“Sayin’ what? The truth?” Gento fixed him with bloodshot eyes. “Fuck me. Everybody knows it. They just don’t have the rocks to say it out loud because they’re scared of—” He lowered his voice slightly. “Because they’re scared.”
I seized the moment, leaning across the space between our tables. “I just arrived today,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “From a small village up the coast. What’s everyone afraid of exactly?”
All eyes turned to me. Assessing. Calculating whether I was genuine or trouble.
Gento shrugged. “You really don’t know?”
I shook my head. “I know there are rumors about the north, but here in the capital, I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong.” He gestured to the serving girl—a tired-looking teen with burn scars on her arms. “Another carafe, and one for my new friend here. Yeah, the pretty one. He sounds dumb as shit, but look at that face.”
The serving woman glared, one brow rising as she scanned my face, then leered at my chest and arms, before scurrying away.
I started to protest because I couldn’t afford another bottle, but he waved me off. “Welcome to fuckin’ Bara. You’ll need the drink once you understand the shit-pit you’ve sailed into.”
The serving girl brought the sake. I poured for Gento first—the proper etiquette. He squinted but grunted approval.
“So,” he said, settling back. “What do you know about how things work here?”
“Not much,” I admitted.
“Then let me educate you.” He took a long drink. “The Emperor—may his divine wisdom illuminate us all”—the words were ritual, but his tone made them mockery—“rules with his fat ass on the Jade Throne inside the Jade Palace. Or supposedly, he rules. No one’s actuallyseenthe great old fart in, what, five years?”
“Six,” the younger sailor muttered.
“Six years. Think about that. Court ceremonies happen behind silk screens. Edicts post with his seal, but who knows if he’s even the one stampin’ them?” Gento leaned forward. “Some still call him a god, pray to him in temples, but gods don’t hide. Gods don’t need bodyguards and walls and—”
“Enough.” The nearby merchant’s voice was sharp. “You speak treason, blasphemy against the Divine One.”
“I speak whateveryonethinks.” Gento snarled but did lower his voice. “Point is, the Emperor’s a figurehead. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe he’s just too old and scared to show his face. Fuck me if it matters. Whoever sits on the throne doesn’t give a shit about the likes of us anyway.”
A moment passed as every man shot back a cup and then refilled.
“I saw a man killed today,” I said quietly. “By a Samurai. Just . . . killed him in the street.”
“And you’re mad no one stopped it?” Gento laughed without humor, feigning offense he likely couldn’t feel beneath his alcohol haze. “Of course the fuck not. That’s how they keep order—with fear and steel. Look at a Samurai wrong, and you’re dead. Complain about taxes too loudly, dead. They’re tryin’ to squeeze tighter, keep control, but”—he gestured broadly, sloshing sake onto the table—“you can’t hold back the tide by squeezin’. Just makes it want to burst through harder.”
“You think the rebellion will reach Bara?” the younger sailor asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Fuck me if it isn’t already here,” Gento said. “You feel it, don’t you? That tension. It’s like everybody’s waitin’ for somethin’ to snap?” He looked around the room. “Beggars multiplying. Food prices rising. More Samurai on the streets. More bodies. It’s all connected, see? First the north falls apart, refugees flood south, strains the city, people get hungry and angry, and suddenly—”
A man entered the common room. He looked older, well dressed, with eyes that moved too deliberately across the faces present. Conversations didn’t stop, but they shifted—became louder, more mundane. Someone started telling a joke about a fisherman and a merchant’s wife. Gento fell silent and poured himself more sake, suddenly very interested in the bottom of his cup.
The man found a table in the corner and ordered food, but his presence charged the atmosphere, made the air feel heavier.
I leaned toward Gento. “Who—”
“Someone who reports to someone,” Gento muttered. “Just . . . watch what you say.”
We drank in silence for a while. The conversations around us stayed light and false. The tension was palpable.
Finally, the man in the corner finished his meal and left, and those in the room seemed to exhale collectively.
“See?” Gento said quietly. “That’s Bara for you. Can’t even get right pissed in peace without wonderin’ who’s gonna report you.” He shook his head. “I’m leavin’ as soon as my ship’s loaded, back to the southern routes. Let Bara rot.”
“What about your brother?” the younger sailor asked.
Gento’s face went hard. “What about him? If he’s alive, he’ll find his way home. If he’s not . . .” He shrugged and stood. “I need to piss.”
