Yukiko stepped out of her sandals and peered around the room. Walls painted with tiger motifs, prowling in a stylized jungle. Balcony overlooking the garden, piteous sparrow song drifting through the open doors, entwined with a blessedly cool breeze. Mats of lotus wicker across the floor, a low table in the middle of the room surrounded by silken cushions. A dozen serving girls in scarlet furisode lurked on the periphery, staring at her with unmasked curiosity. But it was the woman in the center who caught Yukiko’s attention and held it tight.
The Lady Aisha was a few years older than she, a woman in the prime of her beauty. She seemed carved out of alabaster, a statue come down from its pedestal to swim among the flesh. Make-up, hair, dress, everything about her was immaculate. High cheekbones, rivers of coiled, raven locks, full, painted lips. Yukiko wondered how many serving girls had slaved for how many hours, all for the sake of her appearance. Though the Lady was stunning—breathtaking in fact—all Yukiko felt was disgust; a disdain at the wealth on display, the effort behind the facade. She could feel it roiling behind her teeth as she pressed her forehead to the floor.
“Lady Tora Aisha.”
“Kitsune Yukiko,” Aisha replied, husky, smoke-scarred. “We thank you for visiting us.”
“It is my honor, Lady.”
The terrier in Aisha’s lap bounded down to the floor, bounced up to Yukiko and started licking her ear. She sat upright, squirming, and a chorus of bright laughter rang out again from the legion of serving girls. Aisha drew her fan-shaped respirator from within her sleeve to cover her smile. Yukiko ruffled the puppy’s ears, feeling the world fall away beneath her feet, the vertigo of the Kenning turning the earth upside-down.
Hello! Happy! Play?
Yukiko felt Buruu’s absence like a fresh wound as she stared into the puppy’s eyes.
Not now, little one.
The puppy barked and danced in a small circle.
“Come, sit with me, Kitsune Yukiko,” said Aisha.
Yukiko dragged herself forward on her knees until she knelt before the table. The puppy gnawed at the geta sandals she had left by the door. She watched Aisha prepare the tea; a stylized, elegant dance of pot and saucer and sweet-smelling steam. Three of the girls began plucking at shamisen, filling the air with soft, hypnotic music. The instruments were almost six feet long, crafted of exquisitely carved kiri wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. They were played laid flat on the floor, the girls kneeling beside them, striking the thirteen strings with fingers and thumbs. The wavering notes were long and sweet, almost melancholy in parts, as if the instruments were searching in vain for a voice beautiful enough to match their own.
“They tell me that you captured the thunder tiger.” Aisha’s eyes were fixed on the tea service, scooping a bowlful into Yukiko’s cup. “And saved a Guildsman’s life. All alone in the Iishi for days.”
“Hai.” Yukiko turned her cup three times before accepting it, bowing to Aisha.
“That must be an extraordinary tale.” Aisha bowed back, filled her own cup. “You must tell it to me sometime.”
“If you wish, Lady.”
Aisha glanced down at Yukiko’s cup, waiting for her guest to drink first.
“How old are you, Kitsune Yukiko?”
The jûnihitoe pressed down on Yukiko like the air in a tomb. Sweat burned her eyes. She longed to rub them, but was afraid of smudging the wretched make-up. She tried to blink the sting away instead, lifting her cup and taking a small sip of the steaming liquid.
“I am sixteen, Lady.”
“So young. And yet here you are, the toast of our city.”
“… I would not know, Lady.”
“And so modest!”
The serving girls giggled. Aisha took a sip of her tea, watching Yukiko over the rim of the cup.
“You are very beautiful, Yukiko-chan.”
“You honor me, Lady.”
“Your accommodations are suitable?”
“Hai, Lady.”
“I trust that Michi-chan was of assistance?”
“Hai, Lady. Very much so.”
“The jûnihitoe suits you.”
“My thanks for your gift, Lady.”
“My brother, the Seii Taishōgun, is overjoyed.”
“As you say, Lady.”
“I have not seen him this happy in many years. You have brought him a great prize.”
Yukiko found herself growing angry, impatient at this silly ritual and this pointless one-sided conversation. She felt as if this painted doll was talking at her, not to her. That she didn’t care what Yukiko said or felt, that this was just a momentary distraction in Aisha’s life of banality, of pretty dresses and hours in front of looking glasses.
She knew she should keep her mouth shut, that she should nod her head and sweat in this ridiculous dress and sip her bloody tea with a smile. But she couldn’t.
“And yet your brother has my father locked in his dungeon,” she said. “Starving. Almost naked, with bare rock to sleep on and a bucket to shit in.”
A collective gasp, music stopping dead, corpse-pale painted faces turning paler still. Aisha was motionless as stone, cup poised before her lips, blinking once at Yukiko with dark, liquid eyes. She heard Michi behind her, whispering something under her breath. A prayer, maybe.
“Leave us,” said Aisha, an iron note of command in her voice. As one, the serving girls stood and fled the room, tiny steps scurrying across the wicker matting.
Yukiko bowed her head, uncertainty getting the best of her anger. This aggression, this impatience; it wasn’t like her. She was normally level-headed, grown pragmatic beyond her years in the shadow of her father’s addictions. It was almost as if …
Of course.
Buruu. Once so primal. Impulsive and feral. But now he showed capacity for restraint, patience, complex thought, reason overcoming his bestial nature. Their shared dreams. Shared feelings. The bond between them growing by the day.
He’s becoming more like me.
“I am sorry, Lady,” she murmured. “I beg your forgiveness.”
And I’m becoming more like him.
Aisha put her cup down on the table carefully, her hand steady.
“What do you want, Kitsune Yukiko?”
Yukiko’s gaze flickered up to the Lady’s face. She didn’t seem angry, or offended. Aisha glanced up and down Yukiko’s body, as if taking her measure inside her head. Her eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence, a calculating precise cunning that matched the unveiled authority in her voice. The shamisen music began playing again from the room next door, a smoke-screen over their conversation behind the paper-thin walls. Yukiko began to suspect that there was more to this woman than pretty dresses and tea ceremonies.
“What do I want?”
“Hai,” said Aisha. “What is it that you wish to achieve here in Kigen?”
Yukiko blinked, said nothing.
“You may speak freely.”
“Well.” Yukiko licked carefully at her bottom lip. “First of all, I want my father out of prison.”
“And you believe that insulting me is the best way to achieve this?”
“N-no,” she murmured. “I am sorry, La—”
“Do not apologize for your mistakes,” Aisha interrupted. “Learn from them.”
“I don’t—”
“Women in this city, on this island, we do not seem like we are important. We do not lead armies. We do not own lands, nor fight in wars. Men consider us nothing more than pretty distractions. Do not for a second believe that this means we are powerless. Never underestimate a woman’s power over men, Kitsune Yukiko.”
“No, Lady.”
“You are young, have not been educated in courtly ways, instead growing up wild with that drug-addled father of yours. This is a disadvantage you must learn to overcome quickly. For believe me when I say that, second only to myself, you are currently the most powerful woman in all of Shima.”
“What?”
“Yoritomo needs you, Yukiko.” A
isha held her pinned in that dark, glittering stare. “I know what you are, yōkai-kin. The whole court knows. The entire city has heard your story by now. Street minstrels sit on the corners, watch their offering cups fill with kouka as they play songs about the brave ‘Arashi-no-ko,’ who slew a dozen oni and tamed the mighty thunder tiger. Did you know that the Guild has already sent an emissary demanding you be put to the pyre?”
Yukiko felt her gut lurch with fear as she mumbled a negative.
“Yoritomo laughed in his face. Can you imagine? The Shateigashira himself, the Guild made flesh in this city. And Yoritomo laughed at him.” Aisha shook her head. “My brother thinks of nothing but his dream. Of riding that arashitora to a final victory over the gaijin that a dozen different generals under the command of our father failed to bring. A triumph the historians will tell of for generations. And you can give that to him, Yukiko-chan. Only you.”
Aisha picked up her cup and sipped the tea.
“Why do you think I brought you here today? Made you wear that dress?”
“… I do not know, Lady.”
“You are not just young, you are beautiful. And now half the men in this palace know it, and have told the remaining half what a prize you are. Men are idiots. They think with their loins, not their heads. Beauty is a weapon, sharp as any chainkatana. Men will do almost anything to possess it, if only for a second. In the face of that desire, a girl blushes and turns her gaze to the floor. A woman plays it like a shamisen.” Aisha gestured to the musicians next door. “And she gets her way.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Aisha smiled. “Because you have a good heart. A kind spirit and a brave soul. Most people in this palace have none of these things. I know what has been done to you. You and your family. I want to see you get what you want, Yukiko-chan. And I want to see others here get what they deserve.”
Aisha drained the last of her tea, placed the cup down, a faint stripe of blood-red paint left behind on the glaze.
“I received a message from a dear friend today. One I have not seen in many years. She told me her father is well. She wanted me to pass on her regards to you.”
“To me?”
“Hai.”
Aisha reached into the sleeve of her robe, placed something on the table between them. Unfurling her fan respirator, she fluttered it in front of her face. The eyes floating above it were diamond hard.
Yukiko looked down to the white shape, stark against stained teak. Fragile as spun sugar, petals shaped like an upturned bowl. Her heart thundered as she inhaled the scent, the sweet perfume of the Iishi.
It was a wisteria bloom.
28
FRAGILE AS GLASS
Sweat burned her eyes.
The arashitora tossed his head and steered himself away from the obstacle course again, jerking the reins from Yukiko’s hand. The circuit ran endlessly around the iron spike in the center of the arena; a ring of packing crates, bales of dirty yellow straw, and crumbling statues of bent, wizened men. Losing her grip with her thighs, Yukiko slid off the thunder tiger’s neck and tumbled to the ground, landing in a painful heap on her rump.
“You stupid idiot!” she yelled. “Can’t you tell left from right?”
The beast growled at her and tossed his head again, clawing at the steel-shod bridle around his beak. His talons rasped across the metal weave, giving birth to tiny sparks.
“If you break another one, you get no dinner tonight,” she warned him.
A roar of defiance.
“Maybe he’s had enough for one day,” Hiro ventured.
The lone Iron Samurai sat in the benches above their heads; a spectator to the ongoing farce that was the arashitora’s “training.” Several bushimen were scattered among the seats and along the arena walls, laughing in appreciation whenever Buruu misbehaved. To say that the beast’s education was going badly was an understatement.
“Maybe he’s just too stupid,” called one. “No wonder the damn things died out.”
FIVE MINUTES ALONE. WE WILL SEE WHO IS STUPID, INSECT.
Peace, brother. You’re doing so well.
Yukiko stood up slowly, wincing, and made a show of rubbing her behind where she’d fallen on it. She stretched to touch her toes, feigning a cramp in her lower back, sensing the eyes of the bushimen on her body. Hungry stares and dry mouths.
Aisha was right. These men are fools, suspecting nothing.
THIS CHARADE GROWS TIRESOME.
We’ll have time for pride when we’re far away from here. Until then, we both have to swallow it. For my father’s sake as well as our own.
THIS HARNESS ITCHES.
It had been on the second day, after Buruu bucked her off with his wings for the fifth time that afternoon, that Yukiko suggested some kind of device to strap them down. She drew a rough sketch and had Hiro take it to the Shōgun.
The Guild Artificers had complied sluggishly with Yoritomo’s request, delivering the harness five days later. Thick straps of padded rubber and flexible iron mesh now bound Buruu’s pinions to his flanks. Ostensibly, the harness prevented him from trying to take flight and giving Yukiko a fresh set of bruises. In reality, it also did a fine job of concealing the new feathers sprouting along Buruu’s wings, and catching the old feathers as they moulted away.
Yukiko had found a small box tucked inside the harness on the day it was delivered, her name written on top in precise, beautiful kanji. Inside she found a small mechanical arashitora, sculpted out of paper and brass, no bigger than the palm of her hand. She wound the tiny spring and set it on the floor, watching the wings become a blur, lifting the toy off the ground in short, whirring bounds.
At the bottom of the box, she found a note.
“Grounded in Kigen until my burns heal. Was sorry to hear about your father and Yamagata. I miss you.—Kin.”
She had scanned the note, hidden it inside her obi. Later that night, she tore the message into tiny pieces and scattered it to the wind. She hadn’t the heart to throw away the tiny arashitora. In all the noise and motion of the past few days, she had almost forgotten about Kin, and she was surprised at how relieved the knowledge that he was still living and breathing made her feel. A week spent under the watchful eyes of the bushimen and Lord Hiro was starting to fray her nerves.
I AM LOSING ANOTHER FEATHER. FOURTH PRIMARY. LEFT WING. FIRST PRIMARIES ARE GROWING IN.
How long until you can fly?
DAYS. PERHAPS A WEEK.
Then we’d best start work on freeing my father.
HOW DO YOU PROPOSE WE DO THAT?
We don’t.
THEN HOW …
We get the Kagé to do it.
YOU WERE WISE NOT TO KILL DAICHI. DID YOU SUSPECT KAORI KNEW AISHA?
Gods, no. They said that they had people closer to Yoritomo than he could ever dream, but I had no idea it would be his own sister.
PERHAPS YOU HOPED IT WOULD BE SOMEONE DIFFERENT?
I don’t know what you mean.
INDEED.
Anyway, it makes no difference. I didn’t spare Daichi because I thought it would be to our advantage. I spared him because it was the right thing to do. If it were right of me to blame him for obeying Yoritomo’s command, then it would be right of you to hate my father for what he did to your wings. And it’s not.
FEATHERS GROW BACK. MOTHERS DO NOT. AND I DO HATE HIM.
Daichi wasn’t the one who took my mother away. And my father isn’t the reason you’re chained here. You and I both know that. You’re going to have to forgive him one day, Buruu.
…
Buruu made no reply.
“I think we should take a break,” Yukiko sighed, rubbing her rear again. She walked across the arena floor, stepped through the gate leading out of the pit. Securing the exit behind her with two iron bolts, she started trudging up the stone stairs toward ground level.
“I am sure Lord Hiro is very sorry to hear there will be no more stretching today.” Michi handed her a pitcher of
water and a towel. The girl shot a stern glance up at the Iron Samurai in the seats. Hiro was looking intently at his gauntlets, pretending not to have heard. Wiping the sweat from her eyes, Yukiko gave the girl a broad smile.
Aisha had commanded Michi to wait on Yukiko after the tea ceremony. The girl was to ensure Yukiko conducted herself as a lady of the court should, but in secret she also carried messages back and forth between the conspirators. Michi had a black sense of humor and an infectious laugh, and her insight into courtly affairs was as sharp as razors. Against her better judgment, Yukiko found herself liking the girl.
“Can you ask Lady Aisha if she will have tea tonight?”
“Hai.” Michi bowed at the knees. “I will prepare a cushion for your shadow to kneel on in the hallway.”
Casting a mock frown in the samurai’s direction, she tiptoed off to the motor-rickshaw waiting outside. Yukiko waited until she had gone, then climbed the stairs and sat down on the same bench as Hiro, keeping a respectable distance away. She pulled off her goggles and kerchief, wiped the sweat from the back of her neck and drank deeply from the water pitcher.
“Training is taking longer than I thought,” she sighed.
“You have many months until he is ready to fly.” Hiro glanced at her, careful not to stare. “And you are making progress. Yoritomo-no-miya is pleased at our reports so far.”
“You report on me?”
“The Shōgun commands it.” Pistons hissed as Hiro shrugged.
“But you’re saying nice things?” She looked at him sidelong, risked a teasing smile.
“I could never say otherwise.”
“Even about a commoner like me?”
“There is nothing at all common about you, daughter of foxes.” He looked at her then, as if offended by the suggestion. He didn’t look away. “Or should I start calling you Arashi-no-ko?”
She turned to face him, and they stared at each other for what seemed like an age, poisoned wind wailing around the arena in words she could almost understand. Even at a distance, Yukiko could see her reflection in his irises, curved and splintered on that field of sea-green. His skin was statue-smooth, turned to copper in the light of a strangled sun, lips parted slightly to breathe. Time stumbled, sand slipping through the hourglass one tiny grain at a time, falling earthward with that same gravity that dragged her forward, inching closer, pulse pounding in her ears.