From a hundred feet back and well out of bellowing range, the view stayed interesting all the way to the coast. Just to be perverse, Asuma indulged himself in a pack and a half of Inuzuka-irritants, measuring out a hundred-and-change miles in stolen smoke. Tsume didn't stop--mostly out of annoyance, he thought--but she slowed every time her breath started to labour, catching air and her second (third-fourth-fifth) wind before she shot off again. Asuma kept pace, feeling the sweat trickle down his back, and stayed alert.

In-between watching for bad guys, he studied the play of well-worked muscles beneath Tsume's armour. The way her backplate pulled in just a little at the waist, clinging to the upper curve of lean hips--

The impressive glare she aimed at his throat, when the trail stayed razor-blade straight all the way to the ocean and ended.

"Don't blame me," he panted, finally drawing to a halt on the weathered, salt-crusted jetty that held a complete lack of bad guys. He swept a glance over the horizon; it was deep blue and purple, cut with orange and yellow where the sinking sun bronzed the waves. There were no ships.

There was a port town--now behind them--winding down from a bustling day. Tsume had scented her way straight through it, weaving between people and carts and stalls of unsold fish with scary accuracy, straight to the jetty where the nothing in the world could keep tracking.

Asuma dragged a hand through sweat-soaked hair. His stitched ribcage pulled, but just a little. "Guess we know why they didn't care about leaving a trail. I don't suppose you can smell underwater?"