Kinslayer

by Jay Kristoff

  45

  TEN THOUSAND YEARS

  Lord Hiro stood at the head of the table, staring down the length of polished oak to his legion of guests. The feasting hall was decked in scarlet silk, paper blooms, bright lanterns hanging from the rafters, talismans of joy and fortune on the walls. A small army of serving girls moved among the celebrants, soft pink kimonos, arms decked with platters of steaming saké and real fruit juices, filling every glass. The Phoenix retinue knelt at Hiro’s right, a swathe of sunburnt yellow and flameburst orange, Daimyo Shin and Shou sitting so close they touched. The Dragons were arrayed at his left, decked in bright azure and silvered iron, Daimyo Haruka looking dour and out of sorts.

  “Your fiancée will not be joining us for the feast, Hiro-san?” the old Dragon asked.

  Hiro glanced at the empty cushion beside him. He tried to smile, felt the ashes caked on his face crack and flake away. His voice was toneless. Formless.

  “We beg your pardon, honorable Haruka-san. My beloved Aisha-chan is unnerved by the thought of the ceremony tomorrow, and bids me ask your indulgence. A bride can be forgiven her anxieties on the eve of her wedding, surely.”

  Haruka looked to his own wife, nodded slowly. “As you say. I recall the eve of my own betrothal. It is no small thing, to be bound to another for the rest of one’s life.”

  Lord Shou glanced at Hiro, the death-clad legion of Iron Samurai looming behind him.

  “No matter how short that life may prove…” he muttered.

  Hiro raised his cup, tapped one finger on the lip to call for silence. He looked to Second Bloom Kensai and his Lotusman retinue, seated at the far end of the table with empty plates and empty glasses, swathed in chi exhaust. The nobles of his own court assembled in all their finery, golden breather masks fashioned like tiger maws, pale, powdered faces and silk of bloody red. All of it so gaudy. So hollow and meaningless. He noted two empty cushions, consternation creasing his brow as he realized who was missing.

  Where is Ichizo?

  “Esteemed guests,” he began, speaking as if by rote. Metal in his mouth. “Brothers of the Lotus Guild. Noble Daimyo and trusted friends. I am humbled and honored to receive you on this, the eve of my wedding, and bid you welcome to the Tiger’s palace.”

  where once she lay in my arms

  she who laid me low

  she

  “The thought of vengeance ever hangs in my mind, fills me with a thirst no cup can slake. The loss of this court’s most favored son hangs heavy on my shoulders, even in this time of…” he swallowed, ash-dry “… joy. And bound by oaths, we gather tonight, our mourning black shed but weeks ago. Though were my Lord Yoritomo-no-miya here—”

  The ground rumbled, a low, furious vibration beneath his feet, setting the tableware clinking, the lanterns in the rafters swaying. Hiro frowned, voice faltering, thinking another accursed earthquake had struck at this, of all hours. One of the guests gasped, eyes to the hall’s high beach-glass windows. Following her gaze, Hiro looked up into a night sky smeared with the color of flame. Uneasy murmurs rippled among the attendees, serving girls glancing to each other with fearful eyes, stares turning to him at the table’s head. Second Bloom Kensai stood, swift despite his bulk, his skin hissing. Brass fingers danced across the mechabacus on his chest, like a prodigy upon a shamisen’s strings.

  “Great Lord. Kigen city is under attack by Kagé rebels.”

  Gasps and murmurs among the guests. A thrill of adrenaline in his gut. Iron hand snaking to the hilt of his chainkatana.

  “Yukiko?”

  “There is no sign of the Impure one, great Lord. Reports indicate multiple groups, striking with explosives through Docktown and Downside.”

  “Honorless dogs,” Daimyo Haruka spat. “They dare break peace on a night such as this?”

  The Dragon clanlord stood swiftly, his retinue of Iron Samurai gathered about him. The Phoenix Daimyo stood with more languor, moving with that eerie synchronicity, narrowed eyes above ornate breather fans. Their retinue gathered and clung to them like painted leeches.

  “Steel yourselves,” Hiro said, his voice rising above the growing clamor. “This attack is a blessing. That these fools have dared enter Kigen on a night when my brother Daimyo are gathered with their hosts can be viewed as no less than providence. Lord Izanagi has surely blessed these celebrations and our vengeance. The fish have brought themselves to our nets.” He drew his chainkatana, arced the motor, vibration traveling up the iron in his arm and into his flesh. “We need only gather them in.”

  Haruka drew his chaindaishō, serrated teeth whirring and snarling. The Dragon Samurai about him did the same, the screech and growl of motors filling the air.

  “We will defend First Daughter’s city with our lives,” Haruka said. “This I vow.”

  The Phoenix clanlords turned to Hiro.

  “We will return to the Floating Palace,” Shou said. “Coordinate the assault from the sky, set our corvettes to the task of routing these rebels from their dens.”

  “We place our personal retinue at your service, of course, Daimyo,” said Shin.

  Hiro glanced at the ceremonial swords in the Phoenix lords’ obi, the painted lips and powdered cheeks, the soft hands with manicured nails, utterly bereft of sword-grip calluses.

  “An excellent notion. My thanks, honorable Daimyo.”

  He turned to his Shikabane captain. “Muster the Dead. Every man is to be ready to march in five minutes. Kensai.” He turned to the Second Bloom. “Gather your Purifiers, any Lotusmen you can spare. We will purge these lice with purifying flame.”

  “It shall be done.” Kensai bowed. “Shōgun.”

  All in the hall took note of the title. The three other clanlords shared knowing glances.

  Hiro licked his lips, tasted ashes. “You are charged to kill any Kagé you find on sight. If Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin dares show her face, I will offer substantial reward to any man who brings me her thunder tiger’s head. But the girl herself is mine. Any man who kills that Impure whore robs me of my vengeance, and he shall know vengeance in kind. Is that understood?”

  “Hai!” A cry from the legion of Samurai around the room, underscored by the revving of chainblade motors, the clank and hiss of ō-yoroi.

  “Draw your swords then, brothers. Draw your swords and march with me. Tonight, we restore our honor, and strike a blow that will live in the histories for ten thousand years. Tonight, we end this rebellion once and for all.”

  “Banzai!” they cried. “Banzai!”

  Hiro nodded.

  “We move.”

  46

  ONE HUNDRED DEGREES

  A blossom of orange flame unfurled in the nighttime hush, a tiny sun daubing the chapterhouse walls in colors of the distant dawn. Long shadows stretched out from the sudden flare, dancing across splintered cobbles as the fire took hold. The night above was already choked and black—no winking stars, no weeping moon. Great billowing curtains of smoke rushed up to kiss the dark; a sweating, autumn evening overhung with the threat of storms.

  The flames rose from burning barrels, stacked high on a wooden wagon outside the chapterhouse gates. Desiccated wood crackled amongst tongues of bright heat, sparks spiraling upward like long-gone fireflies. A siren screamed inside the chapterhouse; a brittle, metallic wail rising over the fire’s roar. A knot of blacklung beggars across the street curled down in their filthy rags and winced at the volume.

  The great metal doors split apart with a squeal of dry hinges, just wide enough to allow four Guildsmen to march out into the firelight. Heat flickered across their atmos-suits; burnished brass dipped in flickering ochre. Insectoid helms, biomechanical lines of cold metal and snaking pipes, large tanks mounted on their backs. Three Shatei and a Kyodai captain, all wearing the white tabards of the Purifier Sect.

  The Kyodai’s eyes glowed blood-red as it scanned the street. The Shatei stepped forward, holding their hands toward the fire as if to warm them. Gouts of frothing white foam burst from their o
utstretched palms, engulfing the awning, wagon and broken barrels. Light and heat suffocated in the flood, leaving only charred wooden skeletons spattered in hissing foam, trailing clouds of reluctant smoke in the ember light.

  The Shatei examined the wreckage under the frightened stares of the beggar-folk across the way. A few of the bolder wretches crept forward, watching the Purifiers stomp the last sparks beneath their boots. The Kyodai spoke, its voice a wasp-hive hymn.

  “Accelerant?”

  A Shatei knelt amidst the charcoal, looked up at its big brother. “Chi.”

  The Kyodai clicked several beads across the mechabacus on its chest. It stared around the street, luminous, bloody eyes coming to rest on the beggars creeping closer. They were swathed head to foot in dirty rags, black fingernails, scabbed knuckles. The closest one was a giant, only a few feet away and shuffling forward, limping slightly.

  “Stay back, citizen.” Fire flared at the Purifier’s wrist. “This is Guild—”

  The man hurled a clay bottle, filled with thick, sloshing red. It smashed on the Purifier’s chest, coating its atmos-suit, and with a dull whump, burst into flame as it touched the fire burning at its wrist. The other beggars hurled more bottles, clay smashing on the stone at the Guildsmens’ feet, across their suits, painting them with gleaming scarlet. A thunderous rush of heat, roaring around the four Guildsmen and withering the spaces between. The stench of burning chi rose amidst the sound of rasping curses, the Guildsmen staggering away and turning on each other with their foam, dousing the flames with gouts of hissing white.

  A motor-rickshaw tore down the street, wheels screeching. It collided with two Purifiers, crushed one against the chapterhouse wall in a bright burst of sparks. The chi tank at the Guildsman’s back split and exploded, the ’shaw’s driver rolling out of the cabin just as the vehicle’s snout burst into flame.

  The beggars threw aside their black rags and drew weapons from within the folds, bearing down on the two remaining Guildsmen. The Kyodai raised its hand, skin still black and smoking, screeching a warning as the big man rushed it with his war club raised high.

  Akihito pictured Kasumi lying in a puddle of blood on the floor of Kigen jail. He pictured Masaru’s name etched upon a hundred spirit tablets around the Burning Stones. He pictured Yoritomo’s face atop the burnished brass shoulders.

  The Purifier’s helm split at the seams, one glowing red eye spinning off into the dark, a leaden whungggggg ringing out as the tetsubo connected. Wet crunching. A metallic rasp. The Purifier fell back, hands to its shattered face. Metal hit stone and it cried out, the sound all too human; a moan of fear and pain.

  “No.” It held up its hand. “Don’t, wait—”

  The tetsubo crashed down on the Kyodai’s head, the crack of metal on metal ringing down the street. Akihito hefted the club, bringing it down onto the Guildsman’s helm again. And again. And again. Until the faceplate buckled and the light in its eye cracked and died and thick red bubbled between the broken seams. The Kyodai twitched once and was still.

  “Come on!”

  The other Kagé had dispatched the remaining Purifiers, the fuses in the back of the still-burning motor-rickshaw were already lit. They grabbed Akihito’s arm and tugged the big man away from his kill. Heavy metal footsteps could be heard beneath the wailing siren within the chapterhouse; a multitude approaching fast. The street was strewn with broken metal bodies, lit by the rickshaw fire, black, acrid smoke burning his throat and scratching at his eyes.

  He nodded. Smiled.

  The Kagé disappeared amongst the shadows.

  * * *

  An explosion tore across Downside, a bright bloom of flame lighting the clouds over Chapterhouse Kigen, smoke rushing skyward like a new bride into the arms of her groom. Daichi looked at the firelight sky, counting beneath his breath, one, two, three, and ah, there it went. A second explosion to the east, then a third; three dry-docked sky-ships bursting into flame and sinking slowly onto Spire Row, draping the boardwalk with burning skeletons. The Docktown fuel depot went up ten seconds later, and it seemed for a moment the sun had risen early, great feathered hands of fire stretching forth over the warehouse district, hard shadows and roiling smoke, screams of fear and pain, the reverb settling inside his bones. The night was filled with the drone of sky-ship propellers, Phoenix corvettes buzzing and slicing overhead, the belly of the Floating Palace lit with the lurid glow of Kigen’s growing pyre.

  Daichi put one hand to his mouth and coughed. Licked his teeth and spat. Hand pressed to tortured ribs, more bruise than skin beneath the bandages. Every breath was fire. Every word a trial. His speech to the Kagé had taken almost everything he had.

  They were settled on the upper floor of a town house with a perfect view of the Shōgun’s palace, waiting for the tigers to leave their den. Ayane knelt at a small table, head tilted, listening to the chatter of the mechabacus in her head. The device hung around her neck, plugged into the jack at her collarbone, the beads chittering back and forth across her breast. Dirt still clung in the crevices, fingerprints of rust on the faceplate from its slumber beneath damp earth, a slight scratch from the shovel used to dig it free. She would lean close to the boy beside her, lips brushing his ear, and Kin would relay the incoming data about troop movements, numbers, disposition to the Kagé in the field via the shortwave transmitter on the table before him. There was intimacy to the pair, kneeling so close they almost touched—a kind of symbiosis Daichi found unsettling.

  He could hear bells ringing, heavy feet, shouted orders. A cadre of Guild mercenaries spilled from the chapterhouse and stormed east over the Shiroi bridge, dozens more heading south to bolster the refinery defenses. Firelight gleamed on their night-filter goggles and bulbous helms, like a hundred scarab beetles ready for war. Bushimen were taking position on the bridges, motor-rickshaws roaring through the streets, Iron Samurai mustering in the palace grounds. The fire spread across Docktown as the timber boardwalk caught and burned, cutting off access to most of the dry-docked Tiger fleet. Daichi smiled up at the black storm clouds overhead and whispered a prayer to Susano-ō, begging the Storm God to show his blessing to Lord Hiro’s wedding and withhold the rain for just one more day.

  “It’s incredible,” Isao whispered.

  The boy stood near the window, face lit with the flames, watching in awe as Kigen’s peaceful facade began to blacken and curl.

  “The music of chaos,” Daichi said. “From a distance, it is beautiful. But consider for a moment how it would appear to an ordinary man down there in the street. Drenched in the sound of flame. Of fear. For yourself and the ones you love.”

  He looked at the boy.

  “Take no pride in this discord we now sow. It is an easy thing, to destroy. Be proud of the world you build after this is done.”

  The old man coughed then, a long, wracking spasm that bent him double, one hand over his mouth, the other on his belly. His face twisted with the ache of it, teeth gritted, finally spitting black and viscous onto the boards beneath their feet. He wiped one hand across his mouth, turning his knuckles the color of burnt oil. Isao placed a hand on his shoulder, expression pained.

  “You should head outside and keep … watch with Atsushi and Takeshi. We will signal the strike on the palace after … the refinery is ablaze.”

  “Hai.” The boy nodded, covered his fist and stole down the stairwell.

  Daichi turned to the pair who remained behind. The girl watching him, nervous hands and sunken eyes, machine chattering on her chest. Kin beside her, head down, stare locked with his. The boy looked old, worn thin, the skin on his bones almost translucent. Expressionless.

  “Can you … feel it, Kin-san?”

  “I feel it,” the boy replied.

  Daichi turned back to the window, to the fire burning beyond the glass. He coughed once, hand over his mouth, watching the dancing flames.

  “It has begun,” he said.

  * * *

  The Kagé dropped like falling leaves i
nto the alley, flitted down cracking cobbles without a sound. Each wore black, only their eyes showing between cloth folds, straight-edged swords upon their backs. Kaori led them onto the levee, crouched low, eyes on the stone bridge crossing the river fifty feet away. Behind her crouched a lieutenant of the local cell; a thin, pock-faced man known as the Spider, who moved like wisps of clouds across moonlight.

  The waters of the Junsei river were thick as mud, jet-black, reeking of excrement and caustic salt. Twelve shadows slid down the concrete bank and waded into the flow, quietly as they might. The sounds of flames and bells and marching boots masked the splashing and cursing, the smell growing so bad one man was forced to stop and tread water while he vomited.

  They made the southern shore, crawled along the waterline until they reached the refinery outflow pipe; a four-foot-wide tunnel barred by a corroded iron grille. Reeking effluent dribbled between its rusted teeth. Kaori crouched at the tunnel mouth, drew a hacksaw and set to work on the corroded spot-welds. The Spider and the others gathered about her, crouched low, eyes never leaving the bushimen on the bridge.

  Two dozen children were gathered on the northern banks, hurling stones and bottles at the guards. Kaori recognized the leader; a girl with the handle of Butcher, her shrill voice ringing across the water, rife with profanities that would make a cloudwalker gasp. She smiled, despite herself.

  A sky-ship thundered overhead, the blast from its prop-blades whipping ash into her eyes. Speakers mounted on the ship’s flank bellowed a warning for all law-abiding citizens to return to their homes, bright spotlights aimed at the gaggle of dissent near the footbridge. The children turned their rocks and bottles on the sky. Phoenix corvettes buzzed and dodged, letting off a few warning bursts of shuriken-thrower fire.

  On a quieter night, the saw blade’s rasp would have brought every bushiman in the city running, but it was lost beneath the engine’s din. Kaori pulled a corroded bar away from the crosspiece, the space just narrow enough to squeeze through. She motioned the others forward, and one by one, the Kagé wriggled through the gap, down into near-darkness and a deathly chemical reek. Kaori found herself alone on the bank, slipping her wakizashi off her back and sparing one last glance to the clouds above. Rolling black, illuminated with thick fingers of firelight and floodlights from the shouting sky-ships.