After negotiating with the smugglers, they had got on Hitomo’s skiff and started across the harbor waters. The sea was choppy, despite the waters being sheltered here. Getting the criminals to agree to his terms hadn’t been difficult, as only a handful of their crew would be sailing the Akaima Dancing Fan anyway, allowing them to continue conducting their “business” in Yuka City.

The old Samurai glanced about, looking across the shore and the harbor. He couldn’t see yet, but he could hear the battle. Hitomo Nakamura hadn’t swung a sword in years. He hoped he wouldn’t have to now. The old samurai didn’t even have his blade—it had been tucked away long ago and was now back at their machiya on the other side of Yukai City.

He glanced across the water toward the harbor that was now being obscured by the peninsula where the Akaima Dancing Fan was anchored. Turning to the others, they too were looking across the water, toward the sounds of battle, though they couldn’t see anything. Not now.

“This ship…” the smuggler said, trailing off. “Where is it?”

Hitomo pointed. “Not far, now.”

What if they try to steal the ship?

There were only five of these smugglers in the skiff—a skeleton crew at best. But that’s all they needed to get out of Mikuma.

“Others will be coming,” he said. “We do not set sail as soon as we board. Do you understand?” He turned and gave a severe look to the smuggler and his daughter Nara.

The man nodded his ascent and obeisance to Hitomo, though he still didn’t trust the man. Smugglers were not to be trusted on principle. He hoped Tomiichi was on the ship. We could have planned this better.

“You sure you’re good for the coin you promised?” It was Nara’s father with the question. She too looked at him skeptically.

“Hai!” he said, bearing his teeth. “On my honor as a samurai.”

Nara raised an eyebrow. “If you’re really a samurai, aren’t you supposed to be fighting in the battle?”

Hitomo spread his arms. “As you see, I am an old man. I would do more harm than good.”

“Surely.”

He narrowed his eyes at her rudeness. Perhaps she would like another sakè to take the edge off…

“Hey gramps,” she said, “you got any sakè on board your ship?” She asked from the back of the skiff where she sat languidly, a huge grin across her face and her colorful boots in full view. In her sash was a curved sword and over her shoulder hung a stringed instrument that somewhat resembled a stunted shamisen lute.

How she managed to keep her fur-trimmed conical hat on in this heat—even in the cool breeze—he didn’t know. And the cuffs of her tunic dress… also fur-trimmed.

These foreigners are so strange.

Had the situation not been so dangerous—had the samurai not been afraid for the lives of his family—he’d have rolled his eyes at her question.

“Gomen,” he said, not looking back to address her directly.

This was a very bad idea…