Kinslayer

  Kin ran one hand over the stubble at his scalp, pulled his anger into check. Talking like that in front of Ayane wasn’t going to make her feel any more at ease. It wasn’t going to make him feel better, either. He glanced sideways at the old woman, sighing.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I heard the False-Lifer cry out.”

  “Her name is Ayane.”

  Old Mari pursed her lips, utterly ignoring the girl behind the bars. “Don’t you have work to do? Something other than serving as a punching bag, I mean? Ryusaki was looking for you earlier.”

  “I know, I know.” He pointed to the crumpled plans strewn across the floor. “I was just about to head out to the line.”

  A scowling sigh. “Well, I’m on my way to take the boys breakfast now, if you wish to skulk along behind me. Just don’t walk too close.”

  Kin turned to Ayane. “Are you going to be all right here?”

  The girl offered him a tiny, frightened smile. “I cannot be anywhere else, can I?”

  “I’ll come back and check on you tonight, if you like?”

  “Hai.” The smile broadened. “Very much.”

  Kin gathered up the scattered plans, nodded good-bye, limped out the door. Old Mari led the way, her cane beating crisp upon swaying footbridges. Nodding and smiling to the other villagers and studiously ignoring Kin, careful not to give the impression they were walking together. The old woman was remarkably spry, even with her arms laden, scaling down one of the winding ladders from the hidden village to the forest floor. As Kin stumbled after her through the undergrowth, autumn’s scent wrapped him in soft hands, the warm perfume soothing the ache of footprints on his ribs. Walking miles through beautiful green and rusting hues, Old Mari slowed down enough for Kin to catch up with her. She said nothing, but occasionally the boy caught her watching him out of the corner of her sandbag eyes.

  Finally arriving at the first of the emplacements, Kin found a group of Kagé standing beside the bent and scowling lump of a heavy shuriken-thrower. Truth be told, it wasn’t the prettiest contraption Kin had ever turned a wrench on; four long, flattened barrels, a twisted knot of hydraulics and feeder belts, planted in the earth on a tripod of hastily welded iron. An operator’s seat was affixed to the ’throwers backside, allowing the controller to swivel with the weapon as it moved. Cylinders of pressurized gas were bolted at the base, cable winding up the turret like a cluster of serpents. When fired, the ’throwers sputtered and lurched about like violent drunkards, and were only a little more accurate.

  “Ugly as a pack of copper-coin rent boys,” was the descriptor Kaori had chosen when she first laid eyes on them, and Kin had found it hard to disagree. But, unsightly as they might look, the test runs had gone well, pressure fluctuations aside. The forest in front of the ’thrower emplacement was shredded in a neat 180-degree arc—scrubs torn down to miserable stumps, saplings beheaded, bleeding rends torn through ancient trunks.

  A half-dozen more of the emplacements were set up along the northwest of the village, the mountains and the pit traps funneling any potential approach from Black Temple into a relatively defensible zone. Kagé scouts still undertook dangerous patrols out in the wilds, but should it actually come to an attack, at least they wouldn’t have to fight hand to hand against a legion of twelve-foot pit demons.

  Probably a good thing, since Yukiko isn’t here to help them this time …

  Kin sighed, stomach turning, worry gnawing his insides as the memory of Yukiko’s lips set his heart to pounding. He knew Buruu would never let anything happen to her, but still, the fear of having no word, the ache of her absence …

  The Kagé gathered around the ’thrower were clad in shades of autumn foliage, split-toed boots crunching in dead leaves. Most of the men eyed him with suspicion, the remainder with outright hostility. Sensei Ryusaki was the most senior figure present—a member of the Kagé military council, and a renowned swordmaster who had served under Daichi’s old command. The man had deeply tanned skin, a shaved skull and a long black moustache. He was missing his front teeth, compliments of a bar fight in his youth (in one of the few strained conversations they’d had, he’d warned Kin to beware of pretty girls with older brothers) and whistled through the gap almost constantly.

  The captain stood, chin buttered with grease, pipe wrench in one hand, smiling at Old Mari. The old woman handed over her basket of food and promptly admonished the captain about eating properly.

  Ryusaki glanced at Kin after receiving his dressing-down, narrowed a critical eye.

  “Been in the wars, boy?”

  “Just a skirmish.” Kin rubbed his input jack again.

  “Serious enough to pop your lining.” The man pointed to Kin’s arm.

  Kin realized the scuffle with Isao and his fellows had opened up the wound he’d earned during the ironclad attack. Blood was seeping through the fabric at his shoulder, staining the gray a deep, somber red.

  “You should head to the infirmary,” Ryusaki said. “Get it looked at.”

  “Old Mari has called me a fool twice already this morning.” Kin gestured to the woman. “That’s enough of her ministrations for one day, I think.”

  Ryusaki aimed a toothless grin at Mari. “Been picking on our little Guildsman, mother?”

  “Hmph.” The old woman scowled Kin up and down. “Boy is foolish enough to take on three young bucks at once, he should thank Kitsune some burst stitching was the worst of it.”

  “Three?” Ryusaki raised an eyebrow. “Who did you tangle with, boy?”

  “It is no matter, Ryusaki-sama.” A bow. “My thanks for your concern.”

  The captain stared for half a moment, shrugged, and turned his eyes on the ’thrower.

  “We took the entire line for a test run early this morning. ’Throwers four through six did surprisingly well. Number one popped a seal and lost power; two, three and seven are still suffering pressure failure. But we’re getting there. Kaori was dark as thunder when Daichi approved this madness of yours, but there might be reason to it after all.”

  “I think I can fix the pressure issues.” Kin hoisted his schematics. “I almost have it right in my head.”

  “A good thing. That earthquake has the oni riled up worse than a Docktown whorehouse on soldier’s payday, no mistake.”

  Mari slapped his arm. “Watch that toothless filthpit of yours before I fetch the soap…”

  A soft chuckle whistling through missing teeth. “Forgiveness.”

  The captain turned his gaze to the northwest, grin slowly fading, eyes narrowed in the dim light. Kin stood beside him, looking out into the growing gloom. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees, a storm gathering strength among the surrounding peaks. Thunder cracked somewhere to the north, dead leaves falling around the captain like rain.

  “I know you weren’t there for the battle last summer, boy,” Ryusaki said, voice somber. “I know you’ve never seen one of these things up close. And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t put stock in what he hasn’t seen with his own eyes. But these oni, they’re spat direct from the Yomi underworld, make no mistake, and our scouts have seen packs of the bastards moving near Black Temple over the last two days. I’m thinking that earthquake tore one of the cracks in the mountain wider, let a few more of the little ones squeeze through. Straight from the Endsinger’s belly, full of all her hatred for the world of men.”

  “… We’d best get to work, then,” Kin said.

  Ryusaki nodded. “I’m heading out tomorrow, by the by. I’ll be gone two weeks or thereabouts, so you’ll be reporting direct to Kaori.”

  Kin groaned inwardly at the thought. “Where do you go, Ryusaki-sama?”

  The captain hid his distrust well, but Kin could still feel it prickling on his skin.

  “… South,” Ryusaki said.

  Kin pursed his lips, nodded slow. No more than he should have expected, truth be told. Turning to the ’thrower, he pried off the firing mechanism housing. Placing
it on the ground with a wince, he rubbed at his bloodstained shoulder. The old woman watched him, something a few feet shy of guilt in her eyes.

  “Listen … if you wish to come back with me, get that wound restitched…”

  “I am fine,” Kin said. “Truly.”

  Mari clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You remind me of my husband, Guildsman. He was stubborn as a mule too. Right up to the day he got killed.”

  “I appreciate the concern, Mari-san.” Kin turned his eyes to the machine, tried to keep the anger from his voice. “But I can take care of myself.”

  “Have it your way,” Mari sighed. “I’ll be in the infirmary when the dust settles. But you’re a fool if you think you can deal with all your troubles alone.”

  The boy plucked a torque wrench from his belt, looked over the ’thrower emplacement with a sigh.

  “A man can dream…”

  * * *

  Hundreds of eyes, red as sunset, staring up at Kin with as much adoration as glass could muster. A sea of brass faces, stretching into dark corners, smooth and featureless. Infinite repetitions of the same iteration; no individuality or personality, no expression or humanity in each razor-sharp contour. His own face, but not his at all. Over and over again.

  Walls of stone, yellow and dripping, the songs of engine and piston and gears blurring into a monotone hum, a broken-clock rhythm that seeded at the base of his skull and sent out roots to claw the backs of his eyes. And he stood above them on the gantry, stared down at their upturned faces, felt the comforting weight of metal on his bones and knew that he was home.

  They were calling his name.

  He held his arms wide, fingertips spread, the lights of their eyes glinting on the edges of his skin. The gunmetal-gray filigree embossed upon his fingertips, the cuffs of his gauntlets, the edges of his spaulders. A new skin for his flesh; the skin of rank, of privilege and authority. Everything they had promised, everything he had feared had come to pass. It was True.

  This was Truth.

  They called his name, the assembled Shatei, holding their hands aloft. And even as he drew breath to speak, the words rang in his head like a funeral song, and he felt whatever was left of his soul slipping up and away into the dark.

  He knew he was asleep; knew this was only the dream of a thirteen-year-old boy, huddled in the Chamber of Smoke as the poison crept into his lungs. The same vision that had plagued him every single night since he Awakened. But he could still taste the lotus on his tongue, feel the weight of his skin upon his flesh and the gut-wrenching fear as his What Will Be was laid bare before him.

  The multitude below fell silent. He looked down at the scarlet pinpricks in the dark, swaying and flickering like fireflies on a winter breeze. His voice was a fierce cry, hollow and metallic behind the brass covering his lips.

  “Do not call me Kin. That is not my name.”

  In the dream, he felt his lips curl into a smile.

  “Call me First Bloom.”

  19

  CATCHING THE SKY

  The pain in her lungs was a living thing; a fire pressing against her ribs as black flowers bloomed before her eyes. The shock of impact, the water’s chill clawing at her marrow, rocks as sharp as demon’s teeth tearing her flesh—all of it secondary to the burning in her chest, the screaming in her head, the desperation forcing her mouth open to the black and the salt and the death that lay inside a single lungful.

  Breathe.

  She swam up. Or down. One as good as the other, the swell tumbling her like throwing sticks between forests of cruel stone, slick with grasping weed. Dull roaring in her ears, pressing her down, the blinding desire for oxygen becoming more than just a need; a reflex impulse over which she finally lost all control.

  BREATHE.

  She opened her lungs to the ocean, and the ocean dived inside.

  * * *

  Yukiko woke with a start, sobbing, gasping as sweet, blessed air filled her lungs. Her clothing was drenched, hair plastered to her face in thick, black drifts. She tried to claw it from her eyes, felt restraints around her wrists; leather thongs binding her to the flanks of an iron bed frame, clean sheets entwined about her ankles. She thrashed for a moment, vertigo swelling, staring around the dank, gray room without any idea where she was.

  A voice spoke. Tangled words she didn’t understand.

  She jerked toward the sound, saw a fierce-looking man reaching for her. Perhaps thirty years old, dressed in a long white coat of a strange cut, old bloodstains at the cuffs. Cropped dark hair and a pale, weather-beaten face, framed by a pointed beard.

  She shied away, kicked against the ties on her ankles. The man held her shoulders and shook her gently, mouthing nonsensical words as his features coalesced. A long scar ran down his right cheek, another curved along his left, and he was missing his left ear entirely. His right eye was chalk-white; probably blinded by whatever had mangled his face. But beneath salt-encrusted eyebrows, she saw his left eye was a pale, sparkling blue.

  White skin.

  Blue eyes.

  My gods, he’s gaijin.

  Smoothing the hair from her face, he spoke more of his incomprehensible language. Yukiko pulled back from his touch, but he offered a tin cup, filled with fresh water. The taste of salt was thick on her tongue, throat parched, and she gulped it down without pause. Eyes closed in the mercy of dimming thirst, she was startled by another voice speaking from the doorway.

  “Piotr.”

  The only round-eyes she’d ever seen were the merchantmen selling leather goods on the Kigen docks, so it was difficult to judge. But as she squinted at the speaker, she guessed this second gaijin was only a little older than she. Damp, shoulder-length blond hair swept behind his ears, a small tuft of beard on his chin, tanned skin. There was a symmetry to his features she might have found handsome if he didn’t look so utterly alien. Scruffy red tunic of a bizarre cut, decorated with a shawl of pale-gray fur, thick leather gloves, insignia on his collars, goggles slung around his neck. He stared at her with eyes the color of tarnished silver, burning with curiosity.

  There was something familiar about him …

  As she watched, he took a small cylinder of white paper from a flat tin box in his coat, put it in his mouth. He drew a small slab of dull steel from a pocket, touched it to the stick. Pale gray smoke drifted from the end of the paper cylinder, filling the room with the scent of cinnamon and honey. His hands were shaking.

  The smell dragged a dim memory back up through the sea-drenched fog in her brain: she was curled up on rain-slick metal, coughing lungfuls of brine. A silhouette crouched over her, thick rope lashed around his waist, sodden blond hair plastered to his face.

  She remembered her mouth had tasted strange. Something over the salt and bile …

  Cinnamon and honey.

  “You…” she said. “You saved me?”

  The blond boy spoke—incomprehensible and guttural. The dark-haired man stood and walked to the doorway, and the pair talked in hushed tones, glancing over occasionally while Yukiko’s eyes roamed the room.

  Some kind of hospice, lined with metal cots, perhaps a dozen in all. The sharp smell of liquor and burned hair, jars of chemicals stacked beneath a cast-iron sink. Gray walls, glistening with damp, wind howling through ventilation ducts lining the ceiling. Grubby bulbs in rusted, wall-mounted housings, flickering in time with the toneless howl of the wind outside. Beneath it, she could hear the roll and crack of surf, thunder rumbling across sharp rock.

  The ocean’s song.

  She reached out with the Kenning, tentative, the headache cinching at the base of her skull. She could feel the gaijin in the room, just like she’d felt the people of the Kagé village; indistinct smudges of alien warmth. Pushing them aside, she groped around the nearby darkness, felt the impression of something warm; an animal with a familiar shape, far too small to be a thunder tiger.

  Gritting her teeth, she stretched into the gloom beyond, trying to wrest the Kenning
under some kind of control. It felt like opening herself up to a hurricane, stepping naked into wind and fire, a rolling sea beneath her. She could sense a cluster of warmth; dozens of gaijin crammed together, above, below, around. Pushing out further. Wincing at the pain. Feeling something warm in the distance, the sound of a tempest, a flash of heat.

  Buruu?

  And then she sensed them. Far below, like nothing she’d touched before. Cold and slippery and bejeweled, staring back at her with eyes of polished yellow glass.

  Hissing.

  She withdrew, slammed the door shut on her power, folded down on herself and drew a long, shuddering breath. Even with her newfound strength, she hadn’t been able to sense Buruu. Was he unconscious? Dead? What had happened to him?

  Blinking, ignoring the pounding ache in her head, she tried to remember. The sensation of falling came first; the terrifying split second of inertia as momentum failed and gravity took hold. Choppy red water beneath her, rising fast. Impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Sodden clothes dragging her down, shapes in the sky above as lightning flashed.

  Arashitora. Two males.

  And they were fighting.

  “Shima?”

  The familiar word pulled her back into the room, into the half-blind stare of the dark-haired man. The gaijin was looking at her intently, arms folded, a far throw from friendly. The blond boy stared at the floor, sucking on the smoking stick, exhaling clouds of honey-scented gray. The headache was a raw wound drilled behind her ears, chiseled atop her spine.

  “You Shima?” Astonishingly, the scarred man was speaking in her own tongue—he had a broken, bowlegged accent, but his words were Shiman nonetheless. Stepping closer, he pointed to her, then waved in a direction she presumed was south. The gaijin walked with a severe limp, and when his right foot hit the stone, she heard the chink of metal.

  “Hai,” she nodded. “Shima.”

  The man scowled and turned on the blond boy, raising his hand as if to strike him, spitting angry gibberish. The boy flinched away, smoke stick crushed between gritted teeth.