“As the sun sets over Kigen Bay,” Michi said, “it sets for the final time over Yoritomo’s dominion.”
“What about my father?” The bruise on Yukiko’s cheek was turning an ugly yellow at the edges. “Kasumi and Akihito?”
“The sky-ship they escape on will be in dock tomorrow. Papers are already drawn up for the return trip to Yama. The authorities will suspect nothing, nor will they have time for scrutiny with all the traffic around the gala. The ship flies Phoenix colors, but her captain is a friend of ours. We have friends ready at the docks too.”
“Where do these ‘friends’ come from? Can you trust them?”
Michi tilted her head at the questions.
“You are not the only one who has been wronged by the Shōgunate of Shima, Yukiko-chan. Aisha and Daichi-sama have been gathering contacts for years, waiting for the opportunity to strike. In a system as brutal as this, there are always people who slip through the cracks. Countless lives ground between the gears of the machine.” She shrugged. “This is how the rain becomes a flood. One drop at a time.”
“There will be bushimen everywhere around the sky-docks during the celebrations. Iron Samurai too, if Yoritomo is making an appearance. Isn’t there a safer way to smuggle them out? By train, maybe?”
“There will be so much noise and saké at the gala, three more shadows in the mob will not be noticed. Besides, the bushimen and samurai will have more pressing concerns, assuming you have done your part.”
“Have no fear of that.”
“Are you certain you are ready for this?”
Yukiko glared, iron in her eyes, not saying a word. Her fists were balled on her knees, jaw clenched, her whole body as still and quiet as midnight. Michi met her stare for a silent moment, a faint, grim smile curling the edges of her mouth. She nodded.
“You are ready for this.”
* * *
On the third night, as she was preparing to slip into the crawlspace in the roof, Yukiko heard urgent, hushed conversation outside her bedroom door. Creeping closer, she could make out three male voices under the clank and hiss of ō-yoroi. The first two were her new guards, their tone stiff with challenge. When she recognized the third, her heart skipped a beat.
The door slid open and there he stood, wrapped in a kimono of dark red silk, embroidered with gold. Chainsaw daishō tucked into his obi, long hair drawn back into a simple tail, the light of flickering globes reflected in irises of beautiful sea-green.
“Hiro,” she breathed.
He looked over his shoulder, covered his fist and bowed at his fellow Elite. And with the only hint of compassion they had shown in three days, the men turned away without a word and closed the door behind him.
She was across the room and in his embrace before he could speak, pressing hard against his chest, arms wrapped around him so tight she feared his ribs might break. And as his lips met hers, as he put his hands on her body, for a brief, intoxicating moment, any thought of crawlspaces and nightingale floors and maple trees fled from her mind, and all she was left with was the smell of his fresh sweat, the faint taste of saké on his lips, the ache his touch left between her thighs. The silk around her body fell away beneath his hands, and as her skin pressed against his, she closed her eyes and sighed his name and forgot the sound of her own.
Afterward in the sweat-stained dark, she laid her head against his chest and remembered. Guilt raised its head; subtle poison seeping into a cool mountain stream and turning it black as the rivers that flowed through Kigen’s heart. She thought of her father and Buruu in their prisons. Kin slaving over his workbench. Even Hiro lying here beside her, oblivious to the plan unfolding under his nose. And there, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, she felt completely and utterly alone.
“I can’t wait to get out of this place,” she whispered.
“Am I that awful?” Hiro raised an eyebrow.
“No.” She smiled and kissed his skin. “But everything else around me feels … polluted. There are so many wheels and lies within lies here.” She shook her head. “I feel like it’s rubbing off on me. Turning me into something I’m not. This place is poisonous.”
“You will be here for some time. Try to make the best of it. When the Shōgun has calmed down, I will petition him for permission to court you. I have sent a letter to my father—”
“Court me? What the hells for?”
“So I can be with you.” He frowned, leaning up on one elbow.
“Hiro, you’re here with me right now,” she laughed, kissing him again.
“In public.” He searched her eyes. “I risked my life coming here without permission, Yukiko. And if it were only me, I would gladly risk more to feel you in my arms. But my comrades who guard your door? The servants who turned a blind eye to my passing? We risk their lives also, meeting this way.” He took her hand, ran his thumb across her knuckles. “But more than that, I want people to know you are mine. This hiding, this skulking about like a thief, it dishonors us both.”
“Gods, who cares what anyone else thinks? All that matters is the two of us.”
“That is not true. We must think of our families. Of our names. I am sworn to Yoritomo-no-miya.”
“I know that, Hiro.”
“Then you know that, first and foremost, I am his servant. I live and die by the Code of Bushido. I must honor my oath.”
“An oath to a liar is no oath at all,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
A sigh. She sat up and threw a thin kimono over her shoulders, slipped out of the bed. Padding barefoot across the polished boards, she stopped at the tiny window, staring out into the dark Kigen night. Summer’s edge was growing dull; autumn would soon be here, and from there the world would slip into the cold depths of winter. Would he understand when he stood by this window alone? Should she tell him she’d be long gone before the first snows began to fall?
She looked at him, folded her arms about herself.
“You’re a good man,” she said. “But there are things about your master you don’t know. Things that might make you rethink your obedience.”
“Without his oath, without his Lord, a samurai is nothing. Honesty. Respect. Loyalty. Honor. This is the code of the warrior. I am samurai before all, Yukiko. To wield the long and the short sword and to die. This is my purpose.”
“Someone once told me ‘To be a servant can be a noble thing, but only as noble as the master served.’”
“Your father?”
“A friend.” A quiet sigh. “I wish you could meet him.”
She stared out into the dark, heard the wind whispering through the stunted gardens below.
The tantō was in her hand, the thin river of blood spilling down Daichi’s chest. She could hear the knife as it clattered to the floorboards, hear Daichi asking her why.
She had been reborn that night. Become something more. Something better.
“Why are you speaking this way?” There was anger in Hiro’s voice, bewilderment in his eyes. “You talk as if you wish me to question my Lord. But without my oath, I am nothing. Bushido is my purpose, my heart. It is the Way. Yoritomo-no-miya is Lord of this Empire. All his people owe him fealty. Including you, Yukiko.”
She could see his eyes in the dark; the beautiful sea-green that had haunted the dreams of a girl lost in the Iishi. It all seemed so terribly long ago—the oni and the Kagé, the endless swaying ocean of rain-washed gloom. The girl who had crashed in those woods and dreamed of those eyes was a stranger now.
Yukiko sighed again and turned from the window, toxic, muted moonlight at her back. She shrugged the robe from her shoulders, slipped naked into the bed beside him and wrapped herself in his arms again. Closing her eyes, she pretended the next few days would be enough. Pretended she wasn’t lying to him with every breath she mustered.
“Loyal to a fault.” Aisha said.
She lay in the dark, eyes wide open, listening to his heart beating.
I can’t tell him.
* * *
Hideo watched the grubby dawn light filter through the beach glass, shadows of the windowpane creeping across the floor to his master’s bed. The pipe in his hands was long-stemmed, bowl carved like a tiger’s head, smoke drifting from its open mouth. His morning fix was almost done; after two more puffs he would be dry, and soon the scratching, sour-tongued need would begin building again. The monkey on his back, chattering and digging its fingers into his spine. The demon who knew all his secrets.
What an old fool you are. Master of the Imperial Court. Eyes in every tavern, ears on every street corner. Not a man nor mouse who could hide from you in all of this land, and you cannot find a way to rid yourself of this wretched weed.
Poring over another document, he dipped his calligraphy brush into the cuttlefish ink. He made three short, precise strokes, giving permission for the Dockers Union to stop work and attend the bicentennial gala at weeksend. It could just as easily have been a purchase order for a hundred new slaves to toil and die on the Shōgun’s lands. An arrest order for a dissenter who would disappear one night and never speak again. A death warrant.
Inhale. Close your eyes. Feel the dragon slide down your throat, spreading heavy coils throughout your veins. Hold your breath. Listen. Hear the emptiness inside your head. Embrace it. Be nothing. Know nothing. That you are nothing. That the need to breathe inside your lungs, building, burning, like all things, is only an illusion. Exhale. Open your eyes and watch the smoke dance in the muted light.
He blinked at the calligraphy brush and fancied it a blade in his hands. A weapon that had killed more men than a bushiman or Iron Samurai could ever dream.
I am consort to Lady Izanami, Mother of Death. This ink is the blood of my victims.
Yoritomo yawned and sat up in bed, blinking around the bedchamber as if confused. He ran his hand across his irezumi, palm rasping on his skin, eyes finally falling on his minister kneeling in the sitting room outside.
“I commanded that the lady wait in her own chambers, great Lord, equal of heaven.” Hideo’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “She can return when we are done if that is your wish.”
Yoritomo sipped at the water by his bedside, grimacing at the chemical tang.
“No.” He shook his head. “Send her back to her father with some iron for her dowry. I have no more need of her. Ryu women leave an aftertaste if savored for too long.”
“As you say, great Lord. The lady will be returned to her family once the marks of your … affection fade.”
“Is there anything important this morning?” Yoritomo waved at the stack of documents on Hideo’s table. Smoke curled up from the tiger’s mouth, drifting across the pages. The minister put the pipe to his lips.
“Lord Hiro asks again to beg your forgiveness personally, Seii Taishōgun. He seems genuinely contrite, and seeks to make amends to his sovereign Lord and master.”
“Hiro,” Yoritomo growled. “I should have had him commit seppuku for his failure.”
“My sister and her husband have asked that I convey their eternal gratitude for sparing their only son your wrath, great Lord. Hiro is most dear to them.”
“He is too young to wear the ō-yoroi and the golden jin-haori. He is too young to stand among the Kazumitsu Elite. You spoil him, Hideo.”
“My sons are dead, great Lord.” An old man’s sad smile, his eyes red with lotus smoke. “Fallen before their time in the glorious war, green saplings cut down beneath the Empire’s flag. You will forgive an uncle his indulgences to his only nephew, and make time to hear Hiro’s lament?”
Yoritomo sighed, nodded, “Very well.”
“Your generosity is boundless, Seii Taishōgun. My heartfelt thanks.”
“What else?” Yoritomo waved at the table.
“Preparations for the gala are well underway. The marching order that the courtiers will use during the parade has at last been finalized.” Hideo waved his pipe as he spoke. “Tora first, naturally. The Ryu retinue will march in front of the Fushicho, followed by the Kitsune. The ruffled feathers of the Phoenix emissaries have been smoothed over after some initial difficulties.”
“What did you promise them?”
“That a Phoenix commander would receive your careful consideration when you replace General Tora Hojatsu as head of the gaijin invasion force.”
Yoritomo snorted. “If they wish to lead the entire army, perhaps the Fushicho should bring me victories in the skirmishes I have already allotted them.”
“I promised your consideration on the matter, great Lord. Nothing more.” A tired smile. “With that quibble silenced, all is now on schedule for the celebrations at weeksend. The fireworks have arrived from Yama, Fushicho Kirugume has composed a special piece to be played in your honor. I hear tell that the orchestra accompanying him will be at least fifty strong. The court is quite abuzz with excitement.”
“Very well.” The Shōgun stalked to the coral basin, splashing tepid water in his face. “Are we done?”
“There is one other matter, great Lord.” Hideo’s brow was creased with a small frown. “There has been much activity around the arashitora these last few days. Artificers coming and going at odd hours, taking measurements, poking and prodding. It seems a great deal of trouble for a simple saddle.”
Yoritomo smiled.
“Do not concern yourself, Hideo. My sister is arranging a gift for me.”
“Lady Aisha is—”
“Indeed. And she wishes to keep it a surprise. So be not alarmed.”
Hideo’s eyes narrowed slightly and he finally drew the last puff from his pipe. The smoke was cloying and warm, flowing down his throat, lungs open wide. Larynx to bronchi, alveoli to bloodstream and from there to bliss. The dragon uncoiled inside him, giving voice to his suspicion, serpentine form to his paranoia. Glittering scales. A cold, quiet hiss inside.
“A surprise, great Lord?” The old man smiled, smoke drifting from between his lips. “Well, you know how much we all enjoy those.”
* * *
“Two days from now.”
Yukiko kept her voice low, her eyes scanning the arena, listening for the sounds of the bushimen patrols. She had slipped from her bedroom as soon as the sun set, crawled through the roof and stolen out over the garden wall. From the cover of a nearby squeezeway, she’d watched the soldiers as they circled the periphery of the arena; two pairs marching clockwise and counter-clockwise, walking through the archways and patrolling the inner walls every second circuit. Each trip around the circumference took the men almost ten minutes. She had a little under seven left before she’d have to slip back into the shadows. She felt nervous and exposed on the broad expanse of the arena floor, crouching low beside Buruu’s forelegs, one hand on his chest. She needed to get back to the palace before anyone missed her.
The Artificer was bent over Buruu’s wing, testing a series of metal cuffs around the alula and marginal coverts, assessing length and breadth with a small, clicking measure-reel. The mechabacus on his chest was a constant, clattering hum, singing an equation of sedition.
“Two days,” Kin replied, swapping one cuff for another. “It will be ready.”
“It needs to be, Kin-san. The whole city will be at the bicentennial. Almost every bushiman in the palace will be part of the parade. Iron Samurai too. The prison will be almost empty, and all eyes will be on the sky. We get one chance at this.”
“I will play my part.”
DO YOU TRUST HIM?
Do I have a choice?
FROM THE FIRST TIME YOU MET, HE BEGAN LYING TO YOU. FACE HIDDEN BEHIND HIS MASK, THINKING THE WORLD DOES NOT SEE THE POISON.
He’s not like the rest of them.
THEY ARE ALL THE SAME.
She reached up to Buruu’s neck, dragged her fingernails between the sleek feathers under his chin. His purr was a tiny earthquake, rumbling deep inside her chest.
“I want to thank you, Kin-san,” Yukiko said, searching the featureless, brass mask. “You are risking so much for u
s. I’m not sure I know why.”
“Do you not?” A rasping buzz from within his helmet. “Can you not guess?”
She licked her lips and stared at the floor.
HE WANTS YOU. THAT IS WHY HE HELPS US. NO OTHER REASON.
“Kin, I—”
He held up his hand, thick leather and heavy brass, clockwork and spinning gears. Yukiko could see herself reflected in that single bloody eye, saw herself for the liar she’d become. She knew Kin was in love with her. But she was afraid that if she told him how she felt, he’d abandon her, leave Buruu to die in here. And she needed his help.
Was that something she could forgive herself for? Lying for the sake of a greater good? Deceiving this boy so her best friend would be spared his torment, her father could be free of his prison? Was tearing one heart out a fair price for the lives of two others?
“You don’t need to say it,” Kin shook his head. “When we are far from here, when we look to the horizon and see nothing but emerald and jet, then we can talk. Say everything we have wanted to say.” He stuffed the metal cuffs back into his belt, took one last appraising look at Buruu’s wing. “It will be ready, Yukiko-chan. Two days. I give you my word.”
He touched two fingers to his brow, nodded to Buruu, then clomped from the pit and off into the darkness, leaving behind the faint stench of chi smoke. Yukiko stood and wrapped both arms around Buruu’s neck, pressed her face into his feathers, breathing him in. He was warm and soft, like the blankets she would curl up in near the fireside when she was a little girl. She wanted nothing more than to be far from here, cool wind in her hair, clean rain on her face. Alive and breathing.
This is not me. I hate this.
IT WILL BE OVER SOON. AT LEAST OUR PART. THE KAGÉ WILL HAVE THEIR REVOLUTION. THE LOTUS WILL BURN.
I don’t care. I don’t care about any of that. None of it matters.
OF COURSE IT MATTERS. YOU ARE PART OF THIS WORLD. YOU HAVE THE POWER TO MAKE A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.