by Jay Kristoff
“Gaijin…” Hana gasped.
Akihito looked at Piotr. The gaijin was almost standing at attention in Hana’s presence, his eyes downcast from the girl’s face.
“What about him?” Akihito said.
“Not Piotr,” Hana wheezed. “The gaijin have invaded Shima. A fleet. An army. They just hit the Dragon capital. Frontal assault on Kawa city.”
“Izanagi’s balls,” Michi breathed. “Kawa city is a fortress. How many gaijin are there?”
Hana dragged sweat-soaked locks from her face, straightened with a wince.
“Sounds like all of them…”
* * *
This wasn’t exactly the future Akihito had planned.
His father had been a hunter, his grandfather before him. In a clan of artistes, his were a family of destroyers. And though his head sang with poetry, though in his hands beauty was only a knife and chisel away, any desire to be an artisan had been beaten from him at an early age.
“You can’t make a winter coat out of godsdamned poems,” his father had said. “And there’ll always be animals to hunt.”
On reflection, the old man didn’t have much talent for planning futures either.
When he’d been apprenticed to the Imperial Court at sixteen, Akihito had felt contentment rather than pride. He knew his future now. He’d hunt the hellsborn black yōkai, find a wife (later), give his mother some grandchildren (much later) and that’d be that. A normal life. Not even worthy of a footnote in history. And here he was—twenty-eight years old, not a son in sight, and so far from a normal life he couldn’t imagine what one looked like anymore.
Not what he’d planned for at all.
Eight figures knelt around the long, low-slung table, the scent of burning flowers woven amongst the lantern smoke. Old Daimyo Isamu at the head, thirty paces from his houseguests. General Ginjiro sat to his right, a dozen samurai around them. The warriors were dressed in armor old enough to have been plucked from a museum—Kitsune fuel stores were so low wearing chi-powered armor was out of the question for anyone but command staff now.
Michi, Hana and Yoshi knelt to the Daimyo’s left, Akihito, Misaki and Yukiko opposite. Piotr stood by a window, blowing smoke rings. The table was laden with more food than Akihito had seen in years and yet nobody was eating, save Hana and, perhaps not so surprisingly, Yukiko, quietly demolishing a plateful as if it were her last meal.
The pale glow from Hana’s eye refracted in the crystalware, and Akihito stared at her scar, the leather patch hiding her hurt. A life spent not knowing where her next meal was coming from had taught her to never waste a free feed, and she was busy scoffing a bowl of deep tuna. He found himself studying the lines of her cheek. The shape of her lips.
The girl caught Akihito staring, offered a shy smile around her mouthful. The big man turned away quickly, focused on the Iron Samurai’s report to his Daimyo.
“The gaijin army numbers ten thousand, great Lord.” General Ginjiro’s expression was grim. “They caught the Dragons completely unaware. Before we lost communications from our scouts, Kawa city was ablaze. We have two separate reports stating your cousin Daimyo Haruka was killed in the defense of Ryu-jō, along with his son and most of his Elite.”
“The fortress of Dragons is fallen.” Isamu sighed. “After two centuries unchallenged.”
“So say our reports, great Lord.”
“And what of you, Misaki-san?” The Daimyo turned to the leader of the Guild rebels. “What do your brethren in Kawa tell you?”
Misaki was still clad in her membrane, spider limbs folded on her back. Her eyes were so heavily lidded Akihito had thought her half-asleep until she’d fixed him with a stare that might cut granite.
“First House is jamming our communications capability.” The Guildswoman gestured to the silent mechabacus on her chest. “Our Artificers are trying to rig a shortwave transmission tower, but until then, we will hear no news from our Kawa brethren.”
General Ginjiro turned to his lord. “We have received official missive from our self-styled Shōgun. Lord Hiro demands we ally with the Tiger Clan against these invaders.”
“Send an appropriate response on the good stationery.” Isamu stroked his moustache, brow creased in thought. “Something along the lines of ‘the venerable Lord of Foxes declines your request with all due respect. May you choke on the thousand throbbing members of your Guild masters, you sniveling little shit. Yours sincerely, etcetera etcetera…’”
Hana protested through her mouthful of tuna. “Bdd vat’s su’cide.”
Akihito smiled at the girl’s lack of courtly manners, tried to share it with her brother. But Yoshi was stabbing at his meal like he hated it, black clouds over his head.
“Suicidal it may be, but the Fox clan will not kneel to this puppet Shōgun,” Ginjiro said.
Akihito was astonished as Yoshi spoke for the first time in hours, muttering and shaking his head.
“Samurai,” he said. “So godsdamned predictable.”
General Ginjiro blinked at the boy, surprise quickly turning to anger. “Tora Hiro is a usurper. He has no claim to the Golden Throne. Honor demands we—”
“Remind me again about the difference between honor and stupidity?”
“Yoshi…” Hana warned.
“They have a fortress here.” Yoshi motioned about them. “An army of Foxes inside it. Another army of Tigers and Phoenix to the south. If everyone stopped for one minute and pulled their honorable heads out of their honorable asses—”
Ginjiro’s voice rose. “It would be shameful to ally with a Guild lackey who has insulted our Lord and is poised to invade our homeland.”
“Idiots,” Yoshi muttered. “Little boys playing soldiers…”
Ginjiro slammed his hand on the table.
“I think everyone should take a breath,” Yukiko said. “Think about this rationally.”
“But that’s not an option, is it?” Yoshi said. “Not when honor and Bushido and all that bullshit is concerned. They’d rather die alone than stand together—”
Ginjiro laughed. “So we push the gaijin into the sea together and then what? You think the Guild will forgive us for sheltering their rebels? Or insulting their puppet Shōgun?”
Daimyo Isamu’s finger drummed on the iron-thrower at his waist. “Perhaps you suggest we withdraw our support and leave the Guild rebellion and you to rot, young man?”
“Of course not—”
“The Guild want your Kagé crushed, Yukiko dead, me kneeling at Hiro’s feet. The cards are dealt. We play the hand we are given, or bow out of the game. There is no third option.”
“So what’s the plan, then? Hole up here and see who arrives to slaughter us first?” Yoshi turned to Yukiko. “We should have stayed in the godsdamned mountains…”
“This is what we asked for, Yoshi,” Yukiko said. “Perhaps it’s fitting. We warred on the gaijin for twenty years. Killed their people. Stole their children. Maybe we deserve retribution.”
“Interesting that it comes now,” Isamu mused. “I fought in Morcheba for years, and the round-eyes were never this organized. They were a mob. Fierce as rabid wolves, but never an army. Where did this fleet come from?”
“They mustered it to the north.” Yukiko pushed her empty plate aside and sighed. “Away from their own shoreline so the Shōgunate forces wouldn’t know their plans.”
“But where did the orders come from? Who pulled it together?”
“Imperatritsa.”
Everyone at the table turned to Piotr. The gaijin had been silent until this point, smoking ruefully at what looked to be the last of his honeyweed. Now he ambled over to the gathering, exhaled pale gray into the air between them.
“What the hells does that mean?” Michi asked.
“I’ve heard that word before,” Yukiko said. “But I’m not sure what it is…”
Piotr gathered a bunch of empty cups from the tea service and arranged them before him.
“Twelve house,” he said,
gesturing to the cups. “Grigori, Baranova, Mostovoi, and is more, da? Twelve.”
“Twelve gaijin clans?” Akihito suggested.
“Da,” Piotr nodded. “Is clan, but not. Twelve house.” He pushed several of the cups into each other, sending one rolling. “We fight. No peace. Many years. Then…” He pointed to the Iron Samurai gathered around Isamu. “Shima is coming. Samurai. Making the war.” He pushed at the cups again. “Then one is coming. Imperatritsa. She take twelve…” The gaijin scooped the cups together into one mass of wobbling porcelain. “Make one. Imperatritsa Ostrovska.”
“A warlord,” Isamu said. “A warlord who united the gaijin clans.”
“I saw an image of her at the lightning farm,” Yukiko nodded. “A woman on a throne with twelve stars in her lap. She wore the skin of a great black eagle.”
“Not eagle.” Piotr shook his head. “Gryfon. Much strength. Much prize.”
Yukiko swallowed her reply before it had begun.
“She?” Ginjiro raised an eyebrow. “You are led by a woman?”
“She Zryachniye.” Piotr pointed to Hana. “Like pretty girl.”
Yoshi and Hana looked at each other, saying nothing. Silence descended, each stare settling on the girl and her impossible iris, glowing the color of rose-quartz. Akihito could see the blond roots in her hair—the gaijin blood she’d hidden for years creeping slowly to the surface.
“So, there’s our history lesson for the day,” Michi said. “But it still doesn’t solve the problem of the fleet of gaijin berserkers now drinking the Dragon Daimyo’s best saké. Nor Tora Hiro and his iron colossus.”
Yukiko nodded. “If the gaijin march west, we’ll sit between two armies. I don’t know if we have the strength to repel one. But we have to try.”
“This city was built to withstand an oni’s siege,” Ginjiro said. “It will withstand this.”
“So that’s the grand stratagem, General?” Michi said. “Just sit and wait?”
Misaki leaned forward, steepling her fingers at her chin. “Before the uprising, the rebellion had a plan to strike at First House. Destroy the chi stores there, along with the First Bloom. With no resupply, the Earthcrusher would not march long before running dry.”
“Finally, someone speaks wisdom,” Michi breathed.
“We’d been trying to infiltrate the complex for years, but only the Serpents and the Upper Blooms are allowed access.”
“There’s that word again,” Yukiko said. “What does it mean? Who are these Serpents?”
“They call themselves the Inquisition.” Misaki ran one hand over her bald scalp. “But they’re a cult, really. More fanatical than the Purifiers. They live in a kind of perpetual dream from drinking lotus smoke all day, and they guard the First Bloom. Maybe they control him too. No one really knows. But they’ve been part of the Guild since it was a Guild.”
“And why do you call them Serpents?”
“They visit chapterhouses to oversee the Awakening ceremonies. Whenever we got the chance, we’d set a drone on their trail. Years this took us, inch by careful inch. But they have serpents tattooed on their right arms.”
“Their right arms?” Akihito frowned. “Where their clan ink should be?”
“As you say.”
“A clan within the Guild?” Yukiko raised an eyebrow.
“That is impossible,” said Daimyo Isamu. “The Serpent clan no longer exists, any more than the Cranes or Monkeys or Leopards. The twenty-four clans became four zaibatsu when Kazumitsu seized his throne. The rest are dead and gone. My own ancestor, great Okimoto, crushed the Serpents into dust. Even Kitsune children know the tale.”
“Crushed?” Akihito blinked at the old clanlord. “When the first Daimyo took the Phoenix Throne, he offered peace to the clans in his territories. They were welcomed, not exterminated.”
“Okimoto offered the same to the Wolves, Falcons and Spiders, Akihito-san. But the Serpents venerated Lady Izanami, Mother of Death. Their lands sat on the borders of the Iishi mountains, close to the ruins of Devil Gate. They built temples to her name in the wilds. Called upon her to sing the song that would end the world.”
“The Iishi black temple.” Yukiko looked at Michi. “Where the oni lived…”
“I studied history for years,” Michi said. “The library in the Shōgun’s palace was so big I got lost in it three times, and I never read anything about this.”
“The Guild control the airwaves,” Yukiko said. “Write the histories.”
Misaki nodded. “And the Inquisition control the Guild.”
“If they didn’t want their clan spoken of, it wouldn’t be…”
“This is foolishness,” Isamu said. “The Serpent clan have been dead two hundred years.”
Yukiko nodded. “About the same time the Lotus Guild has existed for.”
“Conspiracies everywhere, eh?” Isamu smiled. “Perhaps you’ve spent too much time at the Court of Tigers, young lady.”
Yukiko smiled in return. “Perhaps you haven’t spent enough, old man.”
The Daimyo chuckled as Yukiko turned to Misaki.
“What do these Inquisitors look like?”
“Black clothing. Bloodshot eyes. They walk and speak as if in a daze, wear breathers allowing them to imbibe lotus smoke every waking moment.”
“In that case, perhaps we could ask about this Serpent clan,” Ginjiro said.
Yukiko blinked. “What are you saying, General?”
“Our corvettes crippled three Guild ships during the rebel uprising. One was destroyed when it collided with a sky-spire, but the two others were successfully boarded. Our forces arrested and detained most of the crews.”
He glanced around the table. Rose slowly to his feet.
“We have one of these Inquisitors in our dungeons.”
13
ABOUT A GIRL
In Danro city, a rebel Guildsman walks into the Market Square, and, piece by piece, removes his metal skin. And there, sitting naked before the wondering crowd, he douses himself with chi from his tanks, and calmly sets himself on fire.
The same day, two False-Lifers contaminate the Chapterhouse Danro nutrient feed with blacksleep toxin. Thirteen shatei and two kyodai die before the cause is discovered. In the resulting arrest attempt, the False-Lifers kill three Purifiers before being killed themselves.
Upper Blooms of Chapterhouse Kigen call an emergency meeting to discuss the assassination attempt on Second Bloom Kensai. Ten minutes into the debate, a lone Lotusman enters the Hall of Council and detonates an improvised explosive device inside his chi tanks, killing almost every ranking kyodai in Kigen city.
The feeds from Kawa city speak of a gaijin horde rising from the sea. An army marching beneath a banner set with twelve red stars. The skies are filled with rotor-thopters, the boardwalk with blue-eyed devils clad in the skins of beasts, the streets with slaughter.
The First House feeds are now edged with steel, demanding the Tora fleet fly at maximum speed to rendezvous with the Earthcrusher. The Stormdancer’s insurrection in Yama must be crushed. The Earthcrusher must then march east before the gaijin establish a firm foothold in Shima. The lotus must bloom.
The feeds from Yama still crackle with constant static.
The mechabacus hum is now tinged with fear.
A mask of brass hides his expression entirely.
* * *
When he was younger, Kin had thought it strange that cloudwalkers spoke about sky-ships like they were women. As a boy, he’d known ships only in schematic form, never really saw anything feminine in the designs. But he’d hear cloudwalker captains come to commission the Guild shipmasters, and noticed the men always referred to the vessels as “she” or “her.”
He always wondered about that. Whether cloudwalkers spent so much time away from their families, they began to think of their ships as second brides. Perhaps when faced with the fury of a lightning storm, every sailor remembered a time when all they needed to banish the fear was the warmth of a moth
er’s arms.
Kin didn’t pretend to understand. He’d never known a wife or daughter or mother. He could only imagine what those things might feel like. Perhaps that was why the Guild named their ships as things instead. None of them knew. Not really.
Standing at the bow of the Daimyo’s flagship, he watched the Guild navy dip and roll across iron-red skies. Even for someone who had apprenticed on a beauty like the Thunder Child, the sight was impressive; four lumbering ironclads and a dozen sleek corvettes, filling the air with metal thunder, the sky smeared blue-black behind.
Names were painted in broad, bold kanji down each vessel’s prow—not tributes to mothers or daughters or wives, but names born of obsession with the weed at the Imperium’s foundation. The Scarlet Bloom and the Winter Harvest. Blessed Light and the Lotus Wind. The thundering fortress Kin flew upon had been the only Tora sky-ship to escape the Kagé attack on Docktown relatively unscathed. Her name had been Red Tigress under Yoritomo’s reign, but the pride of the Tiger fleet had been repaired and repainted just before they left Kigen, bold, fresh kanji now scrolling down her prow, proudly proclaiming her new name to the world.
The Honorable Death.
The ground below was a pockmarked wasteland, the rusting hulk of a chi pipeline snaking away through the deadlands fumes. Kin looked to the Winter Harvest blackening the skies four hundred yards off their stern. He didn’t think of the man who’d trusted him, locked somewhere in that ship’s hold. He didn’t think of the night on the Thunder Child when she stood beside him, hand in hand as they laughed in the clean rain. He didn’t think of her lips pressed against his in the Iishi, raindrops reflected like jewels in her eyes.
The world around him slowly unraveled; insurgency rising, gaijin plundering, total war drawing closer. And in all that chaos, Kin thought of nothing. Nothing at all.
Safer that way.
“I know you.”
Kin turned from the fleet to the figure that had materialized beside him. The armor made a small din as he moved; spitting chi, hissing pistons, clockwork teeth. Painted death-white, the same as the ashes smeared on his face. The master of the Tiger zaibatsu. The one who would lead the Tora army to final victory. The corpse that hungered for its grave.
