contented himself with walking alongside. “Welcome home, Sister,” he greeted. “Did you have any trouble on the road from Oeyo?”

Mahiro snorted dismissively. “What trouble would dare?” She smacked the length of her naginata against her armor and laughed. “And you, cub? Trouble rarely finds you but you make a habit of seeking it out.”

“I only seek what finds me first,” Kazuchiyo replied, secretly offended by her suggestion. To his mind, his captor’s family’s attempts to abuse and discredit him were no fault of his. “I’ll tell you about the latest over dinner.”

Mahiro laughed some more. “I’m looking forward to it!”

Hidemune turned his head just enough to cast the pair of them a hateful look. Even once facing forward again Kazuchiyo could feel his bitterness emanate all the way to the keep.

Gyoe was abuzz as it received its awaited guests. Though Hidemune traveled often between his home castle and Oeyo on the eastern border, Mahiro had not graced its halls in almost a year. She swept through like a typhoon, room to room greeting old friends and rivals, her laughter echoing the halls. More than one scuffle broke out: some playful, some less so. Kazuchiyo followed along the whole while, taking particular note of which of Aritaka’s servants and bannermen received her favorably.

She sobered only when taking an audience with her parents in the upper keep. After a brief exchange behind closed doors she burst out again and bellowed for wine.

“Come to my room after you’ve shed your armor,” Kazuchiyo offered. “I have some saké.”

“I’ll come right now,” Mahiro insisted.

She held her tongue until the pair of them were safe in the privacy of Kazuchiyo’s modest chambers—privacy being a relative thing when in a castle made of wood and paper. No one would have missed the heavy thumps of Mahiro’s helm and armor pieces hitting the floor. “That old man is no bear!” she declared as she shed her battlewear. “He’s a toothless old ferret. What does he know about what I’ve done for him in the east? He knows shit, that’s what! He thinks men could do better, he’s welcome to send some. Rotten horseshit.”

Kazuchiyo poured the saké, and Mahiro sprawled beside him, snatching hers up. She drank the full cup at once and then passed it back for more. “I thought our eastern border was secure,” Kazuchiyo said as he obliged. “Were there problems at Oeyo?”

“Not hardly, thanks to me!” Her nose twitched. “And Tokine, of course. She stayed behind because she didn’t like the idea of leaving father’s bureaucrats in charge. We have been securing that border for years, and we finally have enough soldiers in place to guard checkpoints against their smugglers. He ought to be praising us.”

“And he’s not?” Kazuchiyo prodded, handing over the refilled cup. “The banquet we’re having tonight is in your and Brother Hidemune’s honor.”

Mahiro rolled her eyes and drank again. “Hidemune’s honor my ass. He’s only putting on airs because it will be the first time Hidemune’s had run of Gyoe without him. I’m only here because he wants me marching west. There’s the smell of another war brewing.”

Kazuchiyo took a long sip from his own cup. “I thought you would look forward to that.”

“Hell, I do! I am!” She thrust her closed fist forward, wrist tilted as if her naginata were in her grip. “Been waiting all my life to put my blade through those yapping crows in Kibaku. But fuck, Kazu, he could at least….”

She trailed off and was quiet for a moment, dragging her fingernails across her scalp. Her brown hair was matted from the helm stuck in strange places as she fussed. She looked much younger than her years then, maybe even sullen. Then suddenly the fire returned to her eyes and she looked to Kazuchiyo with smirking mischief. “You’ll be joining us, won’t you, Kazumune?”

“If Father allows it. I want to.” He watched his sister drink for a moment, ill ease in his stomach. Despite the bitterness he was determined to hold against his “family” her eccentricities had cultivated in him a fondness for her. There were few people in Sakka with as little interest in using him as Mahiro, and he disliked having to make use of her himself.

“I’ve heard that the Koedzuka clan have been sending their spies to keep track of Castle Ninari’s progress,” he said. “They’re well known for their shinobi, aren’t they?”

“The best you’ll find outside the capital, probably,” Mahiro agreed. She snorted. “Or, you won’t find them, because they’re shinobi and that’s the point, right?”

She laughed and elbowed him, and Kazuchiyo couldn’t help but smile along. “Not much like ours, then,” he said, watching for her reaction.

“Oho?” Mahiro, in turn, focused on him intently. “You’ve met one of father’s little foxes?”

“In broad daylight,” Kazuchiyo said, trying to sound much less interested than he was. “A young man with long hair and gray eyes.”

Mahiro threw her head back with a laugh. “So you’ve met the fox!” she declared, and Kazuchiyo winced, knowing that if he asked her to lower her voice it would have the opposite effect. “And got a good look at him, too, from the sound of it. He doesn’t care so much about the ‘be not seen’ thing, does he? I’m surprised it took this long for you to catch him.”

Kazuchiyo forced himself to take another drink so that his impatience would be less obvious. “So, you know him? What’s his name?”

“If he has a name he’s not about to tell anyone, let alone me,” Mahiro said as she stretched out against her elbow. “But he goes by Amai.” Her eyebrows arched with amusement. “Why do you want to know?”

“Only because he wouldn’t tell me himself.”

Mahiro laughed some more at that. “There’s a stubborn side to you, Kazumune,” she complimented him. “I’ve always liked that.”

“Can you tell me any more about him?” Kazuchiyo asked, his pretense of mild curiosity failing him. “Does he live in Gyoe?”

“Do you have need of a shinobi? That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

Mahiro fixed him with a look she perhaps thought to be intimidating, diminished by the smirk tugging her lips. Even so, Kazuchiyo took hear teasing warning seriously. Even a careless mention from Mahiro’s lips could turn eyes his way and the fear of that throbbed between his temples. “He’s going to be my shinobi before long,” Kazuchiyo said, and he straightened up, emulating a bit of Aritaka’s gravitas. “After the way he treated me this morning, I want to make sure he knows that.”

Mahiro was surprised a moment, and then resumed laughing—even slapped her knee. “I’d pay to see it!” She pulled herself upright and scooted closer. To Kazuchiyo’s relief, she even lowered her voice. “In the outer wall there’s a window west of the guardhouse where the slats are loose. Beneath one is a small alcove large enough to stow a rolled paper. Whenever Father wants to pass instructions to his foxes, he has a servant tuck a message there. But any one of them can find it, so if you’re going to leave something for your little kit, be careful what you say.”

Kazuchiyo had no inkling yet what such a message would even entail, but he simmered with anticipation nonetheless. “I suppose I shouldn’t use the name ‘Amai’ then.”

“Black Fox,” Mahiro said, wagging her finger at him. “If you have to use a name at all.” She slapped him heavily on the back and leaned away. “You’re clever, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.”

Kazuchiyo nodded. He was eager to move the conversation away from him and so poured Mahiro a bit more drink. “You have as much confidence in me as Father,” he said. “He’s asked me to manage you and Brother Hidemune at tonight’s banquet.”

Mahiro grunted mightily and then finished off her cup. “What does he think I’ll do to dishonor him this time? Am I an animal now?”

“You could prove him wrong by behaving yourself,” said Kazuchiyo, faintly teasing.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t!” She made a face at him. “Though you were so obvious just now that it makes me want to misbehave more.”

“Fair enough,” Kazuchiyo replied, and they chuckled together.

Mahiro passed the rest of the morning in Kazuchiyo’s room, regaling him with her tales of adventures on the eastern border: fierce battles with brigands, forest beasts felled, men and women drawn to her bed. Kazuchiyo was very content to listen, volunteering only a few stories of his own. All along his mind was far away, and by the time Mahiro left with her armor to seek out fresh clothes and a bath, he was eager for a few moments alone.

“Amai,” he murmured, tracing his fingertip over the tatami in the shape of various symbols the name could be made from. Did he spell his name like rain? Like sweetness? Like heaven? It mattered not at all because he had no reason to write it, and more importantly, no reason to seek the man out ever again. As eager as he was to know everything about his father’s pawns, there could be very little gained from associating with such a tempermental shinobi. He ought to have set his focus on more important potential enemies.

But that soft-featured face peering up at him from beneath an ill-fitting helmet had pursued his sleepless nights for five years. So many of the details of that horrid evening had smeared in his memory to indecipherable demons, but not him. He wanted to hear from the man’s own mouth what his orders had been, who had passed them down, who he had killed to obtain the scout’s armor. He wanted a slender throat beneath his palm again, letting righteous anger refuel his desire for vengeance.

Kazuchiyo went into his closet, fetching paper, brush, and ink. For as long as he had been cautious he now chose instinct, and he scrawled a few lines straight from his pounding heart.

A black fox, fearless,
stalks through the rain, unaware
his helm is broken

Before he could lose his nerve or regain his caution, he blew the ink dry and folded the paper to tuck into his robe. With only a pale effort to appear unhurried he made his way back down through the keep and past the twisted streets to the gate. He easily found the same window he had seen Amai pass through earlier, and when it appeared that no guards were within eyesight, he nudged the loose slats out of the way. Just as Mahiro had described there was a small alcove cut into the wood. With a tremor in his hand he tucked the paper inside, replaced the slats, and returned to his chamber without making eye contact with another person the whole way.