Kinslayer (58 page)

There comes a point where the bite of cracked ribs amidst every breath, the searing kiss of salt in fresh wounds, or the throb of bamboo shards beneath your fingernails makes you want to sing. Where any absence of new pain feels for one delirious moment like the greatest gift you’ve ever received, and it seems you should blubber thanks through swollen lips at the men who’ve stopped hurting you, if only for that wonderful, shining moment. Where the thought of one more blow, one more second of fresh agony becomes so terrifying you’ll say anything, do
anything
to avoid it.

But the boy wasn’t there yet.

“Whoresons.” Bloody drool spilled over his lips, gathering below his chin to drip onto the floor. “Whoresons, the both of you.”

Seimi stepped into the dim light, licking the yellowed rubble lodged in his gums. The yakuza’s face was calm, spotted with stray flecks of blood.

“How did you know where the money was being taken?” His tone was that of a man asking for the daily specials, or directions to the sky-docks. “How did you know where we were moving it?”

“Your father told me.” A ragged, bubbling gasp. “When he was done swallowing.”

Seimi grinned, sipped a cup of red saké with rock-steady hands. Hida stood by the doorway, arms folded, scratching at one cauliflower ear. A lukewarm bottle of liquor sat on a table beside a collection of tools; a hammer, pliers, tin snips, blades of varying lengths. A stained rag. A handful of bamboo slivers. Five bloody toenails.

The boy was naked save for his trousers, wrists bound with thick rope, suspended from a hook in the ceiling just long enough for his toes to touch concrete. His ankles were chained to the floor, a lonely globe casting a circle of pale light on bloodstained ground.

Seimi hefted the hammer. Its claw head was dull, rusted iron, the wooden handle grubby and unfinished. He patted his palm with the business end and sat crossed-legged in front of the boy, smiling up into swollen eyes.

“Where’s your friend? The one with the iron-thrower?”

“Your mother’s house.”

“What’s his name?”

“She’s never asked. She doesn’t talk with her mouth full.”

Seimi looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hida, shook his head. He grasped the boy’s ankle with his left hand, lifted the hammer with his right. The boy curled his toes up instinctively, breath coming quicker. Teeth gritted. Muscles taut. Sweat rolling through the bloodstains and glazing his lips a watery red.

Seimi slammed the hammer down on his smallest toe.

The sharp crack of metal on flesh, the wet scrunch of splintering bone. Seimi felt the impact through the floor, heard the boy scream through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, listened to the wail trail off into silence as the boy’s breath ran out, the sharp intake of oxygen into empty lungs, the whimper bubbling over split lips.

“How did you know where the money was being taken?” He lifted the hammer again, stared up into glistening tears. “How did you know where we were moving it?”

“You cowards. Miserable, gutless—”

The hammer fell again. The scream became a roar, the openmouthed howl of a wounded animal. The boy thrashed against the ropes, sawing skin raw, head flailing, muscles stretched, tendons standing out sharp in his throat. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m g-gonna kill you.” Teeth clenched. Spittle flying. “
Fuck
you!”

Seimi’s voice was heavy as a brick in a wriggling burlap bag, cold as the river water it was tossed into.

“No, little boy. Those nights are done. It’s us fucking you now.”

He brought the hammer down.

Again.

And again.

When Seimi stood and picked up the pliers, he saw Hida turn and leave the room without a sound. He had to stop halfway through his routine to get more saké. There were threats and pleas, showers of bloody spit, brief periods of unconsciousness ended with handfuls of salt. The smell of burning hair. The sound of snipping. And clipping. And screams. Big and bright and beautiful.

But finally, the boy arrived.

That blessed place, where the absence of new pain is the greatest of all gifts. And the man who stays his hand, even for a heartbeat, becomes the god at the heart of your world.

And at last, in that wonderful, shining moment, he sang.

45

TEN THOUSAND YEARS

Lord Hiro stood at the head of the table, staring down the length of polished oak to his legion of guests. The feasting hall was decked in scarlet silk, paper blooms, bright lanterns hanging from the rafters, talismans of joy and fortune on the walls. A small army of serving girls moved among the celebrants, soft pink kimonos, arms decked with platters of steaming saké and real fruit juices, filling every glass. The Phoenix retinue knelt at Hiro’s right, a swathe of sunburnt yellow and flameburst orange, Daimyo Shin and Shou sitting so close they touched. The Dragons were arrayed at his left, decked in bright azure and silvered iron, Daimyo Haruka looking dour and out of sorts.

“Your fiancée will not be joining us for the feast, Hiro-san?” the old Dragon asked.

Hiro glanced at the empty cushion beside him. He tried to smile, felt the ashes caked on his face crack and flake away. His voice was toneless. Formless.

“We beg your pardon, honorable Haruka-san. My beloved Aisha-chan is unnerved by the thought of the ceremony tomorrow, and bids me ask your indulgence. A bride can be forgiven her anxieties on the eve of her wedding, surely.”

Haruka looked to his own wife, nodded slowly. “As you say. I recall the eve of my own betrothal. It is no small thing, to be bound to another for the rest of one’s life.”

Lord Shou glanced at Hiro, the death-clad legion of Iron Samurai looming behind him.

“No matter how short that life may prove…” he muttered.

Hiro raised his cup, tapped one finger on the lip to call for silence. He looked to Second Bloom Kensai and his Lotusman retinue, seated at the far end of the table with empty plates and empty glasses, swathed in chi exhaust. The nobles of his own court assembled in all their finery, golden breather masks fashioned like tiger maws, pale, powdered faces and silk of bloody red. All of it so gaudy. So hollow and meaningless. He noted two empty cushions, consternation creasing his brow as he realized who was missing.

Where is Ichizo?

“Esteemed guests,” he began, speaking as if by rote. Metal in his mouth. “Brothers of the Lotus Guild. Noble Daimyo and trusted friends. I am humbled and honored to receive you on this, the eve of my wedding, and bid you welcome to the Tiger’s palace.”

where once she lay in my arms

she who laid me low

she

“The thought of vengeance ever hangs in my mind, fills me with a thirst no cup can slake. The loss of this court’s most favored son hangs heavy on my shoulders, even in this time of…” he swallowed, ash-dry “… joy. And bound by oaths, we gather tonight, our mourning black shed but weeks ago. Though were my Lord Yoritomo-no-miya here—”

The ground rumbled, a low, furious vibration beneath his feet, setting the tableware clinking, the lanterns in the rafters swaying. Hiro frowned, voice faltering, thinking another accursed earthquake had struck at this, of all hours. One of the guests gasped, eyes to the hall’s high beach-glass windows. Following her gaze, Hiro looked up into a night sky smeared with the color of flame. Uneasy murmurs rippled among the attendees, serving girls glancing to each other with fearful eyes, stares turning to him at the table’s head. Second Bloom Kensai stood, swift despite his bulk, his skin hissing. Brass fingers danced across the mechabacus on his chest, like a prodigy upon a shamisen’s strings.

“Great Lord. Kigen city is under attack by Kagé rebels.”

Gasps and murmurs among the guests. A thrill of adrenaline in his gut. Iron hand snaking to the hilt of his chainkatana.

“Yukiko?”

“There is no sign of the Impure one, great Lord. Reports indicate multiple groups, striking with explosives through Docktown and Downside.”

“Honorless dogs,” Daimyo Haruka spat. “They dare break peace on a night such as this?”

The Dragon clanlord stood swiftly, his retinue of Iron Samurai gathered about him. The Phoenix Daimyo stood with more languor, moving with that eerie synchronicity, narrowed eyes above ornate breather fans. Their retinue gathered and clung to them like painted leeches.

“Steel yourselves,” Hiro said, his voice rising above the growing clamor. “This attack is a blessing. That these fools have dared enter Kigen on a night when my brother Daimyo are gathered with their hosts can be viewed as no less than providence. Lord Izanagi has surely blessed these celebrations and our vengeance. The fish have brought themselves to our nets.” He drew his chainkatana, arced the motor, vibration traveling up the iron in his arm and into his flesh. “We need only gather them in.”

Haruka drew his chaindaishō, serrated teeth whirring and snarling. The Dragon Samurai about him did the same, the screech and growl of motors filling the air.

“We will defend First Daughter’s city with our lives,” Haruka said. “This I vow.”

The Phoenix clanlords turned to Hiro.

“We will return to the
Floating Palace,
” Shou said. “Coordinate the assault from the sky, set our corvettes to the task of routing these rebels from their dens.”

“We place our personal retinue at your service, of course, Daimyo,” said Shin.

Hiro glanced at the ceremonial swords in the Phoenix lords’ obi, the painted lips and powdered cheeks, the soft hands with manicured nails, utterly bereft of sword-grip calluses.

“An excellent notion. My thanks, honorable Daimyo.”

He turned to his Shikabane captain. “Muster the Dead. Every man is to be ready to march in five minutes. Kensai.” He turned to the Second Bloom. “Gather your Purifiers, any Lotusmen you can spare. We will purge these lice with purifying flame.”

“It shall be done.” Kensai bowed. “Shōgun.”

All in the hall took note of the title. The three other clanlords shared knowing glances.

Hiro licked his lips, tasted ashes. “You are charged to kill any Kagé you find on sight. If Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin dares show her face, I will offer substantial reward to any man who brings me her thunder tiger’s head. But the girl herself is mine. Any man who kills that Impure whore robs me of my vengeance, and he shall know vengeance in kind. Is that understood?”

“Hai!” A cry from the legion of Samurai around the room, underscored by the revving of chainblade motors, the clank and hiss of ō-yoroi.

“Draw your swords then, brothers. Draw your swords and march with me. Tonight, we restore our honor, and strike a blow that will live in the histories for ten thousand years. Tonight, we end this rebellion once and for all.”

“Banzai!”
they cried.
“Banzai!”

Hiro nodded.

“We move.”

46

ONE HUNDRED DEGREES

A blossom of orange flame unfurled in the nighttime hush, a tiny sun daubing the chapterhouse walls in colors of the distant dawn. Long shadows stretched out from the sudden flare, dancing across splintered cobbles as the fire took hold. The night above was already choked and black—no winking stars, no weeping moon. Great billowing curtains of smoke rushed up to kiss the dark; a sweating, autumn evening overhung with the threat of storms.

The flames rose from burning barrels, stacked high on a wooden wagon outside the chapterhouse gates. Desiccated wood crackled amongst tongues of bright heat, sparks spiraling upward like long-gone fireflies. A siren screamed inside the chapterhouse; a brittle, metallic wail rising over the fire’s roar. A knot of blacklung beggars across the street curled down in their filthy rags and winced at the volume.

The great metal doors split apart with a squeal of dry hinges, just wide enough to allow four Guildsmen to march out into the firelight. Heat flickered across their atmos-suits; burnished brass dipped in flickering ochre. Insectoid helms, biomechanical lines of cold metal and snaking pipes, large tanks mounted on their backs. Three Shatei and a Kyodai captain, all wearing the white tabards of the Purifier Sect.