Steel Crow Saga

by Paul Krueger

  “We just want to be on our way,” Tala said carefully. “We have—”

  “I don’t negotiate with slavers,” the man spat. “My offer for salvation doesn’t extend to you, barbarian.”

  Jimuro drew himself up as regally as he could. “I go nowhere without Sergeant Tala.”

  That took the Cicada leader aback. “But, Your Brilliance—”

  “Am I your Iron Prince, or am I not?” Jimuro said, in what he hoped was a passable impression of his mother.

  The man hesitated only a little before bowing gently. “Of course. Your will is unquestionable, my liege.” He raised the megaphone to his mouth again. “Move out!” Then he dropped the megaphone again and pointed to his waiting vehicle at the intersection. “With me!”

  As they broke into a run, Tala returned Beaky to its place within her body. Jimuro could feel her reluctance to let it go, but he respected her for doing it anyway. He knew the creature well enough by now, and he still had misgivings about it. He could only imagine how its presence would’ve colored the conversation that was to follow.

  The car’s interior was black, velvety, and lush: Not the kind of strictly utilitarian, disposable vehicle he would’ve expected a resistance effort to use. The addition of himself and Tala made the backseat cramped, but he appreciated the comfort of the familiar.

  Tala seemed far less impressed. “These aren’t soldiers,” she muttered in Sanbuna.

  The Cicada shrugged and looked vaguely amused. “No, we’re not,” he said mildly. He jerked his head out the window, at the red-coated corpses lying in the street. “They were.” He switched back to Tomodanese to address his driver. “Go.”

  Tires screeched as the car peeled away. Other cars fell in behind it, and traffic swerved to avoid them as Cicadas leaned out from the car windows, firing wild rounds of bullets into the air.

  Jimuro had to wonder about where those bullets might land, but the Cicada leader seemed unbothered. He leaned back in his seat, then removed his steel mask at last to reveal a handsome and surprisingly youthful face. But his thick, slanted eyebrows made Jimuro’s own knit with thought. Those were Kurihara eyebrows, through and through.

  The young man appeared to be studying Jimuro with equal curiosity. “I’m sorry for staring, Your Brilliance,” he said. “It’s just…I wasn’t certain I’d see you again.” He smiled a bit coyly before adding, “And besides, you’re a bit more handsome than I remember.”

  Tala scowled, but that was nothing new. Tala scowled at everything.

  Still, the man’s comments did nothing to clear matters up for Jimuro. “Forgive me, sir,” he said carefully, “but do we know each other?”

  A light flickered behind his eyes. “Of course,” the man said. “I’m Kurihara Kosuke, son of Lord Daisuke.”

  Recognition flitted across Tala’s face. Not the pleasant kind. “The Red Tide.”

  Kosuke’s mouth took a satisfied slant. “The only person to ever defeat General Erega in open battle.”

  “The general won a war,” Tala said. “What’s your father won lately?”

  Kosuke’s amusement instantly snuffed.

  “Both of you, stop it,” Jimuro said. He was thinking. The name Kurihara was of course familiar, but the name Kosuke was new. “I see your resemblance to Lord Daisuke, but he only ever had a daughter, Keiko. Are you…forgive me, but are you some bastard son of his?” Bastards weren’t unheard of in Tomoda, and the stigma was highly regionalized. In some prefectures, a competent or charismatic bastard could rise quite high in society. But as it happened, the Kurihara clan did not govern such a place.

  Kosuke ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “Lord Kurihara has only ever had a son,” he said simply. “He just needed some time to understand that.” His expression lightened. “Though in fairness to him, I needed some time, too.”

  Jimuro’s eyes widened. “Kei—”

  “Kosuke, if you please, Your Brilliance,” he said. “Keiko is a beautiful name, and my mother honored me by choosing it, but it’s not mine anymore.”

  Jimuro nodded. His mind spun wildly with questions, but he wouldn’t give voice to them. “Kosuke,” he agreed.

  Kosuke beamed, before his attention slid past Jimuro to his glowering bodyguard. “I disgust you, do I, savage?”

  Tala grunted. “All terrorists do.”

  “ ‘Terrorist,’ ” Kosuke repeated. “The Steel Cicadas are the children and retainers of the great houses of Tomoda. Our parents rot in prison while they await farce trials. The Copper Sages have bent their necks to foreign occupiers, the better for those outsiders to lop off their heads. Our great military has been forcibly disbanded by those who rightfully fear its might. Only we remain to keep the outlanders’ boot off Tomoda’s neck. We fight for our country and its people, and we’ll continue to fight for them until Tomoda is reborn, like a glistening cicada crawling up from the soil to cry its song to the heavens.” His momentum had picked up the more he’d talked, and now intensity radiated off him like heat from a car hood.

  Jimuro couldn’t help but grin. “Am I supposed to believe you came up with that off the cuff?”

  Kosuke matched the grin with one of his own. “Of course not. With a speech that good, why leave anything to chance?”

  Tala remained unmoved by his charm. “All your speechifying doesn’t change what you are,” she said. “How many Tomodanese have you killed in your little raids?”

  “Sergeant—” Jimuro began, but Kosuke rose to the bait.

  “As if Erega’s jungle-runners never sent a Sanbuna citizen to an early grave.” Haughtily, he folded his arms over his chest and tossed his head. The gesture looked odd now, but with a head of long hair it would’ve made perfect sense. Jimuro could recognize that easily enough, given his own long hair. “The Shang we killed today robbed the Tomodanese people. We merely took back our riches, and will redistribute them to those who need and deserve them…”

  Tala’s eyes flashed, steely. “After a cut off the top?”

  The accusation didn’t appear to wound Kosuke at all. “Wars are expensive, Your Brilliance,” he said, ignoring Tala now. “You know that even better than I. The Steel Cicadas take only what we need, and use the rest to buy up food for the hungry, clothing for the cold, or else we just give it back directly. You’ll see soon enough: The Cicadas are fighting your good fight, Your Brilliance.

  “In the meantime, though, I have to ask how you came to be returned to us here in Tajiri, and what you intend to do now that you’re home. Whatever your goals, the Steel Cicadas are behind you.”

  Tala caught Jimuro’s eye and gave him a tiny shake of her head. And most of the time, Jimuro would’ve agreed with her. But they were fighting at a fraction of a fraction of the strength Erega had assigned to ensure the completion of Operation: Grand Tour. And here was a group of trained fighters with resources, offering themselves up to aid him. He would’ve been a fool to say no to that.

  And besides, Kosuke was an old friend, and Jimuro was tired of being surrounded by enemies.

  When Jimuro had finished with his tale, Kosuke sat heavily back in his seat. Jimuro expected him to sag under the weight of what he’d just heard, but when his eyes met Jimuro’s, they brimmed with earnestness and urgency. “Prince Jimuro,” he said, “this is a burden the Steel Cicadas were born to shoulder for you.” He reached into his kimono and pulled out a shiny black gun. Tala stirred, but Jimuro waved her off as Kosuke laid it flat across both his palms before bowing gently and offering it up to Jimuro. It was a formal offer of his service, and that of his allies: as solemn a promise as he could make. The implication of offering up his weapon was that if his service ever displeased his liege in any way, this was the tool that would be used to punish him for it.

  Jimuro glanced over at the sergeant one last time, and once again she shook her head. He could understand why. Politi
cs had conspired to make her grow up hating the Tomodanese, and being surrounded by them couldn’t possibly be comfortable for her. And he was sure in her heart of hearts, she would take Jimuro’s acceptance of Kosuke’s service as a tacit admission that she had failed in her duties.

  But he was a prince in his own country again. He was destined to live a life serving his people. What kind of Steel Lord would he be if he turned his back on them now, when they wanted nothing more than to help him?

  He took the pistol in hand, closed his eyes, and touched its cool surface to his face, so its length ran along the ridge of his nose. It was a ritual meant to symbolize him accepting the metal as a vessel in his service, and its master by proxy. After a long second, he opened his eyes again and handed it back. Kosuke accepted it gratefully with another bow.

  “Our headquarters isn’t far from here,” he said. “I’ll have the Cicadas spread the word that tonight, we welcome our Iron Prince back where he belongs.” Once again, his coy smile emerged. “Tell me, Your Brilliance: Have your years away robbed you of your taste for sake?”

  Tala turned away in disgust, glaring out the window as if willing the passing cityscape to light itself on fire.

  Jimuro ignored her. He was too taken now with memories of the sips of sake that he, Kosuke, and Fumiko would sneak as children when they thought their parents weren’t paying attention.

  “I still have a taste for a lot of things,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  “To the memories of Steel Lord Yoshiko and Steel Consort Soujiro!” Kosuke cried, raising his steel sake cup aloft.

  Up and down the long, low table, two dozen more raised in response. “May they live ten thousand years!” the Steel Cicadas chorused.

  They had gathered in the Steel Cicadas’ headquarters: a temple built atop a low mountain some thirty kilometers outside Tajiri. The Sages of the past had dotted the countryside with temples just like it, each built over a major nexus of the spirits. Jimuro knelt at the head of a long, low table of copper and wood, a full Tomodanese feast laid out before him. Normally, such tables would be used for solemn gatherings of meditation, but there was nothing solemn about the raucous gathering of Cicadas over which he presided.

  At his right stood Kosuke, who like his cohorts had changed from his black kimono to a sapphire one for the occasion. Its cotton folds draped appealingly over his slight figure, making him look every bit the image of dashing Tomodanese gentry.

  And to Jimuro’s left seethed Tala. It was customary in Tomoda to receive meals by kneeling on the floor, but the stubborn sergeant was used to chairs. She sat defiantly cross-legged, and hadn’t even bothered to remove her hat. Instead, she just glowered down at the collection of plates in front of her.

  Kosuke, to Jimuro’s relief, ignored the slight. “To the memory of Iron Princess Fumiko!”

  Once again, the response arose: “May she live ten thousand years!”

  Kosuke let his hand fall onto Jimuro’s shoulder. Jimuro felt some color rise to his face.

  Next to him, Tala glared into the depths of her metal cup, as if willing her sake to boil.

  “And to the greatest blessing,” Kosuke said, as a low rumble of cheers spread through those assembled. “Returned to our sacred soil at last, the divine vessel of the spirits, beating heart of our people…”

  The cheers crescendoed.

  “…our great Steel-Lord-to-be and the instrument of Tomoda’s rebirth, Iron Prince Jimuro!”

  And the Cicadas all cried out: “May he live ten thousand years!”

  With a clink that echoed around the dining room, the Steel Cicadas tapped their sake cups to the table, drained them, then slammed them back down in front of them. A throaty cheer went up, and Jimuro joined in as he savored the familiar crisp burning in his throat and on his tongue.

  Tala sat still, her sake untouched.

  He shot her a beseeching look: Please don’t make this weird for me.

  But she just sat there, arms folded. The brim of her hat shaded her eyes, but he could see them reflected in the surface of her soup.

  He opened his mouth to say something to her, then realized he didn’t hear the scrape of chopsticks in bowls. When he looked up, he saw everyone staring at him expectantly.

  Of course, he realized. He was so used to eating with his family, where he was the lowest, or among his own troops, where he insisted on eating when they ate. But now he wasn’t a captain anymore; he was a prince, and his subjects wouldn’t eat before he did.

  With dignified delicacy, he picked up his chopsticks, then scooped a glob of rice into his mouth.

  Once he did that, the Steel Cicadas dug in with gusto. There was rice with sweet pickled plum paste, seared tofu, tempura-fried peapods, seaweed salad, and—spirits bless Kosuke and the House of Kurihara—big, steaming bowls of his favorite, mushroom udon.

  He fed himself some of the noodles, and luxuriated in the familiar earthy flavors washing over his palate. During his long captivity, he’d grown used to the bold, punchy tastes favored by the Sanbuna tongue. But there was something so refreshing and refined about the clean, light flavors and dining presentation of his own people. Sanbuna food may have fed his body, but the elegant fare of Tomoda nourished his soul.

  “I hope the spread’s to your liking, Your Brilliance,” Kosuke said. He beckoned a servant over, and the young man hurried to refill their sake cups.

  “It’s wonderful,” Jimuro said. “And all this in a temporary base, no less?”

  Kosuke raised his cup in offer. “Like my father always said: Wars aren’t won by the hungry.”

  Jimuro grinned, thinking of his own father’s paunch. “What your father said, mine lived.” He clinked his cup against Kosuke’s.

  The two drank, and once again Jimuro savored the burn of good sake.

  “And it’s not just food,” Kosuke went on. “We’ve stockpiled a good amount of munitions and vehicles. We have agents and bases across the country. We continue to provide for the people, so they know who their true friends are. With a word from you, Your Brilliance, we could rise up and take our country back.”

  “Tch.”

  Jimuro’s whole body went hot as he heard Tala make the noise. With painstaking slowness, he turned back to her. She’d lifted up her rice bowl with her right hand, then dug directly into the rice with her left. Her chopsticks lay forgotten on the table as the Cicadas stared on in disgust.

  A chill settled over Kosuke, and he sat up a little straighter. “You may have gotten used to treating our prince so poorly, slaver, but I’m the son of one of Tomoda’s great clans, and you’re in my house. You will not scoff at me.”

  Tala looked unconcerned, which Jimuro saw only deepened Kosuke’s antipathy. “Well, it’s not your house,” she said, gesturing to their surroundings. “You said it was a temple, didn’t you?” She put the rice down, only to pick up the bowl of udon and slurp some broth from it as if it were a cup. Jimuro winced.

  “And what’s more,” Tala said, “you’re barking if you think that’s what Jimuro’s going to do when he’s got the Mountain Throne.”

  Jimuro opened his mouth to speak, but Kosuke spoke first.

  “It’s not up to you, telling the Steel Lord what he does with his divinely ordained birthright,” said Kosuke. “You’re not in your own country anymore, you savage, and the steel of the Tomodanese people won’t bend to you.” Cheers greeted his words.

  Tala rolled her eyes. “Tell them, Your Brilliance,” she said. “Tell them this uprising’s a quick way to get people killed, nothing more. Tell them about the world Steel Lord Jimuro wants to build.”

  Jimuro shifted in his seat and said nothing. In the corner of his eye, Kosuke’s face lit up.

  Tala stared at him in disbelief. “Iron Prince Jimuro,” she said. “You can’t be serious.”

  Jimur
o’s eyes flickered between Tala and Kosuke, both of whom looked up at him with expectation: Tala’s irate, Kosuke’s smug.

  At long last, he said, “I have several matters to consider before the Sages crown me, and even more for afterward. After the day I’ve had, for now I’d rather just consider the food.”

  An approving cheer rose up again from the Cicadas. Kosuke smiled, though there was a new tightness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. Tala’s expression, on the other hand, was an unchanging portrait of disapproval.

  She plucked a fistful of tempura radishes from her bowl, and popped one into her mouth. She rose. “I need air.”

  “How dare you rise before the Iron Prince,” Kosuke said, but he fell silent when Jimuro rose, too.

  “I’ll walk with you a moment,” he said, before telling the rest of the Cicadas, “Please continue without me. I’ll return shortly.”

  Kosuke still had his misgivings drawn on his face when Jimuro slid the door shut behind him, leaving him and Tala alone in the long, narrow hallway. “Sergeant, do you care to explain what it is you’re playing at?” he said, switching to Sanbuna. The last thing he needed was her starting trouble, and it seemed like an easy enough measure to placate her.

  Its effectiveness was limited, though, because she snapped back in Tomodanese: “You can’t seriously expect to just throw the world back into war.”

  “What? Of course not,” Jimuro said. He was so confused. What in the spirits’ name had set her off like this?

  “Then why aren’t you telling them that?” Tala said, jabbing a finger at the closed door. “Why aren’t you telling them to lay down their weapons and help this peace happen?”

  Jimuro bristled and folded his arms over his chest. “Don’t tell me how to govern my people,” he said.

  “You serve them,” Tala said. “Don’t you? Isn’t that what you were going on about earlier? How is going along with that plan serving them?”