The stairs groaned under their weight.
The doors on both sides of the second-floor corridor were closed, but judging by the light spilling beneath them, at least half the rooms were occupied.
A murmur drifted from behind one door, then vanished so quickly it might have been an illusion.
The room on the third floor was more spacious than expected.
Paper doors divided it into an outer and an inner room. Faded tatami covered the outer room, while several wicker trunks were piled inside.
Jora checked the window-the wooden frame had warped, leaving a gap when closed. Fine rain seeped through it, forming a small puddle on the sill.
Pica sat against the wall and pulled a small metal flask from inside his clothes.
He unscrewed the cap and took a sip. As his throat bobbed, a faint scent of fermented malt spread through the room. "Would Kaido's people be in town?"
"Most likely."
Rossi sat cross-legged on the tatami.
His eyes were closed, but his perception was spreading outward from the room.
The clatter of utensils in the kitchen downstairs, the incessant hammering from the smithy at the end of the street, the crisp knock of a bamboo tube striking stone after filling with rainwater in a distant courtyard... all those sounds wove a three-dimensional web in his mind.
Jora found several dry blankets in the trunks and spread them out.
The fabric smelled of camphor wood and age. She wrinkled her nose but still handed one to Rossi. "How long do we wait?"
"Midnight."
Rossi opened his eyes.
Outside, the sky was visibly darkening. The rain had stopped at some point, and gaps had opened in the clouds, letting through a few pale shafts of moonlight. They slanted across the floor, revealing the texture of the tatami.
Pica