It reached out with one metal hand, pointing across the bow. Akihito followed the gesture to the mountainous northwest horizon. Far past the rolling plains of the Ryu clan below, deep inside distant Kitsune territory, a bright pinprick of flame glowed against a backdrop of dark stone. It was almost too small to see through the haze; a tiny orange flare, a thin plume of smoke twisting into the sky and off into nothingness. Given how far they were from Fox lands, the fire must have been enormous for them to see it at all.
Several of the crew were gathering at the railing to stare. Kasumi and Akihito joined them, squinting into the distance. The cloudwalkers muttered and shot each other dark, knowing glances, several swearing so profanely that even Akihito seemed impressed. Kasumi turned to one of the sky folk, and saw the anger in his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
* * *
From her nest between the chi barrels, Yukiko watched the sailors mill about on the deck, still too surly to wonder what the fuss was about. She’d been sulking around the bow for two days, avoiding her father, barely muttering a handful of words to Kasumi. Even Akihito’s attempts to jolly her out of her funk were met with grumpy silence, and she’d outright refused their usual morning sparring sessions. She had not seen the strange, pale boy again.
She saw Captain Yamagata emerge from his cabin and stalk up to the bow, a mechanical spyglass in one calloused hand. Planting his boot on the railing, he pressed a button and watched the device extend, small motors and springs humming. He squinted through it toward the fire, hissing through clenched teeth and shaking his head. The spyglass whirred and clicked, extending its length, lenses within it shifting as they searched for focus on the wall of flames.
“Kagé,” he whispered.
“Shadows?” Yukiko asked, perking up.
The captain flinched at the sound of her voice. He looked uneasy, casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the Artificer, then back to Yukiko’s quizzical expression.
“Raijin’s drums.” A sheepish grin. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m Kitsune,” she reminded him. “What was that you said about the Kagé?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Yamagata ran one hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t be telling anyone I mentioned that word, Lady. It could see me in hot water.”
“Why?” Yukiko lowered her tone to conspiratorial levels, keeping a close watch on the Guildsman. Yamagata was obviously worried about it overhearing.
“We’re not supposed to talk about the Kagé. Officially, they don’t exist.”
“But they’ve been attacking lotus fields up north for years.”
“How do you know that? It’s never reported on the wireless.”
“They operate in Kitsune country,” Yukiko shrugged. “We lived there when I was a little girl. Whenever a field went up, the village wives would whisper about the Kagé and make the warding sign against evil. Mothers there even frighten their children with them. They say the Kagé come in the night and drag disobedient sons and daughters into the hells.” Her eyes sparkled with the memory.
“Well, don’t go spreading that kind of foolishness, do you hear?” Yamagata said. “Especially not when Old Kioshi’s around.”
“Old Kioshi?”
“Our Guildsman.” Yamagata gave a subtle nod in the direction of the Artificer.
“He’s an old man?”
“Been in the Guild longer than I’ve been breathing, if rumor is true. Hard to tell beneath the suit, I know.”
Yukiko twisted to her feet and peered over the railing, one hand blotting out the sinking sun. Mountains loomed among a growling monsoon on the far horizon: the enormous spine of storm-tossed rock stretching across the north of Shima known as the Iishi ranges. Black spires rose up out of a carpet of scarlet, spear points tipped in white, dazzling snow. The Iishi were the last true stretch of wilderness in all Shima; haunted, if the tales were true, by the restless dead and demons from the deep hells. It was said in the old legends that when the Maker God, Lord Izanagi, had sought the Yomi underworld to reclaim his dead bride, he’d found the gateway in the Iishi. The lands of Yukiko’s birth lay in the western foothills: the once lush and beautiful countryside of the Kitsune zaibatsu, now reduced to a vast lotus field scarred by stretches of smoking, dead earth.
She squinted, barely making out the fire blazing at the jagged feet of one of the mightiest eastern crags. Pulling off her goggles, she frowned at the layer of grime and smoke smudged across the lenses.
“The official story is always the same,” Yamagata said. “Natural fire, nothing unusual about it. Certainly not started by human hands. To even suggest it is to invite trouble.”
“So the Guild lies.” She spat onto the glass, rubbing with the hem of her uwagi.
“You can’t blame them.” Yamagata scowled over his spyglass. “If they acknowledge that an organized group is incinerating lotus fields, they’d be admitting that they’re incapable of protecting their own property—a show of weakness. A loss of face.”
“But that’s just stupid! Everyone up there knows the Kagé exist.”
“People up there don’t matter.”
Yukiko blinked at him, taken aback.
“Farmers. Peasants.” Yamagata waved his hand dismissively. “The Guildsmen don’t care about their whispers, their lives. They care about the Shōgun, the Kazumitsu Elite and their grip over the army. They care about face. Weakness is not something most will admit to. Least of all them. So much rides on perception, the power in appearances. The Guild and the Shōgun’s forces are like an old, bitter couple, locked together in a marriage they detest. If either side ever thought they could seize power entirely for themselves, well…” The captain shrugged. “And in the meantime, the radio broadcasts mention nothing of the Kagé, and more and more crops get burned.”
“The old village women used to say the Kagé were wicked kami who delighted in fire. But you speak of them like they’re men.”
“Oh, they’re men,” Yamagata snorted. “Flesh and blood, no fear of that. Who knows why the bastards do it? Disenfranchised farmers out for revenge. Lunatics with nothing better to do. I heard one rumor that they’re a group of gaijin trying to destabilize the Guild, weaken the war effort. White ants, chewing at the country’s foundations. Damn savages.”
“Then the fire at the refinery last week…”
“You heard the wireless. The Guild investigators said it was an accident. Believe that if you like.” The captain lowered his spyglass, offered it to the girl as he replaced his goggles. “All I know is that they’re costing the Guild a lot of money. Rumor has it they’ve started transmitting their own radio broadcasts now. Alternating frequencies, every weeksend. A pirate signal the Guild can’t control.”
Yukiko closed one eye and peered through the whirring glass, storm clouds and mountains leaping into focus and swaying with the motion of the ship. Steadying herself with one hand against the railing, she focused on a large field of lotus. Seething tongues of fire were spreading out among the swaying fronds, scarlet blooms blackening in the heat. The tiny figures of desperate farmers were running to and fro, spraying black water with hand pumps in a vain attempt to save the crop. The blaze stretched forth greedy hands, spurred onward by the scorching summer heat. She could see the terror and anguish; men risking their lives for the sake of a poisonous weed, stubbornly trying to hold their ground as Fūjin, God of Winds, drove the flames like terrified horses before the whip. It was obvious that the men could do nothing. The fire would run its course. Yet still they fought, watching their livelihoods go up in smoke before tear-filled eyes.
Yukiko lowered the telescope, feeling a terrible weight in her breast. She thought of the lives ruined, the children who would go unclothed and unfed because their parents had lost everything. Joining the faceless mob in one of the great cities, eking out a living in squalor and dust, choking on chi fumes as their lips slowly turned black.
“Whoever they are, they’
re cruel and wicked,” Yukiko frowned. “Those poor people…”
“Aye. Wretches without the courage to face the enemy with a sword in their hands.” Yamagata spat onto the deck. “Bastard cowards.”
They stood together and watched the fields burn.
9
SMOKE ON A STARLESS SKY
The propellers hummed their monotone lullaby, but the dreams still dragged Yukiko from her sleep. The hammock above her was empty, a slack tangle of pale, knotted cord, bereft of father and the stink of lotus smoke. A moment’s panic gripped her as she realized he was gone, but she clenched her teeth and shoved it away. She peered out of the window to the starless sky, tried to guess what time it was. A long way from dawn, she figured. A longer way from home.
Slipping from the room, she stole toward the stairwell, the wood beneath her feet vibrating with the constant hum of the engines. She was becoming numbed to the chi-stink, the lightness of head and shortness of breath that altitude carried in its arms, but still, it was the promise of a few moments of fresh air that drew her out onto the deck. Not the thought that her father might have stumbled up there, drunk on smoke. Not the knowledge that it would take one clumsy step to send him over the side and down into the dark. Not at all.
She found him keeping company with the watchmen in a puddle of lantern light, sitting cross-legged on a looped pile of thick hemp rope, and her momentary relief evaporated as the familiar smell of lotus smoke crept into her nostrils. Three others sat with him, passing a wooden pipe back and forth. A young man in a dirty straw hat, another man around her father’s age, and a young boy not more than eleven or twelve.
The younger man wore no clan irezumi on his shoulder, just a collection of koi fish and geisha girls that marked him as lowborn Burakumin. The boy wasn’t yet old enough to be considered an adult and sported no ink, so Yukiko could only guess at where he came from. His skin was pale, but not pale enough to be Kitsune. Phoenix, if she had to guess.
Yukiko crept forward and stood in the dancing shadows beside them, listening to the rough jests and gutter-talk and snatches of hoarse laughter. It was a few minutes before the cloudwalker in the straw hat finally noticed she was there. He blinked with bloodshot eyes, taking a few seconds to focus on her face. Dragging deeply from the pipe, he passed it to the young cabin boy sitting next to him.
“Young miss?” His voice sounded thick and raw, smoke drifting from his lips with each word he spoke. “Can I get you something?”
The others looked up from the circle, Masaru last of all. A quick glance was all she got, but it was enough to see the shame in him.
“I want for nothing, thank you, sama.” Yukiko gave a small, polite bow, eyeing the lotus pipe with distaste. “Just seeking to clear my head with the fresh air.”
“Precious little of that to be found up here,” the young boy said, passing the pipe along to Masaru with a grimace.
The older cloudwalker clipped the back of the boy’s head, fast as a jade adder. He wore a three-day growth of beard, graying at the chin, a simple dragon tattoo on his right shoulder etched by some Docktown artiste.
“Mind your tongue in the presence of ladies, Kigoro.” He held a single, stained finger up in front of the boy’s nose. “There’s plenty of fresh air waiting over the starboard side for those who dishonor this ship.”
The cloudwalker in the straw hat chuckled, the young boy mumbling apologies and turning a bright shade of red. For a moment, the only sound was the bass rattle of the Thunder Child’s bones, the hypnotic drone of the great propellers, the iron growl of the engines in her belly. Yukiko stared at her father, who steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.
“Forgiveness, please.” The older cloudwalker covered his fist and nodded to her. “My name is Ryu Saito. This is Benjiro.” The younger cloudwalker bowed in his straw hat. “The little one with the large mouth is Fushicho Kigoro.”
The young boy rubbed the back of his head, bowed to her.
Phoenix, then. I was right.
“I am Kitsune Yukiko…”
“We know who you are, Lady.” Saito held up a hand in apology. “The tale precedes you in the telling. You are daughter of the Black Fox, Masaru-sama,” he thumped her father on the shoulder, “come to hunt the thunder tiger at the command of Shōgun Tora Yoritomo.”
“Next Stormdancer of Shima,” the boy added.
Saito frowned and took back the pipe. The wad of lotus resin inside the bowl glowed red-hot as he sucked on the stem.
“Is that what you think, young Kigoro?” Saito held the smoke in his lungs as he spoke. “Yoritomo-no-miya will be a Stormdancer?”
The boy blinked.
“It is what they say.”
“‘They?’” Saito exhaled and waved his hand about. “Who are ‘they?’ The air kami?”
“People,” the boy shrugged. “Around Docktown.”
“Aiya.” Saito shook his head, passed the pipe along. “How comes it that children today speak so much yet know so little?” He fixed the boy in a squint-eyed stare. “A Stormdancer is more than the beast he rides. It takes more than the shoulders of a thunder tiger to stand as tall as heroes like Kitsune no Akira.”
“All praise.” Benjiro raised the pipe in a toast, exhaling a long trail of smoke that was snatched away by the wind.
“All praise,” Saito nodded.
“Why?” Kigoro looked back and forth between the men. “What did he do?”
Cries of dismay split the night, and the two cloudwalkers clipped Kigoro over the back of his head in turn. Feeling sorry for the boy, Yukiko raised her voice over the clamor.
“He slew Boukyaku, young sama. The sea dragon who consumed the island of Takaiyama.”
“Ahhhh.” Benjiro pointed at Yukiko and bowed, obviously a little the worse for smoke. “See, Saito-san? Not all youngsters are ignorant of this island’s great history. The Black Fox at least teaches his daughter the lessons of the past.” He gave another unsteady bow to Masaru. “Honor to you, great sama.”
“There’s no such thing as sea dragons,” the cabin boy pouted, glaring about at his fellows. “And there’s no island called Takaiyama, either. You’re making fun of me.”
“There are no dragons now,” Yukiko agreed. “But long ago, before the oceans turned red, they swam in the waters around Shima. They have a skeleton hanging in the great museum in the Kitsune capital.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Once.” She fixed her eyes on the deck. “With my mother and brother. Long ago.”
“What did they look like?”
“Fearsome. Spines of poison and teeth as long and sharp as katana.”
“… and there was none more fearsome than mighty Boukyaku, the Dragon of Forgetting.”
Yukiko glanced up as her father spoke. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the dark over the railing, far away in the deep of the night, his voice tinged with the rasp of smoke. He ran his finger down through his graying mustache and licked his lips. And as he began to speak, for just a fleeting moment, she was a little girl again, curled up by the fire with Satoru and Buruu, listening to tales of wonder.
“They say his tail was as broad as the walls of the imperial palace. And when he lashed it in anger, tsunami as tall as sky-spires rose in his wake. He could swallow a ship and all her crew with one snap of his jaws, suck entire schools of deep tuna down his gullet with one breath. He grew fat and huge on the plunder of the eastern ocean, and the fishermen of the island of Takaiyama—for such was its name, young sama—were close to starvation. So they prayed to great Susano-ō, God of Storms, asking him to drive Boukyaku from their waters.”
Saito leaned forward with his hands on his knees, and Benjiro stared at Masaru as if hypnotized. The drone of the engines and the song of the propellers seemed to fade away, and the sound of his voice was as flame to dazzled moths.
“But the great sea dragon overheard the islanders’ pleas.” The lotus pipe hung forgotten in Masaru’s hand, trailing a thin wisp of smoke. “And in his
terrible rage, Boukyaku opened his maw and consumed the island and everyone on it: man, woman, child and beast. And this is why the holy Book of Ten Thousand Days speaks of eight islands of Shima, when now there are only seven.”
Saito leaned back, stroking his graying beard and looking at the young cabin boy. “And why ignorant pups like you have never heard the name of Takaiyama.”
“Was Boukyaku one of the Black Yōkai?” The boy looked to Masaru.
“No,” the Hunt Master shook his head. “Not black.”
“But he was evil.”
“There are three kinds of yōkai, young sama.” Masaru counted off on his fingers. “The white, such as great phoenix. Pure and fierce.” A second finger. “The black, spawned in the Yomi underworld; oni, nagaraja and the like. Creatures of evil.” A third digit. “But most breeds of spirit beasts are simply gray. They are elemental, unconstrained. They can be noble like the great thunder tiger, who answers the call of the Stormdancer. But like the sea dragons, they can seem cruel to us, just as a rip-tide will seem cruel to a drowning man.”
The boy appeared unconvinced. “So what does Kitsune no Akira have to do with all this, then?”
The cloudwalkers looked to Masaru. He stared down at the pipe in his hand for a long moment, and then continued to speak.
“One man survived the destruction of Takaiyama. A simple fisherman, who returned from the deep sea to find nothing left of his home. He traveled long and hard roads for one hundred and one days, arriving at the court of Emperor Tenma Chitose just before the grand festival of Lord Izanagi’s feast day.
“His clothes were rags, and he was mad with grief, and the Emperor’s guards refused him entry to the palace, for the celebration feast was already underway. Yet great Kitsune no Akira, who was in Kigen at the Emperor’s invitation, heard of the man’s plight through the whispers of the swallows in the Emperor’s garden. With the humility of a true samurai, the Stormdancer covered the fisherman with his robe, and bid him sit in his place at the Emperor’s table and eat in his stead. Then Kitsune no Akira leaped astride his thunder tiger, the mighty Raikou, whose voice was a storm, wings crackling with Raijin song. And they flew faster than the wind to the lair where great Boukyaku lay.”