Stormdancer

by Jay Kristoff

  How many people will die in this revolution?

  HOW MANY WILL DIE WITHOUT IT?

  I don’t want to be the one who starts it all. I just want my family back. My father safe. You free. That’s all I want.

  YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT WITHOUT THE KAGÉ.

  I know, I know. Yoritomo deserves to die. He killed my mother. Tortured my father. I hate him so much it’s turning me black inside. But doesn’t murdering him make me no better than he is? And what if killing him only makes things worse?

  IN THE END, ALL QUESTIONS CAN BE DISTILLED INTO ONE. WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO GIVE UP TO GET THE THINGS YOU WANT?

  I’d give up my life for any one of you.

  DYING IS EASY. ANYONE CAN THROW THEMSELVES ONTO THE PYRE AND REST A HAPPY MARTYR. ENDURING THE SUFFERING THAT COMES WITH SACRIFICE IS THE REAL TEST.

  She was back on the Thunder Child, her father’s voice ringing in her head.

  “One day you will understand, Yukiko. One day you will see that we must sometimes sacrifice for the sake of something greater.”

  She nodded, wiped the tears from her eyes, locked them in a room inside her mind and threw away the key. No more fear. No more regrets. Not for vague ideology or someone else’s notion of what was “right.” For the ones she loved. For her family.

  All right then. Let’s start a war.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Yukiko flinched. Buruu’s growl rumbled through the floor, up through the soles of her feet. His hackles rose in ragged peaks across his back, eyes flashing. She frowned into the dark, recognizing the voice.

  “Hiro?”

  He stepped from the shadows, bare chest beneath his red silk kimono, embroidered tigers prowling down his arms. He was wearing a black obi, neo-daishō crossed at the small of his back, crouched in their lacquered scabbards. His hair flowed loose, a frown darkening that beautiful, sea-green stare she’d dreamed of a lifetime ago.

  “I came to see you, and you were not in your room. What are you doing out here without an escort, Yukiko?”

  “Visiting with Buruu.”

  “How did you get out of the palace? The guards did not see you leave.”

  “Kitsune looks after his own.” She tried a shy smile, hoping to win him over.

  “And the Guildsman?” His eyes narrowed, looking down the corridor Kin had left by. “Why was he here?”

  “I didn’t ask.” She shrugged, hands clasped behind her back to hide the shakes. “I have nothing to say to their kind. I think he might be working on Yoritomo’s saddle.”

  “Yukiko,” Hiro frowned. “If the Guild is plotting something…”

  “Nobody is plotting anything.”

  “You are lying.” He shook his head. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  TELL HIM NOTHING.

  “Nothing is going on,” Yukiko insisted. She stepped forward and pressed against him, arms around his waist. “You worry too much. Buruu is my friend. He gets lonely in the dark and I wanted to be alone with him. I miss him, Hiro. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Swear to me.”

  “I swear.” She looked directly into his eyes as she spoke, and the lie tasted like ashes in her mouth. “Nothing is going on.”

  Hiro looked down into her face, expression softening, voice a soft murmur.

  “I am sorry.” He touched her cheek, brushed stray hair away from her eyes. “I know you miss your friend. I know that he is dear to you in a way I cannot understand. But you should not be sneaking out of the palace without permission. You deceived the Shōgun before under my guard. I am…” He shook his head. “I am just afraid his faith in me will prove misplaced. If I fail him again…”

  And there in the evening gloom, Yukiko saw him as if for the first time, as if the dark was somehow brighter than the day. Hiro wasn’t like her father. He didn’t serve Yoritomo because he’d been coerced or threatened. Hiro served because he believed it was right. Honor, loyalty, the Bushido Code, it was everything to him. He’d die before he betrayed it, one of Buruu’s happy martyrs. His life was meaningless without his Lord. He was a spinning, razor-sharp cog in the engine, born to privilege and never once questioning the rightness of it all.

  This was a mistake.

  In her heart she had known it all along. And, truth be told, he had never pretended otherwise. But she had wanted so badly for them both to be wrong, hoped against hope that he might be different from the others. If someone like Aisha could grow to see the truth of things, then anyone could.

  Anyone who allowed themselves to, that is.

  She felt Buruu in the back of her mind, no judgment or rebuke. He’d tried to warn her, told her Hiro was just another part of the control machine. She wished she’d listened.

  Hiro pressed her tightly to him, hands clasped at the base of her spine, staring with those beautiful eyes that had once haunted her sleep. He began to speak, time slowing to a crawl as his lips parted to tell her the one thing she didn’t want to hear.

  “I lo—”

  She kissed him, stood on tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck and crushed her lips into his before he could finish the sentence. She didn’t want to listen to those three awful words, feel them open her up to the bone and see what the lies had done to her insides. She pressed her body against his and kissed him until they died on his lips, the impulse to speak slowly strangled in soft, blessed silence.

  She kissed him like it was the last time.

  Somewhere deep inside, she knew it would be.

  * * *

  A knife in his chest.

  A jagged splinter of rusted metal, shoved between his ribs and twisted until the bones popped. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Nausea and vertigo, world swaying in some invisible wind as the ground split under his feet and yawned wide.

  Kin leaned against the wall, fingers splayed on concrete as his universe dissolved. The measure-reel fell from numb, trembling hands, the figures he’d wanted to recheck drifting off into some dark, forgotten corner of his mind. He stared at Yukiko and the samurai in each other’s arms and felt vomit bubbling up in the back of his throat. The taste of rage in his mouth, hard and metallic, a razor’s edge.

  What a fool you’ve been.

  He turned and staggered away, clutching his heart as if to hold back the blood.

  What a stupid, blind fool.

  33

  THE BREAKING STORM

  A lifetime. The blinking of an eye. Two days long.

  Whispers to Michi, shrouded in bathhouse steam or the silken rustle of the dressing room, those small pale hands with the sword-grip calluses she’d never noticed before running a comb through her long, dark hair. Whispers beneath a blanket of shamisen music, the whisking and steeping of tea, Aisha’s diamond-hard eyes betraying no hint of treachery. A fast Fushicho sky-ship with fake permits waiting at the docks. A note from Akihito, written in broad, clumsy kanji, a promise that he and Kasumi would be with the Kagé as they freed Masaru from his cell. A rendezvous in Yama city, one week from today. Sleepless nights and excuses for Hiro and long hours alone, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

  And no word from Kin.

  She stared at the mechanical arashitora on her dresser, warm moonlight flickering on the brass, waves of leaden butterflies in her stomach. There was no chance she would sleep tonight. She wished the moon would be on its way across the sky and the dawn arrive, bringing with it Yoritomo’s grand gala and distracted guards and empty arena. To be out. To be free.

  Lightning kissed distant skies. The first autumn storm was rolling down from the Iishi, stretching dark fingers toward Kigen Bay. She prayed it would be dry tomorrow, that Susano-ō would hold back the black rain long enough to let Yoritomo’s soldiers avert their eyes and drop their guard.

  She held her tantō tight in her hand. She saw the picture clearly in her mind: Yoritomo standing tall on his podium, arms spread wide as the sun sank below the horizon and he called for the fireworks to begin. The people’s faces upturned and soft wi
th wonder as the dragon cannons and kindling wheels lit up the sky, spitting colored fire and blue-black fumes to choke all the good little boys and girls. And like a stone they would drop from the skies, thunder and blinding light behind them. And in their wake there would be blood, and screams, and the last male of Kazumitsu’s line lying dead on the ground.

  An empty throne.

  A new beginning.

  War.

  * * *

  “Godsdamn this accursed heat,” Hajime swore.

  “Aiya,” Rokorou muttered. “Moaning about it will help?”

  The two guards were slumped in the thin shade of the prison gate, sweat beading on their skin. The air was moist with storm-threat, clouds gathering to the north for a final push on the city. Hajime wiped his brow with his jin-haori and cast a mournful glance in the direction of the docks, listening to the sounds of music and bustling crowds drifting from the bay. The gala was well underway; the crackle of smoke sticks and spark poppers could be heard among the multitude of voices floating on the wind. He imagined his son’s eyes lit with delight as he watched the real fireworks tonight.

  Lightning flashed on the horizon.

  “At least we get off at dusk,” he sighed. “The real party will start then, assuming this storm doesn’t piss all over everything.”

  “You’re also assuming they’ll relieve us. Daisuke was too drunk to show up last festival.”

  “If we’re stuck here all night, I’m going to…”

  His sentence trailed off as the girl appeared, sashaying around the corner in a sleeveless, split-leg black kimono. She held a wicker basket in her arms. A beautiful tiger curled around one bicep, the imperial sun radiating across the other. Flawless make-up, polished lenses, gleaming, candy-red lips.

  “Michi-chan,” Rokorou nodded, straightening slightly and sucking in his gut.

  “Good day, brave bushimen,” she smiled.

  “Why aren’t you at the gala? The parade will be starting soon.”

  “My Lady commands me to bring refreshment to those stalwart souls who do honor to her brother, Yoritomo-no-miya, and forsake the gala’s joys for duty.”

  The girl gave a mock salute, then reached into the basket and produced two bottles of rice wine and two ripe nectarines, fresh and plump. The guards’ eyes widened; the fruit was easily worth more than a week’s pay. They bowed thanks and took the offerings, shooting each other broad grins.

  “Not so bad a duty after all, eh?” Rokorou took a long swig of wine.

  “Your Lady does us much honor, Michi-chan.” Hajime bowed again. Shrugging off his gauntlets, he cut the fruit and popped a slice between his teeth.

  “Aiya, it’s good,” he groaned.

  Rokorou plowed into his own fruit as Hajime remembered his manners, offering a slice to the serving girl. She blushed and bowed from the knee, looking to the floor.

  “My thanks, sama, but the gift was for you alone.”

  “At least have a drink with us?” Rokorou took another pull from the bottle, glaring up at the suns. The sky began to blur around the edges.

  “Hai, drink and be joyful, give thanks to Yoritomo-no-miya, next Stormdancer of Shima.” Hajime laughed, stumbling back against the wall. He frowned and stared at the fruits in his seven hands, feeling the stone beneath his feet turn to jelly.

  A gasp. The sound of metal and bone hitting stone. The stink of urine.

  Shapes emerged from the shadows, moving swiftly. Two men grabbed the slumbering guards and dragged them down an alleyway. A young boy dashed a pail of brackish water onto the floor to wash away the piss and blood. Akihito rounded the corner, broad-brimmed straw hat, long scars showing on his chest between the folds of his uwagi. Kasumi walked beside him, surefooted, feline grace, bo-staff in her hands.

  “Are we ready?” the big man asked.

  Michi glanced to the alley mouth as her fellows returned in the uniforms of the poisoned guards. One of them tossed a ring of keys, glittering in the scarlet glare. Michi snatched them from the air without looking. She glanced up to the big man, nodded to Kasumi and drew her tsurugi from the basket. The blade was two feet long, straight and double-edged, keen as razors.

  “Now we are.”

  Thunder rolled in the distance.

  “No mercy.”

  * * *

  Yukiko padded into the arena, split-toed socks on bare stone, hands folded inside the sleeves of her uwagi. She nodded to the bushiman guarding the archway, her shy smile returned with lecherous enthusiasm. He held up his hand as she approached, fingers spread, wrapped in banded iron.

  “And what are you doing here without an escort, little one?”

  A roar from the arena, deafening, bellowing, reverberating off the warm stone. The bushiman turned toward Buruu, eyes narrowing, tightening his grip on the war club at his waist. The hypo was heavy in her hands, slipping from her sleeve, black liquid sloshing viscous in the syringe. She slid it through a gap in his breastplate, just below his armpit. He gasped, clutched the pinprick and collapsed on the ground in a blacksleep stupor.

  The echoes of the roar had died by the time his comrade returned from the privy, still tying up the waist of his hakama.

  “What the hells is it making noise about now…”

  The bushiman glanced up from his obi and saw his fellow passed out cold on the deck. He ran to his comrade’s body and knelt beside it, sloughing off his gauntlet and checking at the throat for a pulse. Yukiko stepped out of the shadows behind, footfalls soft as baby’s breath, needle gleaming between her fingers. The bushiman collapsed onto his friend’s body with a bleeding puncture in his neck.

  The third and fourth bushimen were standing on the upper walls at the other side of the arena, staring out toward Kigen Bay. Music drifted on the sweltering wind as they spoke in hushed tones, cursing their misfortune at landing guard duty on today of all days. Her feet were quiet as ghosts behind them, a murmur of soft cloth on cool, hard gray. Dull sunlight flashed on surgical steel, a needle in each hand, thumbs poised on the plungers. Spots of blood welled from the needle-pricks, staining the fabric beneath their arms a deeper red. Each man collapsed without a whimper, and the sound of iron crashing hard onto stone echoed among the empty benches.

  Looking down at the slumbering soldiers, Yukiko was reminded of a poem her mother had taught her when she was a little girl:

  Tiger proudly roars.

  Dragon dives and Phoenix soars.

  Fox gets the chicken.

  “Kitsune looks after his own,” she whispered. She tossed the empty blacksleep hypos onto the unconscious bodies and touched the tattoo on her arm for luck. Buruu growled on the arena floor below.

  THE STORM GROWS CLOSE.

  I know.

  Looking up at the fingers of dark cloud drifting over the noonday sun, she prayed Kin would arrive soon.

  * * *

  A length of weighted chain flashed out of the darkness, wrapping around the bushiman’s throat. He gasped and clutched at the metal links turning his larynx to pulp. Akihito loomed out of the black, fist descending to knock the man senseless. Black shuriken stars whizzed from the shadows, cutting the second guard down as he drew breath to shout for help. Blood sprayed across the walls, random patterns of deep scarlet on dull, sweating rock.

  Michi stepped from the dark, more throwing stars poised between her fingers. Kasumi prowled close behind, casting anxious glances back the way they’d come. Akihito’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and he could see the tension in Kasumi’s stance, swimming in her eyes. Her knuckles were white on the haft of her iron-shod bo-staff.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “I’m worried about Yukiko.”

  “This way,” Michi nodded.

  The trio stole along the corridor, creeping down narrow spiral stairs. The chattering and screech of rats echoed off moist stone, air growing thicker as they descended. The stink of rotting meat and human waste clung to their skin, slick with sweat. Stone walls pressed in around them, a
ll sweltering heat and noxious vapor.

  Michi signaled a stop, crept forward in the darkness. Sounds of a scuffle, leather and metal on stone. A soft, wet exhalation. The girl returned and motioned for them to follow, a splash of someone else’s blood across her forehead and running thick down one cheek. The tsurugi in her hands gleamed black in the gloom.

  “You don’t need to kill them,” Kasumi murmured.

  “You think they would spare you, Hunter?”

  “Why do you do this?” Akihito whispered. “Why help us?”

  “Yoritomo must die,” Michi replied flatly, squinting into the black ahead. They arrived at a T-junction, stopped to listen, pressed against the damp stone.

  “He hurt you?” Kasumi asked softly.

  “Look at the world around you, Hunter,” Michi growled. “He’s hurting everyone.”

  * * *

  HE APPROACHES.

  Yukiko peered from the grandstand shadows as the sound of clockwork and pistons rolled off the arena walls. She could see an Artificer emerging from one of the entryways, peering around the benches, a squat mechanical contraption on tank treads rolling behind him. The mechanoid dragged a four-wheel trailer covered with a dirty gray oilskin.

  “Kin-san!” Yukiko bounced down the stone stairs, feet so light she felt she could fly. She couldn’t help throwing her arms around his neck, eyes alight with her smile. “You came.”

  The Artificer disentangled himself from the hug, voice crackling like beetle shells underfoot.

  “I gave you my word that I would.”

  “I hadn’t heard from you in days. I feared something had happened to you.”

  “We should start.” He turned, motioning to the servitor. “We don’t have much time.”

  Yukiko helped him unload the trailer and bring the gear into Buruu’s pit. The thunder tiger eyed the Guildsman’s contraption, tail tucked between his legs. Long lengths of hollow metal, enameled with the same strange iridescent coating as the Shōgun’s motor-rickshaws. Sheets of treated canvas, the same lightweight skin as the balloon bladders of the sky-ships. Hydraulics and pistons and clockwork teeth.