Behind them came Masakari Saito and the rest of Ohori’s scouts. The paddies lay ahead. Once more, the farmer pointed to the distant field. “Body-removers,” the old man said, with a hint of fear. Under the edicts of the True Path, only low-status were permitted to touch a dead body or perform impure acts, such as tanning leather. And the man was no’in; he would have lived under these rules his whole life.
“I’m going to see what’s going on,” Sen said.
“Stay close,” Saito began.
“You just watch that fire.”
Ise Tadanobu of the Kitanohara clan went with him, along with one of Saito’s men, a bearded fighter with the broadleaf ivy of House Oba on his sleeves.
They approached a group of no’in women by the paddy, whispering in hushed tones and looking about in the muck. One of them, a willowy, lean figure, turned at their approach. “Amé,” she said, greeting him in the slow, wide-voweled accent of the west.
Something pricked Sen’s neck again.We’re not in the west, he thought.
Soon the no’in had surrounded him, asking for help. One bowed lightly. “You have come with the army?”
“What happened here?”
“A body,” called another. “They found him in the water. On the paddy, look.” Four sets of hands pointed in the dark, a swathe so deep the torches could barely penetrate.
“Someone has drained the aqueduct,” said a tall no’in with shorn hair and tattoos on her arms. “Flooding the paddies we’ve been preparing for next planting in the spring. Waste of all our irrigation water…”
The woman turned. “It was an attack, amé. Came up the slope’n we found him…”
“Who?”
“The body.”
She led them deeper into the fields. “Foun’ in the water, there…”
“The headman?” Sen asked.
“Dead. Killed in the night. Killed by ’em Keishi. Mountain-wolves.”
Sen felt something in the air. His neck tingled. These strange women, he thought, whom the other villagers seemed to fear…
“Show me.”
They brought him along the footpath at the edge of the paddy, far from the town. Around them was a world in darkness; behind, a warm glow bathed the fields, as the fire spread at the local temple, and distantly, faint shouts could be heard, from the villagers and from Tokuon’s men, whowere in the town now, helping put the fire out. His main host, Sen knew, still waited on the road. But that was on the other side of the village, and here, in the flat, empty rice field of the paddies, the world was dark, and cold, and still. They went out, along the little ridge-line road that rose above the paddy, and as they did, a pair of women split off and ran back into the night. But they were running away from the town. Sen craned his head, confused. “Where are they going?”
“Everybody’s scared,” the woman said. “Now please, just up here. Go on.” She was leading him forward. The others began walking around them, on either side.
“Hey.” Tadanobu pushed behind him. “Step away.”
The women turned and murmured. Sen’s guard bristled. “Apologies, amé. But come,” the leader said. “It’s just ahead.”
He grabbed the woman’s arm by the wrist. “You first.”
Her arm felt strong and well-muscled. With a flash, Sen realized she moved like someone who had martial training, not a commoner. Yet she had old servant tattoos. She had the clothes of a body-remover.
But she was too tall. Too sure. Too careful.
They didn’t move like farmers.
They moved like something else.
Like killers.
The woman turned.
