The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) by James Calbraith Page B

thee way from ’ere, yah?”
    Bran nodded. He could clearly sense Emrys, sleeping in a glade in the woods.
    “Why are you people helping us?” he asked.
    The guide, with his back already turned, stopped. His ears twitched like a dog’s. He scratched the back of his head.
    “We know ’ow this ends,” he replied.
    “You — you do?” Bran stuttered. “But not even the shrine Scryers know that.” Not even Nagomi . “Do you have soothsayers of your own?”
    “No.” The guide chuckled again. “But we ’ave summat be’er.”
    The man faced Bran again. His eyes glinted silver in the light of the moon, making him look almost like a Faer Folk.
    “We are the dung gatherers, and the kitchen maids, the gravediggers and the flesh peddlers,” he continued, a proud streak rising in his voice. “We follow t’armies in their wake, and we eavesdrop on the generals. We sleep on the roofs, and live in the gu’ers. Tha’ve ’eard of the shinobi, mas’er spies and assassins, yah ? It is theywho come to us for news. We ’ear and know all there is ta know in Yamato.” He bowed, mockingly, and stepped backwards, down the slope, vanishing into the shadows. “And we always choose the winning side.”

CHAPTER VIII
    It’s that dream again.
    A soft glow illuminated the dusty plain.
    Behind Satō rose a tall spire of gleaming white marble, splotched with stains of dark rusty red. Before her, at some distance, a stone staircase climbed out of the dust, its summit disappearing into darkness. The shadow creatures she’d seen earlier swarmed on and around the staircase, slithering over each other in a struggle to reach the top.
    Two silhouettes appeared on the horizon. They approached Satō in shimmering, sliding flashes. They were the two samurai from before, the tall, charcoal-black one and the one in the old Western armour and ruff collar.
    “Glad you’ve managed to find the time to visit us again, Queen of Shadows,” said the Yamato samurai. Last time she’d seen him, he’d asked her to call him the Fool. “We missed you.”
    “Stop calling me that,” she replied. “My name is Takashima Satō. I have no idea who this Queen is.”
    “Of course, whatever you wish, Your Majesty.” He bowed with a mocking smile.
    She scowled. “What are these things?”
    “You know, I’m not sure myself. I thought you’d know.”
    “Why … why me?”
    “Because they only came after you’d opened the passage.”
    The passage …?
    “He means the sacrifice spell,” the black samurai spoke for the first time. He had a heavy, staccato accent. As he came closer, Satō noticed that it was only the dim light of this world that had made his skin seem black — it was more a polished bronze, like the skin of a roasted chestnut, or mahogany wood. A massive, Qin-style halberd was slung over his back.
    “What kind of yōkai are you?” she asked.
    “I’m not a yōkai, ” he answered indignantly. “I’m a man, like you or him.” He pointed at the Fool. “Well, more like you. I don’t know what he is.”
    “I’ve never seen a man like you before.”
    “And I’d never seen men like your people before the Vasconians brought me here.”
    “Brought you? From where?”
    He shrugged. “Half a world away. Doesn’t matter now. All I remember is the name of my village, Yasu.”
    “And that’s why I’ve always called him Yasu, ” added the Fool, with the air of a patient teacher. “Or My Bodyguard. Or ‘Hey, You.’ Actually, I don’t call him that much. He’s sort of always around.”
    Satō chuckled, despite herself. The Fool was true to his name, adding all sorts of comical poses and gestures to his words. Meanwhile, ‘Yasu’ stood morbidly serious, observing the antics of his companion — or master? — with tedium.
    “They came from over the mountains,” said the Fool. He pointed towards a line of white on the horizon. “To answer your next question.”
    “What did — oh.” I wasn’t going to ask that. “I