Chapter Text
By the end of the week, the coastal road no longer carried merchants.
Instead, people arrived in uneven clusters that looked as though they had formed by accident somewhere far down the road. Farmers came first—thin men with rough hands and bundles tied hastily in faded cloth. Then came families, mothers balancing small children on their hips while older ones trailed behind with the careful silence of those who had been told not to complain.
Their clothes were stiff with dried mud. Their sandals were worn nearly flat.
No one stopped to browse the harbor stalls. No one lingered near the small teahouse where fishermen normally spent the afternoon arguing about tides and weather.
They passed through the town the way animals crossed open ground—quickly, quietly, without drawing attention.
Scaramouche noticed them the moment the first group appeared.
He had been leaning against the wooden railing overlooking the harbor, watching a pair of boats struggle against the winter current. The wind carried salt and the dull creak of rigging from the docked vessels below.
When the refugees appeared on the road above the harbor, his attention shifted immediately.
The pattern was obvious if you knew what to look for.
Fear had a rhythm to it.
Behind him, two fishermen had paused in the middle of repairing a net.
One of them squinted at the road, wiping his hands on his sleeves.
“They’re coming from the south,” he muttered.
The other fisherman frowned. “From where exactly?”
There was a brief pause.
Then the first man answered quietly, as if saying the name too loudly might invite trouble.
“Shimabara.”
The second fisherman swore under his breath.
Scaramouche leaned back slightly against the railing, arms resting loosely as he watched another family hurry past. The youngest child was being carried on the woman’s back, wrapped in a worn shawl that barely shielded him from the wind. His face was pale and hollow, the dull look of someone who had gone too many days without enough food.
Scaramouche had seen that expression often enough across centuries.
It meant the rumors had already become reality.
Several minutes later, footsteps approached behind him.
Zandik appeared beside the railing carrying a rolled piece of parchment that looked suspiciously official.
He stopped next to Scaramouche just as another group of travelers passed through the street below. His red eyes tracked them with quiet, clinical interest.
“These people are not traders,” he said after a moment.
Scaramouche did not look away from the road.
“No,” he replied calmly.
Zandik tilted his head slightly as he continued observing the movement through town.
Scaramouche tapped his fingers lightly against the wood.
“They’re fleeing,” he said.
Zandik nodded slowly, as if confirming a hypothesis.
“Then the rebellion has begun in earnest.”
Scaramouche shifted his weight, resting his elbows against the railing as he looked out toward the gray horizon.
“It began weeks ago,” he said. “We’re just far enough away that it takes its time getting here.”
Zandik watched the last of the group disappear around the bend in the road.
“Did you find out what exactly provoked it?” he asked.
Scaramouche gave a small shrug.
“The same things that usually do,” He mumbled.
Zandik waited.
Scaramouche sighed faintly before elaborating.
“The local daimyo pushed taxes higher after several failed harvests. The peasants couldn’t pay, the officials didn’t care, and the Christian communities in that region were already under pressure from the authorities.” He paused briefly before adding, “Combine hunger with persecution and you get exactly this.”
Zandik hummed softly in thought.
“A volatile combination.”
Zandik finally unrolled the parchment in his hands and glanced down at it.
Scaramouche noticed immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Where did you get that?”
“A clerk left it unattended,” Zandik said without looking up.
“That does not answer my question.”
Zandik glanced at him then, mild amusement flickering briefly across his expression.
“It answers it sufficiently.”
Scaramouche let out a quiet scoff.
“You really have no instinct for self-preservation.”
“On the contrary,” Zandik replied calmly. “I have a very strong instinct for acquiring useful information.”
He tapped the parchment lightly with one finger.
“According to this document, the Shogunate has begun mobilizing troops.”
Scaramouche straightened slightly.
“That was inevitable.”
“Yes,” Zandik said. “But the scale of it is more interesting than the decision itself.”
Scaramouche turned his head toward him.
“How large?”
Zandik scanned the document again before answering.
“Several regional lords are being ordered to contribute forces.”
The casual tone of his voice did nothing to soften the implication.
Scaramouche’s expression hardened a fraction as Zandik rolled the parchment closed again.
Another small group of refugees passed through the road below them at that moment.
They stood there for a while without speaking as another family made its way up the road. A young boy stumbled over a loose stone, his steps uneven from exhaustion, and the woman beside him steadied him with one hand without breaking stride. Neither of them looked back.
Zandik’s attention drifted back to the road, to the empty stretch where the last of the refugees had disappeared. For a while he said nothing, just watched the space as if something might still emerge from it.
“Situations like this don’t always end the same way,” he said eventually. “Too many variables. Once pressure builds past a certain point, things stop following predictable patterns.”
Scaramouche glanced at him from the side. “You’re still hoping it turns into something interesting.”
Zandik didn’t look at him. “Unexpected outcomes tend to be more useful.”
Scaramouche huffed quietly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard that many times before.”
“From me.”
“That too.”
The conversation dipped into a brief, easy silence—not comfortable, exactly, but familiar enough that neither of them felt the need to fill it right away. The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of salt and wet wood from the harbor below.
Then Zandik spoke again, more directly this time.
“Now would be a good time to leave.”
Scaramouche held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away again, back toward the harbor.
Leaving Japan would not be easy.
Travel restrictions had already begun tightening under the Sakoku system, which the Tokugawa Shogunate had been enforcing more aggressively each year. Foreigners were monitored closely, and ships leaving the country were inspected with increasing suspicion.
If Zandik attempted to leave now, he would attract attention.
If he stayed, the rebellion might drag them into a military crackdown.
Neither option looked particularly appealing.
Scaramouche exhaled slowly, arms resting against the railing as he watched the water move.
And that, more than anything, made the decision difficult.
Just then, thwind shifted without warning, cutting across the harbor and carrying something unfamiliar with it.
At first it was faint—easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Just a thin thread of scent beneath the salt and damp wood.
Scaramouche stilled slightly.
Smoke.
Not from cooking fires, not from charcoal or kiln work. This was heavier, harsher—wood and thatch burning all at once, the kind that spread too quickly to control.
He had smelled it before. More times than he cared to count.
Villages burned like that when control slipped. Or when it was taken back.
Beside him, Zandik noticed the shift almost immediately. “What is it?” he asked, glancing over.
Scaramouche didn’t look at him. His gaze had already moved toward the southern horizon.
“Smoke,” he said.
Zandik followed his line of sight. The sky there was darker than it should have been, a muted stain against the fading light.
He frowned slightly. “Already?”
Scaramouche pushed himself away from the railing, the decision settling into him with a quiet finality. “It must be spreading fast.”
Zandik watched the horizon a moment longer, then turned back to him, expression sharpening—not alarmed, but focused.
Scaramouche had already started moving, stepping down from the harbor path toward the docks below. The wooden steps creaked under his weight, damp from the sea air.
Zandik confused by the sudden movement, followed without hesitation.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To find out if anyone’s still willing to sell passage,” Scaramouche replied from over his shoulder. “Before the ports tighten any further.”
Zandik glanced toward the water, where the boats rocked unevenly against their ropes. “You think anyone will agree to that?”
“No,” Scaramouche said, a hint of dry amusement slipping through. “But I’ve been wrong before.”
Zandik let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’s realistic.”
They reached the lower dock, the boards shifting slightly underfoot as the tide pulled at the supports beneath them. The air felt colder there, closer to the water.
Zandik slowed for a moment, studying him—not the situation, not the harbor, but him.
“You’re actually coming,” he said, more observation than question.
Scaramouche stopped a few steps ahead.
For a second, he didn’t turn around. His gaze rested on the restless water, on the boats that might carry them away from something that had defined centuries of his existence. He hadn’t even noticed what he was doing.
Then he glanced back over his shoulder.
“For now,” he said.
It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t certainty.
But it was enough.
Zandik’s expression shifted, something quieter settling in beneath his usual composure—satisfaction, maybe, or something closer to relief than he would have admitted aloud.
“Then I’ll make sure it works,” he said.
Scaramouche huffed lightly. “You say that like you can control it.”
“I can influence it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
Scaramouche turned fully then, facing him for a moment longer than necessary. The wind caught loose strands of his hair, pushing them across his face, and without thinking, Zandik reached out—
just briefly—brushing them aside with a careful, almost absent motion, as if he were adjusting something delicate rather than touching him at all.
The contact lasted no more than a second but it lingered.
Scaramouche stilled, not pulling away, not reacting immediately. There was a flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe, or the quiet awareness of a boundary crossed so naturally it hadn’t felt like one.
Zandik withdrew his hand just as easily, as if nothing unusual had happened.
“We should move quickly,” he said, tone returning to its usual steadiness.
Scaramouche exhaled softly, turning back toward the boats before the moment could settle too deeply.
“Try not to get us arrested before we even leave,” he muttered.
“No promises,” Zandik chuckled.
They continued down the dock together, steps falling into the same quiet rhythm they had built over months without ever naming it.
Behind them, near the edge of the harbor, a soldier stood half-shadowed beside a stack of crates.
He had been there long enough to hear more than he should have.
His gaze followed them as they moved toward the ships, attention sharpening with interest. Orders had been clear—report anything unusual, anything that didn’t fit the tightening pattern of control.
The soldier turned away at last, already considering how best to deliver the information.