Kinslayer (24 page)

Father was just another word for failure.

Slumped at the table with a bottle in his hand, shrouded in old sweat and liquor. Medals on the wall behind, bright ribbons and tarnished bronze, engraved with kanji like
VALOR
and
SACRIFICE
. Empty eyes in a bloated, sunburned face, a spit-slick sheen on the whiskers at his chin. An ugly stump where his hand used to be, forearm mangled, shining skin. Hair like a scarecrow in a crowless field, shoulders buckled under the weight of regret. Knuckles scabbed from their mother’s teeth. The land outside running to ruin while he drank himself stupid and blamed the weather, the blood in his veins, the gods, the war. But never himself.

Never himself.

“Where’ve you been, Yoshi?” he growls.

The boy is drenched in sweat, pollen fogging his goggles, skin blistered from his day in the sun. He hasn’t even had time to wash his face, drink a mouthful of water, and already it’s begun.

“Where do you think?” He holds up his hands, black dirt under broken fingernails.

“And now you’re off to town, eh?” his father slurs. “Prancing about with your pretty little friends? You think I don’t know what you do? Who you do it with?”

“Who and what I do is my business.”

“You act like lowborn trash, that’s all people are ever going to see.”

“You’d know, right Da?”

“I made something of myself, you little bastard. I was a soldier. A hero. Lowborn or not.” He waves at the medals on the walls. “I proved to those Kitsune bastards it doesn’t matter what blood flows inside a man. It’s the heart that beats in his chest.”

“Gods, spare me…”

“You’re old enough now,” he spits. “Time to grow up. Be a man. Be a soldier.”

“Tell me more, Da. Tell me all about the man I’m supposed to be.”

“Watch your mouth.” He sways upright, the first unsteady steps of a familiar dance routine. “You act like a woman, I’ll treat you like one.”

Yoshi’s mother is in the kitchen, head down, bright blue eyes squeezed shut. Hana comes in from the fields, clad in threadbare cotton and lotus pollen. She pulls her goggles down around her throat and glances back and forth between her father and brother. The boy sees the look on her face. The fear. Her eyes are bright with it, brimming with the terror that darkens her every day. Twelve-year-old girls weren’t supposed to have eyes like that.

“Have another drink, war hero,” Yoshi says. “You look thirsty.”

The man stalks toward him. Hana starts pleading to her father, begging. His flower, his baby girl. The only one he loves. Between all the blood and all the years, the only thing father and son have in common. She won’t move him a foot, or sway him an inch. But still she tries. She tries every time.

Yoshi raises his fists.

He won’t win. His father is bigger. Seven shades meaner. But the boy is getting stronger every day. Faster. And his father is getting fatter and slower and drunker. Every day.

Yoshi won’t win. Not this time.

But soon.

*   *   *

Brisk footfalls broke the predawn hush, echoing down the suffocated gloom of Kigen’s streets. A pair of long shadows preceded their owners across shattered cobbles, through palls of sweat-stale lotus exhaust; dark slivers wearing the shapes of men. The men themselves wore black kerchiefs, broad hats, shoulders cloaked in dark gray against autumn’s chill. They walked empty lanes and broken roads, listening to the Guild criers calling in the Hour of the Phoenix and paying the Daimyo’s curfew less notice than Lady Sun pays to Father Moon.

Hida clomped along in front; short, ox-wide, a broad, flat face set with piggy eyes, his ears so deformed from years of fistfighting they resembled an extra set of knuckles on the sides of his head. Seimi followed close behind, taller, leaner, crumbling yellow rubble for teeth, sharp lines of his cheeks and chin betraying a feral, gutter-born cunning. Each man carried a clinking satchel and a wooden tetsubo studded with fat iron rivets. Both clubs were stained at the business end; dark smudges that only a simpleton would confuse with varnish.

A tomcat yowled his lust somewhere in the distance; a solitary cry almost unheard of in Kigen these nights. A pack of corpse-rats perked up their ears, hearing a dinner bell instead. All glinting eyes and crooked fangs, they scampered off through the choking smog.

“Three irons say they get him,” said Seimi.

Hida shrugged, said not a word.

They walked on through Docktown’s warehouse district, as sure of their welcome as a groom at a wedding feast. Past rusting shells, empty windows like sightless eyes. As they crossed over the sluggish tar reek of the Shiroi River, Seimi looked south toward the dry-docked sky-ships, hanging around the Docktown spires like flayed rats in a butcher’s shop window. The pentagonal flanks of the Guild chapterhouse loomed on their right, yellow stone stained by black rain. Seimi doffed his hat in the building’s direction.

When the Kagé rebels dropped their bombshell and kick-started the so called “Inochi Riots” four weeks back, the Communications Ministry had rebuffed all claims about the fertilizer’s manufacture. But that didn’t mean the rioters themselves were to go unpunished. Hells, no. Not a drop of chi had been shipped from Kigen’s refinery since the uprising. The embargo was a “reminder to the people” about where their loyalties should lie. And as the engines ground to a halt, as the price of fuel rocketed skyward, they sure as hells remembered quick.

Rationing began almost immediately; sky-ship traffic had slowed since Yoritomo’s death, and the trains hadn’t run since his corpse hit the cobbles. Commonplace items became luxuries overnight. As the city shivered with tiny ripples of civil unrest, curfews were tightened, martial law extended. Music to the ears of men who made their living in the shadows, who swam in markets from murky gray all the way through to ink-black. Men who made it their business to get people what they wanted. What they needed. Provided the price was right.

Men like the Scorpion Children.

Hida and Seimi turned off the thoroughfare, cutting through Kigen’s network of filthy alleyways. The pair were lieutenants of the Children, hard as gravestones, moving through the sprawling labyrinth as easily as a koi fish through still water. The tomcat shrieked nearby, hissing, spitting. Rats screeched, the sound of scuffling bodies rang out in the dark. Seimi grinned through tumbledown teeth.

“Got him.”

The squeezeway was a thin stretch of broken cobbles stinking of beggar piss. It was barely wide enough for the pair to walk down, crawling with sleek, black corpse-rats as long as a wakizashi. But the shortcut would steer them clear of the bushi’ patrols on the main drag, not to mention shave a few minutes off their trip. As it was, the Gentleman was going to chew them out for making him wait past dawn, and neither man was really in the mood for a stabbing.

The rats perked up on their mounds of filth, watched the gangsters approach with eyes like black marbles.

“Mei still giving you trouble?” Seimi asked.

His comrade grunted in reply; Hida never used a word when a shapeless noise would do. He could go days at a time without forming a whole sentence.

“If she’s such a bother, why keep her at all?” Seimi aimed a kick at a fat corpse-rat running between his feet. “The little brothers should be dealing with the White Crane gang, not gutting each other over a dancer. Izanagi’s balls, we’re ninkyō dantai, not—”

Seimi heard soft scratching on the corrugated metal above. He looked up and saw smoke-gray fur, missing ears; a huge tomcat peering at him with bright yellow eyes. The thing stood on the awning overhead, spattered with rat blood. Seimi tilted his hat away from his eyes.

“Well, I’ll b—”

“Is that what you call yourselves?” A voice rang out in the smog ahead.

Hida ground to a halt, feet scuffing the gravel, hefting his tetsubo in sausage-thick fingers. Seimi squinted into the rolling pall of exhaust fumes, making out a lone silhouette in a broad straw hat at the alley exit ahead.

“Ninkyō dantai?” The smile behind the figure’s kerchief was obvious. “‘Chivalrous organization?’ Who you fooling, yakuza?”

“Yakuza?” Seimi hefted his tetsubo, he and Hida stalking toward the stranger. “That’s a dangerous accusation to be throwing about, friend.”

“Close enough,
friend,
” the figure warned.

The yakuza kept advancing, knuckles white on the hafts of their war clubs. Seimi could make out the figure a little clearer. His straw hat had a four-inch gouge down the front, as if someone had taken a swipe with a blade and barely missed. Even behind the black kerchief, it was obvious the stranger was young. Pale, dirty skin and big black eyes. Skinny. Unarmed.

Seimi laughed.

“Does your mother know where you are, boy?”

The boy reached into his obi, drew out a snub-nosed shape. The device gave out a small hiss, a stuttering click. Hida and Seimi rumbled to a stop and stared down the barrel.

“Where the hells did—”

“Seems I’m the one who should be singing now, friend.” The smile in the boy’s voice was long gone. “Seems you’d best grab a cushion and listen a spell.”

The men heard soft footsteps behind, saw a figure drop from the rooftop and cut off their retreat. Another boy by the look, straw hat and dark clothes, a club studded with roofing nails.

Seimi was incredulous.

“Do you know who we are?”

“Clueless, me,” the boy replied. “Now toss the satchels, Scorpion Children.”

Hida spread his stance, rocking back and forth on his heels. The boy at the alley’s mouth aimed the iron-thrower at the yakuza’s chest, pulling ever so slightly on the trigger.

“Gambler?” The boy tilted his head. “Partial to a roll myself, matter of fact.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the one behind them growled. “Walk off or be carried. Either way, we get those bags.”

“Hells with it.” The big-eyed boy leveled the weapon at Hida’s head. “I venture we just do them. Two shots is no bother. Boy my age has plenty more in the pipe, after all…”

“All right, you little bastards.” Seimi dropped his tetsubo, raised his hands. “Take it.”

He slipped the satchel off his shoulder, tossed it to the figure behind.

“What about you, Gambler?” The boy wiggled his eyebrows at Hida.

Hida stood perfectly still, face impassive as a brick wall. He stared for a slow minute, down the iron-thrower’s barrel, up at the calm black eyes hovering beyond. Sparing a scowl for his partner, he slipped his bag from his shoulder and tossed it to the thief behind.

“Very wise, friend.”

The iron-thrower boy waited until his comrade had slunk off into the fog, yakuza and thief staring each other down. The boy’s arm was solid as a statue’s, weapon still aimed at Hida’s head. The yakuza nodded; a small gesture, barely perceptible. His voice was soft as gravel.

“See you soon. Friend.”

The boy tipped his hat.

“Doubtless.”

He disappeared into the smog like a dorsal fin beneath black water.

*   *   *

The Gentleman had killed his first man when he was thirteen years old.

A gang fight in some Kigen back lot, a bloody scrap over a stretch of dirty brick and concrete less than half a city block. He’d dashed into the melee, eager to show his worth to the older gangers. He’d spotted the other boy amongst the crowd, smelled the fear in a heartbeat. So he waded across the mob, blade in hand, and plunged it into the other boy’s gut.

He still remembered the warmth and smell as blood gushed over his hands. Viscous, copperish, far darker than he’d expected. He could still see the look on the boy’s face as he pulled the knife free, stuck it in again a few inches higher. Punching through ribs, twisting as it went, feeling bone crack. The boy clutched his shoulder as the Gentleman looked into his eyes, pain-bright, pulling out the knife and stabbing again. And again. Not out of any need or lust. Just because he wanted to know what it felt like. To take what could never be given back.

The Oyabun of the Scorpion Children wasn’t the most frightening man on the island to look at—truth be told, he appeared entirely unremarkable. Graying hair swept back from sharp brows. Dark eyes, tanned skin. Softly spoken, unfailingly polite. Even his enemies called him “the Gentleman.” His real name had passed the way of the panda bears of Shima’s bamboo forests, the tigers that prowled her in yesterday’s dark. Gone. Very nearly forgotten.

Calloused hands around a small cup, he took a sip of red saké. The bottles came from Danro, the Phoenix capital; quality that was hard to find in Kigen these nights. He savored the sting, the warmth spreading on his tongue. He thought of the woman waiting at home, soft hands and warm thighs. His son would be long in bed by the time he stepped inside from the smog-filled streets. But she would wait up, even past dawn. She knew by now not to disappoint him.

Where are they …

His office was a modest affair; old maple desks, reams of paperwork, a windup ceiling fan clunking away in the creeping autumn chill. Sluggish lotusflies buzzed around a small bonsai tree, suffering silently in the lotus stink. A visitor could be forgiven for mistaking the room as the office of a legitimate businessman; a man who made his living selling furniture or carpets or spring motors.

The Gentleman’s accountant, Jimen, sat at the other desk. Head clean-shaven, thin and quick, dark, knowing eyes. The little man was arranging coins into stacks, pausing after the construction of each tower to shift a bead across the antique abacus on the desk beside him. His sleeveless uwagi revealed full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Two scorpions dueled in the negative space on his right shoulder, claws intertwined, stingers raised.

“Books look good.” Jimen flapped a bamboo fan in his face, despite the cool. “Profit is up seventeen percent this quarter.”

“Remind me to send a note of thanks to our would-be Daimyo,” the Gentleman murmured. “On the good stationery.”