Stormdancer (8 page)

Kasumi and Akihito exchanged a quick glance, packed up their gear and moved off without a word. Yukiko pretended not to notice the look that passed between her father and Kasumi, the way his eyes lingered on hers for just a fraction too long. She gritted her teeth, fixed her stare on the deck.
Masaru watched the pair descend into the cargo hold, then folded his arms and turned on his daughter. Yukiko glanced up at her father. He’d changed into his sleeveless hunting haori, loose-fitting hakama covering his legs. His arms were beaded with sweat, tattoos gleaming in the red light. He looked haggard, shadows under his goggles, face drawn and gray. An angry bruise had set up camp beneath his left eye and was sending out exploratory forces across his cheek.
“You look terrible,” Yukiko murmured. “You should get some sleep.”
“Do you want to tell me what the hells you thought you were doing today?” Masaru growled.
Yukiko pulled her knife free from the deck and stabbed it into the wood again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play games with me, girl. Kenning in front of the Shōgun?”
“Was I supposed to let them kill it? Because some idiot girl wants to smell pretty and—”
“It was a damned dog, Yukiko!”
“There are a lot fewer dogs left on this island than there are people.”
“It’s not worth risking your neck over! The Guildsmen are burning Impure every bloody month. What were you thinking?”
“Probably the same thing you were thinking this morning when you risked your neck over a game of cards. That yak’ almost killed you.”
“Akihito was there,” Masaru scoffed. “Nothing would have happened.”
“You were so smoke-drunk, anything could have happened.”
“Dammit, girl, this isn’t about me! Kenning in public? What would your mother say?”
“What would she say about you?” Yukiko snapped, rising to her feet. “An old drunk so blinded by the dragon you could barely stand? Gambling and fighting and smoking yourself legless every godsdamned day? No wonder she left you!”
Masaru recoiled as if she’d slapped him, mouth agape, skin turning a paler shade of gray. Yukiko turned her back and stared out over the bow, loose strands of hair whipping about her face. She hugged herself and shivered despite the heat, great seas of swaying red and green flying away beneath her feet.
“Ichigo, I . . .”
“Just leave me alone,” she sighed.
“Ichigo” was the pet name he’d given her when she was little. “Strawberry.” It seemed trite to her now; a remnant from days that were long gone, and never coming back.
She could feel him lingering behind her, silent and hurt. Remorse began bubbling up inside her, but she pushed it down into her toes, remembering all the nights she’d dragged him to bed reeking of smoke, unable even to undress himself. The months of watching every single coin while he pissed his pay away in smoke houses and drinking pits. The shame when he slurred or stumbled or got into fistfights.
She was sixteen years old. He was supposed to be looking after her.
The truth was she missed her father. She missed the strong proud man who had put her and her brother on his shoulders as he stalked through the bamboo forest. She missed sitting by the fire on her mother’s knee, listening to him tell stories of the great hunts, his quick, dark eyes alight with life and flame. She missed the days before they had moved to Kigen city; those brief, wonderful years when they had all been together and happy.
It was all gone now. Forest, brother, mother, life. All of it disappearing in a puff of blue- black smoke.
You never even let me say goodbye to her.
She heard his boots scrape on the deck, soft footsteps retreating into the distance.
She was alone.

Yukiko awoke in the deep of night, staring at the hammock above her. Her father snored, swaying with the tilt and roll of the ship as it trekked northward. The room stank of lotus smoke, a half-empty pipe still clutched in Masaru’s hand. She sighed, sitting upright and swinging her legs to the deck, her toes searching unsuccessfully for her sandals.

She stood and rubbed her eyes, steadying herself against the wall. The room was cramped but private, a round portal of cloudy beach glass staring out into the dark beyond. She had dreamed of the Iron Samurai with the sea-green eyes; a silly, girlish fancy of flowers and longing stares and happy-ever- afters that left her stomach fluttering with a hundred butterfly wings. She shook her head, pushed the thought from her mind. Nobility didn’t mix with the common- born, even if she was a blooded clansman. Yōkai kin didn’t mix with folk who would gladly see them burn on Guild pyres, either. The muck she stood in was deep enough already without starting to entertain childish fantasies.

The little room felt stifling, closing about her with wooden, smoke- stained fists. She opened the door and slipped out onto the deck.
The engines droned their metallic song through the still night. The cloudwalkers on watch were huddled in a small knot on the starboard side, passing a pipe back and forth and muttering over a game of dice. The sound of bones rolling across wood masked her soft footsteps, and she passed by without being noticed. The balloon above her creaked; the swollen bladder of some great, prehistoric beast. The wood was smooth and warm beneath her toes.
The Thunder Child measured one hundred and twenty feet from the dragon figurehead carved at her bow to her square, towering stern. Yukiko padded across the deck, hands stuffed into her obi. She headed up toward the front of the ship, as far from the engines as she could be, hoping for a moment’s relief from the stink of burning fuel. Stepping up onto the foredeck, she felt a rush of cool wind in her face, whispering fingers running through her hair. A dozen barrels of chi were packed at the bow, and she leaned on them with both hands, looked out into the blackness with wide, dark eyes.
The moon was a smear of pink across a hazy sky. It cast a sullen light on the land below, enough to make out the lotus fields, the serpentine shadow of the iron pipeline, the gleam of a little river snaking down from the mountains on the horizon. They must be close to the lands of the Dragon clan by now, and the ship would soon have to turn northeast to avoid the no-fly zone around First House. Small pinpricks of light were dotted about the landscape, and in the distance she could see a tiny bright cluster in the foothills of the eastern mountain range: the great Ryu metropolis of Kawa.
She sighed and watched the night, trying not to think about a boy with an oni’s face and a pair of dazzling, sea-green eyes.
“What do you see?” A soft voice. Behind her.
She whirled about, hand on the tantō at the small of her back. There was a boy in front of her, perhaps a little older than she, knife-bright eyes staring from a tired, fragile face. He was plainlooking, unstained by soot or smoke; neat as freshly washed sheets or an unopened book. Clean gray linen was loosely draped over his lean body, hair cropped close to his scalp. He raised his hands and took half a step back, ready to ward off a blow.
“Hold, Lady.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Yukiko snapped.
“I am sorry that I startled you.” He bowed, hand covering fist.
Yukiko glanced back at the huddle of cloudwalkers at the other end of the deck. She heard a snatch of laughter, the sound of dice. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, cool breeze kissing her face. Annoyance had replaced her sudden fear, and she wished the boy would be on his way.
“What do you see?” The question came again, just as soft.
“Who are you?” she frowned, half turning. She thought she had already met most of the crew. He was too old to be a cabin boy. Perhaps a galley worker?
“My name is Kin.” He bowed again.
“Your clan?”
“I have none, Lady.”
“And why do you bother me, Burakumin Kin?”
“I did not say I was lowborn, Lady.”
Yukiko fell silent. She turned her back fully to the stranger, indicating that she wished him to leave. Though she was not nobility, nor possessed of their notions about what was “proper” for a young, unwed lady, she was still uncertain if she should be up here alone with this strange boy. Her father definitely wouldn’t approve.
The deck trembled beneath them as the helmsman adjusted course. Stars tried to twinkle in the skies above; faded jewels strewn across a blanket of dusty black velvet.
“I often come here at night to enjoy the breeze on my face,” Kin continued. “The solitude is pleasant, hai?”
“. . . I suppose so.”
“You are Kitsune Yukiko, daughter of the great Masaru- sama.”
She snorted, but said nothing.
“What brings you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, if it is any of your concern.”
“Bad dreams?”
Yukiko turned to look at him, a frown on her face. This was no galley boy. She peered at the ghost-pale chest between the folds of his robe, what little she could see of his arms. There was no sign of irezumi anywhere, which meant he couldn’t be a blooded clansman, let alone one of the nobility. But he was far too clean and too well spoken . . .
Who is he?
“I have bad dreams too.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling in smudged hollows.
“Are you . . . kami? A spirit?”
He laughed then, deep and rich, full of genuine mirth. Yukiko’s cheeks burned for embarrassment, but soon she found herself caught up in his laughter, stifling a smirk behind one hand before chuckling along with the boy.
“I’m sorry, that was foolish.” She smiled, smoothing her hair behind her ears.
“Not at all,” he shook his head. “I am no spirit, Yukiko-chan.”
“Then what are you?”
“Alone.” He shrugged again. “Like you.”
The boy gave a deep bow, lowering his eyes to the varnished floor. He straightened with a frail smile, nodded his head, then turned and wandered away. He stayed out of the guttering tungsten lamplight, sticking to the shadows as if he belonged inside them. The cloudwalkers were too intent on their dice to mark his passing.
Yukiko watched him disappear down the stairs, loose strands of hair caught in the wind and flailing at her eyes.
Well, that was odd . . .
“You realize this is all bloody pointless.”
Akihito wiped sweat from his brow as he muttered. He grunted and lifted another iron bar, sliding it into position on the heavy, soldered base. After almost two days of work, the cage was nearly complete.
Kasumi shrugged and fastened another bolt, shaking the bars to ensure the thread was tight. She stood and coughed, slightly out of breath in the thin air. Damp hair hung about her goggles, sticking to the glass. She lifted her kerchief to wipe away the sweat painting her lips.
“Well, service to Yoritomo the Mighty isn’t all fancy women and cheap liquor,” she sighed.
“The Shōgun is going to be disappointed if we come back empty-handed, Kas.” Yoritomo doesn’t take disappointment well. Remember when General Yatsuma failed to break the gaijin siege at Iron Ridge?”
“I remember. His children were less than five years old.”
“And Yatsuma was noble-born. An Iron Samurai. So how do you think he’s—”
“Well, what option do we have?”
“Talk to Yamagata. He’ll be in as much strife as us when this whole farce goes belly up. We could get him to drop us off in Yama city, maybe?”
“They’d hunt us down like dogs.” Kasumi shook her head. “Just because Fox lands are a little provincial doesn’t mean the Kitsune Daimyo won’t dance if his Shōgun commands it. Yoritomo would have us hunted by every magistrate in Shima if we disobeyed him, it wouldn’t matter how far away we ran. Besides, Masaru wouldn’t hear of it. It would dishonor us all to leave. Our families would be disgraced.”
“Well, what do you suggest? Because we sure as hells aren’t coming home with an arashitora in this thing. Better for everyone aboard to just commit seppuku right now and save the damned chi.”
He kicked the side of the cage, and a dull metallic thud rang out in response. Kasumi looked around at the multitude of cloudwalkers. They were mostly young men: crawling along the balloon’s flanks, manning propellers and engines, adjusting altitude and course in response to the shifting wind. The stink of burning chi was making her throat hurt, her head feel uncomfortably light.
“You shouldn’t be talking about this here,” she muttered.
Akihito scowled, but as if to prove Kasumi’s point, the Artificer emerged from below deck and began clanking toward them. Akihito bit his tongue, pretending to check the moorings of each bar as the Guildsman hissed to a stop close by.
“Very large cage.” Its voice was that of an angry lotusfly.
The comment was an understatement. The boundaries of the enclosure stretched almost the width of the ship, a good twenty feet wide and deep. The slimmer cloudwalkers had got into the habit of slipping between the bars as they went about their duties. Larger ones were forced to hang out over the Child’s railings to navigate their way around it.
“We don’t know what size this beast will be.” Kasumi flashed a false smile. “Better the cage is too big than too small.”
“Why do you not drug it?” Scorching sunlight refracted on the Artificer’s single, glowing eye. “Make it sleep until Kigen?”
“We may not have enough blacksleep. Besides, it’d be foolish to rely on drugs alone.”
“Stick to what you do best, Guildsman,” Akihito growled. “Leave the hunting to us.”
“Do you believe you will find one?” The Artificer turned its glittering eye on the big man, an insectoid curiosity flitting between each word. “A beast extinct for generations?”
“The Shōgun seems to think so,” Akihito answered carefully.
“Does he really?”
“Fire!”
The cry rang out from the rigging, making Akihito start. Color drained from Kasumi’s face. A fire on board a sky-ship could mean only two things: a desperate dash to the safety of the aft lifeboat, or a flaming death on the earth hundreds of feet below.
“Gods above,” swore Akihito. “You get Yukiko, I’ll g—”
“Not aboard.” Faint amusement buzzed in the Guildsman’s voice. “There.”
It reached out with one metal hand, pointing across the bow. Akihito followed the gesture to the mountainous northwest horizon. Far past the rolling plains of the Ryu clan below, deep inside distant Kitsune territory, a bright pinprick of flame glowed against a backdrop of dark stone. It was almost too small to see through the haze; a tiny orange flare, a thin plume of smoke twisting into the sky and off into nothingness. Given how far they were from Fox lands, the fire must have been enormous for them to see it at all.
Several of the crew were gathering at the railing to stare. Kasumi and Akihito joined them, squinting into the distance. The cloudwalkers muttered and shot each other dark, knowing glances, several swearing so profanely that even Akihito seemed impressed. Kasumi turned to one of the sky folk, and saw the anger in his eyes.
“What’s going on?”
From her nest between the chi barrels, Yukiko watched the sailors mill about on the deck, still too surly to wonder what the fuss was about. She’d been sulking around the bow for two days, avoiding her father, barely muttering a handful of words to Kasumi. Even Akihito’s attempts to jolly her out of her funk were met with grumpy silence, and she’d outright refused their usual morning sparring sessions. She had not seen the strange, pale boy again.
She saw Captain Yamagata emerge from his cabin and stalk up to the bow, a mechanical spyglass in one calloused hand. Planting his boot on the railing, he pressed a button and watched the device extend, small motors and springs humming. He squinted through it toward the fire, hissing through clenched teeth and shaking his head. The spyglass whirred and clicked, extending its length, lenses within it shifting as they searched for focus on the wall of flames.
“Kagé,” he whispered.
“Shadows?” Yukiko asked, perking up.
The captain flinched at the sound of her voice. He looked uneasy, casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the Artificer, then back to Yukiko’s quizzical expression.
“Raijin’s drums.” A sheepish grin. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m Kitsune,” she reminded him. “What was that you said about the Kagé?”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Yamagata ran one hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t be telling anyone I mentioned that word, Lady. It could see me in hot water.”
“Why?” Yukiko lowered her tone to conspiratorial levels, keeping a close watch on the Guildsman. Yamagata was obviously worried about it overhearing.
“We’re not supposed to talk about the Kagé. Officially, they don’t exist.”
“But they’ve been attacking lotus fields up north for years.”
“How do you know that? It’s never reported on the wireless.”
“They operate in Kitsune country,” Yukiko shrugged. “We lived there when I was a little girl. Whenever a field went up, the village wives would whisper about the Kagé and make the warding sign against evil. Mothers there even frighten their children with them. They say the Kagé come in the night and drag disobedient sons and daughters into the hells.” Her eyes sparkled with the memory.
“Well, don’t go spreading that kind of foolishness, do you hear?” Yamagata said. “Especially not when Old Kioshi’s around.”
“Old Kioshi?”
“Our Guildsman.” Yamagata gave a subtle nod in the direction of the Artificer.
“He’s an old man?”
“Been in the Guild longer than I’ve been breathing, if rumor is true. Hard to tell beneath the suit, I know.”
Yukiko twisted to her feet and peered over the railing, one hand blotting out the sinking sun. Mountains loomed among a growling monsoon on the far horizon: the enormous spine of storm-tossed rock stretching across the north of Shima known as the Iishi ranges. Black spires rose up out of a carpet of scarlet, spear points tipped in white, dazzling snow. The Iishi were the last true stretch of wilderness in all Shima; haunted, if the tales were true, by the restless dead and demons from the deep hells. It was said in the old legends that when the Maker God, Lord Izanagi, had sought the Yomi underworld to reclaim his dead bride, he’d found the gateway in the Iishi. The lands of Yukiko’s birth lay in the western foothills: the once lush and beautiful countryside of the Kitsune zaibatsu, now reduced to a vast lotus field scarred by stretches of smoking, dead earth.
She squinted, barely making out the fire blazing at the jagged feet of one of the mightiest eastern crags. Pulling off her goggles, she frowned at the layer of grime and smoke smudged across the lenses.
“The official story is always the same,” Yamagata said. “Natural fire, nothing unusual about it. Certainly not started by human hands. To even suggest it is to invite trouble.”
“So the Guild lies.” She spat onto the glass, rubbing with the hem of her uwagi.
“You can’t blame them.” Yamagata scowled over his spyglass. “If they acknowledge that an organized group is incinerating lotus fields, they’d be admitting that they’re incapable of protecting their own property—a show of weakness. A loss of face.”
“But that’s just stupid! Everyone up there knows the Kagé exist.”
“People up there don’t matter.”
Yukiko blinked at him, taken aback.
“Farmers. Peasants.” Yamagata waved his hand dismissively. “The Guildsmen don’t care about their whispers, their lives. They care about the Shōgun, the Kazumitsu Elite and their grip over the army. They care about face. Weakness is not something most will admit to. Least of all them. So much rides on perception, the power in appearances. The Guild and the Shōgun’s forces are like an old, bitter couple, locked together in a marriage they detest. If either side ever thought they could seize power entirely for themselves, well . . .” The captain shrugged. “And in the meantime, the radio broadcasts mention nothing of the Kagé, and more and more crops get burned.”