Page 24 of Mercy Written in Blood

"No."

Haruki walked around the table without touching it. Behind the journal lay several cylindrical cases bound with metal caps, one split open to reveal tightly rolled paper inside, another shelf holding small lacquered boxes no larger than matchbooks. On the opposite wall hung three maps, painted directly onto cloth and pinned behind wooden frames. Age had darkened the fabric, but the ink remained visible. One showed Takamori —or something resembling it. The coastline was familiar, the river curving through the same valley, a temple marking the eastern hill. But there were no modern districts. No harbour works. No railway. The city existed only as clusters of buildings enclosed by walls.

Ken followed Haruki's gaze.

"That's Takamori?"

"It looks like it."

"How old is it?"

"I don't know."

"Could be valuable."

"Everything is valuable to someone."

"I meant money."

"I know."

Ken had the decency to look embarrassed. Haruki did not blame him. Money was how Ken measured risk — construction projects, wages, materials, delays. It was the language of his work. For Haruki, value was responsibility. Sometimes that meant money. Sometimes it meant making certain no one sold an irreplaceable piece of history to a collector who would lock it away.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Reina. He answered.

"What?"

"You've been inside twelve minutes."

"And?"

"You said limited access."

"That referred to numbers, not time."

"You didn't specify."

"I'm specifying now."

There was silence.

"Is it safe?"

"So far."

"What's inside?"

"More than we thought."

"That is annoyingly vague."

"It is also accurate."

"When are you coming out?"

"Soon."

"You said that at Sunday dinner last week."