Red Blossoms, Blue Flames

The huntsman sleeps. His blade lies at hand. Slay him, child, and thou shalt be free.

Grandmother’s voice had kept her awake and now it gave her a direct order. Shinutcha arranged her doll to the side and slipped forward, feet soft against the tatami. Streetlamp light glinted off the sword, all she needed was to push the tip very hard against the hunter’s throat and he would die. Then she could go back to Turushno and then to Grandmother.

Yes, child, thou art nigh there.

She crouched down and reached for the handle. The cutting edge of the sword was so shiny, not like Turushno’s which he never polished: she could even see herself. Black eyes stared back at her. She was sure they were once brown with white around the outside. When had that changed?

The sword was heavier than she thought. The tall hunter used it so easily, she had imagined it was as light as a stick. Nay, that be a folly thought. She told herself, holding the handle with both hands, the tip pointing at the hunter’s neck. A memory came back to her, murky like marsh water, hadn’t someone done this to her before? Was that when her eyes turned black? She pushed the questions from her mind, returning to Grandmother’s mission. How silly, to fall asleep with his sword just there. If she pushed the sword into his throat, would he die straight away or would he get mad at her? Huisak hadn’t died when hunters cut her throat, only when they cut the top of her head off, but it didn’t look good. Maybe hunters were different from witches.

If he died, would she get to keep her doll? Would Turushno like the painting if she brought it with her? Could she even bring it with her?

The hunter snored suddenly and raised his head. Shinutcha took a step back, petrified he would open his eyes and see her. But then he slumped forward again. She stifled a laugh. He was so big and noisy like a bear. When Turushno slept, he was like a cat, always ready to wake up and attack if he heard anything. That’s why she didn’t like to move around a lot when they slept next to each other, he would always get so angry. The hunter got angry as well but it was different. It wasn’t angry at her, it was angry… at something else. She didn't understand the difference but it was there.

What dost thou tarry for? Slay him and be gone! Grandmother’s voice was quieter now. She was fading away again, like the rain had. Shinutcha almost forgot she was holding the sword at all. The tip had dropped to rest against the tatami and she looked into the hunter's face. The left side was scarred and ugly but so was hers. The face Turushno had given her didn't cover her skull properly. She wondered what the girl who used to own that doll looked like, whether the hunter was a good older brother to her. Had she had a Grandmother as well? She hoped the girl hadn't been told to do too many things like this. 

The hunter never demanded that she do anything, he always just asked her questions. 

Grandmother's voice was so quiet now that Shinutcha could barely hear her. If she killed the hunter now, she would never be able to tell Grandmother how they had weapons that killed them. She put his sword down and stepped back. Even if she was disobeying Grandmother's instructions, she would see when they were together again what a good job she did.

When they were together again—

Her thoughts were interrupted again, not by Grandmother's voice but by a new sound. Bells.

***

Arata awoke to the ringing of the firebells. He went for his sword and must have kicked it in his sleep—silently cursing himself—as now it lay pointing towards him. Shinutcha looked asleep in the corner and he didn’t bother to wake her, locking the door on his way out and pulling on his boots. By its pattern, he could tell it was in Heavenly-Gardens, and outside he faced the district. His stomach dropped once he saw the direction of the glow. Why would witches target there?

Five minutes later, two water pales in his hand, he turned onto the street and saw he was correct. The House of Ren Blossoms filled the street with an incandescence of blue flames.

A group of monks gathered outside chanting sutras almost drowned out by screams, bells, and the shattering of timber from inside. Any one of them could have been the colluder and Arata tried to commit each bowed face to memory as he passed. He was too late to find them.

The first person fell to the ground almost as soon as he arrived, a patron of the brothel Arata thought he recognised. He landed hard on his left leg and arm, breaking both, but still able to crawl away from the flames. Upwards, where the man came from, dozens of silhouettes, flitted between the flames. A woman jumped a second later, followed by another man, their clothes flowing behind them in blue blazes.

“We need nets here and quickly!” From behind him, Sawatari had arrived, shouting instructions like she hadn’t been gone at all. “Nagami, Zaitsu, you check if anyone is trapped inside. You have six minutes, I'll be the counter. Everyone else, get started on the firewalls.” Witch hunters were already spreading nets in front of the building, catching client and courtesan alike.

Was a client the target? It was impossible to say until they found which of the victims inside had been scalped. Arata cut into the supports of an adjacent building with his hook before flinging a rope around an outcrop of wood. Beside him, Aose caught the other end and with unspoken synchronisation, both pulled a part of the building to the ground. Mortar, wood, and stone fell together like organs in a body, a corpse of construction too low to easily catch alight. He looked up to meet the eyes of the people who once called that building their home and place of work, their emotions as mixed as the ruin between them. Sadness, fury, despair, it all roared around him. It was for the good of the city. Nothing else.

It was chaos, buildings collapsing on every side, and Arata looked back to the crowd of jumpers checking each other for burns, their outer clothes thrown back to join the fire. Someone wasn’t there. Would Turushno really attack a target here, surrounded by so many witnesses? Wouldn’t they call a hit here if the target never left the establishment at night. That’s who was absent in the crowd: Uesugi, the madame of the House of Red Blossoms. Nagami and Zaitsu had already disappeared inside of the inferno but they wouldn’t be looking for her. If she was still alive, she would know who attacked her.

Arata looked to Sawatari, busy overseeing another group of witch hunters, then back at the building. “I’ll leave you with the rest.” He called over to Aose and before he could stop him, Arata dashed towards a bucket of water, throwing the contents on himself. Turning towards the entryway, far less inviting now than previous nights, he drew his hood up,  gripped his hook, and he ran in.