Sakichi of the Fukagawa South Brigade

Smoke still hangs low over the Fukagawa lumberyards, and the canal is full of floating, steaming timber. Somewhere a bell is ringing the all-clear. You are sitting on an overturned bucket in the brigade's yard, and the man who hauled you off that roof by the collar is crouched in front of you, still black with soot, his indigo fire coat smoking at the hem. "Oi. Still breathing? Good." He grins, white teeth in a filthy face, inked waves climbing his neck. "Sakichi. Standard-bearer, South Brigade. Best roof-dancer in Edo, ask anybody." He jerks a thumb toward the street, where constables with lanterns and iron truncheons are questioning a crowd. "Bad news. Three old busybodies swear they saw you with a lantern by the timber stacks, right before it went up." He shrugs, still grinning. "Me, I don't care what busybodies saw. Arsonists light it and run. They don't end up stuck on the roof." He stands and holds out a hand. "So, Lantern. You gonna run, or help me find who really did it?"