by Jay Kristoff
“Hai,” it said.
Yukiko stared back hard, ignoring Akihito’s not-so-subtle gestures for silence. “Why? No lotus is being hauled on this trip.”
“Every sky-ship leaving port is required to have an Artificer on board.”
“To spy on the crew, right? Make sure they aren’t taking their own cut of the shipments?”
“To maintain the engines. Citizen.”
Yukiko licked her lips and remained mute as the deck rocked beneath them. The Guildsman peered at her for a heavy, silent moment, then with seemingly nothing left to do, it turned to leave.
“The lotus must bloom,” it rasped, clanking back toward the cabin.
Akihito waited until it was out of sight before turning on Yukiko. “What the hells were you speaking to it for?” he hissed. “Why are you always pushing those bastards?”
Kasumi’s voice was gentle. “Yukiko, you should be more careful…”
“You’re not my mother,” Yukiko glared at the older woman. “Don’t you dare try to lecture me.”
She scowled down at the deck, stabbing her tantō into the wood again. Kasumi watched her for a moment, worry written in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. Then with a meaningful glance at Akihito, she returned to her work. The big man sighed, spat on his whetstone again and resumed grinding it across the edge of one razor-sharp blade.
Almost everyone Yukiko knew distrusted and feared the Guild, but their Artificers built the technical marvels on which the Empire now depended to expand. She knew there must have been a time before all this, before the five-sided chapterhouses grew in the heart of Shima’s cities, choking the streets with exhaust fumes and the skies with toxins. But if there was such a day, it lay too far back in history now for anyone she knew to remember it. If asked where the Guild had come from, or how they had come to control the fuel that drove the Shōgunate, the average citizen would most likely cast a wary glance over his shoulder and quickly turn his talk to other things.
What did it matter where they came from, or when? They were here now, brass fingers entwined in every zaibatsu court, lurking beside Yoritomo’s throne like clockwork spiders, as vital to the Shōgunate as oxygen to a drowning man.
For their part, the Guild’s Communications Ministry was always careful to downplay the citizenry’s fears. They provided entertainments to distract the masses from their troubling thoughts about mass extinctions or spreading blacklung: the soapstar plays and traditional operas transmitted across the wondrous new wireless system, the bloody arena games using the seemingly endless stream of gaijin slaves from the wars overseas. Cheap liquor and processed lotus buds to intoxicate and befuddle; a grand, churning machine of misdirection and distraction that kept the factories grinding and the forges burning.
There was far too much at stake to allow a few missing pandas to get in the way of production quotas. The Guild had a world to conquer.
The rigging creaked above Yukiko’s head. Sharp calls rang out across the crimson sky as a cloudwalker spotted a crane in the distance; a lonely silhouette against a backdrop of burning red. The sailors called to the bird, hands outstretched, asking for good fortune. To see a crane in the sky these days was a rarity. Surely Lord Izanagi had sent it as a sign of his blessing to the Black Fox’s venture?
Masaru and Yamagata emerged from below deck, deep in conversation. Yukiko watched as the pair parted ways, the captain barking at his crew to put their backs into it. Masaru turned and stalked up to the bow.
“Kasumi,” he rasped, “I want spotlights set up on either side of the pilot’s deck. Ask Yamagata’s permission before you drill any railings. Akihito, start assembling the cage. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Kasumi and Akihito exchanged a quick glance, packed up their gear and moved off without a word. Yukiko pretended not to notice the look that passed between her father and Kasumi, the way his eyes lingered on hers for just a fraction too long. She gritted her teeth, fixed her stare on the deck.
Masaru watched the pair descend into the cargo hold, then folded his arms and turned on his daughter. Yukiko glanced up at her father. He’d changed into his sleeveless hunting haori, loose-fitting hakama covering his legs. His arms were beaded with sweat, tattoos gleaming in the red light. He looked haggard, shadows under his goggles, face drawn and gray. An angry bruise had set up camp beneath his left eye and was sending out exploratory forces across his cheek.
“You look terrible,” Yukiko murmured. “You should get some sleep.”
“Do you want to tell me what the hells you thought you were doing today?” Masaru growled.
Yukiko pulled her knife free from the deck and stabbed it into the wood again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play games with me, girl. Kenning in front of the Shōgun?”
“Was I supposed to let them kill it? Because some idiot girl wants to smell pretty and—”
“It was a damned dog, Yukiko!”
“There are a lot fewer dogs left on this island than there are people.”
“It’s not worth risking your neck over! The Guildsmen are burning Impure every bloody month. What were you thinking?”
“Probably the same thing you were thinking this morning when you risked your neck over a game of cards. That yak’ almost killed you.”
“Akihito was there,” Masaru scoffed. “Nothing would have happened.”
“You were so smoke-drunk, anything could have happened.”
“Dammit, girl, this isn’t about me! Kenning in public? What would your mother say?”
“What would she say about you?” Yukiko snapped, rising to her feet. “An old drunk so blinded by the dragon you could barely stand? Gambling and fighting and smoking yourself legless every godsdamned day? No wonder she left you!”
Masaru recoiled as if she’d slapped him, mouth agape, skin turning a paler shade of gray. Yukiko turned her back and stared out over the bow, loose strands of hair whipping about her face. She hugged herself and shivered despite the heat, great seas of swaying red and green flying away beneath her feet.
“Ichigo, I…”
“Just leave me alone,” she sighed.
“Ichigo” was the pet name he’d given her when she was little. “Strawberry.” It seemed trite to her now; a remnant from days that were long gone, and never coming back.
She could feel him lingering behind her, silent and hurt. Remorse began bubbling up inside her, but she pushed it down into her toes, remembering all the nights she’d dragged him to bed reeking of smoke, unable even to undress himself. The months of watching every single coin while he pissed his pay away in smoke houses and drinking pits. The shame when he slurred or stumbled or got into fistfights.
She was sixteen years old. He was supposed to be looking after her.
The truth was she missed her father. She missed the strong proud man who had put her and her brother on his shoulders as he stalked through the bamboo forest. She missed sitting by the fire on her mother’s knee, listening to him tell stories of the great hunts, his quick, dark eyes alight with life and flame. She missed the days before they had moved to Kigen city; those brief, wonderful years when they had all been together and happy.
It was all gone now. Forest, brother, mother, life. All of it disappearing in a puff of blue-black smoke.
You never even let me say goodbye to her.
She heard his boots scrape on the deck, soft footsteps retreating into the distance.
She was alone.
8
KIN
Yukiko awoke in the deep of night, staring at the hammock above her. Her father snored, swaying with the tilt and roll of the ship as it trekked northward. The room stank of lotus smoke, a half-empty pipe still clutched in Masaru’s hand. She sighed, sitting upright and swinging her legs to the deck, her toes searching unsuccessfully for her sandals.
She stood and rubbed her eyes, steadying herself against the wall. The room was cramped but private, a round portal of cloudy beach glass st
aring out into the dark beyond. She had dreamed of the Iron Samurai with the sea-green eyes; a silly, girlish fancy of flowers and longing stares and happy-ever-afters that left her stomach fluttering with a hundred butterfly wings. She shook her head, pushed the thoughts from her mind. Nobility didn’t mix with the common-born, even if she was a blooded clansman. Yōkai kin didn’t mix with folk who would gladly see them burn on Guild pyres, either. The muck she stood in was deep enough already without starting to entertain childish fantasies.
The little room felt stifling, closing about her with wooden, smoke-stained fists. She opened the door and slipped out onto the deck.
The engines droned their metallic song through the still night. The cloudwalkers on watch were huddled in a small knot on the starboard side, passing a pipe back and forth and muttering over a game of dice. The sound of bones rolling across wood masked her soft footsteps, and she passed by without being noticed. The balloon above her creaked; the swollen bladder of some great, prehistoric beast. The wood was smooth and warm beneath her toes.
The Thunder Child measured one hundred and twenty feet from the dragon figurehead carved at her bow to her square, towering stern. Yukiko padded across the deck, hands stuffed into her obi. She headed up toward the front of the ship, as far from the engines as she could be, hoping for a moment’s relief from the stink of burning fuel. Stepping up onto the foredeck, she felt a rush of cool wind in her face, whispering fingers running through her hair. A dozen barrels of chi were packed at the bow, and she leaned on them with both hands, looked out into the blackness with wide, dark eyes.
The moon was a smear of pink across a hazy sky. It cast a sullen light on the land below, enough to make out the lotus fields, the serpentine shadow of the iron pipeline, the gleam of a little river snaking down from the mountains on the horizon. They must be close to the lands of the Dragon clan by now, and the ship would soon have to turn northeast to avoid the no-fly zone around First House. Small pinpricks of light were dotted about the landscape, and in the distance she could see a tiny bright cluster in the foothills of the eastern mountain range: the great Ryu metropolis of Kawa.
She sighed and watched the night, trying not to think about a boy with an oni’s face and a pair of dazzling, sea-green eyes.
“What do you see?” A soft voice. Behind her.
She whirled about, hand on the tantō at the small of her back. There was a boy in front of her, perhaps a little older than she, knife-bright eyes staring from a tired, fragile face. He was plain looking, unstained by soot or smoke; neat as freshly washed sheets or an unopened book. Clean gray linen was loosely draped over his lean body, hair cropped close to his scalp. He raised his hands and took half a step back, ready to ward off a blow.
“Hold, Lady.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Yukiko snapped.
“I am sorry that I startled you.” He bowed, hand covering fist.
Yukiko glanced back at the huddle of cloudwalkers at the other end of the deck. She heard a snatch of laughter, the sound of dice. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, cool breeze kissing her face. Annoyance had replaced her sudden fear, and she wished the boy would be on his way.
“What do you see?” The question came again, just as soft.
“Who are you?” she frowned, half turning. She thought she had already met most of the crew. He was too old to be a cabin boy. Perhaps a galley worker?
“My name is Kin.” He bowed again.
“Your clan?”
“I have none, Lady.”
“And why do you bother me, Burakumin Kin?”
“I did not say I was lowborn, Lady.”
Yukiko fell silent. She turned her back fully to the stranger, indicating that she wished him to leave. Though she was not nobility, nor possessed of their notions about what was “proper” for a young, unwed lady, she was still uncertain if she should be up here alone with this strange boy. Her father definitely wouldn’t approve.
The deck trembled beneath them as the helmsman adjusted course. Stars tried to twinkle in the skies above; faded jewels strewn across a blanket of dusty black velvet.
“I often come here at night to enjoy the breeze on my face,” Kin continued. “The solitude is pleasant, hai?”
“… I suppose so.”
“You are Kitsune Yukiko, daughter of the great Masaru-sama.”
She snorted, but said nothing.
“What brings you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, if it is any of your concern.”
“Bad dreams?”
Yukiko turned to look at him, a frown on her face. This was no galley boy. She peered at the ghost-pale chest between the folds of his robe, what little she could see of his arms. There was no sign of irezumi anywhere, which meant he couldn’t be a blooded clansman, let alone one of the nobility. But he was far too clean and too well spoken …
Who is he?
“I have bad dreams too.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling in smudged hollows.
“Are you … kami? A spirit?”
He laughed then, deep and rich, full of genuine mirth. Yukiko’s cheeks burned for embarrassment, but soon she found herself caught up in his laughter, stifling a smirk behind one hand before chuckling along with the boy.
“I’m sorry, that was foolish.” She smiled, smoothing her hair behind her ears.
“Not at all,” he shook his head. “I am no spirit, Yukiko-chan.”
“Then what are you?”
“Alone.” He shrugged again. “Like you.”
The boy gave a deep bow, lowering his eyes to the varnished floor. He straightened with a frail smile, nodded his head, then turned and wandered away. He stayed out of the guttering tungsten lamplight, sticking to the shadows as if he belonged inside them. The cloudwalkers were too intent on their dice to mark his passing.
Yukiko watched him disappear down the stairs, loose strands of hair caught in the wind and flailing at her eyes.
Well, that was odd …
* * *
“You realize this is all bloody pointless.”
Akihito wiped sweat from his brow as he muttered. He grunted and lifted another iron bar, sliding it into position on the heavy, soldered base. After almost two days of work, the cage was nearly complete.
Kasumi shrugged and fastened another bolt, shaking the bars to ensure the thread was tight. She stood and coughed, slightly out of breath in the thin air. Damp hair hung about her goggles, sticking to the glass. She lifted her kerchief to wipe away the sweat painting her lips.
“Well, service to Yoritomo the Mighty isn’t all fancy women and cheap liquor,” she sighed.
“The Shōgun is going to be disappointed if we come back empty-handed, Kas’. Yoritomo doesn’t take disappointment well. Remember when General Yatsuma failed to break the gaijin siege at Iron Ridge?”
“I remember. His children were less than five years old.”
“And Yatsuma was noble-born. An Iron Samurai. So how do you think he’s—”
“Well, what option do we have?”
“Talk to Yamagata. He’ll be in as much strife as us when this whole farce goes belly up. We could get him to drop us off in Yama city, maybe?”
“They’d hunt us down like dogs.” Kasumi shook her head. “Just because Fox lands are a little provincial doesn’t mean the Kitsune Daimyo won’t dance if his Shōgun commands it. Yoritomo would have us hunted by every magistrate in Shima if we disobeyed him, it wouldn’t matter how far away we ran. Besides, Masaru wouldn’t hear of it. It would dishonor us all to leave. Our families would be disgraced.”
“Well, what do you suggest? Because we sure as hells aren’t coming home with an arashitora in this thing. Better for everyone aboard to just commit seppuku right now and save the damned chi.”
He kicked the side of the cage, and a dull metallic thud rang out in response. Kasumi looked around at the multitude of cloudwalkers. They were mostly young men: crawling along the balloon’s flanks, manning propellers and en
gines, adjusting altitude and course in response to the shifting wind. The stink of burning chi was making her throat hurt, her head feel uncomfortably light.
“You shouldn’t be talking about this here,” she muttered.
Akihito scowled, but as if to prove Kasumi’s point, the Artificer emerged from below deck and began clanking toward them. Akihito bit his tongue, pretending to check the moorings of each bar as the Guildsman hissed to a stop close by.
“Very large cage.” Its voice was that of an angry lotusfly.
The comment was an understatement. The boundaries of the enclosure stretched almost the width of the ship, a good twenty feet wide and deep. The slimmer cloudwalkers had got into the habit of slipping between the bars as they went about their duties. Larger ones were forced to hang out over the Child’s railings to navigate their way around it.
“We don’t know what size this beast will be.” Kasumi flashed a false smile. “Better the cage is too big than too small.”
“Why do you not drug it?” Scorching sunlight refracted on the Artificer’s single, glowing eye. “Make it sleep until Kigen?”
“We may not have enough blacksleep. Besides, it’d be foolish to rely on drugs alone.”
“Stick to what you do best, Guildsman,” Akihito growled. “Leave the hunting to us.”
“Do you believe you will find one?” The Artificer turned its glittering eye on the big man, an insectoid curiosity flitting between each word. “A beast extinct for generations?”
“The Shōgun seems to think so,” Akihito answered carefully.
“Does he really?”
“Fire!”
The cry rang out from the rigging, making Akihito start. Color drained from Kasumi’s face. A fire on board a sky-ship could mean only two things: a desperate dash to the safety of the aft lifeboat, or a flaming death on the earth hundreds of feet below.
“Gods above,” swore Akihito. “You get Yukiko, I’ll g—”
“Not aboard.” Faint amusement buzzed in the Guildsman’s voice. “There.”
