Stormdancer (24 page)

“How long until its feathers grow back?”
Yukiko took a moment to realize the Shōgun was addressing her. “Ah . . .” She stammered, staring at the floor, hands clasped before her.

“Forgive me. I do not know, great Lord.”
“Ask it.”
Yukiko dared a glance at the Shōgun’s face. He was studying her intently,

dark eyes glinting like star metal, smile like a razor. His long jin-haori tabard writhed in the warm, cancer wind, golden tigers prowling across scarlet silk. “Great Lord?”
“The Lady Aisha changed her perfume after our meeting at the sky-docks. Her dog has seemed quite content ever since. Strange that you guessed the root of its misbehavior in a handful of seconds. Almost as if you knew its mind . . .”
Yukiko glanced between Yoritomo and his bodyguards, hands on their chainkatana hilts. A tiny, childish part of her realized that the samurai to Yoritomo’s left had green eyes.
“I . . . I have a way with beasts, my Lord.” She swallowed, turned her eyes back to the ground, squeezing her hands into fists to stop the shakes. “You are yōkai-kin.”
“No, Lord, I—”
Yoritomo’s raised hand was as good as a slap, cutting her sentence in half. Buruu edged closer, eyes on the Iron Samurai, hackles rippling.
“You have nothing to fear, Kitsune Yukiko.” The Shōgun’s smile never reached his eyes. “I have no interest in revealing your secret to the Guild. I do not care for their zealotry, their crusade for ‘purity.’ The Book of Ten Thousand Days has many interpretations, and theirs is only one.” He motioned to Buruu. “This beast will accept me as his master quicker with you telling me his thoughts, and conveying mine to him. That is all that matters to me.”
The Shōgun ran one hand across the thunder tiger’s flank, fingers spread into claws, buried deep in the thick fur. He inhaled the arashitora’s scent, the heady mix of musk and ozone, tracing the line of one thick black stripe over Buruu’s spine.
“Magnificent. My vision was true. Do you see, Hideo-san?”
He turned to glare at the minister.
“I see, great Lord.” Hideo bowed deep, voice distorted by his pulsing breather-helm. “Truly, the God of War has spoken to you. None can now doubt that you are Hachiman’s chosen. Astride this creature’s back, you will become the greatest general in the history of Shima. The gaijin will quail before you. After twenty years of war, your hand will bring an ending, and the barbarian hordes will hail you rightly as conqueror, and sovereign Lord.”
Yukiko scowled at the minister, despising him for his sycophantic little liturgy. Yoritomo seemed too intent on Buruu to notice, running his fingers along the arashitora’s wing. Buruu rankled at the touch but kept himself calm, still as the stone beneath their feet. The Shōgun grinned, bloodless lips across perfect teeth.
“So.” A glance at Yukiko. “How long?”
Yukiko remained mute, terrified beneath that iron stare. For her to admit her gift here in front of the Shōgun was to place herself in mortal danger. She recalled her mother’s words, urging her and Satoru never to risk death by revealing the secret. To admit it now would be to invite the executioner’s blade, or worse, a screaming death chained to the Burning Stones in the Market Square.
And then, glancing at the Iron Samurai, she realized her life was in danger anyway. Regardless of what he knew or what he didn’t, Yoritomo had the power of life and death over every man, woman and child in Shima. If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead; he didn’t need a reason. He certainly didn’t need a confession. One snap of his fingers would be all it took.
So to the hells with being afraid.
Be clever instead.
“The beast has a simple mind, great Lord,” she said. “It thinks in scent and sight, not words. I would measure it no smarter than a dog. It understands concepts that any hound might; only day and night, not months or years. But I believe it will moult at the end of autumn, when it grows its winter coat.”
“That is nearly four months away,” the Shōgun hissed.
“It may be sooner, Lord.” She kept her eyes on the ground. “But it is looking forward to winter. I do not think it will fly before then.”
NO SMARTER THAN A DOG . . .
Shhh.
The Shōgun snarled, cheeks flushed with blood. He took a few deep, calming breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists. Yukiko could see the tension in Hideo’s stance, the nervous glances between the samurai at their Lord’s growing rage. Yoritomo closed his eyes and breathed deep, blotches of color fading on his cheeks. Finally, he gritted his teeth and nodded.
“So be it.” He opened his eyes and glared. “You will break this beast, get it accustomed to the notion of a rider, of being steered with bit and bridle. When the Artificers have completed my saddle, we will begin training. You will stay in the palace, one of my Elite will accompany you at all times.” His tone became darker, edged with steel. “I remind you that your father is still imprisoned in the dungeons. Should you fail in this task, you will not be the only one to suffer for it.”
COWARD.
“May I see him, great Lord?”
Yoritomo seemed surprised by the request. He stared at her for a long, pregnant moment, drumming his fingertips on the hilt of his katana.
“Very well,” he finally nodded, turning to the green-eyed samurai. “Hirosan, you will be the Lady Yukiko’s escort while she is our guest. Should any trouble come to her, or because of her, you will pay the forfeit. Is this clear?”
“Hai!” The samurai strode to Yukiko’s side and bowed to his Lord, palm over fist.
Yukiko realized the Shōgun was watching her, something unpleasant coiled in his eyes. As she met his stare, he let it linger a minute longer, drifting down to her throat, over her breasts. She felt naked and exposed in her tattered clothing, folding her arms and turning her eyes back to the floor.
“It is settled,” he nodded. “Visit your father, then Hiro- san will show you to your quarters. Your desire is his command. I will check in occasionally to monitor your . . . progress.”
“As you say, great Lord.”
Yukiko covered her fist and gave a deep bow. The Shōgun replaced his respirator, collar folding over his throat with a small, metallic hymn. Spinning on his heel, he stalked from the pit, red silk billowing behind him. His retinue fell into step after him, heavy metal tread cracking on the stone. Faint trails of chi fumes twisted through the air in their wake, weaving among each other and drifting up into the red sky overhead.
How long until you begin to moult?
WEEKS. PERHAPS THREE. WHEN THE SUMMER BEGINS TO DIE.
We must keep your wings hidden while your new feathers grow in. Yoritomo must think you crippled. He must underestimate us both.
HE WILL.
Yukiko finally turned to the Iron Samurai looming over her, breath hissing through his tusks. Embossed black steel covered his body, spaulders broad and flat and studded with rivets, expression entirely hidden behind the twisted oni mask. Yukiko looked into his eyes, at those irises colored like creamy jade. Though he was the right height, she couldn’t see enough of his face to confirm her hopes. Butterflies floated through her stomach on lead-lined wings.
Is it really him?
YOU MONKEYS ARE SO STRANGE. SO MUCH FUSS OVER COUPLING.
Buruu!
WHAT? YOU WISH TO MATE WITH THIS ONE. YOU ARE OF AN AGE. THERE IS—
Gods, stop it! You’re worse than my father.
“We meet again, daughter of foxes,” the samurai said.
“It is you.”
Her pulse pounded in her veins, the memory of her dreams rising with the flush in her cheeks. She shoved them away in a dark corner of her head, barred and locked the door.
“You remember me?” A hint of a smile in his voice.
“You remember me.” She shrugged.
“How could I forget?” He covered his fist and bowed. “I am Lord Tora Hiro, sworn of the Kazumitsu Elite.”
“Kitsune Yukiko.”
“I know who you are, Lady.” The smile in his voice was unmistakable now. “It is my honor to serve you.”
BE WARY. HE SERVES THE SHŌGUN FIRST AND FOREMOST. HE IS A WEAPON IN THE MACHINE.
. . . Maybe he’s not like that.
DO NOT BE BLINDED BY YOUR DESIRE TO—
Gods, if you say “couple” again I’m going to scream.
CALL IT WHAT YOU WISH, THEN.
I know what he is and who he serves. Not everyone who swears to the Shōgun is evil, Buruu. I wear Yoritomo’s irezumi on my flesh too, remember?
Buruu snorted and prowled away, lying down near the spike that kept him tethered. He heaved a great sigh through his nostrils, straw dancing off the ground, slipping and spinning through the air. The Iron Samurai watched with unashamed wonder.
“It is beautiful,” Hiro said. “Can you really hear its thoughts?”
“Hai,” she nodded, watching the Iron Samurai carefully. “I suppose that repels you.”
Hiro checked over his shoulder, ensuring they were alone.
“I am no advocate of the Guild, or their views.” A small, clanking shrug. “The Guildsmen give us many amazing gifts. Sky-ships, chainkatana, ō-yoroi. Yet I do not understand how this gives them the right to dictate morality to my Lord or his people. They are not sworn to the Code of Bushido. They are mechanics, artisans. Not priests. Not to me.”
The quiet conviction in his voice sent a tingle down Yukiko’s spine, and she stared deep into his eyes, resisting the urge to just plunge in and drown. The revelation that he resented the Guild was a welcome relief, but Buruu’s warning was an insistent echo in her head. Even by a fool’s estimation, this samurai was now her keeper. Her jailer.
A jailer with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen . . .
“There is nothing you could do that would repel me, Lady.”
Yukiko could barely hear his voice over the sound of her heart pounding in her chest.
RAIJIN, TAKE ME NOW.
She shot Buruu a withering glance as he rolled over on his back and pawed at the sky.
HAVE MERCY ON ME, FATHER. TAKE MY WINGS. CHAIN ME TO STINKING EARTH. BUT THIS TORTURE I CANNOT ENDURE.
Oh, shut it.
“Come on.” She glanced at the Samurai, nodded toward the exit. “I have to see my father. If you’re to be my babysitter now, I suppose you’d better come along.”
She turned to leave, sparing one last glance for the arashitora on his chain. He looked thoroughly miserable, a beast of thunder and open sky caged in a filthy pit built for murder and mindless bloodshed. Her heart swelled with pity, the knowledge that if not for her, he would never have come here. I’ll be back, Buruu. Very soon.
He blinked at her, eyes of molten honey. To a stranger, his face would have seemed utterly impassive. No lips to smile, no brows to frown. Just a mask of sleek lines and white feathers, smooth and motionless. But she could see it in the tilt of his head, the way his tail switched from side to side, the rise and fall of his flanks as he breathed.
She could feel it inside him, the rock he had set his back against, the core of his being. A compass that would steer him through this darkness, this torture at the hands of insects, safely out the other side into blinding lightning and howling wind. It would lead him home.
It was love.
He nodded, curled his head beneath one crippled wing.
I WILL BE HERE.

It was waiting for him every time he closed his eyes. A shadow in a darkened room, breath held in anticipation of the candle’s flame that would give it life. Yet he could feel it lingering even when he was awake, seen or unseen, just a nightfall away. A part of him as integral as the heart that pumped his blood, the metal skin encasing his flesh.

The vision.
It had been with him since his Awakening, the night they took him from his bed and pushed the smoke into his lungs and opened his eyes to the future that awaited him. And in that awful moment he had seen what he would become. Witnessed the horror and majesty of it all, listening to the grim march of inevitability inside his skull. And from that day to this, the dream had been lurking in the warm dark space behind his eyelids. And he had been dreaming of a way to escape it.
He heard their voices now. Hundreds of bloody eyes upturned, hundreds of faces watching him with as much fervor as could be found in smooth lifeless brass. Hands held high. Metallic voices echoing on blank stone. They were calling him as they always did.
“Kin-san.”
And he answered as he always did.
“That is not my name.”
“Kioshisan.”
The voice was harsh and metallic, the drone of a fat and hungry lotusfly, pulling him into the harsh light of waking. He blinked away the blur of sleep, pawed at his eyelids in the dirty halogen glow, searching for the source of the sound. He was lying in a metal cot, gray sheets, walls of sweating yellow stone at his back. He recognized the hum of the air filtration system and the groan and clank of great engines throbbing in the background. It was a tune he had lived with since the day of his birth; the lullaby of the Kigen chapterhouse. The air was moist, and a sheen of sweat on his flesh made the gauze at his throat and shoulder itch, crinkling like dry paper as he ran his hand across it. He realized that he was still skinless, but they had already plugged him back into a mechabacus, bayonet fixtures speared at his collarbone, under his ribs, relays worming toward his spinal column. Out of instinct, he flicked several beads across the device to test the transmission conduits, and received a brief acknowledgment inreturn.
“Kioshisan.”
Kin turned to the source of the sound, the buzzsaw rasp of heavy breathing, a shadow falling across the light above. He took in the broad silhouette of a Guildsman looming over him in the grubby warmth, dull light gleaming on the sculpted, muscular lines of the atmos- suit, eyes burning like a smog-choked sunset.
Dread stabbed at Kin’s stomach, and he licked at suddenly dry lips. He recognized the suit, the tiger-stripe pattern of iron- gray filigree across burnished brass. The authority dripping from every word the figure spoke. But most of all, he recognized the face. Unlike the hard insectoid helms of most Lotusmen, the elaborate mask staring down at him was almost human. The sculpted brow and rounded cheeks of a boy in the prime of his youth, rendered in smooth, polished brass; a perfect symmetry that should by all rights have been beautiful. Perhaps it was the cluster of segmented cables spilling from the mouth, as if the child were in the middle of vomiting up a stomachful of iron squid. Perhaps it was the burning red eyes that cast a bloody glow on those full, flawless cheeks. Whatever the reason, there was something wrong about that face; something in it that Kin had always feared.
The man towering above him had been the closest thing to a friend Kin’s father had ever known. If they were normal people, he might have taken Kin into his own house when Old Kioshi passed away. If Kin were a normal child, it would not have seemed strange to any if he called the man “uncle.”
But being who and what he was, Kin used the title that everyone else did.
“Shateigashira.” He tried to make his voice sound strong, covered his fist, bowed as best he could. “The Voice of Chapterhouse Kigen honors me with his presence.”
“You wake. Good.”
The huge figure flicked several beads across the mechabacus on his chest, transmitting to the grand library hub at First House. A thousand receivers gathering and transcribing a thousand chits of data every minute, relaying information to the Ministries of Communication, Ordinance, Procurement, Division. Adding to the constant machine hum inside the heads of anyone plugged into the system. The pulse of the machine he had lived with his entire life.
“How do you feel?”
“Sore.” Kin touched the bandages again. “Thirsty.”
“To be expected, after so grand an adventure.”
There was no trace of amusement in the Shateigashira’s voice. Kin blinked, saying nothing, watching the mechabacus click back and forth on the broad clockwork chest.
“When your skin transmitted its distress beacon, there were fears you had met your end in the Iishi. But I knew better. We both know you are intended for grander things, Kioshi- san.” The Shateigashira ran one gauntleted hand along the metal railing of the cot; a grinding rasp that set Kin’s teeth on edge. “And yet the Kyodai of the Resplendent Glory tells me that you were naked when his troops found you. Outside your skin. In the company of a hadanashi girl.”
“The fire.” Kin swallowed. “The damage to my skin. It was unavoidable, Shateigashira.”
“It was unfortunate, Kioshi- san.” A shake of his head, red light casting frightful shadows across those perfect, frozen features. “A great loss of face. Your father would be ashamed to witness a blessed child fall so low. I am glad he is not alive to see this day. An example must be made to the other Shatei. Even for one such as yourself. There must be punishment.”
Kin took a deep breath, tried to still the pounding of his heart.
“I understand.”
“And yet, the example may be tempered with mercy. The retribution meted out for your transgression may be lessened through your cooperation.”
Kin already knew what they would ask. As if the act of asking made it any less of a command. As if he had any choice in the matter whatsoever. He breathed deep, tried to remember the taste of clean rain, the feel of the cool mountain breeze on his face, the way her hair rippled like black silk in the wind. He spoke the words as if they didn’t quite fit properly in his mouth.
“What would you have of me, Shateigashira?”
“The girl they found you with. The one who tamed the arashitora.”
“Hai?”
The towering figure leaned in closer.
“Tell me everything you know.”