Stormdancer (6 page)

It was mid-afternoon when the sound of singing roused Yukiko from her stupor. Akihito stood and tilted his straw hat away from his eyes, frowning into the distance.

Yukiko and Kasumi rose to stand beside him. Masaru still snored on his bed of packing crates. Through the shimmering heat, they could see a procession winding down the broad cobbled boulevard from the imperial palace.

Long red banners adorned with the imperial sun were caught high in the dirty breeze, whipping about like headless serpents. The figures of nine huge Iron Samurai led the cohort, another nine bringing up the rear. The men stood almost seven feet tall, golden tabards marking them as members of the Shōgun’s personal guard; the Kazumitsu Elite. They were encased in great suits of mechanized armor known as “ō-yoroi.” The piston-driven iron was lacquered with black enamel, awash with the color of old blood beneath the scorching red sun. Chainsaw katana and wakizashi were sheathed at their waists. To inspire terror in their enemies, the mempō faceguards of the samurai’s helms were crafted into the likenesses of snarling oni: the demon spawn of the black Yomi underworld. The spaulders protecting their shoulders were broad and flat, like the great eaves of the imperial palace. The gleaming cloth of their jin-haori tabards was embroidered with the kami totem of the Tora clan: a proud, snarling tiger. Tall golden banners marked with the same symbol fluttered above the combustion engine mounted on each samurai’s back, their exhaust pipes spewing chi smoke into the already greasy breeze. They marched with one thick gauntlet wrapped tight around the scabbard of their katana, right hand grasping the hilt, as if ready to draw the weapons at a moment’s notice. The armored suits made a din like iron bolts being dropped into a meat grinder.

A cadre of infantrymen followed behind the Iron Samurai, naginata spears clutched in their gauntlets. The weapons were nine feet tall, curved blades as long as katana mounted at the end of thick hafts, a glittering thicket of folded steel. Each man was clad in the banded iron breastplate, scarlet tabard and flanged helmet of a soldier in the Shima Army. Fierce, grim faces were hidden behind polarized lenses and blood-red kerchiefs. Known as “bushimen,” each of these common-born warriors was sworn to the same code as the samurai nobility: the Way of Bushido.

Loyalty. Sacrifice. Death before dishonor. These were the principles that beat within the living chests of the Shōgun’s war-machine. Bushido was the glue that held the military together, a code of conduct that the very first samurai of the nation had lived and died by. More than a simple philosophy; Bushido was a way of life that defined every facet of a soldier’s existence, a dedication to martial prowess, honor and servitude. Encased in a lumbering shell of deadly clockwork or a simple breastplate of black iron, to die gloriously in service to their Lord and Shōgun was the greatest honor any of these men could hope for.

Three motor-rickshaws trundled along in the soldiers’ wake. Geisha girls with bone-white faces and black goggles sat atop the vehicles, wrapped in long flowing kimonos of scarlet silk. Waving and laughing behind their breathers, they threw tiny bags of lotus buds into the vast crowds lining the streets. A small legion of children marched around the bushimen, filling the air with bright voices; a hymn to the glory and majesty of his resplendent highness, Ninth Shōgun of the Four Thrones of Shima, firstborn son of Kaneda the Nagaraja Slayer, Yoritomo the Mighty.

“That’s no ministerial pro cession.” The toxic glare refracted on Yukiko’s goggles. “It’s too big.”
“You’re right,” Kasumi nodded. “Yoritomo must be coming to see us off personally.”
“Izanagi’s balls, I haven’t had a bath in three days.” Akihito gave his armpit an experimental sniff.
Yukiko kicked her father, who started up from his sleep and tumbled backward off the crates. He rolled up into a crouch, hand on his nunchaku, glaring about like a startled cat.
“The Shōgun is coming,” she hissed.
“Aiya,” Masaru groaned. “My head feels like an oni took a shit in it . . .”
The quartet set about making themselves presentable. Masaru scratched at the dried blood on his face while Yukiko tried to run her fingers through her hair. Countless knots and tangles snagged her hands and entwined among her knuckles. Kasumi noticed the girl’s struggles and slipped one of the combs from her ponytail, held it out in her palm with a smile. Yukiko eyed the jade tiger as if it might bite her. Her voice was cool as the sea breeze.
“No thank you.”
Kasumi’s smile faded. She slipped the comb back into her hair without a word.
The pro cession snaked down Palace Way, past the looming walls of the arena and the clamor of the Market Square, into the wide central street of Docktown. The soldiers fanned out to press back the common folk, gathered en masse to catch a glimpse of their Lord and a handful of his generosity. The children’s song drifted on the poison wind, growing louder as the group approached the sky-spires. Captain Yamagata arrived via the spire’s elevator, hair slicked back, face freshly scrubbed. The cocksure cloudwalker looked distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of meeting the supreme overlord of the Empire.
The hunters lined up in a row and dropped to their knees, eyes averted as the pro cession made its way up Spire Row, finally grinding to a halt before the Thunder Child’s berth. The children were clad in snow-white furisode robes, their long sleeves dragging across filthy cobbles. They gathered in a knot before the centremost of the three elegant motor-rickshaws and continued singing, a full five minutes passing before their choir mistress rang a small brass gong to command silence.
The motor-rickshaws were low-slung, made of iridescent metal that reminded Yukiko of the dragonflies she’d seen as a child. Their lines were sharp and semi- organic, each retching a great plume of lotus smoke behind it as the engine idled. One of the children stifled a cough, receiving a stinging rebuke from the back of his choir mistress’s hand.
The door of the foremost rickshaw unfurled, and a paunchy man in a flowing kimono of cream and scarlet stepped out from the velvet interior. He wore an elaborate breather over his face, an embossed iron breastplate and a pair of beautifully crafted neo-daishō at his belt: the chainkatana and wakizashi that marked him as one of the landed military class.
Yukiko stole a quick glance and recognized the man as Tora Tanaka, herald of the Shōgun. Downside rumor had it that the Tiger lord had tested his new swords on the necks of no fewer than thirteen Burakumin peasants before he declared them to be of acceptable quality.
Tanaka unfurled a scroll, raising his voice over the scrabbling wind. He touched a button at his throat, and his voice emerged from the breather as a loud metallic rasp, amplified by the speakers nestled among the filter coils around his mouth. He proceeded to recount a full list of Yoritomo’s titles, a litany that seemed to take an eon beneath the scorching afternoon sun. The hunters kept their foreheads pressed into the dust as the herald’s voice droned over their heads, the monotonous white noise of a broken sound box.
Tanaka finished his list and glared around the assembled multitude from behind lenses of smooth polarized glass. The throng dropped to their knees as if someone had flipped a switch; only the Iron Samurai and Lotusmen remained on their feet, bowing from the waist. The door to the central rickshaw bloomed.
A young man emerged, dressed in a banded golden breastplate and red silk kimono. A magnificent pair of old-fashioned daishō swords was crossed at his obi, alongside the snub-nosed barrel of a chi-combustion iron-thrower—a recent Guild invention that hurled small metal balls with enough force to kill an armored man at a hundred feet. His hair was a black ribbon flowing in the fetid breeze, head held high and proud. The lenses of his goggles glittered like metal. An elegant mechanical breather was affixed to the lower half of his face with dark leather straps and gleaming buckles. The device was lacquered with the same golden finish as his breastplate, crafted to resemble a tiger’s maw, fangs bared and grinning in a jagged, razorblade smile.
The Shōgun of Shima surveyed the people around him, a casual grip on the crisscrossed bindings of his katana’s hilt. He then reached into the rickshaw and offered his hand.
Pale fingers dipped in gleaming red enamel took his. A beautiful painted woman dripped out of the door, wrapped head to foot in an exquisite red jûnihitoe gown embroidered with golden tigers. Her face was caked in pearl white. Deep slashes of kohl rode around the goggles covering her eyes, a vertical wet stripe of scarlet glistened on her lips, bright as fresh blood. A small black and white terrier wriggled in her arms, struggling to free itself.
“Lady Tora Aisha, beloved sister of Shōgun Tora Yoritomo-no-miya, first daughter of Shima!” the herald cried.
Yukiko stole another glance. A small army of serving girls were fussing about their Lady as Aisha drew a delicate breather from within her sleeve. The device was crafted to resemble a fan, and she unfurled it in front of her face, still struggling to keep the puppy in her embrace.
It had been years since Yukiko had seen a dog in the city; the combination of toxic lotus exhaust and the growling bellies of Kigen’s populace had put paid to the notion of house hold pets long ago. Funny how quickly man’s best friend became man’s next meal when there were no more cows or pigs left to slaughter. Funny how tasty the idea of roasted tomcat could sound after three days of eating nothing but dust and choking, blue-black smoke.
Aisha’s puppy was worth more money than the average sararīman could hope to earn in a lifetime. Yukiko couldn’t imagine what the gown and breather must have cost. Enough to clothe every child in the city, most likely. Enough to feed a hundred blacklung beggar girls for a month. Even though the wealth on display between the imperial siblings was probably meant to inspire awe in their subjects, Yukiko looked at the filthy, starving faces around her and felt only a vague disquiet. After seven years of living at the periphery of Yoritomo’s court, the opulence she found there had begun to raise unanswered questions in her mind. The kind of questions that were bad for your health. The kind that ended with an arrest warrant scribed with Chief Minister Hideo’s signature and a quiet death by starvation in the stinking bowels of Kigen jail.
Yukiko pressed her forehead back into the ground.
Shōgun Yoritomo released his sister’s hand and took three strides forward, split-toed boots crunching in the gravel at the boardwalk’s edge. His cool gaze swept over the prostrate hunters, one hand still on his katana.
“Masaru- san, my Black Fox.” His voice was honey-smooth, tinged with a hint of metal from the respirator’s depths. “Rise.”
Masaru snapped to his feet, eyes still fixed on the ground, delivering a waist-deep bow. The Shōgun returned the bow with a slight nod, covering one fist with his palm. He unclasped the buckles behind his head and removed his goggles and breather with a wet, sucking sound, offering a small, tight smile as he put his hands on his hips. His face was fierce, handsome, smooth and cold as ice. There was an undeniable aura of authority about him despite his youth; a regal bearing that had reduced many of his older ministers to quivering heaps, and courtly women to wistful sighs.
“You are well, Masaru- san?”
“Hai, great Lord.” Masaru’s voice was deadpan neutral.
“And you know what I command of you?”
“Hai, great Lord.”
“I have no doubt of your success. The man who stood beside my father as he slew the last nagaraja of Shima will not be troubled by a simple thunder tiger, hai?”
“You honor me, great Lord.”
The Shōgun took the older man by the arm; a shocking display of familiarity that sent whispers rippling through the throng. Yoritomo ushered Masaru aside and spoke in a low voice, intended for the hunt master’s ears only.
“Hachiman, almighty God of War has sent me a vision of this beast, Masarusan. I ride it at the head of a great army, subjugating the gaijin barbarians across the seas to my will. I will be as the great Stormdancers of old: Kazuhiko the Red, Kitsune no Akira, and Tora Takehiko.” His grip was painful, eyes bright with mania. “Bring me this prize, and you shall be the richest man in all of Shima.”
Masaru cleared his throat. “And . . . if no such beast exists, great Lord?”
The Shōgun stopped short, eyes narrowing to slits. His mouth opened, but whether it was to reply or rebuke remained a mystery. At that precise moment, the terrier in Aisha’s arms growled and sank puppy-sharp teeth into his Lady’s finger. She cried out and dropped him. He scrabbled up in the dust and ran straight to Yukiko, yapping and wagging his tail. Aisha sucked her bitten finger as opened-mouthed horror washed through the crowd. Most people averted their eyes to spare their mistress further loss of face, and themselves the Shōgun’s inevitable wrath.
Yoritomo’s face grew dark, eyes narrowed with rage. He snapped his fingers at a nearby Iron Samurai and pointed at the pup bouncing around Yukiko’s head.
“Destroy that mongrel.”
“Hai!”
The warrior’s bark rang out through the iron covering his face. He stalked toward the pup, his armor making a din like fighting vipers. Yukiko climbed to her feet, cradling the dog in her arms. The samurai stepped close, lotus smoke rising from his power unit, glaring from beneath his helm. His oni faceplate was horrifying to look at; sharp metal tusks protruding from a freakshow grin, twin horns sprouting from his forehead. Towering over the girl, he held out a hand encased in embossed black iron, silently demanding the frightened terrier.
“Yoritomo!” Lady Aisha cried. “Please!”
Yukiko glanced from the Lady Aisha to the chubby pup, who licked her nose with a bright pink tongue. She blinked and looked into his eyes as the wind played in her hair and the earth fell away from her feet. The sun glinted on his pupils, red pinholes in a curtain of night, and she fell into brightness as dazzling as a newborn rainbow.
“Yukiko!” barked her father.
She started from her reverie.
“But . . .”
“Daughter, give him the dog!”
“But he didn’t mean to hurt her!” Yukiko felt a stab of dread as the words tumbled from her mouth. “The Lady’s perfume burns his eyes! He just wanted to get away from it!”
With an impatient hiss, the samurai tore his chainkatana from its sheath and thumbed the ignition. The internal motor roared to life, the serrated chainsaw teeth skirting the weapon’s edge blurring in time with each squeeze of the throttle. The samurai reached out toward the dog, iron fingers curled into claws.
“Hold.” Yoritomo’s command was flint on steel.
The samurai froze. Silence descended over the street, blue-black and full of menace, broken only by the idling of the chainkatana’s motor. The Shōgun walked slowly toward Yukiko, head tilted to one side. The girl lowered her eyes, uncertain where to look, gaze flitting from the ground to the growling blade in the samurai’s hand. The assembled crowd held its breath, most thinking they would have the pleasure of witnessing an unscheduled execution.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Kitsune Yukiko.” Masaru blurted her name before she could speak. “My daughter, great Lord. Forgive her, I beg you.”
The Shōgun’s stare was cool, one finger on his lips.
“Ah, Fox’s daughter. I remember.” He held out his arms expectantly. “Give me the dog, Kitsune Yukiko.”
Yukiko obeyed, handing over the puppy before dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead into the dust.
“Forgive your humble servant, great Lord.”
Yoritomo held the puppy up by its scruff. A spotted pink and brown belly swelled above a rapidly wagging tail. The Shōgun glared, scowling as the puppy licked his nose. One of the choirboys clapped his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the giggle spilling out between his fingers. His mistress raised her hand for a slap, but abruptly fell still. She turned, eyes wide, and looked at her sovereign Lord in amazement.
Yoritomo-no-miya, Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty, was laughing.
Ripples of amusement spilled through the crowd, and soon many were covering their mouths and laughing aloud. A bright chorus of children’s laughter wafted on the noxious wind, the tinkling of a hundred silver bells. Mirth bounced off the pitted warehouse walls, refracting in the eyes of stoic Lotusmen as the Iron Samurai looked to each other in confusion. Yoritomo tucked the puppy under his arm and ruffled its ears, turning his stare back to Yukiko.
“Rise, daughter of foxes.” The command was given with a smile, as if she hadn’t been a breath away from decapitation moments before. “You have work to do.”
The Shōgun turned back to Masaru, a dangerous glint in his eye. “A daughter with courage is a blessing to her father’s house.”
“Thank you, great Lord.” Masaru dropped to his knees again and bowed.
“Do not fail me, Black Fox. I have no wish to take more from you than I already have.”
“. . . No, Lord. Of course not.”
“Then good hunting, Masaru- san. Bring me back my arashitora.”
He gave a cursory nod to Captain Yamagata, then spun on his heel and strode back to his rickshaw, scruffing the puppy’s ears.
“The lotus must bloom,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Yukiko rose on trembling legs beneath the Iron Samurai’s gaze. She met his stare as he unclasped his oni mask and swung the faceplate aside. He was terribly young for a samurai; barely seventeen, if she had to guess. High cheekbones and a strong jaw, tipped with a small pointed goatee, smooth skin the color of polished bronze. His eyes were a dazzling green, deep and sparkling like paintings of the great northern seas. He was smiling at her.
“That was very brave, Lady.”
Yukiko stared, her tongue somewhere in her sandals.
Gods, he’s gorgeous . . .
The samurai pulled off his gauntlet and ran his thumb across the now silent blades of his sword, leaving behind a thin smear of red on the patterned steel. He wiped the blood on his golden tabard, then slid the katana into its enameled sheath with the sound of a cicada’s wings.