Kinslayer

by Jay Kristoff

  She slumped on his shoulders, wiping the blood and puke from her lips. The pain in her head was incandescent; a thing of rusted nails and serrated teeth and razor wire, coiled tight at the base of her skull. Panting. Breathless. Aching.

  But alive.

  Thank you, brother.

  Buruu purred, thoughts kept to himself for fear of hurting her. She reached down to her obi, taking hold of Bishamon’s scroll, the oily, leathered surface giving birth to another round of nausea. The sight of those shelves lingered in her in memory, the miles of secrets and acres of skin. She wondered about the other truths kept there in the dark amidst that horrid brotherhood. What other secrets lay inked in that library of flesh.

  But none of it mattered now. It had cost them precious days, the countdown to Hiro’s wedding ticking ever closer. But she’d gotten what she came for. She had what she needed.

  She just hoped it had been worth it.

  13

  PROPOSAL

  Blinding light was waiting for Hiro when he opened his eyes.

  Squinting against the glare, he tried raising a hand to blot it out and realized he couldn’t move a muscle. Not that anything held him down, bound his arms to his side, or his body to the cool flat at his back. He simply felt nothing below his chin. A cold numbness, stained with vertigo, the dull sensation of something tugging at his core. He could hear wet clicking, as if a thousand larvae nested in the air above him, chewing blindly with oily mandibles. He inhaled and smelled blood, the sharp tang of metal.

  Chi.

  He lifted his head.

  A dozen bulbous eyes stared back at him, blood-red, affixed in bone-smooth, mouthless faces, a tiny voice in back of his mind wondering how they breathed. Six figures were gathered around him; vaguely feminine forms with impossibly narrow waists. Clad head to foot in leather-brown membranes, mechabacii chattering upon their chests, buckles and straps running down their bellies and long, blood-spattered skirts. Clusters of eight chromed arms uncurled from their backs, slicked to the first knuckles in blood, clicking as they moved. If he could feel it, he was certain his skin would be crawling.

  His eyes traced the long, silver line of the spider limbs down to his own flesh, pupils dilating, every artery running cold. They had peeled his chest open, folded the corners of his flesh back like origami, exposing the ribs beneath. The bone had been pried apart, wet and gleaming. They were planting lengths of glistening cable into his chest cavity, his shoulder laid open like a duck at a wedding feast. And as the horror seized hold and shook him side to side, he saw his right arm was missing entirely. Nothing remained but a ragged stump below his shoulder, punctured by translucent tubes and studded with bloody iron clamps.

  Hiro fought to struggle in a body that felt nothing at all.

  Drew ragged breath to scream.

  And woke.

  Woke as he did every morning. Sweat in his eyes. Heart rolling and heaving in his chest. Taste of metal on his tongue. And as he looked down at the mutilated nub of flesh where his sword arm should be, studded with bayonet fixtures and snaking iron cables, he sank his head into his hand—his only hand—and let out a shuddering, bone-deep sigh.

  A False-Lifer was waiting outside his chambers, ready with the prosthetic cradled in her arms. He felt its weight as she slipped the limb onto its couplings, jacked hungry inputs with gushing feeds, clicking and snapping and tweaking and twisting, finally slipping a thin robe over his sweat-slick flesh. He flexed the arm back and forth; a slow grind of gears and pistons, a sound like chromed spider limbs. He could feel cable pulling beneath his skin. Smell grease.

  Pushing open the balcony doors, he stepped out into the scorching sun. The city’s stink rushed inside, underscored with the sharp, wood-smoke tang of burned buildings and dissent. Garish heat licked his skin, a blast-furnace glare forcing his eyes closed. To the south, Tiger ironclads hung limp about the docking spires, forlorn in the poisoned wind. Faint, choking sparrow calls drifted in the gardens; pitiful wretches flitting about on clipped wings, staring mournfully at the red sky above.

  He could feel it moving behind his back; the machine set in motion by the Guild and the ministers intelligent enough to have backed him from the outset. The machine of politics, grinding just beneath the palace’s skin. The promises of promotion or coin, the thugs and assassins dispatched to deal with those who could not be bought. Like the clockwork hanging from his right shoulder, smooth and unfeeling. All of this. This estate. This city. This clan.

  Soon.

  Hiro smiled bitterly. Shook his head. Finding no comfort.

  Mine.

  “Shateigashira Kensai, exalted Second Bloom of Chapterhouse Kigen!”

  Matsu’s voice tore Hiro from his brooding. The servant stood behind him, bowing low, shaved head gleaming.

  Heavy steps. The hiss of exhaust. Cloying chi-scent. Hiro glanced over his shoulder at the Shateigashira’s approach; extravagant polished brass, the beautiful, frozen face of a boy in his prime, black cable flooding from his lips. Kensai joined him on the balcony, floorboards groaning in protest.

  “Shōgun Hiro.” The Lotusman covered his fist and nodded.

  “Do not call me that,” Hiro said.

  “Brethren of Chapterhouse Kawa have sent confirmation.” Kensai inclined his head; a small bow barely worthy of the label. “The Dragon clanlord has accepted invitation to your wedding, and is en route. You are one step closer to absolute rule of Shima.”

  Hiro tried his best to scowl. He forced down the faint thrill that coursed through his veins at Kensai’s words, crushing it beneath suspicion’s weight.

  “You really believe the clanlords will bow to me? I am barely eighteen years old, Kensai-san.”

  “Yoritomo was thirteen when he ascended the throne.”

  “Yoritomo-no-miya was a blooded firstborn son.”

  “As your son will be.”

  “This is madness. There is nothing close to Kazumitsu’s blood in my veins.”

  “It is not your blood that matters. Only that of your bride. It is through her you bind yourself to Kazumitsu’s line. Through her you will restore the dynasty, and bring order to the chaos wrought by those Kagé dogs and that Impure abomination. The war effort against the gaijin has disintegrated without the banner of a Shōgun to rally behind. We have reports of Dragon and Fox forces actually firing upon each other during the retreat…”

  “Their lords desire the throne for themselves.” Hiro’s mouth curled in disgust. “And is it any wonder? In days past the samurai of this nation believed in honor. In the Way of Bushido. But now?”

  “Any nation is only as noble as its ruler.” Kensai’s atmos-suit hissed as he shrugged. “The fish rots from the head down.”

  “Have a care.” Hiro glared at the Second Bloom. “I will brook no insult to the name of my murdered Lord. I am Kazumitsu Elite. My oath to Yoritomo holds even in death.”

  “Until it passes to Kazumitsu’s heir.”

  “Kazumitsu has no heir.”

  “Not yet, Lord Hiro.” Kensai’s eyes glittered like a viper’s. “Not yet.”

  “Why are you here, Kensai?” Hiro turned to the Shateigashira, glare narrowed. “Any minion could have delivered news of the Dragon clan’s acceptance.”

  “Lady Aisha is recovering well. Our False-Lifers have deemed she no longer need be kept under constant sedation. She finds herself … distressed by her predicament.”

  “If I awoke from a near-fatal beating to find myself engaged to a simple samurai’s son, I think I would be more than distressed, Kensai-san.”

  “The topic of her impending nuptials…” Kensai shifted, as if discomfited by the notion, “has not yet been … broached with the Lady.”

  Hiro stared at the Second Bloom, incredulous.

  “We believe it is traditionally the groom who asks for his bride’s hand, after all. And since she has no living father or brother to seek blessing from, the one to vouchsafe the union would be her clanlord.”

  A hollow intak
e of metallic breath.

  “You.”

  “Godless cowards,” Hiro breathed. “She is utterly at your mercy, and still you fear her.”

  “We simply thought she would take the news better, coming from you.”

  Hiro swore he could hear a cruel smile in Kensai’s voice.

  “I have no desire to play your games, Kensai-san.”

  “Oh, I know your desire, young Lord. Why you agree to this trial when tradition demands you take your own life at the death of your master. But know you will never attain it without the aid of the Lotus Guild.” Kensai stepped closer, only the vaguest hint of menace in his voice. “And so, if I request you do your Lady the honor of informing her of her approaching wedding, you will do so, content that it brings you one step closer to that which you do desire—to slay the Impure abomination who murdered your Lord and cast the shadow of insurrection over the shores of this great nation. The daughter of Masaru the Black Fox. Kitsune Yukiko.”

  At the mention of her name, Hiro’s metal hand snapped shut with a clang. He blinked, forced it open again, to be still at his side.

  “The prosthetic is fully functional I see.” Faint amusement in Kensai’s voice.

  “It will serve.”

  “As will we all.” Kensai covered his fist and bowed. “Shōgun.”

  * * *

  She lay on a bed large enough to get lost in, red silk pulled up to her chin, the tune of a hundred ticking clocks hanging in the air. A mountain of pillows was piled at her back, the curtain drawn away from cloudy beach-glass windows, bloody daylight creeping across the floorboards toward her. Machines chattered beside her bed, all dials and bellows, a language of punch cards and clicking beads and stuttering harmonics, cables snaking beneath her sheets. A small black-and-white terrier sat beside her on the bed, worrying a knotted ball of rope with puppy-sharp teeth. Its tail wagged as he entered.

  She was not clad in a jûnihitoe as occasion would dictate; just a plain shift of deep red, rivers of long, raven hair spilling about her shoulders. No powder upon her bloodless face, nor kohl around her bloodshot eyes. Her right arm was bound in plaster, her lips pale and bereft of paint, left eye still surrounded by a faint yellow bruise, skin split almost to her chin down the left side of her mouth, stitched with delicate sutures. Yoritomo’s beating had been far more brutal than most in the court were allowed to believe.

  And still, she was beautiful.

  “My Lady Tora Aisha.” Hiro covered his fist and bowed from the waist. “First Daughter of Shima. Last of the line of Kazumitsu. I am honored you grant me audience.”

  “Lord Tora Hiro.” She smiled faintly, as if afraid to split the sutures on her lip. “My heart lightens to see a noble samurai of this honorable house. I have not enjoyed such pleasant company for an age, it seems.”

  Her eyes flickered to the two False-Lifers flanking her bed, arms crossed over the mechabacii on their breasts. The sound of their breathing was a vacant hiss, muted sunlight glittering on bulbous crimson eyes set in faceless heads.

  Hiro knelt by the bed. Spring-driven ceiling fans rocked in the exposed beams overhead, circulating a feeble breeze throughout the room. Sweat beaded on Aisha’s brow, but she made no move to brush it away.

  “I would speak to the Lady alone.” Hiro looked up at the False-Lifers.

  The Guildsmen shared a mute glance, remained motionless.

  “Leave us,” Hiro snapped.

  “The lotus must bloom.”

  The pair bowed, synchronized, walked to the door as if they were two bodies and one mind, their boots clicking across the floorboards in perfect unison. The chromed razors on their backs gleamed as they reached the rice-paper doors, sliding the panels away and stepping out into the hall like dancers taking their place upon the stage. The doors closed with a harsh thud behind them.

  “Thank the gods,” Aisha breathed, voice trembling. “They have been with me every moment since I awoke. You are the first of Yoritomo’s men I have seen since…” She glanced about with wide eyes, as if the walls themselves had ears. “They are keeping me like a prisoner, Lord Hiro. They will not permit me to see Michi or any of my maidservants. They let me speak to no one…”

  She sniffed, swallowed thickly.

  “You must get me away from them. The Guild. I cannot believe the court would allow me to be treated so if they knew what was happening here. I have nothing to do, no one to speak to. They drug me. Treat me like a sack of meat. My gods…”

  She clenched her teeth, fighting the fear, the tears. He could see it took everything she had not to break, to cry like a lost child, alone and afraid in the dark. The puppy stopped playing with his ball, watched her with one ear cocked, tail between his legs. Hiro sat and stared for an age, fists upon knees, face like granite. And then he spoke, his voice hard as a gravestone, as dead and cold as the ashes they’d interred in his Lord’s tomb.

  “You deserve this.”

  Wide eyes clouded with unspent tears, lips trembling like leaves in the autumn wind. A fragile, tiny whisper.

  “What?”

  “You deserve this, my Lady.” Hiro stared at her, pitiless and unblinking. “You betrayed your brother and sovereign Lord. The Shōgun of these islands, the man to whom all owed allegiance. You helped that Kitsune whore escape with Yoritomo’s prize. And because of you, he is dead, the country in chaos, and this clan in tatters.”

  “Not you too?” she breathed. “Gods … have mercy upon me…”

  “But they have, my Lady. They are far more merciful than I. They have given you the opportunity to atone. To alleviate the shame you have heaped upon yourself with your betrayal.”

  “What are—”

  “You and I are to be married.”

  What little color remained in Aisha’s cheeks faded away, blood draining from her skin as if someone had cut her throat.

  “The announcement has already been made,” Hiro said. “Clanlords of the Phoenix and Dragon have accepted invitation. We will be husband and wife by month’s end. And together, we will reforge the Kazumitsu Dynasty, restore the line you helped destroy.”

  Hiro took Aisha’s hand, iron fingers closing around her own. The movements were clumsy, gears hissing and whirring like a Lotusman’s skin.

  “So now I see.” Defiance burned in Aisha’s stare. Refusal to flinch from his touch. “Shōgun Hiro, is it?”

  “You always were an insightful one, Lady.”

  “So the Guild have bought you.” Her voice grew stronger, underscored with anger and faint contempt. She glanced at Hiro’s metal arm, lips curling in disgust. “Paid for and sold.”

  “Do not dare pass judgment on me,” he growled. “Everything I do now, I do to right the wrongs you helped perpetrate.”

  “Wrongs?” Half laughing, half sobbing. “You speak to me of wrongs?”

  “He was your brother, Aisha. You were honor-bound to—”

  “Do not speak to me of honor,” she snapped. “Your rhetoric about Bushido and sacrifice. Just look outside the window, Hiro-san. Look what this empire has done to the island we live on. Skies red as blood, earth black as pitch. Our addiction to chi draining the land of every drop of life. We wage war overseas, murdering gaijin by the thousands, and for what? More land. More fuel. Where will it end? When the deadlands split wide and drag us all down into the hells?”

  “It will end when she is dead,” he spat.

  “Ah.” Aisha looked at him with something akin to sympathy. “Now I see. It is not my betrayal that cuts you. It is hers. Yukiko.”

  Hiro’s metal hand snapped into a fist. “Do not speak that name in my presence again.”

  “She loved you, Hiro-san.”

  “Shut up!” Iron fingers twitched.

  “And still you failed. Even after you tore her heart from her chest, betrayed the girl who loved you true … still you failed to save your Lord’s life.”

  Hiro leapt onto the bed, metal hand closing about Aisha’s throat. Her eyes bulged wide, color blooming in her
cheeks as iron bit into her skin. The puppy barked, growling as he sank his fangs into the Daimyo’s robe and tugged. Hiro’s face was a madman’s mask, eyes wild, lips flecked with spittle, teeth gritted. He pressed down with all his weight, watching her face flush with blood.

  “Shut your mouth, you honorless whore.”

  Aisha’s voice was a strangled whisper, tears welling in her eyes.

  “I … pity you…”

  Hiro drew his face close to hers, twisted with hatred, staring into her eyes, watching their light fade as the moments ticked by into minutes. But as the end drew near, instead of terror and pain, he saw triumph, gloating and awful as she teetered upon the precipice. She did not struggle. Did not flail or kick or slap at his crushing grip. And with a moan of horror he seized hold of the prosthetic with his other hand and tore it away from her throat.

  Aisha collapsed, gasping, her mountain of pillows scattered, thick drifts of hair tangled about her face, like a child’s plaything thrown into a corner when it was no longer wanted. The pup licked her fingers, whining. Hiro shrank from the ruin of the bed and staggered to his feet, gasping for breath.

  “Very clever, my Lady.” He wiped sweat from his lips on the back of his real hand. “The men always spoke of how you played us like a shamisen. But not today.” He swallowed, shook his head. “You do not die today.”

  Regaining his breath, he knelt by the bed, rearranged the pillows, straightened the bedclothes. And with trembling iron fingers, he brushed the stray hair away from her face.

  “No escape,” he sighed, caressing the new bruises along her jaw. “For either of us. You will be my bride. The line of Kazumitsu will live on through us. At least long enough to see that bitch buried in an unmarked grave. After that, I don’t care what—”