Kinslayer (28 page)

Skrrrritch. Skrrrritch.

“Stop it!” Ayane screamed. “Please!”

“You’re going to pay for that.” Isao licked his busted lip. “And maybe when we’re done, we’ll unlock this cage, play with your little sister here? You think she’d like that, Guildsman?”

A mouthful of spit sprayed into Isao’s eye.

“MY NAME IS KIN!”

“You boys!” A woman’s shout. “Leave him alone!”

Kin heard sandals slapping against the floorboards, felt the weight on his chest ease. Isao stood and sheathed his tantō, wiped the spittle from his face. His cheeks were flushed with rage, breath coming in quick, heaving gasps. The blood on his mouth was red as the wounded sky outside, bottom lip already swelling.

Kin rolled to his knees, dry retching and clutching his collarbone. Through the blur of sweat and pain, he saw Old Mari standing in the doorway, brandishing a cane as ancient and gnarled as she was.

“Get away from him.” The old woman’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Go on, off with you. Three against one? You shame yourselves.”

The boys muttered and shuffled toward the door. Isao straightened his goggles, lips curled into an upside-down grin. He pointed at Kin, spit blood at his feet.

“See you tomorrow, Guildsman.”

Old Mari shoved through the boys as they loped out, smacking Takeshi on the behind with her walking stick. Ayane reached through the bars, clutched at Kin’s hand.

“First Bloom, are you all right?”

It took a minute or two for him to catch his breath, crouched with one palm planted on the floor. He touched his ribs and winced, straightened with a groan.

“I’m all right…”

“Disgraceful.” Mari clapped her cane upon the boards, scowling after the boys. “What matter if Isao and Takeshi are oni killers? You’d think before teaching them the sword, Sensei Ryusaki would teach them some damned courtesy.”

Kin looked at the old woman, tried to twist his grimace into a smile. She was a good foot shorter than he, stick-thin, back bent as if she carried the world upon her shoulders. One hand clasped her walking stick, the other a basket laden with fish and rice. Her skin was like leather, gray hair bound in a widow’s bun, rheumy eyes pouched in bags so heavy Kin wondered how she could see at all. She was in charge of the Kagé infirmary, had cared for Kin as he recovered from his trek to the Iishi. Her bedside manner was as pleasant as a flying kick to the privates, but she’d patched him up well enough.

“That was damned foolish of you.” She looked him up and down, her scowl undiminished. “Taking on three at once. Who do you think you are, Kitsune no Akira? The old Stormdancers usually had thunder tigers with them in battle.”

“They cornered us.” He touched the input jack at his collar, wincing. “I’ve done all the running I’m going to do. A man faces his enemies.”

“Oh, so you’re a man, are you? Ready to take on the world alone?”

“Ready to stand up for myself, at least.”

“The best thing you can do is tell Daichi.”

“No.” Ayane looked at the old woman with pleading eyes. “I do not wish for there to be any trouble on my account.”

“Daichi won’t care, Mari,” Kin sighed.

“Remain a fool, then,” Mari shrugged. “But if Yukiko were here, she’d—”

“Well, she’s not here, is she? And sometimes I wonder why the hells I am.”

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.