Countdown to Execution

That evening, a late typhoon rolled in and broke on the mountains, blanketing the valley in rain. The downpour rattled the windows like the knuckle of someone outside and Arata had to force his nerves to settle. He arranged his boots to the side of the front door but kept his jacket and katana on him—his work had not finished yet.

The walk to Chiyo’s room felt almost disorientating, emotions showering down as heavy as the rain outside. Without any movement from Tsukishiba, he needed more information on the collaborator, and he was running out of time. If no one else came to light, she would be the one in the execution square, no matter how minor her crime. So the daimyo demanded. Arata tried to instill that thought into each of his movements: he was doing this for another citizen of Giseizawa. But each step towards his daughter's room threatened to rot every muscle in his body like old wood, soft and pliable. What a child does to a father.

He did all he could to prepare himself, clenched his jaw and the edge of the door, before pushing it aside. The sight beyond sent his blood running cold. Shinutcha had freed her hands, the rope on the ground beside the chair, pushed herself over, and was in the process of dragging herself to the door. She didn't waste the opportunity, crawling forward in desperation. Arata snatched the little witch up before she even passed him.

“What exactly were you trying to do?” The cold had been replaced with a heat in his chest, like his heart glowed coal-bright. She started to claw at his arm but a glare stopped her. “You tried to escape? Where would you go?” For a reason he couldn’t identify, there was a hurt in his voice. “Don’t ever do that again, Chi—” He stopped himself, the name had just slipped out. It didn’t appear that Shinutcha had noticed, as at that point she began to cry.

It started as more of a babble, like she was trying to give an answer as to why she escaped, but as each word lost more intelligibility, it gained in volume. The evening was still young, the light of street lanterns through the windows dappled with the movement of passers-by, and if this kept up, someone would complain.

He tried shushing her again but that might have even made it worse. He wished Kiyone was there before thinking what she would do. And the thought came to him, he didn’t even know. Days of investigation, nights of firefighting, he came home almost a stranger to his child and estranged from his wife. He must have had more memories of Chiyo curled up in a futon than when she was awake, her wooden doll pressed so hard against her cheek he was worried she would get splinters. Now he stood in the same room, the shaft of light from the hallway no longer there and he did the only thing he could think of. He went to the corridor and got Chiyo’s doll.

Even holding it in his hands felt like lifting up the weight of the marsh and peering underneath. He knew it was wrong, somehow both fraternising with the enemy and disrespecting the dead, but there was no other option.

It took him several seconds to get Shinutcha’s attention, but when he did, she held it on the doll. The next step was to tie her hands together and yet something in her eyes stopped him. He held the doll out, crouching down to meet her at her level.

“Take it.” He said and she broke through the hesitation. Despite the threat she still posed, Arata had to look away. If she pressed the doll against her cheek, he would rot completely. After a minute, he couldn't take any more. “That’s enough, put it down.” The edge in his voice cut through any disobedience that might have come to Shinutcha’s mind and when he looked back, the doll sat upright next to her. He nodded but thought against tying her hands, not until she answered the questions.

The tactic worked, Shinutcha kept talking for longer than any of the times before just to keep her hands free for one minute more. Arata tried to direct the conversation towards who she worked with but it never stuck and slid back to her grandmother or her brother. The witch Sawatari killed months ago came to mind, just before the fires became so regular. They thought it was all an act of retribution but now maybe it could be something more.

“Turushno draws nigher with each day. He seeks me still.” Shinutcha looked away as she said it.

“Turushno? That’s your brother?” Arata leant forward. Unlike with others he interrogated, he had begun to realise Shinutcha talked more the more he seemed interested.

She nodded, her face a facade of confidence, but Arata could see the ash at the corner of her eyes. That was enough.

He wrestled her hands together again and tied the rope tighter than before, ignoring her shouts of protest the entire time. The worst was when he picked up the doll. “You’ll get it back the next time I ask you questions. Just be good until then and maybe you’ll get another present.” Arata closed the door, put down the doll, and silently punched himself for promising that. 

He was letting down his guard too much. Maybe he was enchanted.

***

The storm continued for the rest of the week although Arata could scarcely hear it for most of the days. He spent them in the dark of the prison, chasing questions with ever-changing answers. Aose complained less each time they went down but he avoided Arata's eyes just the same.

“I got the witch circle from Yomogi-jō! I… I got…” Tsukishiba cried out. After almost an entire day without useful information, they finally broke through. It was the thumb screws that did it. With only so many days until they needed an execution, Arata had hoped they could extract the names of an entire network of colluders with just the rocks. Thumbs were much more precious to an interrogator. This one was well placed.

“Who gave it to you?” Arata followed up quickly, not letting the momentum slide.

“I don’t know—Ah!” Tsukishiba cried as Arata tightened the screw. “Wait, wait! I didn’t see their faces, they all wore masks.”

“Any hats?” He didn’t even need to say what kind.

Tsukishiba didn’t reply, this was a death sentence and her mind must have been racing to weigh up her options. Arata didn’t give her that time. He reached for the thumb screw again.

“No!” She cried, “No… only the masks.”

Arata looked into her eyes and a teary reflection of himself stared back. He continued “How many were there?”

“Eight.”

Eight more colluders lived in the city? He hoped Tsukishiba was lying and one actually was a witch. “How did you know the meeting would happen?”

“There were rumours,” Tsukishiba sobbed, “That a black mass happens in Yomogi-jō every new moon. You overhear a lot in the Red Blossoms, I don’t remember who said it.”

Yomogi-jō, the ruined fort two miles south of the town, the only ones Arata thought used that place were trappers and the occasional teenagers. The new moon was another two weeks away—the execution date was sooner. It wouldn’t help her.

“I needed…” She gulped, “I needed it for the pain…”

And there was her motive. All of that as an antidote to the contraceptive herbs all of the women in the House of Red Blossoms had to eat. Using the demon fire's numbness as a painkiller, it made so much sense, he was surprised another hadn’t done something like that earlier. Maybe they had but executing half of the courtesans in the city would pit witch hunters against the public in a way neither would recover from. This would just have to be a warning. They ended the interrogation there.

***

Days ticked down until the execution. Shinutcha avoided questions about her accomplices, asking about the witch hunters, his uniform, and even Crowsbane. Tsukishiba tried more desperate attempts to lie and shift the blame onto someone else but it became clear she knew nothing. Each time Arata closed her cell door, he did it with a heavier arm, knowing it was one less time she would see any light. The day finally came without ceremony.

Sawatari stood outside his house when he opened the door. Her hood was pulled up, bow slung across her back. She didn't even seem to notice the rain. They had seen each other throughout the week but didn’t speak and now Arata realised it was because Sawatari wanted to save her question for the execution day:

“That night, in the hunter’s house, there was something I didn't really understand. The first time you drew your katana, it was already cracked. Why?”