Stormdancer (9 page)

“The old village women used to say the Kagé were wicked kami who delighted in fire. But you speak of them like they’re men.”
“Oh, they’re men,” Yamagata snorted. “Flesh and blood, no fear of that. Who knows why the bastards do it? Disenfranchised farmers out for revenge. Lunatics with nothing better to do. I heard one rumor that they’re a group of gaijin trying to destabilize the Guild, weaken the war effort. White ants, chewing at the country’s foundations. Damn savages.”
“Then the fire at the refinery last week . . .”
“You heard the wireless. The Guild investigators said it was an accident. Believe that if you like.” The captain lowered his spyglass, offered it to the girl as he replaced his goggles. “All I know is that they’re costing the Guild a lot of money. Rumor has it they’ve started transmitting their own radio broadcasts now. Alternating frequencies, every weeksend. A pirate signal the Guild can’t control.”
Yukiko closed one eye and peered through the whirring glass, storm clouds and mountains leaping into focus and swaying with the motion of the ship. Steadying herself with one hand against the railing, she focused on a large field of lotus. Seething tongues of fire were spreading out among the swaying fronds, scarlet blooms blackening in the heat. The tiny figures of desperate farmers were running to and fro, spraying black water with hand pumps in a vain attempt to save the crop. The blaze stretched forth greedy hands, spurred onward by the scorching summer heat. She could see the terror and anguish; men risking their lives for the sake of a poisonous weed, stubbornly trying to hold their ground as Fūjin, God of Winds, drove the flames like terrified horses before the whip. It was obvious that the men could do nothing. The fire would run its course. Yet still they fought, watching their livelihoods go up in smoke before tear-filled eyes.
Yukiko lowered the telescope, feeling a terrible weight in her breast. She thought of the lives ruined, the children who would go unclothed and unfed because their parents had lost everything. Joining the faceless mob in one of the great cities, eking out a living in squalor and dust, choking on chi fumes as their lips slowly turned black.
“Whoever they are, they’re cruel and wicked,” Yukiko frowned. “Those poor people . . .”
“Aye. Wretches without the courage to face the enemy with a sword in their hands.” Yamagata spat onto the deck. “Bastard cowards.”
They stood together and watched the fields burn.

The propellers hummed their monotone lullaby, but the dreams still dragged Yukiko from her sleep. The hammock above her was empty, a slack tangle of pale, knotted cord, bereft of father and the stink of lotus smoke. A moment’s panic gripped her as she realized he was gone, but she clenched her teeth and shoved it away. She peered out of the window to the starless sky, tried to guess what time it was. A long way from dawn, she figured. A longer way from home.

Slipping from the room, she stole toward the stairwell, the wood beneath her feet vibrating with the constant hum of the engines. She was becoming numbed to the chi-stink, the lightness of head and shortness of breath that altitude carried in its arms, but still, it was the promise of a few moments of fresh air that drew her out onto the deck. Not the thought that her father might have stumbled up there, drunk on smoke. Not the knowledge that it would take one clumsy step to send him over the side and down into the dark. Not at all.

She found him keeping company with the watchmen in a puddle of lantern light, sitting cross-legged on a looped pile of thick hemp rope, and her momentary relief evaporated as the familiar smell of lotus smoke crept into her nostrils. Three others sat with him, passing a wooden pipe back and forth. A young man in a dirty straw hat, another man around her father’s age, and a young boy not more than eleven or twelve.

The younger man wore no clan irezumi on his shoulder, just a collection of koi fish and geisha girls that marked him as lowborn Burakumin. The boy wasn’t yet old enough to be considered an adult and sported no ink, so Yukiko could only guess at where he came from. His skin was pale, but not pale enough to be Kitsune. Phoenix, if she had to guess.

Yukiko crept forward and stood in the dancing shadows beside them, listening to the rough jests and gutter-talk and snatches of hoarse laughter. It was a few minutes before the cloudwalker in the straw hat finally noticed she was there. He blinked with bloodshot eyes, taking a few seconds to focus on her face. Dragging deeply from the pipe, he passed it to the young cabin boy sitting next to him.

“Young miss?” His voice sounded thick and raw, smoke drifting from his lips with each word he spoke. “Can I get you something?”
The others looked up from the circle, Masaru last of all. A quick glance was all she got, but it was enough to see the shame in him.
“I want for nothing, thank you, sama.” Yukiko gave a small, polite bow, eyeing the lotus pipe with distaste. “Just seeking to clear my head with the fresh air.”
“Precious little of that to be found up here,” the young boy said, passing the pipe along to Masaru with a grimace.
The older cloudwalker clipped the back of the boy’s head, fast as a jade adder. He wore a three-day growth of beard, graying at the chin, a simple dragon tattoo on his right shoulder etched by some Docktown artiste.
“Mind your tongue in the presence of ladies, Kigoro.” He held a single, stained finger up in front of the boy’s nose. “There’s plenty of fresh air waiting over the starboard side for those who dishonor this ship.”
The cloudwalker in the straw hat chuckled, the young boy mumbling apologies and turning a bright shade of red. For a moment, the only sound was the bass rattle of the Thunder Child’s bones, the hypnotic drone of the great propellers, the iron growl of the engines in her belly. Yukiko stared at her father, who steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.
“Forgiveness, please.” The older cloudwalker covered his fist and nodded to her. “My name is Ryu Saito. This is Benjiro.” The younger cloudwalker bowed in his straw hat. “The little one with the large mouth is Fushicho Kigoro.”
The young boy rubbed the back of his head, bowed to her.
Phoenix, then. I was right.
“I am Kitsune Yukiko . . .”
“We know who you are, Lady.” Saito held up a hand in apology. “The tale precedes you in the telling. You are daughter of the Black Fox, Masaru- sama,” he thumped her father on the shoulder, “come to hunt the thunder tiger at the command of Shōgun Tora Yoritomo.”
“Next Stormdancer of Shima,” the boy added.
Saito frowned and took back the pipe. The wad of lotus resin inside the bowl glowed red-hot as he sucked on the stem.
“Is that what you think, young Kigoro?” Saito held the smoke in his lungs as he spoke. “Yoritomo-no-miya will be a Stormdancer?”
The boy blinked.
“It is what they say.”
“ ‘They?’ ” Saito exhaled and waved his hand about. “Who are ‘they?’ The air kami?”
“People,” the boy shrugged. “Around Docktown.”
“Aiya.” Saito shook his head, passed the pipe along. “How comes it that children today speak so much yet know so little?” He fixed the boy in a squint- eyed stare. “A Stormdancer is more than the beast he rides. It takes more than the shoulders of a thunder tiger to stand as tall as heroes like Kitsune no Akira.”
“All praise.” Benjiro raised the pipe in a toast, exhaling a long trail of smoke that was snatched away by the wind.
“All praise,” Saito nodded.
“Why?” Kigoro looked back and forth between the men. “What did he do?”
Cries of dismay split the night, and the two cloudwalkers clipped Kigoro over the back of his head in turn. Feeling sorry for the boy, Yukiko raised her voice over the clamor.
“He slew Boukyaku, young sama. The sea dragon who consumed the island of Takaiyama.”
“Ahhhh.” Benjiro pointed at Yukiko and bowed, obviously a little the worse for smoke. “See, Saito-san? Not all youngsters are ignorant of this island’s great history. The Black Fox at least teaches his daughter the lessons of the past.” He gave another unsteady bow to Masaru. “Honor to you, great sama.”
“There’s no such thing as sea dragons,” the cabin boy pouted, glaring about at his fellows. “And there’s no island called Takaiyama, either. You’re making fun of me.”
“There are no dragons now,” Yukiko agreed. “But long ago, before the oceans turned red, they swam in the waters around Shima. They have a skeleton hanging in the great museum in the Kitsune capital.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Once.” She fixed her eyes on the deck. “With my mother and brother. Long ago.”
“What did they look like?”
“Fearsome. Spines of poison and teeth as long and sharp as katana.”
“. . . and there was none more fearsome than mighty Boukyaku, the Dragon of Forgetting.”
Yukiko glanced up as her father spoke. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the dark over the railing, far away in the deep of the night, his voice tinged with the rasp of smoke. He ran his finger down through his graying mustache and licked his lips. And as he began to speak, for just a fleeting moment, she was a little girl again, curled up by the fire with Satoru and Buruu, listening to tales of wonder.
“They say his tail was as broad as the walls of the imperial palace. And when he lashed it in anger, tsunami as tall as sky-spires rose in his wake. He could swallow a ship and all her crew with one snap of his jaws, suck entire schools of deep tuna down his gullet with one breath. He grew fat and huge on the plunder of the eastern ocean, and the fishermen of the island of Takaiyama—for such was its name, young sama—were close to starvation. So they prayed to great Susano-ō, God of Storms, asking him to drive Boukyaku from their waters.”
Saito leaned forward with his hands on his knees, and Benjiro stared at Masaru as if hypnotized. The drone of the engines and the song of the propellers seemed to fade away, and the sound of his voice was as flame to dazzled moths.
“But the great sea dragon overheard the islanders’ pleas.” The lotus pipe hung forgotten in Masaru’s hand, trailing a thin wisp of smoke. “And in his terrible rage, Boukyaku opened his maw and consumed the island and everyone on it: man, woman, child and beast. And this is why the holy Book of Ten Thousand Days speaks of eight islands of Shima, when now there are only seven.”
Saito leaned back, stroking his graying beard and looking at the young cabin boy. “And why ignorant pups like you have never heard the name of Takaiyama.”
“Was Boukyaku one of the Black Yōkai?” The boy looked to Masaru.
“No,” the Hunt Master shook his head. “Not black.”
“But he was evil.”
“There are three kinds of yōkai, young sama.” Masaru counted off on his fingers. “The white, such as great phoenix. Pure and fierce.” A second finger. “The black, spawned in the Yomi underworld; oni, nagaraja and the like. Creatures of evil.” A third digit. “But most breeds of spirit beasts are simply gray. They are elemental, unconstrained. They can be noble like the great thunder tiger, who answers the call of the Stormdancer. But like the sea dragons, they can seem cruel to us, just as a rip-tide will seem cruel to a drowning man.”
The boy appeared unconvinced. “So what does Kitsune no Akira have to do with all this, then?”
The cloudwalkers looked to Masaru. He stared down at the pipe in his hand for a long moment, and then continued to speak.
“One man survived the destruction of Takaiyama. A simple fisherman, who returned from the deep sea to find nothing left of his home. He traveled long and hard roads for one hundred and one days, arriving at the court of Emperor Tenma Chitose just before the grand festival of Lord Izanagi’s feast day.
“His clothes were rags, and he was mad with grief, and the Emperor’s guards refused him entry to the palace, for the celebration feast was already underway. Yet great Kitsune no Akira, who was in Kigen at the Emperor’s invitation, heard of the man’s plight through the whispers of the swallows in the Emperor’s garden. With the humility of a true samurai, the Stormdancer covered the fisherman with his robe, and bid him sit in his place at the Emperor’s table and eat in his stead. Then Kitsune no Akira leaped astride his thunder tiger, the mighty Raikou, whose voice was a storm, wings crackling with Raijin song. And they flew faster than the wind to the lair where great Boukyaku lay.”
The boy blinked.
“What is Raijin song, sama?”
“Arashitora are the children of the Thunder God, Raijin, young sama.” A gentle smile. “It is the sound of their wings you hear when the clouds clash and the storms roll.”
Saito took the pipe from Masaru’s hand, fished a small leather pouch from inside his uwagi and repacked the bowl with a fresh blob of resin. Yukiko looked at the smudges on the tips of the lotus-fiend’s gray fingers; the same blue- black hue that stained her father’s.
Saito lit the pipe on the lantern’s flame, and the fire swelled in Masaru’s bloodshot eyes, setting them ablaze.
“The battle was as fierce as any the world had seen. Thunder cracked the sky, and great waves crashed on the mainland’s shores, sweeping away entire villages as if they were twig and tinder. The people held their breath, for as great a warrior as Kitsune no Akira was, never had there been a foe as deadly as Boukyaku. His teeth were swords, and his roar, an earthquake.
“But at last, the Stormdancer returned, his armor broken and his flesh torn by poisoned fangs, and the mighty thunder tiger Raikou carried the bleeding heart of Boukyaku in his claws. Kitsune no Akira returned to the Emperor’s feast, and presented the heart to the fisherman with a low bow. When asked by the Emperor what he required in thanks for his mighty deed, Kitsune no Akira told the entire feast that they should always remember the name of Takaiyama, so that the Dragon of Forgetting would remain forever defeated. Then he knelt in his appointed place at table, toasted the Emperor’s health, and fell dead of the dragon poison in his veins.”
“All praise.” Benjiro covered his fist and bowed, then reached for the lotus pipe.
“All praise,” Saito nodded, sucking down one more lungful before passing it over.
The cabin boy blinked, looked at Yukiko. “Is all that true?”
“It’s what they say.” Her eyes were still fixed on her father. “But who knows whether or not he really existed.”
Masaru looked up, finally met her stare. “Of course he existed.”
Yukiko kept speaking to the cabin boy, as if her father had not made a sound. “It could have been an earthquake that sucked Takaiyama below the waves. Men blaming dragons or gods for their own misfortune, as they often do, even when the fault lies at their own two feet.” She glanced at Masaru’s toes. “Kitsune no Akira could just be a parable. A warning for us to give honor to the dead by remembering their names.” She shrugged at the boy. “Who knows?”
“I know.” Masaru squinted at her with bleary, bloodshot eyes. “I know.”
Yukiko stared back at him. Slurred words and a soft stare, that stupefied, slack-jawed look slinking over his face and turning his skin to gray. An anesthetic, numbing the pain of well-deserved loss.
A crutch for a weak and broken man.
She licked her lips, stood slowly to her feet.
“I’ll tell you what I know.” She looked back and forth between the cloudwalkers. “I know you shouldn’t be offering the pipe to a twelve-year-old boy. I know you shouldn’t mock him for being ignorant, while you sit there sucking that filth into your lungs.” She fixed her father in her stare. “And I know all lotus-fiends are liars.”
She covered her fist, gave a small bow to the cabin boy.
“Goodnight, young sama.”
She turned her back and went in search of sleep.

The sun had barely raised its weary head before Yukiko awoke the next day. Her father was sprawled in his hammock, one foot dangling over the side, snoring like a shredderman’s buzzsaw beneath his kerchief. His clothes reeked of lotus, his fingers stained with sticky, blue-black resin. She made as much noise as she could while washing and dressing, but he stirred not an inch. Cursing under her breath, she stalked from the room.

The deck was already alive with cloudwalkers, the rigging above crawled with at least a dozen men, double-checking knot and cable as they drew ever closer to the oncoming monsoon. Captain Yamagata stood at the helm, both hands on the broad, spoked wheel, shouting orders to his men and cursing up a storm. The Thunder Child had trekked deep into the territory of the Dragon zaibatsu, and a quick glance over the side revealed the Iishi Mountains looming like a dark, jagged stain on the far northern horizon. Soon they would be flying over Kitsune territory; a scarred and smoking landscape she hadn’t seen up- close in almost eight years.

A thick tangle of hair blew across her face, and she tucked it back behind her ears, feeling too sullen to even tie it up. She sat on the chi barrels lashed at the Thunder Child’s bow and watched the red countryside blur and roll beneath her feet. The dawn wind was cool, but the sun’s heat was already growing fierce, and she pulled her goggles up over her eyes to guard them from the piercing glare. She could see the brown stain of a chi pipeline, stabbing westward across the lotus fields; a rusted artery running through diseased flesh. Following the shape to a distant cluster of mountains on the port side, she squinted at the tiny specks of sky-ships floating around a dark smudge of dirt and smog; the mountain bastion of First House. The Guild stronghold was a pentagonal hulk of yellowed stone, squatting high among black clouds on its impregnable perch.