Kenshin had broken Winter's nose and it hurt like hell. Jun mixed one of his herbal concoctions to ease the pain, but nothing worked as well as hard liquor. Winter had several snifters of fine Irish whiskey, sitting with strips of rag up his nostrils, waiting for the bleeding to finally stop.
He'd had a fine, straight nose, reminiscent of his aristocratic lineage, and the little bastard had ruined it. He'd be lucky if it healed with only a slight bump. Damned slant-eyed fuck for consistently complicating Winter's life. Any reasonable man would have given up at the shores of his own country instead of trekking across the sea and following him here. Damned Japanese obstinacy. Which was why, of course, Winter had concocted this whole plan to begin with, trying to figure out a way to etch out a foothold of lucrative Japanese trade before the damned Americans managed to convince the Meiji government to grant them open trade rights. Then it would be anyone's game. For the time being the Japanese government was still gun shy of unfettered foreign access to all their ports of call. And he'd been so damned close to getting that access to Tokyo and its untapped exotic goods.
Damned little chance of that now, without Erizowa's help. But still, there were ways Winter still might come out ahead in this. He'd halfway convinced Kilbourne that Kenshin's claims were all lies. That Kenshin was an agent of a rival Japanese clan that wished to circumvent their lucrative deal by scaring off Winter's investors, in favor of their own with other foreign rival shippers.
Kilbourne had already sunk enough money into this project that he wanted to believe in plots and machinations afoot rather than the simple fact that they'd been sunk. With a little finesse, he could figure a way out of this that avoided placing blame at his doorstep. Avoided the displeasure of the all-powerful East India company, who did not look kindly upon competition from within and most importantly no black marketeering charges leveled against him by his own government.
The pain was duller, Jun's powder having accomplished its task. Winter gingerly fingered the swelling and winced, then glared at the floor, in the direction of the basement where his guest still languished. A few hours left chained down there and Winter figured Kenshin might welcome a little company. He smirked, and it brought a sting of discomfort, so he turned it into a scowl and contemplated the best method of indoctrinating a dangerous new acquisition. He'd really rather that his nose was the only injury he received during his entertainment.
He called for his manservant and Jun appeared post haste, bowing his head and waiting for Winter's command with those inscrutable black eyes of his. That was one of the things he liked about Kenshin, the color of his eyes, and the emotion they broadcast. At least when he wasn't killing mad. Then there was nothing in his gaze but promises of pain and death.
"Whip up something, would you, to make our guest a bit less inclined to perpetrate violence. I think it's time to play a little."
"He's dangerous, master Quinton," Jun complained. "Kill him now or he'll bring bad luck upon us."
"Which is why I'd like you to administer one of your ingenious powders. Now don't question my orders." Winter gave him a stern look and the manservant pursed his lips and inclined his head once more.
"Shall I have him brought up to the room, or have your kit taken down to the basement?"
Winter shrugged, considering. Jun turned his head, as if his hearing were somehow keener than Winter's own, or he had some sort of unnatural prescience, which just might be the case for he tended to anticipate Winter's needs often before Winter himself. Then the chimes rang, indicating someone at the door.
"Well," Winter straightened his jacket, running hand through his hair. "I wasn't aware we were expecting visitors."
Jun hurried out of the study, his hand surreptitiously on the little knife he always carried. Winter strode after him, keenly aware of the weight of the pistol in his inner pocket. One of the Ceylonese servants opened the door, bowing deeply at whoever was on the other side.
Winter didn't have long to wait to see who it was, for Kilbourne shouldered his considerable bulk past the slim Ceylonese girl and stormed Winter's foyer. He wasn't alone. Ashton and DeMarley were on his heels. All of Winter's investors in his little scheme come to demand their due. Damn Kilbourne to hell for not taking Winter at his word.
"Gentlemen. To what do I owe the honor?"
"You know damned well, Winter." Kilbourne spat, cheeks ruddy, jowls quivering. Winter imagined putting a bullet between the fat bastard's eyes.
Lord Ashton, anything but fat and lazy, strolled past Kilbourne, eyes half lidded and sharp. He lifted a brow when he got a good look at winter's swollen nose and purpling eyes. "Have a bit of an accident?"
Winter smiled tightly. "Just a little mishap."
"Looks painful, ol' Chap."
"I understand we've had a problem, Winter." DeMarly got straight to the point.
"Nothing I can't deal with, my lord. Have dealt with, in fact."
"So you nabbed the insolent bastard, then?" Kilbourne demanded.
Winter inclined his head, smiling his merchant's smile. All promise and none of it reaching past his eyes. He waved a hand, ushering them down the hall to the billiards room with its broad gaming table and its leather furniture, its suits of armor and its stuffed animal heads leering down from the walls. The room smelled faintly of smoke and fine liquor. A pleasant scent. A manly scent.
"So what's this I hear, Winter, of fake daughters, and double dealings?" DeMarly asked, soft spoken, the calmest of the lot, a plain looking man with a fortune at his back. A man with a stake in the East India Company, but not as big a stake as he'd like.
"Was the little Japanese girl you presented Erizowa's daughter or not?"
"Of course she was. She's well on her way home to report the success of her mission to her papa as we speak."
"And the claims otherwise?" Kilbourne demanded.
"Lies," Winter said. "I told you they were lies. You think the house of lords is chock full of political machinations - -we don't hold a candle to the internal politics of these Japanese noble houses. Erizowa is still our ally. The man that broke into your house was an agent of a rival house."
"This agent - - you have him here?" Ashton inquired, helping himself to a tumbler of brandy.
Winter hesitated a moment, wary. Then nodded. "He is - -my guest."
Ashton chuckled.
Kilbourne's face turned ruddier. "Why haven't you strung the bastard up?"
Winter shrugged. "I had questions for him."
"And did he give you answers?" DeMarly asked.
Winter smiled. "They're very stubborn, these Japanese. I haven't finished asking."
"Why don't we ask him a few questions of our own?" Ashton suggested, damn the man. "Let us assuage some of our own fears."
"A reasonable request," DeMarly agreed.
Kilbourne just chomped, agitated, on the stub of a fat cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Ah, well, I was rather - - vigorous in my questioning. He might not be much good for answering yours. And even if he did, he's adamant in his lies."
"Let's see him, Winter," Kilbourne finally snapped. "I've a debt to pay the insolent dog."
Winter shrugged, smiling his false smile again to hide his annoyance. "As you wish, gentlemen."
He slipped out to the hall, where Jun was waiting, dipped his head and ordered softly. "Make sure he's not coherent enough to talk, then have him brought up."
Jun nodded and scurried away to do his bidding.
He offered them fresh cigars and a sampling of his uncle's finest Scottish double malt while they waited. He trusted Jun to accomplish his task and if Kenshin were lucid enough to get out a few words - - well, the only translators in the room where himself and his manservant. But he had to play his cards carefully, these were dangerous men with power and position, used to getting their own way. They'd ruin him if they guessed he was double dealing them.
Soon enough Jun appeared at the doorway, bowing at the lot of them, before moving aside and letting two of the native servants haul Kenshin in between them. Jun hadn't unfettered him, even though his head drooped and his body was barely responsive to the handling.
"What the hell is this?" Kilbourne rose, stalking over, glaring at Winter more than their prisoner. "This can't be the one - - the man who attacked me was larger, I'm sure of it."
Winter smiled, letting just a touch of condescension flitter at the edges. "Men tend to seem larger when they've got a sword to your throat, Kilbourne. I assure you, this is the man."
The man cast him a nasty look, then grasped a handful of Kenshin's hair, jerking his head back. Kenshin's lashes fluttered, trying to focus, eyes distant and hazy. Jun deserved a bonus for the effectiveness of his powders, Winter thought with satisfaction. Ashton strolled up, lazily sucking on his cigar, eyes flitting over Kenshin's face.
"Hmm. Doesn't look that threatening, Kilbourne. Look's rather too pretty for that. But then, looks can be deceiving. Perhaps you were drunk, ol' chap."
Kilbourne snarled, swung his meaty hand and backhanded Kenshin. The two servants clutched tighter to his arms, holding him upright.
"Were you the one?" Kilbourne demanded, grasping his jaw, forcing his head back up. "Do you know who I am? Do you, you worthless dog?"
He hit him again, with little more reaction. Ashton shook his head looking bored.
"I told you," Winter said sipping at his own drink. "That he wouldn't be much for answering questions."
He waved a hand towards the billiard's table and the two servants deposited their burden there. Kenshin lay, feet dangling, manacled hands limp across his stomach on the green felt of the tabletop. Winter leaned a palm on the edge looking down, mouth twitching as he saw the struggle for coherency in Kenshin's eyes. There was a little trickle of blood running down from the corner of his mouth.
"So," DeMarly leaned a hip against the table, casting a glance down at Kenshin, before dismissing him and looking to Winter. "This rival clan? Can you handle the problem on the Japanese end?"
"I can. My contact's clan, you might say, is more powerful than his rivals. Erizowa is a powerful enough player that he will deal with them. Trust me, gentlemen."
"When I see a return on my investment, I'll trust you a little more," Ashton said, then lifted a brow at Kilbourne who'd hefted a billiard's cue and was slapping the thick end against his palm. He cracked it down onto the table top next to Kenshin's head.
Winter flinched at the retort, frowning at the little tear in the felt. "This is a perfectly fine table, Kilbourne. I'd prefer if you didn't get blood all over it."
"Then drag him onto the floor. I'll take the beginnings of my own investment's return out of his hide."
"How plebian of you," Ashton drawled, before Winter could think up an excuse to deny the man the chance of taking away his own well earned enjoyment.
"He didn't break into your home, Ashton, and put a sword to your throat."
"And embarrass me in front of a little brown bed warmer?" Ashton guessed, and Kilbourne bristled.
"Beating him to death would be so boring," Ashton remarked, his smile slow and lazy, but Winter thought him anything but. "Why not vent your frustration, Kilbourne in a more sporting fashion?"
Kilbourne canted him a narrow look. Winter did, waiting.
"We haven't had a hunt in ages. Do your uncle's hounds still know how to pursue two legged game, Winter?"
Winter's mouth slowly curved in a smile. Ashton always had been a man after his own heart. A kindred spirit. "Aye. They'll chase down any prey they get the scent of."
"Then what say you, gentlemen?" Ashton smiled. "The man that takes the prey wins the right to dispose of it any manner he sees fit."
"He won't be much sport for a while." Winter looked down at Kenshin. At the half lashed gaze and the slowly flexing fingers of a man trying hard to fight his way out of the narcotic induced haze he'd been plunged into.
"We'll have a few drinks, enjoy a round of cards or two and let him recover some of his wits before we loose the dogs."
The last thing he remembered, and even that memory was hazy and insubstantial, was Winter's man, Jun slipping down the stairs to the basement they'd imprisoned him, and blowing a handful of white powder into his face. Things had gone very, very shadowy then, and slow, thick like sap oozing with infinite slowness down the trunk of a tree. He didn't recall a great deal of what happened after. Just an indefinite passage of time, a lurid wash of color and jabbering foreign voices that came and went as his vision did. Hands on him, that he ought to try and shake off, but lacked the wherewithal to do so.
After a while, water hit his face, cold and wet, shocking him into awareness. A sharper blow followed, a hard, open palmed slap across the face. He sputtered, trying to focus as hands tangled in his collar, dragging him up, slapping him again, both cheeks, voice hissing at him in a low angry tones to wake up.
Kenshin blinked water from his eyes, staring through a tangle of wet hair at a half familiar, pinched face. Jun. Winter's servant, who crouched in front of him, while men he couldn't see grasped him from behind, hands in his hair, hands on his collar holding him back against their knees while Jun shook a fist in his face.
"Filthy assassin," Jun spat at him, grabbing Kenshin's jaw, forcing his head back and bringing a short knife up to press against his throat. "My master is a fool, to have let you live this long."
There was nothing to do but stare down into angry black eyes and wait to see if the man were of a mind to slit his throat. But eventually, Jun jerked the blade away, instead slashing at the shoulder of Kenshin's noragi, Ripping down the sleeve and tearing off a good portion of the cloth. He flung the rag at a servant and snapped something at the man in Ceylonese, and the man scurried off.
Jun rose, jerked his head and the two men behind him pulled him up. It was an effort to get his legs under him. His sandals were gone and the wood was cool and slick under his feet, but at least they'd done away with the leg irons. If he could just chase away the haze that still clung with tenacity in his head, he might be able to help himself out of this situation. But wanting was a far cry from doing and the hall passed in a blur as they hauled him to a set of tall, glass paned doors and a wide porch looking out over a night dark yard. It had been a few hours after noon when he'd come here, he thought, so a good deal of time had passed.
Sano. Winter had promised to send men after the stolen papers and Sano might have been there. Either to stop them or be stopped by them. His mind whirled around scenarios where blood was shed. He could see it clear as day. Could scent it - - a scent you never forgot once you'd been awash in it - -
Jun slapped him again, and he hadn't even realized the man had moved to face him, mind that unfocused, thoughts that chaotic. Not a state of mind conducive to survival. Too much of the drug still in his system, then. Still, if the man hit him again, Kenshin was going to have to take offense and return the favor in some manner.
Jun stabbed a finger towards the darkened yard and the vast, black fields of tea beyond it. "Run. You run or the dogs will tear you apart, understand, assassin?"
Jun shoved him off the porch, and he staggered, lacking any semblance of grace, down the steps, going to hands and one knee in wet grass. He looked up from under his hair at Jun and his pair of burly servants backing him, then heard the baying of dogs. Jun's mouth curved into a cruel smile and Kenshin hissed, shoving to his feet.
When he swung his head too rapidly, his vision wavered, the shadows shuddering, the lights from the house flickering as if he were looking at them through a multi-faceted stone. The forest offered cover that the fields Jun had pointed towards did not, and the closest wood line was beyond the gardens. He ran that way, nothing so neat as a straight line, shaking his head in an effort to force clarity that did not want to come. But balance was no less intricate a part of him, as breathing and his feet found the way, body doing what it ought even if his mind swam with disorientation. Past the hedges of the garden, and the lush beds of flowering plants, the archways with their coiling vines and towards the dark wall of forest.
Light flared at him, a sudden roaring, demon faced apparition with flames at the ends of its arms. Another, leaping to join the first, bellowing at him, waving the fire in his face, and he veered from his path, shocked into taking a different course towards the fields. It occurred to him, as his heart dislodged from his throat that they'd been men. Men in masks waving torches to herd him in a direction of their choosing.
He heard the dogs again, a cacophony of excited barking from the darkness beyond the mansion and drawing closer. He didn't turn to look, just plunged into the thigh high tea plants at the edge of the fields. There was forest to the right of him, bordering the fields. A great deal of forest that they couldn't block the whole of. Even if they tried, they wouldn't deter him this time.
The sharp retort of gunfire rang out, and he reflexively crouched, diving into the shelter of plants. The bullet hadn't come near him, though. Either a bad shot, or they were simply reveling in their power. He paused for a moment, eyes shut, listening past the thud of his own heart to the sound of dogs - - and horses. The dogs had entered the fields, he could hear the sound of them ripping through tender plants on their path towards him. He rose and sprinted towards the tree line.
Two hundred yards and he rushed it headlong, feeling the presence of the pack behind him - - their roiling excitement, their lust for the kill. He broke the edge of the forest, plunged into darkness not pierced by moonlight and ran. Mulch soft and wet under his feet from recent rains, branches snapping his face and arms as he tore through underbrush. He was fast, he knew he was fast, even hindered as he was, but the dogs had four legs instead of two - - had animal instinct that a man who'd let his own instincts dull over the past few years, could not compete with.
Teeth ripped at the trailing edge of his torn noragi, yanking him off his balance. He staggered to the side, caught himself from falling outright and swung his manacled hands, hard, against a canine head. The hound let out a yelp of pain, knocked away from him and into the bole of a young tree. Another leapt at him and he rolled under its lunge, fingers curling around a fallen branch and bringing it up in a backhanded swing that cracked much like the sound of a bullet, against the dog's thick neck. The branch broke, the dog dropped, lifeless and Kenshin ran.
The ground gave way unexpectedly under his feet and he slid down a muddy slope, scrambling helplessly for purchase with hands bound and plunged into cold, dark water. He came up, gasping, waist deep in a stream that might have been fifteen feet wide. He might have gained himself a few precious moments while the dogs sniffed about their fallen pack members. A chance to get them off his track. He ripped the torn noragi off, flung the sodden cloth up the opposite slope, then headed down stream in the darkness. A treacherous path with slick rocks under his feet and unexpected deep pools to make him flounder. Something sinuous and black glinted in a bit of dappled moonlight on the waters surface, gliding towards him and he hissed, batting it out of the water towards the far shore. A very, very bad thing, snakes in the water. He'd rather face the dogs.
He waded towards the opposite shore, pulling himself up onto the bank, scrambling up the slope and into the trees. He could hear the dogs, but they weren't closing in. Mulling in confusion around his coat, trying to find a scent to follow. They'd figure it out. But for the moment he let himself slump against a tree, drawing in gasping lungfuls of air. Trying to wrap his mind around what exactly it was he was running from.
There were men behind the dogs. Men with guns. Winter's men, he could only assume. But Jun was Winter's man and Jun had set him free. Well, as free as a man might be, manacled and herded into being a rabbit for a pack of dogs. Some game of Winter's then, and he knew by now that Winter liked to play. Liked to manipulate and tease and torment.
Kenshin bared his teeth in frustration, pushed himself off the tree and started moving again. The whole of this place was unfamiliar. He had no notion where he was headed. For all he knew, he might be circling back around to the mansion.
The baying of the dogs grew closer. He heard the distant shout of a man. He ran. Men, he could avoid in the darkness. Dogs were another matter. And the dogs were on his trail again.
He found a stout enough stick as he moved, snapping it, with a foot against the bole and a grunt of effort, off a downed tree. He gripped it two handed, spun even as he caught the glimpse of a fast moving dark shape through the trees rushing at him. Cracked the dog in the muzzle and kept turning, leaping over the one on its heels and bringing the limb down upon the third. Caught another in the side, knocking it against a tree, then got pulled off his balance by teeth in the leg of his trousers. His foot slid on wet mulch and that leg went down under him, an unfortunate lapse that let another one get past his guard and latch hold of his forearm, bearing him backwards under the dog's not insubstantial weight. He went with it, using the dog's own momentum to spin it off him, bringing up a knee and slamming it against the stubbornly clenched jaws around his arm.
He had half a glimpse in the frenzy of the attacking pack of a larger, black shape bearing down on him. He half turned, the dog still attached to his arm, and met the sole of a boot, slamming into the side of his head. He went down, head spinning, the dogs descending upon him, snarling, nipping at him, shifting to avoid the prancing hooves of a horse as the animal sidled into the fray.
There was the barking command of a man, sharp orders that made no sense to Kenshin's reeling mind. He brought his arms up, covering his head as hooves thudded into the soft earth next to him. Trying to protect his throat from the snapping jaws of the dogs that wanted to rip it out. There was the cracking sound of a whip, the yelp of dogs as they were driven off. Then a lash of pain as it struck his ankle, the tail of it slithering around and cinching tight before he was jerked across the ground, in the horse's wake, the hounds dancing gleefully as he was dragged. A nightmarish progression, across bramble and earthy debris, his back slamming against a protruding root here, his head bouncing off another there.
Not far - - it could not have been far - - and then the tension around his ankle relaxed, the end of the whip slipping off, trailing in the mulch as the horse paced. Kenshin lay there, spots of color dancing at the edges of dimmed vision. The pain of maybe a rib only newly healed, fractured again, vying with the burn of the scrapes on his back.
More horses joined the first, towering over him, indistinguishable silhouettes in the darkness. The dogs circled, whining, the fervor of the hunt dissipated, looking for confirmation of their success from their masters. One even went so far as to thrust its long wet tongue against his face. Men spoke among themselves, laughing, pleased with their accomplishment of taking down disadvantaged prey. No honor at all among the lot of them.
Winter leaned over him, pale hair, pale eyes in the slivers of moonlight that escaped the foliage, trapping Kenshin's manacled hands beneath his weight . He had the whip coiled in his hand and trailed the end of it across Kenshin's scarred cheek. He said something to the men accompanying him. They were dark shapes, looming atop their horses, looking down upon them.
"I win," Winter said, grinning at him, teeth eerily pale in the shadows of his face.
Kenshin had neither the breath, nor the inclination to engage him in conversation, but then Winter didn't seem to expect it. He looped the supple leather of the whip around Kenshin's neck, pulled it taut enough to choke off air and bent down close.
"I told you," he said, lips grazing Kenshin's temple, whispering softly as if he were speaking to a lover as he choked him. "I told you I'd make you pay."
Of course Kilbourne complained that they didn't string him up and kill him there - - gut him like any other prey they'd hunted down. It had been, on occasion, done before, when the wealthiest of Winter's blooded family acquaintances had been bored and had a taste for the blood of prey of a higher caliber. Any proper English aristocrat saw these people in the lands that they'd colonized, as little more than savages, anyway. Two legged beasts to toil in their fields, make their exported goods, clean their houses and occasionally warm their beds - - to use as they saw fit, which was the god given right of a conquering, civilized people.
Kilbourne believed that to his bones, having no more respect for the native peoples than he did for his dogs. Winter was more of an equal opportunity manipulator. He'd use an Englishman if it worked to his advantage, as easily as he'd use a foreigner. He'd used Kenshin - - but he respected him. Hard not to respect a man with Kenshin's tenacity. It didn't mean Winter wouldn't kill him - - but he'd no intention of letting Kilbourne name the place or the method. It was a personal thing now, that he had every intention of taking his sweet time with.
He put a rope around Kenshin's neck while he was still reeling from being half asphyxiated, and almost choked him out again until he managed to gain his feet, grasping the rope as it jerked taut when Winter's horse began moving through the wood. The dogs danced around him, tangling with his legs, but he managed with admirable grace to avoid tripping over them and being dragged. That little indignation would have pleased Winter. Kenshin deserved nothing less for killing two of his dogs.
A long trek back to the house. Arduous for a man bleeding from no few places and lacking shoes, tethered behind a long legged hunter whose walk equaled most horse's trot. The servants were out in mass when they rode up, whipped into competency by Jun, who glared with murder in his eyes at a live Kenshin. Jun had no love for the tools of the Meiji restoration, a born and bred servant of the shoganate they had replaced. His own master had died at the hands of an assassin, and though it was doubtful that that hand had been Himura the Battousai, he'd made a name for himself during the revolution. Still one never knew. Jun had reason enough for grudges. Perhaps he'd allow Jun a few hours to inquire. A faithful servant deserved occasional incentives.
Men rushed forward to take charge of dogs and horses. Winter dismounted, winding the rope around his fist, while Kenshin leaned over his knees, panting, sweat darkened auburn hair clinging to shoulders and shielding his face. He jerked a head at Jun who barked orders and other servants ran to take charge of him. He didn't protest, just stood there between them, lifting his head just enough to meet Winter's eyes through the tangled fall of his hair. Not a welcoming look. A frightening one, truth be told and Winter swallowed, an involuntarily chill traveling down his spine, before he got a hold of himself and snapped the rope tether, a reminder of who was in the position of power here and who was not.
"You'd think the dogs would have ripped the insolence out of him," Ashton remarked, at Winter's back, having noted that look.
"You'd think," Winter grunted, annoyed.
There was blood running down Kenshin's left arm from the imprint of canine jaws. A shallower bite on his shoulder. His feet were bloody from more than pelting through the woods barefoot. A trail of red ran down one ankle, from a hidden wound on his leg. Winter supposed they'd blooded him well enough for the lives he'd taken of theirs.
"I can rid him of it," Kilbourne grunted slapping his crop against his pants leg. As red as the big man's face was, you'd think he'd run back as well, rather than ride.
"Let up, old chap. You lost the right when you lost the hunt." Ashton reminded him.
Kilbourne snarled. "You and your damned 'entertainments', Ashton. I'm owed justice."
Ashton sniffed, and glanced at Winter. "You might as well. You'll not hear the end of it, until he's had his due."
Winter cocked a brow at the crop in Kilbourne's hand, then shrugged, waving a hand. "If it will sooth your injured pride."
They dragged Kenshin into the stable, wild-eyed Ceylonese men who looked as if they'd rather be any place but this, about this business. Jun yelled at them when they looked to hesitate, shoving Kenshin face first against the post at the end of a row of stalls and drawing a rope through the manacles on his wrists and drawing his arms up. He didn't flinch through it. Just stood there, back already scraped, forehead pressed against the wood whiles the wolves circled. All of them, even DeMarly who rarely evidenced emotion, watching with gleaming eyes, anticipating the deconstruction of a man.
"It would make more of an impression if you lent me your whip," Kilbourne remarked.
"No," Winter said flatly. "When and if I choose to mangle him, it will be my hand that does it."
Kilbourne sniffed, shifted his thick fingers on the handle of his crop, then stepped forward and cracked it across Kenshin's shoulders. There was involuntary movement then. The twitching of shocked muscle.
Then Kilbourne laid in, using the shaft as much as the leather. Kenshin didn't make a sound more satisfying than the occasional stifled gasp when he took a hit across the darkening bruise over the ribs on his left side. Kilbourne sounded more distressed, exerting himself beyond his endurance. Winter wasn't surprised. It hadn't been until the bandits had driven the spike through his second hand that he'd screamed in the mountains outside Tokyo.
All Kilbourne was doing was making himself more and more irate at the lack of response. With a curse the man flung the crop away and drove a fist into Kenshin's side. Again and this time Kenshin grunted, a pain sound, fists clenching.
Winter let Kilbourne get in another few hits, before he moved it, driving the man back with a shoulder between him and his victim. "All right. All right. You've had your fun. Go inside, have a brandy - - I've a servant or two that might be your type, eh, Kilbourne. Go on, you've proved your point."
"He never made a sound. Never made a damned sound," Kilbourne panted. "What sort of man endures a beating and doesn't utter a damned sound?"
Ashton threw an arm across the man's burly shoulders and got him walking. "A stubborn one, old Chap."
DeMarly followed them towards the house. Jun stood in the shadows looking disapprovingly at Winter. Winter jerked a hand towards the house. "Don't give me grief, Jun. Have them bring him."
"You'll regret it, Master Quinton. It's not stubborn - - it's discipline. He'll wait for his chance and he'll take it and we'll all pay."
They'd overstayed their welcome, Winter thought. Drinking his liquor, smoking his cigars, enjoying his servants, and inflicting little cruelties on his property. But then, it was a long ride back to the Colombo from the plantation and a good host would have insisted they stay the night. He wasn't feeling the good host.
He was feeling stifled and impatient to be about what he'd been aching to be about since before they'd arrived. He glanced down to Kenshin, curled on his side on the floor near Winter's chair. He might or might not have been conscious. They'd recuffed his hands behind him, looped a rope around his knees, a rope around his ankles. Jun was taking no chances. The blood had crusted on most of the wounds, only the deepest of the puncture marks still seeping red. His back was a mish mash of welts and bruises. There was a bruise on his temple, where Winter had kicked him when the hounds had taken him down finally. His hair mostly concealed it. It didn't detract from his profile. Still too damned pretty to have suffered what he'd suffered tonight. Winter looked like hell and he'd only taken the one hit.
Winter took a swig from the bottle of whiskey he'd taken to drinking from, quicker than bothering to pour it into a glass. He sat it on the table next to him, and reached down, winding a hand in long auburn hair and using it to pull Kenshin up. He dragged him up between his knees, back against the leather armchair, hand still tight in his hair.
"Are you awake?" he asked softly, trailing the thumb of his other hand down the curve of Kenshin's neck.
Kenshin said nothing, though he felt the tensing of muscle as Kenshin tried to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. "They'll be gone soon enough, I promise. I do so look forward to spending time with you alone."
Still nothing. Winter could understand Kilbourne's frustration.
"Shall I tell you about the man I sold your wife, too?" he offered. "I've heard that he particularly appreciates a woman versed in oral sex. Does she have talent in that area?"
There was reaction then. Stiffening of shoulders, a slight frustrated jerk as Kenshin tried to free his hair from Winter's grasp.
"Do you?" Winter asked, pulling Kenshin's head back, grinning down into half lidded, furious eyes. He ran fingers across Kenshin's lips and barely avoided teeth when Kenshin snapped at him. Damned pissed now. It made Winter happy.
He reached for the bottle, shifted the hand in his hair to grasp his jaw and forced the lip of it into his mouth. Kenshin gagged, swallowing convulsively, amber liquor spilling down the corners of his mouth. He turned his head against Winter's knee and coughed when he let him breath. That made him happy, too.
He spent a good deal of time, while DeMarly drowsed on the leather couch, and Kilbourne disappeared with two of his servant girls, forcing liquor on Kenshin. Remembering very well from his days at the dojo, on those occasions that Kaoru had served sake, that Kenshin had only ever partaken sparingly. Either he had little tolerance for it, or had never developed a taste. Either way, Winter enjoyed sliding the neck of the bottle between his lips. Enjoyed it enough that he was hard through his pants, and Kenshin if he were aware enough, had to have felt it against the back of his neck when Winter pressed him close. But maybe not. He'd stopped fighting it a while ago, and his lashes were fluttering, black against his cheeks.
"Looks like he's done for." Ashton strolled over, from where he'd been watching them all like voyeur for most of the night. He crouched down in front of Kenshin, reaching out and brushing a long strand of whisky soaked hair from his cheek. " I've always rather fancied the Indians over the Orientals, but he's really quite something."
Winter lifted a brow. Ashton looked up, meeting his gaze with a sly smile. "DeMarly's dead to the world and Kilbourne's rutting with your little servant girls. They won't notice at all, if you and I take him somewhere a little more private."
Ashton wasn't bad looking. Younger than him. A man he might not mind sharing intimate entertainments with. And it never hurt to have embarrassing information to hold over the head of a peer of realm, if the need ever arose.
Winter smiled. "I have a place."
And he did. A special room, with cabinets full of instruments that he enjoyed employing. With a sturdy bed that sported the sort of restraints a man might need when his guests were less than willing to engage in the games he liked to play.
Kenshin was limp when they drew him up. Drink, the remnant of the drugs, the abuse or a combination of all having finally mastered him. Winter hefted him up and he was heavier than he looked, all lean, compact sinew and muscle. Lolling head, strands of hair clinging to his skin. Thankfully, he didn't need to climb the stairs with him. The room was on the first floor, a guest room separated from the other rooms, providing a certain degree of privacy. Not that Winter's servants would complain. Not if they knew what was good for them.
Ashton opened the door Winter indicated and Winter maneuvered his burden in, depositing him upon the bed. Kenshin was less than immaculate, bloody, dirty. He'd soil the sheets.
"Jun," Winter snapped, knowing very well his manservant would be hovering. "Fetch water and rags to clean him up."
He caught a glimpse of Jun's glower before the little man disappeared to do his bidding. Ashton grinned at him, closed door at his back and Winter felt a sudden swell of camaraderie. A sudden shiver of excitement. He'd never had anyone - - an equal - - to share his predilections with. An audience that could appreciate and savor the same things he enjoyed. This might very well lead to things other than leverage over an influential nobleman.
Ashton lifted a thick leather manacle attached by a short length of chain to one of the hard wood columns at the foot of the bed. "Very nice."
Winter took out a knife from his boot and sliced the rope around Kenshin's legs, already planning out his strategy. Face down, to start. As painfully aroused as he still was, face down would be the most convenient position to begin. The key to the cuffs was in his trouser pocket. He dug it out and unlocked the cuff on Kenshin's closest wrist in preparation of drawing it up towards the leather restraints on the headboard.
He looked up, half second to catch Ashton's eye and Kenshin exploded under his hand. His fingers were gripping flesh one moment and the next grasping at empty air. All he saw was the afterimage of the hand, dangling cuff still attached, that slammed into the side of his face. Felt the metal slice into his skin, and the pain when his nose was broken, was nothing compared to the sickening crack of his cheekbone shattering.
It didn't last long. He heard the dwindling sound of men screaming and then he heard nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-fourKenshin and pain were old comrades. Some of his earliest memories were of pain; the sting of the slaver's lash when he'd been too young and too small to do anything but cower under it. Seijuro's infliction of it - - Seijuro having odd ideas in the raising of a child - - in his efforts to make him strong enough, worthy enough to receive Seijuro's legacy. Too many years of fighting a war that had seemed noble at the time, with too few moments of respite. Fighting until his bones ached with the vibration of steel against steel.
Kenshin and pain were quite, quite familiar. Years of harsh acquaintance allowed him to push it to the back of his mind, even when his body screamed bloody murder. Desperation gave him strength that otherwise might have failed him when the sliver of a chance presented itself.
There was a trail of blood, an arc in the air, his vision so focused that he saw the individual droplets as they fell, when Winter spun backwards from his blow. Winter went down, off the side of the bed, but the other man was rushing towards him, calling out in alarm, pulling a small pistol out of his jacket pocket. Kenshin threw himself off the side of the bed, scrambling over Winter's sprawled body, even as Jun was rushing through a second, smaller doorway, screaming himself, a knife in hand.
The man was fast and Kenshin was feeling distinctly slow, but he caught the wrist as the knife hand descended, twisting it away from him, dragging Jun behind him, and slamming an elbow back into the man's face. He had the knife in hand even as Jun's lax fingers loosened on it, and flung it towards the other westerner as the man was squeezing the trigger of the gun. Kenshin threw himself to one side before the retort sounded. Two thunks of impact with flesh. One from Jun behind him who'd taken the bullet meant for him and the other from the knife he'd flung embedding itself in the Englishman's left eye.
Both bodies crumpled simultaneously.
Kenshin crouched there, the fingers of one hand pressed to the floor, his breath harsh and painful. He stared in dismay at the one sprawled against the door, blood seeping out from around the hilt of the knife in his eye socket. Thoroughly dead by his hand and he hadn't meant that. Hadn't been thinking much at all, simply reacting, and a vow he'd kept vigilantly for years had shattered.
Winter was sprawled on the floor at the side of the bed, not so far from his glassy eyed manservant, maybe dead too, for all the blood coating the side of his face. And if that were so - - well, he could not work up regret for it - - not at the moment when he was still reeling from his time under the man's care. Not when the words the man had said about Kaoru, to wound him, still bled raw inside his head.
There were the sounds of pounding feet approaching from the hall. Cries of men alerted by the gunshot. The other Englishmen and their servants. They'd have more guns and more men than he felt capable of dealing with at the moment, when he barely felt capable of keeping his feet.
The only route of escape was the window and he flung himself at it, crashed through, with a splintering of glass and wood. He hit the ground rolling, ground his teeth against the stab of pain in his side, but didn't let it stop his momentum.
The sky was stained with dawn, the trees grey in the distance. There was the drive and the road beyond that, so much clearer this time when his mind wasn't muddled with narcotics. The alcohol, he could function under the influence of. In fact when his blood was rushing, adrenalin high, it almost made things unnaturally clear.
A shot rang out, spiting up grass and dirt near his feet. He spared a glance back and saw figures at the shattered window. They'd be after him in short order. He welcomed it almost, now that he was in his right mind and unfettered, and in need of a fast way back to the city.
Another few shots, but they were far from the mark and he made the woods by the road. A lush forest, clearer in the wan light of dawn than it had been last night when it had all been shadows and hidden peril. A dancing green parrot scolded him from above, disturbed by his passage. He slowed, keeping close enough to the road, listening for the sound of pursuit. Careful now picking his way. If he survived another day, he'd feel the things he was trying hard to ignore, two fold. He'd probably feel them more now, if not for all the whiskey. So perhaps Winter had done him that small favor.
He clenched his fists, lifting the one with the dangling cuff, blood staining the metal around his wrist. Not his, for a change. If he had killed Winter - - and with that much blood, and the desperate force he'd put behind his blow, it was a possibility - - he wondered if Kaoru would approve this once. Or if she'd bow her head and mourn for his broken vow, no matter the monster that had prompted him to break it. He'd tried so very hard to live up to her belief in him, even if she had very little understanding of how cold and brutal the world could be.
Sano was more practical. Sano had said outright, no few times on the journey that had taken them here, that if Kenshin wouldn't do it, he'd happily kill the bastard that had thrown them all into this turmoil they found themselves.
He hadn't expected that it would be another life altogether that he'd end. A man whom he'd only ever seen this night. Collateral damage of Winter's war and honestly, Kenshin couldn't dredge up any great regret. It had been no innocent man who'd been about to perpetrate things upon him with Winter that he wanted very much not to dwell on. He'd had terrible flashes of memory last night, while they'd been amusing themselves with him, of things done in the mountains outside Tokyo - - though these English had practiced so much more restraint than the mountain bandits - - and it had fed the panic that lent him strength when his chance had presented itself.
He heard the thud of hooves fast approaching, muffled on the dirt road. Not many of them from the sound of it. He honestly had not expected an army, not with the aversion in the eyes of Winter's household staff. Other than Jun, they'd been an unwilling, frightened lot. The remaining Englishmen then, who very much enjoyed hunting down human prey.
He stepped out into the road, head lowered, listening to the sound of the hooves as much as watching them from under the veil of his bangs. Two horsemen. A shot rang out, and he felt the air move as it sailed past his head. A second and he moved half a foot to the side to avoid it. Looked up finally, picking his target, and brought up the arm with the sturdy chunk of wood he held, and hurled it like an ungainly blade at the closest rider. It took the man in the forehead, knocking him backwards off the rump of his horse.
The other rider, he recognized as Kilbourne, who had a pistol in one hand and was twisting his head in shock at the dispatching of his comrade. Crying out with rage he jerked on the reins of his wild-eyed, skittish mount, who likely wanted very little to do with this business of hurled projectiles and unhorsed riders. Kilbourne screamed something that Kenshin thought likely a profanity, and kicked his horse into bearing down.
It was simply a matter of stepping aside as the beast hurtled past, grabbing a fistful of main and tact, the horse screaming in protest, and launching himself up, slamming one knee into the massive body perched in the saddle. Kilbourne barely had the grace to stand without having to brace his legs for balance, keeping his seat astride on a moving horse that was scrambling for its own balance with Kenshin bearing down was an impossibility. He tumbled off the side, arms flailing and the horse, freed of no small weight, lurched forward, wanting distance between itself and this lunacy, with Kenshin clinging to its side. He pulled himself up, clutching mane and one leather rein. Clung low and let it run, half expecting shots to follow him.
None came. Kilbourne hadn't taken that fall well, then. Kenshin found he couldn't regret that tragedy either.
He caught up with the second horse on the road a good distance away from the house. Slowed his own mount and took the chance as the animals rustled in the young greenery at the side of the road to catch his breath. He leaned over his horse's neck, allowing himself the luxury of wrapping an arm around the throbbing ach in his side. The same rib, he thought with disgust. Sano would berate him for that carelessness.
He retrieved the dangling rein, and urged the horse into a distance-eating cantor, a smooth enough pace that it didn't have him gritting his teeth with each stride. There was no sign of pursuit. He had no notion of the way they'd taken to reach Winter's mansion, but he kept to the road that seemed the most traveled when he reached intersections and smaller trails leading off it. He passed few people. A lone cart pulled by a mule, led by a wizened farmer. A few men with baskets on their backs traveling the road on foot. He slowed once, and indicated the road he was on, and asked 'Colombo'? and got an affirmative nod.
Dawn had been washed thoroughly away by morning by the time he reached the first village on the outskirts of the city. More a collection of huts than anything else, the homes of farmers, no doubt, who tended the vast fields that surrounded the road. More traffic now, and he drew stares, himself ragged and shirtless on a horse with fine western tact. There were no English soldiers here though, so no one gave him more than a passing look. There would be though, when he reached the city and he didn't need that attention.
He breached a gentle slope in the road and the city sprawled below, bordered by sparkling coast and winding tributaries. The water was dotted with the tiny black shapes of ships, the harbors more crowded with them.
He'd made good time, he thought. He rode until he reached the outskirts of town, shanty huts and muddy streets, the smells of cooking, the smells of human sweat and animal waste. He dismounted, leading the horse, until he spied a hovel off the road with a rickety fence and collection of laundry hung out to dry. There was no one in the yard, so he opened the gate and led the horse in, let it go and took a threadbare shirt off the line. There was a battered straw hat lying near the well, and he took that as well, figuring the horse adequate exchange.
Back out onto the street then, amidst a great many people heading to and from the city proper. He gathered his hair into a knot and shoved the hat over it, obscuring an identifiable characteristic should any of Winter's 'friends' in the guard be on the look out for him. Simple to blend in with the natives then, with the hat shading his face and the shirt hiding the marks of the lash.
He found his bearings easily enough and headed towards the inn. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as soon as he rounded the corner onto the street where the inn lay. He kept walking, head down, aware of men loitering, trying to be casual in their surveillance. A pair of British soldiers taking their ease down the street, another few out of uniform under the awning of an outside tavern. There was no outward sign that anything unusual had happened here, but they were waiting for something. Him maybe, though it was improbable that word of his escape had beat him here. Saitou or Sano, then.
Saitou he trusted very much to avoid notice, but Sano was less circumspect. And if Sano had been in a panic over his disappearance, Sano might have engaged in foolish acts. If they'd taken him it would add whole new worlds of complication to Kenshin's life.
He walked past the inn, mingling with a group of native workers until he was a good ways down the street, before splitting off and heading towards the city center. If Saitou were to be found, a good place to start would be the embassy. At the very least they might be able to get a message to him or be aware of any Japanese citizens taken into custody.
A block down the busy street from it, he stopped, lingering by a cart selling carved figurines, and took in the unusual number of English soldiers patrolling the street. A pair stood brazenly outside the gates of the embassy itself blocking easy entrance. Kenshin moved down to the shadow of an alley where he could stand unobserved and figure out exactly what to do next. Finding Sano was a given, but he needed Saitou's connections and Saitou's fluency to discover what ships had left three - no four days - - past on their way west.
He'd been so close. He'd missed them by a day when he'd arrived here. His own fault for being weak enough not to have made better time chasing them down after Tokyo. His own fault for practicing restraint when that restraint had only hindered him. A few days would have made all the difference.
A rat scurried past his feet, into a crack in the wooden wall of the building he leaned against. He swung his head around, seeking what had startled the rodent into fight, and caught movement in the shadows. A dark figure coming at him, and he spun, one hand extended in warning, before he recognized Saitou and widened his eyes in surprise.
"Fool," Saitou didn't stop, knocking his arm aside and slamming the palm of his hand against Kenshin's shoulder, shoving him back against the wall. His back screamed bloody murder and Saitou kept coming, grabbing a fistful of Kenshin's collar and hissing. "Damned fool. I asked one thing of you - - patience. And it was beyond you."
Kenshin smacked Saitou's hands away from him. "Your interest in helping me only went so far as what benefited your investigation."
"Which is impossible now that you've stirred a hornet's nest of English furor. You attack an English noble in his home and expect there not to be consequences? I expect Sagara to act the idiot but I thought you possessed marginally more common sense. You proved me wrong."
Kenshin clenched his fists, patience this thin, brittle thing that held little tolerance for either Saitou's insults or his hands upon his person. He'd had more than enough of that from enemies in the past day.
"Where is Sano?" He asked softly.
Saitou was sharp enough to pick up the leashed tension in his voice, for he canted his head, studying Kenshin for a moment with narrow eyes, before shrugging. "As if I'm his keeper. But someone needs to be. Lax of you to leave him unsupervised."
"Saitou - -" Kenshin warned, too tired for insinuation. Just wanting to know that Sano was all right. That at least one thing that mattered to him was safe.
Saitou turned on his heels without answering, striding down the alley away from the embassy street. There was little choice but to glower in frustration and follow. Saitou slowed his pace once back out onto a pedestrian crowded street, casually stuffing his hands into his pockets and strolling along as if he hadn't a care in the world. Kenshin followed, looking very much, he suspected, like a ragged, shoeless servant skulking in the wake of master. He was beginning to limp, despite his efforts otherwise. He'd stepped on something during that last flight from Winter's house that had badly bruised the instep of one foot. The calf of the same leg was throbbing from the bite of one of Winter's dogs. He'd need to clean that soon, as well as the other puncture wounds, or he'd regret it.
Saitou led him out of the more affluent section of town, to a considerably more run down area. The buildings were barely more than huts with thatch roofs, the streets muddy and rutted and narrow. A great deal of the people loitered, having nothing better to do than squat in alleyways playing games of chance or gather and cast covert glances at passerby.
There was a hut down a narrow tract that Saitou headed towards. He didn't bother rapping on the flimsy door, merely pushed it open and strode in. Kenshin stepped across the threshold in his wake, barely had the chance to glance at the shadowed interior of the shack before Sano descended upon him, fists clenched and glowering.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Kenshin stepped back hastily, all too familiar with Sano's methods of venting frustration. He was most certainly not up to being hit by Sano and keeping his feet in the process. He held up his hands, placating, staring with some small bit of desperation into Sano's angry eyes.
"Sano, I'm sorry - -"
"Sorry?" Sano's knuckles popped he clenched his fist so hard, shaking it in Kenshin's face. "You just take off with no word and you're gone all day and all night and you think 'Sano, I'm sorry's' gonna cut it? I ought to kick your ass."
Kenshin noted that the knuckles of the fist threatening him violence had already been bloodied. Knuckles scrapped and crusted with drying blood, as if Sano had been out brawling.
"You were worried. I apologize,"
"I wasn't worried, I was pissed off that you think you can't trust me to handle my end." Sano drew himself up, drawing all the wrong conclusions. Working himself into a lather over the indignity.
"You think I can't - -" Sano began, then stopped, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell happened to you?"
Kenshin supposed he had a bruise or a scrape or two visible.
"What the hell - -?" Sano grasped his wrist, the one with the dangling cuff, and held it up between them.
Saitou had lit a cigarette and was observing the two of them. "Excellent question, Sagara."
And that was it. He let his back hit the wall behind him, leaned there with his eyes shut, trying to formulate an answer that would satisfy Sano. And once he let himself simply stop, his endurance dissipated, taking his legs with it. He slid down the wall to the floor, sat there with his arms on his knees, with Sano gaping down at him in surprise.
"They're gone," he whispered, staring with wavery vision at the bloody cuff on his wrist. "Already on a ship bound for Europe."
"How the hell do you know that?" Sano demanded, sounding less sure of himself now.
Kenshin lowered his head, letting his hair hide the embarrassing wetness spiking his lashes. He wouldn't let Saitou see his weakness. He wished Saitou were not there, because he'd reached a point somewhere along the way, that leaning on Sano's strength when his own wavered was a welcome thing, instead of an embarrassing one. But not in front of witnesses, and especially not Saitou, to whom all weaknesses, in friend or foe, were things to be exploited.
"Winter told me," he said, voice breaking. Raw, like blood had scorched his throat.
"Winter? You saw the bastard?" Sano crouched in front of him.
"Yes. Water?"
It took Sano a second to register that. He grabbed a bottle off a ramshackle table and thrust it at Kenshin. Whisky it looked like and Kenshin laughed miserably. A little madly, and waved it away.
"Damnit, Kenshin," Sano complained and rose in a huff. "It's all I have, less you want me to walk down the street to the common well. And that's not gonna happen until you tell me what the hell happened."
He took a breath, swallowing and did. Part of it, at least. The things they needed to know. There were certain things the details of which he'd not speak.
Sano sat on the floor opposite him, swearing, wearing that look he had when he very badly wished to go and find trouble.
"Can you find the name of the ship?" Kenshin asked Saitou.
And Saitou, who'd been quiet during his explanation, hissed a curse under his breath - - a decidedly offending curse aimed at Kenshin - - and tossed the butt of his cigarette to the floor, stabbing his foot down upon it as if it were some poisonous insect. "So not only do you invade the homes of the English - - you leave a littered trail of their lords dead behind you to incite their wrath? What happened to your silly vow, Himura?"
"Shut the fuck up, Saitou," Sano surged up, fists clenched, putting himself right in Saitou's face.
Saitou looked at him in disdain, then past him down at Kenshin. "It doesn't matter what plots these lords were about, the English won't let this insult pass. They can't allow precedent that threatens their power. We'll be lucky to get off this island alive, much less find the name of a ship."
He stood there, staring narrowly at Kenshin for a few more silent beats, then turned, moving to a corner where a long black-sheathed blade rested. Beside it leaned Kenshin's sakabatou.
Saitou picked up his own, holding the scabbard lightly, the fingers of his other hand grazing the hilt. "You've caused me a great deal of trouble."
"He got you all the proof you need, signed, sealed and delivered, so I don't know what you're bitching about," Sano shot back.
Saitou smiled thinly. "It won't matter if I can't get it to someone who has the interest and the power to do something about them, and at the moment, you've made that a difficult task."
"Yeah, well," Sano grumbled. "If you wanted easy would you have taken this job?"
Saitou canted a brow, amused, it seemed. "Hnn. I'll not risk what contacts I have in the light of day, now that you've set the English on alert. Tonight I'll see what I can salvage. I'll see what I can find out about your ship."
Kenshin let his head drop, resting his forehead against a knee. Sano said something to him - - or maybe Saitou - - but the words were distant, obscured by the rushing of white noise and faint headedness.
There had been a brawl on the docks that Sano had initiated. He'd been pissed, and frustrated and annoyed at both Saitou for being a smug bastard and Kenshin for having no faith in him. And scared, though he hardly liked admitting the feeling. Scared that maybe Kenshin hadn't left him high and dry on purpose - - which feeling he should have gone with instead of convincing himself otherwise - - and being scared made Sano twice as determined to find trouble and knock it on its ass.
But, he convinced himself Kenshin had done what Kenshin always tried to do, which was shoulder the brunt of the burden, like he didn't think anybody else capable of pulling their own weight. Always trying to protect - - which was fine and good for the women and the kids - - but damnit, Sano could damn well protect himself. He could protect Kenshin's sorry ass, when he'd taken more than he could humanly deal with, so he ought to have figured out by now that leaving Sano behind was a bad idea.
So Sano had been pissed and Sano had been looking for trouble, and he'd found it, and started a brawl skulking around the docks, looking for sign of Kenshin, that had encompassed two or three dockside taverns by the time he'd cut and run, when the authorities had descended.
Saitou hadn't been pleased when he'd come back in the early hours of morning worse for wear than when he'd left the shitty little hovel Saitou was using as a safe house. Saitou had looked like he wanted to add a few bruises of his own, and though Sano would have welcomed the chance to get a few licks of his own in on the smug bastard - - he was owed, damnit - - Saitou had been sharpening that damned long sword of his, and it was naked in his hand and Sano wasn't stupid, thank you very much, despite what some people thought.
So he'd settled down on the threadbare futon and nursed the bottle of cheap whiskey he'd snatched on his way out of the brawl. Just planned to shut his eyes for a few minutes and get a little rest before he headed back out to see if Kenshin had showed back up at the inn, but it was full day when he woke, and Saitou was gone, and he was just getting himself up, head throbbing with the dregs of a hangover, when Saitou stalked through the door with Kenshin on his heels.
It had honestly taken Sano a good while to even register the details, he'd been so pissed off/relieved. The bruises, the stain of dried blood peeking out from under the collar of the threadbare shirt that Kenshin was wearing. The utter exhaustion in Kenshin's eyes. Like it was sheer willpower alone that was keeping him on his feet.
Come to find out, after Kenshin had quietly explained what had happened, it had been. He was an idiot, Sano was in agreement with Saitou there, for letting this happen without giving Sano a heads up what he was about, but Sano's desire to smack him up against the head sort of dissipated in the face of the knowledge that somebody else had already smacked him around pretty damned thoroughly. And to top it off, they'd missed Kaoru and the kid by days and the break in Kenshin's voice when he'd admitted that, made Sano itch to go out and shed some blood of his own.
He wanted to shed a little of Saitou's, because it was fine and well if he bitched at Kenshin when Kenshin was down, but damned if Saitou had the right. And Saitou was mean about it, hitting Kenshin where it hurt and Kenshin just lowered his head and went quiet, likely berating himself a hell of a lot more than either one of them was.
It was a blessing when Saitou slunk out to do a little reconnaissance, to get a few supplies while Sano cleaned wounds Kenshin wasn't showing much interest in. He had a couple bad bites that Sano poured whiskey on to clean. Kenshin hissed softly the first shot that penetrated, but didn't make a sound after, just sat there while Sano fussed over him. Thinking maybe he deserved that pain, if Sano were any judge of Kenshin's more twisted rationales, and he liked to think he was.
Sano cursed a little himself, softly, under his breath, while he cleaned the dirt out of the scrapes on Kenshin's back. A lot of purpling marks, some of them deep enough to have broken skin, most of them made by somebody with a lash. Kenshin hadn't been big on the details of what had happened to him, but his body betrayed the truth of the matter.
He wasn't talking though, even when Sano pressed. His head drooped finally, while Sano was trying to pick the cylinder lock of the metal cuff around his wrist, lapsed into a fitful doze.
He started out of it when Saitou came back, eyes wide, hand searching for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there. Saitou had a few supplies, a package of food, some flat bread and curried rice, a staple hereabouts, that he tossed Sano's way.
Saitou sat down on the one rickety chair, just as good at his silences as Kenshin, until Sano couldn't stand it from either of them any longer and demanded. "Sharing a few damn details is not a bad thing. And that goes for the both of you. Assholes."
Kenshin cast him a look from under his hair, maybe an iota of guilt. Saitou's expression didn't alter, he just sat there, unwrapping his own piece of plain flatbread and eating silently. Not good company, which was news to Sano, after having been stuck on a boat with the bastard all those weeks.
Kenshin settled back down, gingerly resting his back against the wall, not much for idle conversation either. Sano muttered under his breath and portioned out the food. Kenshin didn't have much of an appetite, that was clear, but was practical enough to eat what Saitou had brought anyway. Times like this, it was no telling when the next meal might be.
Kenshin drifted off again, and Sano did, after finishing off what whiskey he hadn't used to clean Kenshin's wounds. He roused when Kenshin did, as Saitou was slipping out again, the open doorway showing that dusk had fallen.
He sat there afterwards, in the silence of Saitou's absence, and finally asked what he hadn't earlier. "So, you're not gonna tell me everything that happened, huh?"
He caught the glint of an eye as Kenshin flicked a glance up at him, but it was hidden soon enough when he lowered his lashes, lowered his chin and all Sano could see was the fall of hair. "No."
Simple enough. Sano nodded. A man had to respect that, even though he didn't like it.
Finally though, Kenshin did speak, voice soft enough that Sano had to lean forward to hear the words. "Saitou was right. I've made mistakes. Made choices that haven't been - - practical. I could have stopped this."
Sano drew a long breath, nodding. "Yeah, I guess you could have."
Kenshin looked up at him, that look in his eyes that was just a little bruised, just a little vulnerable, like the things Sano said mattered to him. And that - - that just made Sano feel like he wasn't such an idiot, good only for the grunt work and the brawls.
"I know you've had your fill of killing. I know it tears you up the things you did in the war - - but somebody had to do it, right? Somebody somewhere, always has to do the dirty work or it don't get done. I gotta tell you, I wish you'd gutted the bastard early on. Maybe it would have made a difference, maybe you'd still have had to chase Kaoru down. Maybe you and me would've never - - Either way, he'd be dead and a viper without a head ain't gonna come back and bite you when you're not expecting it. Go ahead, tell me how wrong that is."
Kenshin looked away, mouth tightening, saying nothing. Nothing he could say, when Sano knew damned well, he knew he was right. Kenshin might hold stubbornly to his ideals, but he wasn't naïve.
"You do what you gotta do," Sano said. He flopped back onto the futon, staring up at the cobwebby shadows of the ceiling. Not a lot to say after that, but he was glad he'd gotten it off his chest. Nothing to do but pass time waiting for Saitou to get back with information neither one of them was equipped to gather.
He dozed off again to the sound of gentle rain on the thatch roof. Woke again with Kenshin nudging him on the shoulder with one foot, letting him know Saitou had finally slunk back.
Saitou took the time to run a hand through wet hair, to brush rain off his damp jacket, before deigning to give them his attention.
"Well?" Sano asked, impatiently.
Saitou pulled a tin of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one of the brown sticks out, and even Kenshin got an annoyed look on his face and finally seconded Sano's query with one of his own as Saitou was lighting it.
"Saitou?"
"The name of the ship you're seeking is the Eastcourt." Saitou gave Kenshin a look. "The only European bound vessel that left four days past. Your wife and boy were on board."
Kenshin didn't move, but Sano could almost feel the sudden, rigid tension; the aura of utter focus that swelled out of nowhere as he stared at Saitou, waiting.
"As luck would have it," Saitou finally continued, enjoying no doubt, making them wait. "The Eastcourt has a week's layover in Madras to board passengers and cargo, before it starts the voyage home."
"How do you know they're on this boat for sure?" Sano asked.
Saitou gave him a look. "Because I bothered to learn the language and can ask a question without inciting a block wide brawl, you moron."
Sano bristled. Kenshin laid a hand on his shoulder, forestalling his retort.
"Can we reach Madras before they depart?"
Saitou mouth curved in something someone with a loose definition of the term, might have considered a smile. "I've booked you passage on a Dutch schooner named the Gravenhage, headed for Madras. It sets sail an hour before dawn."
Kenshin let out a breath, fingers tightening on Sano's shoulder. "You have my gratitude, Saitou."
Saitou snorted softly. "No, what I have is you in my debt. A great deal of debt that I will collect at a time and place of my choosing, Himura."
Kenshin inclined his head, accepting that with a hell of a lot more grace than Sano would have.
"You're on your own from this point out," Saitou said, heading for his pack against the wall, checking the rolled documents that Kenshin had procured, before buckling the thing up, and hauling it over his shoulder. He grabbed his sword, slipping it through his belt.
"You get a ride, too?" Sano asked.
Saitou inclined his head. "A Chinese junket headed for Hong Kong. From there - - home. It may be take some political maneuvering to have these men and their cohorts tried by the British government, but rest assured none of them or their interests will step foot on Japanese soil again without consequence. None of the ones Himura left alive, that is."
He had to get in that one last dig. Kenshin accepted it with an inclination of his head, though, which Saitou considered, then returned. A modicum of mutual respect. Saitou didn't even offer Sano a glance, before he shifted his pack and strode out the door.