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Narrator: Hoo Long

“What sort of brain damage is that imbicile lord suffering from?” Lady Kismet exclaimed, her fists crumpling the edges of the urgent message in her hands.

“Perhaps if you told me our new orders, I would have some clue how to answer that?” I asked. “I am an archer, it helps to see my target.”

Pure bravado, of course. I have never been able to strike a target... Well, okay, once. I’ve fired at an unseen target exactly once, and then only in defense of my younger sister, and while I hit that target, I cannot be certain that I slew them, especially as I suspect her current husband may have been that same intruder.

If it was you, Hanzo, I’m so sorry. Know that you truly terrified us all that night, when we thought your goal was to kill her.

Ahem.

Anyway, we had received new orders, but instead of wasting time filling in a mere soldier, someone used to receiving and obeying orders (usually unreasonable or stupid ones), she instead stood there grinding her teeth together, fighting what must have been a monster of a rage.

Have you ever heard a hunting cat snarl? Specifically, when it has just scented prey, but knows itself to be chained and the prey beyond its reach? That was her snarl that night.

.....

She released the scroll generally in my direction; it was a short spurt of athleticism, but I was able to reposition to catch it.

“We are exactly two people, and don’t have TIME for all of this.”

I read the orders. “No, no we do not. But the orders expressly DON’T say we need to do this ourselves.”

“What?” she turned just enough to look at me over her shoulder. “What evils are you planning, Hoo Long?”

I swear, she must have practiced that look for HOURS in the mirror. It was just the right angle that the sunlight caught her eye and turned the whole thing yellow and gold, with neither pupil nor white visible. She looked like a furred demon just then; I’d have probably pissed myself if I had been thinking anything even remotely evil.

“I am thinking that many of these requests are things we can resolve through the use of street urchins. As for the others, yes, we will have a busy day tomorrow, but much of this can be done in a single day.”

“Oh, and you have the money for these urchins?”

“I do, if you will sign that the expenses are incurred in the service of the Nine Against the Nine.”

It was a stupid name. It was a stupid IDEA. A better idea would have been the one-hundred against Nine. A full squadron of ten, one sergeant per squad, one officer in charge. This elitist noble attitude, that it took a champion to defeat a champion... it just wasn’t how the world actually worked.

“We don’t have the time to waste. Get me the receipts, I’ll sign them. On my honor as a noble, if that’s required.”

“Not by me.” I replied. I was beginning to suspect exactly how little her honor as a noble meant to her. So long as her face, the public perception of her honor, was intact, she didn’t care how dirty the inside of that mask became.

Or, like Little Monitor, she was confused by the different honors and the need to maintain balance in her life. But she seemed to have too much common sense and too many Charisma skills for that to be the case.

“Okay, then. Let’s find a barracks with a bath and two bunks.” She yawned, “Or two bunks and a bath tomorrow. I honestly don’t care.”

I shrugged. “If you have the support of the admiral, perhaps we should just head for the citadel?”

“Hrm. Or the inn where we stayed before all this stress became part of our visit.”

Stress? I suppose that is a mild way to speak of the deaths we were experiencing, would experience even if we won.

Or let me put that in quotes, “won”. Because, for anyone paying attention, we had already lost. In violation of regulations, the remaining naval forces were loyal to the rebels. It was inconceivable that they WEREN’T relocating prisoners, perhaps an entire generation of undocumented individuals, to other islands.

Foreign invaders, specifically those of the Cult of the Kraken, had established illegal trade with said rebel forces, and possibly with otherwise loyal prisoners. For obvious reasons, that was highly forbidden.

And, whichever side won, there would be great loss of life, in the form of executions that went on for weeks. That would be the end of it, if we lost. If we won-

Imperial Magistrates had been dispatched for less. That was if we even merited a trial. A new fleet, a new army unit or two to replace the guards, and possibly orders to purge ranks of all the fallen. Myself? If Himiko survived, maybe I could just vanish into her fishing village. Just another hunter who provided meat to trade for fish and other necessities of life.

If Himiko would still have me after being on the other side of the walls for this long. If her parents would consent their Farmer-caste daughter marrying a mere Soldier.

If. If. If.

I pushed such thoughts away as I followed an energetic, almost hyperactive Lady Kismet. I was an archer, and I fired at targets I could see. These others would wait until that point of the future had become the now.

If, ancestors permitting, I was still alive at that point. Better than most, I knew it took only three seconds for a good archer to create a new corpse. The enemy forces contained many such archers.

Lady Kismet struck at the side doors of the inn as though practicing for a kumite.

She had many flaws, but shyness or lack of commitment were not among them.

“What do you want? We are not accepting new residents at this time.”

“We need only a single room with two beds, and access to a bath in the morning.”

“Whatever illegal drugs you are smoking, go away! This is much too late and we are not accepting residents anyway.”

“Mako Hajima, you know my voice. I am hot, and tired, and dirty. And if you remember ANYTHING about me, you know any one of those is reason enough for me to kick this door down and have this soldier put you to the sword.”

“No, not even for dragon-sama.”

“Dragon-sama is at the wall.” Kismet growled.

The door slid open, propelled by two maido. In the newly opened doorway, Mako Hajima gestured broadly. “So sorry, but our bathing tokens at the local bath-house are good only during daylight hours. But we have the mattresses you liked, and thick comforters to place over them. It will take us mere minutes to accommodate you both.”

And it did only take them minutes. As if by magic, the maido swept in with mattresses and sheets and stands for our equipment. With the mention of military rations, generous portions of fruit and breads, and even portions of fish and cheese appeared.

And the two-peacock fans appeared, to waft a gentle breeze over us while we laid out to sleep.

“I owe you an apology, Lady Kismet; this is much better than my idea.”

“Mmnng.” She muttered, already half asleep. “Of course it’s good. It’s my... idea...”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, habit was screaming at me that I hadn’t checked the closets or neighboring rooms. That I was near naked in the presence of total strangers and one woman who was... well, she hadn’t done anything harsher than verbally abuse me.

But I also didn’t trust her NOT to make good on threats made during the heat and dust of day.

All of that was muffled by the cotton underneath me. It was slightly lumpy, but still it was like a paradise compared to the straw mattresses of the Blue Boar. One thing any professional soldier learns is how to sleep under inhospitable conditions.

Staying awake in luxury such as this?

I sank into sleep and did not awaken until it was time to make the trek to the bath-house. There, we were treated as nobility often was. Three young ladies helping comb Lady Kismet, while their mother ran a sponge over my back. They had actual soap, not just powder, and the water was hot, and it was OURS.

Don’t ask me how that happened during a time when others were bathing in salt water. I cared, but not enough to ask questions.

After weeks cooped up in the Rice Gate, never certain which night was going to be my last? The entire experience was surreal. I could have expected someone to kick me in the head, and tell me I had died, and that was my just portion of luxury, could I please take myself to the hell where soldiers are stripped of all pretentions? It would have made more sense than the truth.

We were sweating again before leaving the bath-house, but the day was young, and not so full of tasks as we had feared.

Many greedy urchins hang out near bath houses.

I am sorry for my use of Bashin dialect. As though preparing for a martial arts tournament where injury was likely and death possible. There is more of cultural significance there, but this is not the record to take time to cover all that.