It Begins - XI

I know the way to Okuri’s by heart. I know how to get there. I know what the place looks like. The way people walk, the way people gather, the way they go about their lives.

So, I know when things are different. When there’s one person too many, or one person too few. Or when several people are clearly on alert, scanning their surroundings with an unprecedented alertness.

I keep my head just above the angle of a sloped roof. The area around the so-called House of Okuri is filled with hired thugs. Men and women, lounging in one place, obviously shooting their glances for any trespasser.

I see the sword belt beneath one man’s linen shirt. I see him toy with it, eager to draw steel at a moment’s notice, eager to suit his employer’s demand for another man’s head.

There are a few street children too. Running amok. No doubt, ready to shout the instant they so much as catch a hair on my shoulder.

Okuri must have known I was coming, and paid off some people in advance. In which case, his intent is to stay put and hold down his proverbial bunker.

It’s not an uncommon tactic. I’ve known many criminals. They’re a strange and superstitious lot. But they are people. And people have a nature of wanting to stay close to home, even in times of crisis.

Even a farmer, on the verge of an invading army, might refuse to vacate. Because when vacating means losing your land and livelihood, vacating becomes a hard sell indeed.

I keep note of my time, of how long has passed. It’s only taken me a few minutes to get here, so more than four hours should still be left, all things considered.

With that in mind, I navigate the rooftops, closing in on the House of Okuri. My intent is to find a roof level with the second floor and come in from there. Each step I take comes with a throb of pain, so I want to minimise the number of steps if possible.

That means avoiding a head-on confrontation or prolonged battle.

Twenty guards are pacing the establishment’s perimeter. I approach a roof just adjacent to the House of Okuri. A pair rounds a stone corner. I leap down, arms outstretched, and come down with enough force to slam their heads into the ground.

They fall slump. The pair moan, airing out their pains with misty breaths. I lift both by the scruff of their necks and place them in a nearby alley.

Another pair should round this corner in thirty seconds. But, if I’m correct, they’ll fail to see anything amiss. I climb back to the roof, leaping from balcony to balcony.

Catching a protruding steam pipe at the very end. Hanging on to it with raw grip strength alone.

A stone platform pokes under a building’s window. I leap onto that balcony, and look through the curtained glass. The shadow of a man, quite round and half-dressed, can be seen.

He’s probably a customer here.

I knock on the window. He jumps from his place, and looks around, before carefully approaching me. His face is twisted in a mix of confusion and surprise. But not anything quite like aggression.

That’s good. Perhaps I can reason with him.

The man opens the window with one hand while covering his chest with the other. He’s red-faced and cold, shivering as he meets my gaze.

“And you are…”

“A city-worker. Here to perform maintenance on some of the pipes in your room. The literal ones, I might add.”

“Right…”

With a sway, with a drag of his words, the man returns to his bed, lying down and facing the ceiling. I enter the room and shut the window behind me.

“So uh… What seems to be the issue, man of pipes?” he asks, shy.

“Plumber.”

“Hm?”

“Plumber is the name for my profession. And I believe the issue to be one of clogging.”

“Clogging? You mean… something got stuck in these pipes?” He says, pointing to one along the wall. “How?”

I approach the pipe, pressing my ear to it. Pretending to listen for any deformities.

“There are many things that can clog pipes. A rat. A lodged piece of rock. A cylindrical piece of flesh, shoved in for a purpose quite misaligned.”

“You mean…”

I run my paw along the length of a pipe before nodding quite quickly. “I mean what you think, good sir. Though I have the tact to not say it in such polite company.”

Taking steady steps, I approach the room’s exit.

Sounds echo across the second floor. Carpeted footsteps. The slight jingle of chain mail. A sword’s sheath, moving from the belt it's attached to.

Guards doing their rounds. This is the closest path to Okuri’s room, but even the closest route has obstacles in the way.

I take a moment to consider my options. The second floor’s layout is in a U-shape. With the guest rooms occupying each respective bend. So, if a guard comes to meet me, it’ll be nigh impossible to escape their gaze.

I keep listening. I think I hear a guard leaving earshot, and take the opportunity to twist open the door and poke my head out.

Nobody.

Good.

I leave at once. My footsteps are soft muffles. But three steps in, and I meet my first obstacle; there’s another guard coming, around the bend too. A thought later, and I come to a decision.

I leap to the ceiling. As I do, my fingertips shift upwards. Muscles contract. Knife-sharp claws fold out of my skin. They pierce through the stone ceiling, embedding themselves deep enough to keep me to it.

Even in my old age, these claws can cut through steel like a dagger through cake.

The thought makes me smile.

Even more so, as the guard passes below me, oblivious to my hanging above.

Heh.

I do delight in being an athletic old geezer.

Waiting a couple of seconds more, I drop down and go across the U-bend.

I shoot a quick glance to the first floor. The sound of laughter and gambling is still going strong. With no guards looking in my direction.

I take a deep breath. Okuri’s room stands before me. Unguarded. Strangely, there's no sound coming from within, but I hardly let that deter me. If nothing else, it's possible Okuri left some information of note.

I push open the double doors. The inside is completely dark. But the light from a nearby lantern illuminates something.

It becomes clear in a half-breath. A thin spool of wire sits between the double doors. Located just above my foot.

And the door’s opened far enough to trigger it.

I leap back to the side at once.

A mechanical click sounds. Steam bursts through the doors, covering a span over twice my length. Despite my leap, the steam curves to meet me.

It surrounds my whole body. The heat, stinging like a thousand needles, burns past my fur. Covers my mouth. And renders me unable to breathe, let alone move, for a few seconds.

I fall against the ground.

It must have been a pressure trap of some sort.

Okuri must have relocated and set it up, expecting me to come here.

How could I be so foolish?

No. This is not the time to consider such inane hypotheticals.

The sound of the steam was loud enough to drown even the crowds below. Right now, every single guard is on high alert, and converging on my immediate position.

I brace against the wall and pull myself up, triggering another spike of pain in my torso.

“There e’ is!” says a guard coming from the steps. “That's the fella the boss was talkin’ ‘bout!”

“E’ don't look so tough up close,” replies another, drawing her sword.

“Reckon I could take ‘em meself.”

“Are you daft?” follows another, slightly more intelligent-sounding man. “The boss put a good price on this one.”

“So?”

“Good prices mean good value. Good value in this case means a hard son of a bitch to kill. Be on guard. Or leave your wife a widow.”

A crowd of over thirty have formed around me. Not impossible odds. But not ones I'm fond of taking. I need the strength for what lies ahead.

I need the strength to face Alemi when the time comes.

“My name is Gamoun. I'm a former General of Lagnitia. I've come to Ineo as a means to an end, and have no quarrel with you. Leave, and keep your arms and legs intact. So that you may carry on with your lives, and carry swords even the next day coming.”

There's an instant of silence. I'm hardly as well known in Ineo as Lagnitia. But my name still carries some value here. As a General that once laid siege to its cities, and now, as a murderer of Princes.

“Stay back,” one of them says. “That's Gamoun.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Short of stature. With nary a blade. And a body fit like a grey weasel’, it's what me nan used to say! That's Gamoun! Gamoun the Bloody! He'll transform into a great beast and devour us all!”

“And why would Gamoun the Bloody be ‘ere?”

“Hell if I know! But do you really want to find out?!”

The man's eyes are wide with fear. His Nan must've been of my time. Of a time that earned me a title of Gallant. Of a time that earned me a title of Bloody. Of a time that made me leave Lagnitia, and take root in a new place altogether.

The man shrinks back. As does several others. Thinning the thirty-two into a crowd of twenty-five.

Well.

It’s not quite zero, but I suppose I’ll have to make do.

“There’s a temple three streets away,” I say. “Past a statue devoted to the Great Turtle.”

“And?” One of them asks, confused. “What’s that got to do with us?”

“Soon enough, the vast majority of you will fall. Your minds will become dull. As will the bodies you pride yourselves on. When that time comes, those still uninjured will be responsible, and take you for healing. I simply wished to assist with that inevitability.”

“You think you’ll beat us, is that it?!”

“Yes. And with a subtle satisfaction, I might add.”

I'm fond of fighting. I've never made a lie of this. But a fight is something honorable. Sacred. Committed between participants of equal strength.

This is not a fight. This—is nothing more than waste management.

Their anger, greed, and evil, reaches its boiling point, causing them to swarm me at once.