Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7

Addison-san, I can't-"
    Jonathon turned from him, walking away. "I understand, Kita-san. I'm sure I can find the pleasure district on my own."
    Kita hastened after him. "You can't go alone."
    "I don't have a choice."
    Jonathon heard Kita swear under his breath, then the footsteps that were trailing him stopped.
    "You can't go in those clothes. Any samurai who's against foreigners will kill you on sight."
    Jonathon stopped and looked back to him.
    Kita scowled, but turned toward the mansion.
    Jonathon knew to follow without Kita directly expressing it. Entering the home behind him, he realized Kita must have a room there rather than sleeping in the barracks, showing his favored position with Kazuhiro.
    Kita slid open a door and went inside. Jonathon stepped in after him.
    Already digging in a chest, Kita pulled out a faded green kimono, along with flowing black hakama trousers. Next he retrieved an obi and a pair of sandals. He closed the chest, laying the clothing atop it, and started toward the door. "Dress quickly."
    As Kita stepped out of the room, Jonathon stood still and stared at the clothes. He wasn't even entirely sure how to wear everything, but he had little choice. He stripped, and picked up the kimono. In another time, he would've enjoyed the slide of the silk over his skin. Now, he was donning these clothes for a purpose. He folded it over in front as he'd seen it worn, but when he tried to wrap the obi around his waist, he fumbled with the long sash, trying to manage getting it around, not twisting it, and keeping the kimono closed in front.
    The door slid open, Kita reappearing with a long and short sword in hand. He paused long enough to take in Jonathon, then shook his head at him. Without a word, he took the obi from him and helped him finish dressing. He grabbed the swords and pushed them through the sash. "You might not know how to use them, but you can't go into the city unarmed and this will help with the disguise that you're a samurai."
    Jonathon rested his hand on the hilt of the katana. "I think I can manage with them well enough."
    Kita let out a snort to express his lack of confidence. He opened the chest again and pulled out a wide, conical shaped straw hat. He placed it on Jonathon's head, tying it beneath his chin. "Keep your head down and don't talk to anyone, even in Japanese. Your pronunciation will tell everyone what you are."
    Jonathon adjusted the hat and nodded, picking up the sandals.
    Kita strode quickly toward the door. "Stay close. We have to go out the back. If we try through the front gates, the guards will never let you out."
    Kita led him to the garden, where they both stepped into their sandals. Keeping to the edge and shadows, waiting for a patrolling guard to pass by, Kita guided him to a small gate built into the wall and bolted with a rusty latch. They waited in silence. Jonathon could tell Kita was listening. In a single quick movement, Kita wrenched the latch free, opening the gate just enough to slip through to the alley beyond.
    Jonathon no sooner closed the gate than Kita sprang into a run. He rushed to catch up to him, jogging only a couple paces behind him, one hand on the swords to both steady them and feel the reassurance of them on his hip. He felt clumsy in the sandals, the clothing awkward to him, but he pushed it aside to focus on keeping pace with Kita as he weaved down narrow, dark alleys. Kita turned down one, darted down another, guiding him through what Jonathon thought was a veritable labyrinth in trying to avoid main streets.
    These backstreets showed none of the beauty of Kyoto. The buildings closed in around them. They dodged around baskets, barrels, and refuse. Only the moon and the occasional weak lantern lit their way. The soft, steady falls of their sandaled feet sounded in the night.
    Jonathon's breathing came heavy, his lungs burned for more air than he was giving them. He could feel fatigue beginning to weigh down his legs, and wondered how much longer they were going to run. Kita didn't seem the least bit fatigued or winded, proof of his years of training to be an exceptional warrior.
    The silence broke with the distant sound of voices. Ahead, Jonathon saw the alley met with a wide street. Lanterns in red dyed rice paper hung at the end of it. Kita slowed his pace to a walk, and true to Jonathon's suspicion, the young samurai seemed unfazed from the run other than a light sheen of sweat on his brow.
    As they reached the end of the alley,