Dragon Rising

by Ilsa J. Bick

  Even Amaterasu, that fiery sun goddess born from the left eye of Izanagi, had to resort to magic to see into the future.

  Ah. And now Vincent let go of a small sigh, a tension he didn’t even realize he’d held easing from his shoulders. Paint and let the mind roam, and whatever was important would surely surface. “Because there we are again,” he murmured. “At Katana, her Amaterasu, and at this crossroads.”

  All right then, what of Katana Tormark? So, he’d made her warlord of a still-incomplete district and left her to her own devices. Was it fair? No. Was Katana probably, as she would say, pissed off beyond all reason? Probably. Was it the way of the Combine? Absolutely, and much more dangerous for him if he helped her more than he already had.

  Vincent had known she’d lose the challenge. Oh, she was stubborn and brash and probably brilliant underneath all that insecurity. Yet Toranaga was older, experienced, and calculating to boot. Vincent hadn’t wanted his son involved at all, but he couldn’t stop Theodore either. To do so would have made Theodore look weak, something his son couldn’t afford.

  But then Theodore had died in that sim, and a chilly frisson of death had walked the ladder of Vincent’s spine. There was evil, dark and patient, waiting its turn. There would be sorrow.

  Because, already, there was Yori Kurita.

  Yes, how to turn you to fight for me, Yori Kurita, and not yourself—and, most certainly, not Toranaga.

  If Vincent saw, so very clearly, that Yori was a threat, why was Ramadeep Bhatia playing this down? Spouting absurdities about her usefulness to the Combine, her being the last full-fledged samurai to leave The Republic, blah, blah . . . All that was true, but Bhatia was too shrill about it, as if by waving his hands, he would divert Vincent’s attention from the man standing behind the curtain.

  Bhatia’s got a strategy, some plan, just as Toranaga must, else he’d never have brought Yori here. Well, I have eyes, and I am not so dazzled by my finery that I cannot see past the protestations of my spymaster. I, too, have influence where you least expect, plans you will not derail. I may yet pull one or two miracles out of my sleeve.

  * * *

  Time passed. The light faded. The sky shaded to pewter. And still Vincent painted. He was genuinely surprised when a servant crept in on soundless, stockinged feet to remind him of that evening’s reception. Reluctantly, Vincent put aside his brush—and it was only then that he really saw what he’d painted. When he did, his chest turned icy.

  The tree, yes. The berm and grasses. Roses in bloom. But that was not all. Because there were vipers: black sinuous forms slithering through the grass, twining round the cherry tree, squeezing the delicate blossoms in a death grip.

  Serpents in his garden. Vincent stared. What had he been . . . ?

  There came a swift, crackling flash, and then a boom of thunder answered with a roar that made the balcony shiver and his legs tremble. By all the gods, this was his nightmare come true in the violence of this coming storm, that dark and eerie light that was not light but its absence, the light eaten alive by brooding clouds that were black with foreboding. His answer was in the storm—and, yes, in the painting as well: in the snarling, ravenous obake with their gaping mouths and clawed hands. And in those ghastly visages, he spied his enemies. The swarthy skin and slitted black eyes of Ramadeep Bhatia. He saw Matsuhari Toranaga, his samurai’s topknot forming from a mushroom. And in the clouds, there were yurei, the ghosts and spirits of the dead, and then he saw . . .

  “No.” He rose, backed away a step but could not tear his eyes from the painting. Because there he was, quite clearly. His face, but how changed! Eyes bulging, his mouth wide open in a silent scream of despair.

  “No,” he said fiercely. “No, I will not yield, do you hear me?” He looked from the painting to the cloudless twilight beyond his balcony, and the cherry tree, its boughs twisting in a feverish dance born of an evil wind. “Feast on another man’s soul! You’ll have none of me or mine!”

  Brave words. Maybe foolish. Or just futile. He didn’t know.

  Yet this he did see and understand: the weeping cherry ravaged, its blossoms falling to the earth in an early snow.

  4

  The noble was a stultifying boor enamored of his own oily tenor. Yori’s mind idled like a ’Mech on standby as she bided her time. She saw her chance when the noble’s gaze flicked over her head. At the same time, the general gabble subsided, the way a restaurant suddenly hushed when a waitress dropped a tray.

  Goggle-eyed, the noble stage-whispered, “Oh, my word, would you look at Katana Tormark! And, oh, I don’t care for that hairstyle. Long hair like yours better suits a woman, don’t you think?”

  Yori said, “Mmmm,” but the noble was already moving off to get a better look. Relieved, Yori snagged a glass of something fizzy and non-alcoholic from a passing tray. (Past experience: Keep a clear head, otherwise disarming an assassin was that much harder.) The buzz of conversation resumed as she drifted upstream through a river of glittery, bejeweled costumes. No one paid her any mind. That suited her fine.

  Now, let’s see what all the fuss is about. Half-turning, she raised her glass, her gaze wandering, very casually, and . . .

  Oh, my God. She nearly choked on her drink. Well, color her amazed. Every single member of the DCMS, including Yori, was in dress uniform—but not Tormark, noooo.

  Instead, Katana Tormark sported a breathtaking furisode : a spectacular kimono done on rich orange-and-gold jacquard, festooned with creamy peach and blaze-white blossoms stitched with shimmering gold thread. A maru obi encircled her waist, and she wore delicate, teak geta sandals with V-shaped thongs of gold cloth.

  Tormark had also cut her jet-black hair. Very. Very. Short. Finely spiked and stylishly mussed. This, combined with her height, long neck, oval face, high cheekbones and flawless chocolate-brown skin, lent Tormark a regal bearing, a little like an exotic—if somewhat punk—queen.

  Well, she’s got guts—either that or a fatal predisposition to suicide. A smile crept over her lips that she quickly erased. Careful, Yori, careful. No allies here, only adversaries.

  Yori watched as both Theodore Kurita and a very, well, captivating young man with fine bones, wheat-colored hair, and a full sensitive mouth approached Tormark. She saw the flicker of disapproval on Theodore’s face. He was not as . . . unconventional as Tormark. Indeed, he was a creature of ceremony and, yet, what was this? Theodore bowing! Offering Tormark a flute of champagne!

  Hmmm. That Theodore Kurita accepted Tormark was as loud as a proclamation, but with Makoto Shouriki in tow as well? Very interesting. Perhaps her senior by five or six years, Shouriki was a physician and scientist. Rumor had it that he was distantly related to the Kuritas in some way, though she couldn’t pin down how. (Perhaps they should have a little talk, bastard offspring to bitch’s whelp.) He was quite handsome, and so tall, she’d look like a doll standing alongside him.

  Soooo, choosing up sides. Ah, but what does Shouriki really think?

  She caught herself. Why should she even care about Shouriki? Because he looked friendly? Nice? Kind, the way he so easily chatted with Tormark? Envy jabbed her chest, and she quickly quashed the emotion.

  Remember, if you’re a Kurita, you have no friends. Only camps and loyalties and your good common sense. Have a care, Yori, have a care.

  Well, whatever friends or allies Tormark might fancy she’d made, she hadn’t shown well as a warrior. Yori had watched the whole sim. Tormark had more battle experience, but Yori would never have been so easily gulled. She was not reckless.

  Yet what was that little stunt she herself had pulled during that sim on Northwind: leaping over that ridge at full throttle and dropping seven meters straight down? Sure, she’d taken out an Enforcer, but then she’d gotten stomped by the second one. On Ronel and in a very real battle, she’d punched her Grand Dragon headlong into a contingent of Carter’s Corsairs, and two klicks beyond any effective cover Julian Davion could provide.

  Yes, but that was
different. Frowning, she sipped her drink, barely tasting the tart bubbly citrus. That was deliberate, fooling the Corsairs into thinking that I was mounting a counteroffensive so I could buy Jules some time. As soon as he pushed through, I got out.

  By contrast, Tormark had made fatal errors. She’d outdistanced her support troops and the rest of her lance. And why, for heaven’s sake, take Theodore Kurita along? His Shiro was badly damaged and of little practical benefit. Could Tormark really have been that cowed by protocol? Yori was sure she would never . . .

  “Well, there you are.” A man’s voice: coolly disdainful, flat, dismissive. “Sizing up the competition?”

  Though her pulse tripped, Yori pivoted with a nonchalant shrug. “Are you implying that I am not content with our esteemed tai-shu? That is uncharitable. Whatever can you be thinking, Hatsuwe Mototsune?” She left off the honorific, just for spite. Hatsuwe would never dare challenge her in the palace. For one thing, no swords allowed. For another, killing a Kurita in the Kuritan stronghold . . . well, it just wasn’t done.

  Hatsuwe’s coal-black eyes, a little narrow and his only defect, nearly disappeared as he squinted in anger. Their feud had begun when she’d exited the prestigious Sun Zhang Academy with a performance record good enough to be the envy of any samurai. But she had especially galled Hatsuwe, the son of a high-ranking New Samarkand noble and Tai-shu Toranaga’s fervent admirer. Toranaga was a cunning crocodile, and Hatsuwe, the slithering slime-eel trailing in Toranaga’s wake.

  All that made Yori wish that Hatsuwe were ugly. He was not. In fact, he was an exceedingly handsome man who took very good care of his body. Certainly, she’d seen it often enough. Hatsuwe never seemed to tire of stripping down to a loincloth and prancing around a dojo. His skin was a warm bronze, and when he wrestled, his oiled muscles glistened and rippled in the light. Nevertheless, he was a slime-eel, and a yarichin besides.

  “You are yariman,” Hatsuwe said carelessly, in an eerie echo of her own assessment of him. “Give yourself airs, but you were Sakamoto before you ever were a Kurita, and that only by the skin of your teeth.”

  “My grandfather would beg to differ,” Yori said, silently thanking the gods that Sakamoto was a common name and she was in no way related to the deceased warlord. “I would never be so ungrateful as to contemplate jumping ship for Tai-shu Tormark. Our tono is ever my lord.” And boku no shiri ni kisu siro.

  As if he’d read her mind—that he should kiss her sweet, pink arse—Hatsuwe’s angular features flushed copper. “In that case, you won’t mind rejoining his party. Toranaga-san wants you.”

  “Ah.” She placed her half-finished drink on a nearby tray. “Well, lead on. I can’t imagine our tono being so very pleased that you’ve kept him waiting just so you can think of new ways to insult my honor.”

  “You,” Hatsuwe spat the word like a curse, “have no honor worth offending.” Then he executed a crisp pivot and stalked off.

  She was nothing if not mistress of herself. Yori followed, shoulders squared and eyes forward. Her warlord—her taskmaster who would never allow her to forget, never—waited, and an audience later on with the coordinator, that fop, besides.

  No friends here, only adversaries to conquer—and enemies to break. She eyed Hatsuwe’s back. So beware, Hatsuwe Mototsune. Beware.

  5

  Warlord Toranaga’s Quarters

  Imperial Palace, Luthien

  14 June 3136

  Early morning

  “And what do you think, eh?” Matsuhari Toranaga sat cross-legged upon a tatami and leaned against a crimson silk bolster. A low teak table squatted to his right, an Igo board speckled with clusters of white and black stones alongside a stone cup within easy reach. The air was close with the earthy scent of the strong potato liquor, imo-jochu, Toranaga favored. He’d changed into a comfortable, very simple cobalt-blue kimono, and loosed his topknot so his salt-and-pepper hair fell about his shoulders. The hairstyle was new and seemed to please one very important young man. Otherwise, Toranaga was a bluff man, though the care he took of his body was reflected in a neck thick with corded muscle, a broad chest and sculpted biceps and forearms.

  Toranaga sipped loudly, smacked his lips, and said, “The illustrious Katana Tormark, the coordinator’s golden girl . . . What did you learn? Come now, speak plainly. I’ve had my quarters swept for listening devices.”

  Yori said, “She’s courageous. That furisode was daring.”

  “Daring?” Toranaga challenged. “How so?”

  Yori was calm, though—honestly—she felt like a school-girl in pigtails being drilled by a dyspeptic professor. On the other hand, keeping her head, figuratively, made it much more likely her neck would never be lonely. “Tormark’s tactic was a stroke of dramatic genius. She trumpeted her difference.” (Certainly she’d never have dared. Attracting attention was the last thing she wanted.) “The furisode is an extraordinarily formal kimono that, according to ancient Terran tradition, is given to a daughter when she reaches maturity.”

  “Mmmm.” Toranaga looked over his left shoulder. “And you, Hatsuwe, do you also believe Tormark to be bold and daring?”

  Yori’s eyes slid to the samurai, who held a sweating jug of cold imo-jochu at the ready. (Though Hatsuwe was not the only other man in the room. That person she’d do well to keep clear of, though she knew he watched her. Oh, yes. He didn’t miss a trick.) Doting was the only word to describe how Hatsuwe waited on Toranaga, and Hatsuwe now met her gaze with both defiance and a malignant, triumphant gleam. She did not waver. And just because you wait on him, do you think to kill me while I sleep? Come to my bed, pig, and I will show you two shaku of steel.

  Bowing, Hatsuwe said, “Tono, Tormark is reckless and stubborn. Certainly, wearing a furisode was like taking out an ad.”

  “In what way?”

  “Why, the invitation, of course. Doesn’t the same ancient tradition also suggest that a woman is . . . available? Everyone knows that she and Theodore Kurita must be lovers. They had such a long time together, and he certainly favored her tonight.”

  “True.” Toranaga eyed Yori. “Do you agree?”

  “Iie, Toranaga-sama,” Yori said, bluntly, though she softened it with the slightest of bows, pretending a respect she did not feel. Hai, I am your tool, but I have a brain and wits, and if you think to favor that idiot over me, you are much mistaken. “Tormark isn’t the type of woman who’s gotten as far as she has on her back, or in any other position. Perhaps it has never occurred to Hatsuwe-san that not every woman is eager to share a man’s bed, even if it is his.”

  Now that was a gamble, though she’d employed an honorific the slime-eel did not deserve. From the look on Hatsuwe’s face, Yori knew she was on dangerous ground. Yet she also had a very nasty premonition of where Toranaga was going with this, and if she could deflect his attention from that to Hatsuwe . . .

  Hatsuwe’s words were barely a hiss. “I demand an apology, Toranaga-sama. I would not bloody my blade with one so beneath honor, but a samurai must not let pass the yapping of an insolent cur.”

  Toranaga surprised her. “Stay,” Toranaga said to Hatsuwe—and then he did the most remarkable thing, something Yori had never seen him do, ever. He closed his hand around Hatsuwe’s wrist. Not so much a restraint as it was . . . a caress. The gesture would’ve been innocuous to anyone who did not know these two well, who had not spent her time observing, cataloguing, weighing. Yet there was no doubt. With that touch, Toranaga treated Hatsuwe with a familiarity she’d previously not suspected.

  By the gods! All that meticulous care with which Hatsuwe has treated his body . . . is he besotted? A prelude to wakashudo?

  She knew about bi-do, the beautiful way. Indeed, this had been and continued to be the way of the samurai. Unless she was very wide of the mark, however, Hatsuwe’s infatuation hadn’t been reciprocated.

  Hai, now that I think of it, Hatsuwe looks hungry. A very good play on Toranaga’s part: The things you can’t have are the ones you desire.r />
  Toranaga cut into her thoughts. “Well, then, what do you think Tormark is saying?”

  She was ready for this. She had not survived this long by being a witless fool. She knew she had very wide, expressive black eyes and now she arranged her features to reflect the utmost sincerity. She even bowed before speaking, so there could be no mistaking her meaning. Then she looked Toranaga square in the face.

  “Piss off,” she said.

  There was a moment’s explosive silence. No one breathed. Yori didn’t move.

  Then Hatsuwe’s face twisted with fury. “Tono, this cannot stand! She must . . .” He broke off not because Toranaga restrained him but because of what the warlord was doing, something that Yori thought Hatsuwe had never seen. She knew she hadn’t.

  Toranaga was laughing. Silently, mouth open, shoulders shaking. Like a dog. He managed a sobbing inhalation, thumbed tears from the corners of his eyes and then turned to look at the third man, who’d said absolutely nothing so far—and who terrified Yori right down to her marrow.

  “Well, Hamada,” he said, still chuckling, “what say you to that, eh?”

  Kazuo Hamada, the warlord’s spymaster, blinked. He did this slowly, like a drowsy lizard. His eyes were, however, like a cobra’s. Flat. Black. A little dead. He was nondescript in every other way: of middling height, neither too fat nor gaunt, with dull pewter hair and a somewhat beaky nose. Except for his eyes, Hamada was unremarkable—something you’d want in a man who’d set up a spy apparatus rivaling the ISF.

  “She is correct,” Hamada said. “Sleeping her way into Theodore Kurita’s good graces is not Tormark’s style.”

  “Not her style, perhaps,” Toranaga said, eyeing Yori the way one did a skinned duck hanging by its neck in a shop window. “Have you considered becoming somewhat closer to the coordinator’s heir?”