The world after the strike seemed muted, as if the storm sat within an old, rusty soundbox on the other side of a darkened room. Yukiko blinked at the black stains upon her eyes, rolling about on her back, head still ringing with one constant, high-pitched note. Buruu backed off, stood between her and the nomad, wings spread, feet planted like the roots of mountains.
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
I think so …
LUCKY.
Kitsune looks after his own.
THE BOY?
Yukiko sat up, squinted into the blurred gloom.
“Ilyitch?”
“Yukiko!”
A faint cry, almost inaudible over the crashing waves, the roaring storm. And with dread rising in her gut, Yukiko realized the gaijin had been knocked away by the lightning strike, plummeting over the precipice and into the raging ocean below.
“Ilyitch!”
Yukiko scrambled to her feet, ran to the tower. The rain was hissing where it touched the copper, sizzling like oil on a skillet. She stepped back, too frightened to touch it. Screaming the gaijin’s name again, she saw him thrashing for a brief moment between towering breakers, reaching toward her. The ocean rushed into his rainskin, and the flying fox he was still buckled to dragged him down, fingers clawing at the surface as if it were solid enough to hold on to.
But it wasn’t.
32
TREMORS
They’d stepped out into chilled autumn air, tall and proud as lords.
Jurou in charcoal silk, a splash of Tora red at his obi, neck adorned with new jade. Yoshi in black, balloon hakama about his legs and a thigh-length uwagi of tailored silk, hair bound in tight braids, streaming down his back like snakes. The pair had sauntered down the boulevard, Yoshi tipping the split brim of his hat to anyone who looked their way.
A fine day to be alive.
Upside seemed busier than usual, people running to and fro, more bushimen than Jurou could ever remember seeing. Palace Way was awash with grimy flesh, motor-rickshaws running on fumes. They’d caught a foot ’shaw to Docktown, Yoshi tipping the finger-thin driver handsomely, stepping into the tattoo parlor’s confines. And there they lay, shirtless in the mild chill, as an ancient little Fushicho man and his pock-faced son drew forth bamboo needles and bottles of Danroan ink and set about inflicting an enormous amount of pain in the name of vanity.
Yoshi had commissioned a new piece; a beautiful portrait of Lord Izanagi stirring the formless ocean of creation with his spear tip, running from the mouthwatering curve of his right pectoral muscle down to his hip. Jurou was having some flourish added to his clan irezumi; great and beautiful Tiger prowling around his bicep, looking as if he were about to leap off the boy’s flesh and tear the world to rags.
Jurou’s pipe dangled from his lips, and he ran a gentle tongue upon the tip, sucking down lungfuls of beautiful blue-black. He knew he shouldn’t be on the lotus, knew the price paid for his little high was waist-deep blood. But the itching need had been hitting him hard the last few days, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t stop if he wanted. He listened to the buzz in the streets outside, the lotusflies in the rafters, swelling velvet and soporific between his ears. Sensation faded beneath the familiar lotus kiss, tongue too thick for his mouth, staring at the boy he loved, flinching and flexing as the old man’s needles danced upon his skin.
“You should get Lady Izanami done on the other side,” he said, pointing to Yoshi’s chest.
The old man looked up sharply, gave the warding sign against evil.
“Smoke is going to your brain, Princess.” Yoshi winced as the old man’s needles began dancing again. “Never let the dragon steer the ship.”
“Why not?” Jurou exhaled a plume of sweetness in Yoshi’s direction.
“Why the hells would I have the Endsinger inked on my skin?”
“Life and death. Light and dark.” A hand waving, vaguely. “You know, symmetry.”
“Crazier than a Docktown whore, you.”
“Lady Izanami wasn’t always a death goddess.” The pock-faced artiste seemed to be digging his needles extra hard, but Jurou couldn’t bring himself to care. “She was the Earth Mother once. Gave birth to this entire island and seven more besides. It’s not her fault Lord Izanagi couldn’t get her back from Yomi. It’s not her fault he left her there in the dark.”
“Why don’t you get her inked on you, then?”
“Maybe I will.”
“And maybe I’ll find myself a boy who doesn’t paint himself for life while smoke-drunk.”
“Mmm.” Jurou smiled, heavy lids over dark, knowing eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Yoshi looked him up and down, smiled in return, crooked and beautiful.
“Me too.”
* * *
“I love you, you know.”
They were crouched atop a three-story tenement, waiting for the game to begin again. The moon was entirely hidden behind a veil of exhaust, shadows tumbling thick upon the cobbles below. It was the kind of dark that left you feeling alone, even if you were skin to skin. The kind of dark that turned your eyes inward, since there was nothing to see without.
“Hmm?” Yoshi was perched upon the gutter’s edge, eyelashes fluttering, like some carrion bird awaiting supper. “D’you say?”
If it was brighter, Jurou could have seen it from up here, even all the way from Downside. The estates clustered on the hills east of the Daimyo’s palace, trying desperately to keep their nose above the stink-line, the noble-born inside averting their eyes from the squalor below, all their pretty gardens turning gray. His father’s house amongst them, high ceilings and gardens of smooth stone where he and his brother Kazuya played as children. His father watching, potbelly swelling his Kitsune-silk kimono (only the finest), bald pate gleaming with sweat as he fretted for his money and honor and name.
“Family,” he would say. “There is nothing more important in this world. Show me a man’s friends, I will show you the man. But show me a man’s sons, I will show you his future.”
They were trained, he and Kazuya, from the day they could walk. To stand amongst Kigen’s nobility, to inherit the family estates; the vast farmlands their father had bought from struggling farmers at fire-sale prices, now worked by gaijin slaves. Jurou had been betrothed when he was thirteen, a daughter of a family ally, a pact to seal friendship in blood. And to his lasting surprise, Jurou found himself utterly smitten, struck to the core by dark beautiful eyes and full lips and smooth, sweet curves. Not his betrothed, of course, poor thing.
Her brother.
It had been brief, and blinding, and beautiful. But it ended as it was always going to—with discovery. Not by a servant or his bride to be, but by his brother; little Kazuya stumbling across them in the sweat-soaked shadows of the garden pavilion. And the boy had run quick as silver, singing like a nightingale, clever enough at ten years old to know a sole heir would be wealthier than a second-born son. And his father had grown pale, rent his kimono in anguish, and cursed Jurou as a bastard, a wretch, a disgrace.
“What did I do,” he’d cried, “to deserve the shame of a son such as you?”
Jurou pictured him now; the image that superseded all others, overshadowing the smiling hugs on naming days, the pride at family dinners. Spittle on his lips, katana held high as he chased Jurou from his house, vowing to kill him if his shadow ever darkened the doorstep again.
“No blood of mine,” he’d screamed.
“No son of mine.”
And there on the rooftop, waiting for the game to begin again, Jurou brushed at his eyes, stared in the direction of the house he’d grown up in. Now so distant, so empty, a hollow ache that clung to the inside of his ribs and pulled the breath from his lungs.
Dark night. Darker thoughts.
“I said I love you,” he whispered, to no one in particular.
A strong arm around his shoulders.
Lips on his cheek.
A crooked smile, close enough for him to see every perfect d
etail, no matter how dark it got. Here. Now. All that mattered.
Yoshi.
“I love you too, Princess.”
* * *
There were four of them, broad as doorways, moving quick despite their bulk. Shappo pulled low over their features, creeping down alleys and dashing across streets, hearts all aflutter. Yoshi watched them through glittering black eyes, yellow teeth in his gums, hide crawling with blood-fat fleas. He ran with them down the narrow cracks between buildings, the labyrinth of Downside streets, the tangled knot of crushed brick and bloody gravel and graffiti scrawled in letters ten feet high.
ARASHI-NO-ODORIKO COMES.
“Should send that bitch flowers.” He smiled, eyelids near to closing. “These boys wouldn’t be half as rich without Little Miss Thunder Tiger.”
He watched the yakuza darting closer, shadows within shadows, fat satchels and war clubs in dirty hands. Moving across the rooftops to intercept. Rats to the cat. Flies to the spider.
“How do, gentlemen?”
The iron-thrower hissed as Yoshi engaged the pressure, finger kissing trigger, arm extended and pointing death at the lead yakuza’s head. The men skidded to a halt, fourth bumping into third, narrowed eyes and kerchiefed faces. They looked up at Yoshi, crouched on the gutter at the alley’s end, tipping his split-brimmed hat in their general direction.
“You,” the second one hissed.
“Looks like.” Yoshi smiled crooked, aimed the iron-thrower between the talkative one’s eyes. “If you’d do me the honor of tossing those satchels, my little sponge cakes, you can all be on your way back home to mother. Kiss her on the mouth for me, hear?”
Jurou stepped around the corner, same alley’s mouth the yakuza had entered by. He upended a sack with a flourish, contents ringing brightly upon broken concrete. They were “crow’s-feet”; two lengths of sharpened wire, braided together and bent so that one of the four points always faced upward. A hundred of them now covered the deck between the yakuza and retreat. Yoshi and his iron-thrower hovered above their advance.
Jurou stepped back with his roofing-nail war club, watching the gangsters close. He didn’t bother minding the street: Yoshi had other eyes in play.
What you seeing, Daken?
… no guards down. moving riverside to look up …
“Don’t be mistaking me for the type who asks twice, Scorpion Children.” Yoshi waved the iron-thrower. “The iron. Count of five.”
“You know who we are then?”
The lead yakuza pulled his kerchief down, tipped back his bowl-shaped hat. He was a wide, red-faced fellow, freshly shaved and sweaty, his ugly smile missing four front teeth.
Yoshi’s hands were stone. “Four…”
“We’re gonna get you, you know.”
“Three…”
“A little shit with big coin isn’t hard to find in streets this narrow.”
“Two…”
The yakuza relented, aimed his gap-toothed grin in Yoshi’s direction, hefted his satchel with fat, stubby fingers. And then a frown crossed his face, one eyebrow creeping skyward as he looked around in alarm.
The roof beneath Yoshi began to vibrate, a subtle tremor at first, increasing in intensity. He thought for a moment the house might be collapsing, brickwork giving way beneath his weight. But then he realized the yakuza were feeling it too; a shivering rumble reaching up through the earth, as if the whole island were moving beneath their feet.
“What the hells?” Jurou called out in alarm.
… what is that?…
Yoshi crouched low, one hand on the eave to steady himself. He watched mortar dust drifting from the walls, listened to the fragile tune of splintering glass.
Another earthquake.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the tremor subsided. Stillness fell over Kigen, angry voices and wailing babies splitting the still of the predawn dark. Yoshi collected his wits, turned back to the yakuza. Still, it happened so quickly, he almost didn’t catch it.
A glimpse of movement. Just a flash of pale light on steel, speeding from the gangster’s hand toward Yoshi’s heart. Jurou cried out as Yoshi rolled, quake forgotten, just fast enough, knife slipping past and opening him up rib-deep. Yoshi twisted sideways, hissing in the spray of heat and wet. And without thinking, he bit down and pulled the trigger.
The iron-thrower roared.
The shot caught the yakuza in the chest, just above his heart, blooming at his back like lotus blossoms in the first light of spring. The fat man clutched the eyeball-sized hole, dark red spilling down his uwagi, coughing once as he dropped like bricks onto the alley floor. The three other gangsters bolted, sprinting away from Jurou’s crow’s-feet toward the other end of the alley. Yoshi fired again as they ran beneath, another gangster falling, gasping, big body skidding to a damp halt on the gravel. The remaining two were ghosts, already gone, feet pounding the street as confused residents spilled from their tenements, pale and shaken in the quake’s aftermath.
Yoshi lay against the tiles, hand pressed to gashed ribs, sticky and red. His ears still rang with the iron-thrower’s roar. He hissed, rolled off the roof and landed in a crouch, stuffing the still-warm ’thrower back into his obi. The red-faced fellow was laid out, motionless, eyes like clouded glass. The other gangster was moaning, flopping onto his belly and drawing his legs up underneath him, ground painted scarlet.
“Yoshi!” Jurou shuffled carefully through the crow’s-feet and ran to his side. “Izanagi’s balls, are you all right?”
Jurou cradled his head, pale with fear, pulling Yoshi’s uwagi off to inspect the wound. His eyes widened at the blood, so much of it, soaking into the bandage over the new tattoo, spattered on the bare flesh of Yoshi’s right arm.
The gangster groaned again, pink froth on his lips.
“Yoshi, is it?” he bubbled, grinning like a drunkard, teeth slicked and gleaming dark. His eyes were fixed on the place where Yoshi’s clan tattoo should have been. “You’re fucking dead, Burakumin Yoshi…”
… coming …
Daken’s voice rang out clear in Yoshi’s mind.
… heard shots. iron men coming …
The gangster rolled over onto his back, his uwagi soaked through, a hole in his chest the size of a fist, coughing thick and red. Yoshi climbed to his feet, wincing, one hand pressed against his bleeding side, the other scrabbling for purchase on a chunk of broken cobblestone.
Bushimen were on their way.
The yakuza might be dead before they arrived.
But he might not.
And he knows my name.
“Yoshi, don’t,” said Jurou.
The gangster pulled himself up into sitting position, blood streaming down his chin. Yoshi stumbled forward, blinking sweat from his eyes, white-knuckle grip on the stone. He was fourteen years old again, his father rising from the table, lashing out with the saké bottle, glass meeting bone and painting the walls blood-red.
… they are coming. run, boy …
“Yoshi, don’t.” Jurou tried to drag him away. “Don’t, please.”
“Don’t, please.” The gangster affected Jurou’s voice, high-pitched and mocking. “You two married or something? Who wears the dress?”
Yoshi raised the stone above his head.
Fourteen years old.
His sister screaming.
Mother bleeding.
Hands curled into fists.
“You don’t have the balls, you little bitch,” the gangster spat.
He was wrong.
33
BETWEEN BENDING AND BREAKING
The bruises spread like an oil slick; a swirling pattern of blacks and grays and dark, fermenting reds, traceries of broken blood vessels spun out like embroidery across his belly.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.
They were holed up in Yukiko’s room, empty saké bottles on the floor, reminders of her everywhere he looked. Kin didn’t think it was safe to stay at the infirmary. Truth be told, wi
th Daichi laid up, he didn’t know anywhere in the village that would be safe anymore.
Ayane’s eyes never left the doorway, as if she expected the Kagé to kick it down at any moment, drag her out and hurl her over the balcony for attacking one of their own. Silver limbs curled around her in a thin, razored cocoon, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped about her ankles like a bow. A perfect little package of fear.
The balm Mari had given him dulled the pain to a deep ache. The old woman had obligingly clucked over him for the few moments he was in her care, but he noted bitterly how relieved she’d seemed when he’d hobbled from the infirmary. The old woman seemed glad to be rid of him. Distracted. Worried.
They all seemed so very worried.
Fear about Daichi’s near-death and Yukiko and Buruu’s absence had spread amongst the treetops, settling in like rot in a blacklung victim. No children running across the bridges, arms spread in flight, roaring challenges to imaginary enemies. No songs in the dark, no easy talk around burning firesides. Just hushed voices on the wind, running footsteps, a tension settling like fog. And beneath it, he and Ayane stayed low, the question hanging in the air between them like wisteria perfume. Invisible. Omnipresent.
Why are we still here?
By evening, Kin felt well enough to walk. He struggled to his feet, holding his stomach as if it might burst and wash the floor with his innards. He leaned against the wall, wincing, Ayane watching him with big, frightened eyes.
There was a knock at the door.
“… Who is it?” Kin called.
“Kaori.” The woman’s voice was muffled by wood and rice-paper.
“What do you want, Kaori-san?”
“My father wishes to speak with you, Guildsman.”
Ayane stared, shook her head. Kin sighed, ran a hand over his scalp. His hair was getting longer, smooth against his palm, the sensation still so alien it barely registered as his own.
“I’ll meet you there,” he called.
Kaori hovered a few moments longer, a shadow on the landing. Finally padding away without a sound.
“Do not go, Kin-san.” Ayane’s voice was small and frightened.