The Lotus War - Kinslayer Part 54

... too many ...

Help!

... am sorry ...

She felt him hovering as the Scorpion Children surrounded them. A sky-ship in Phoenix colors roared overhead, spraying the rooftop with shuriken fire. And then, heart sinking in her chest, she felt Daken running away. Over rooftops, away from the fire and smoke, soft as shadows. She screamed at him to stop, pleaded for help.

Don't leave us!

But he was gone.

The yakuza were a knot of inked muscle and curling, curdled faces. Hana looked up into the leader's eyes. A thin, angled scowl, teeth like a trash pile, tetsubo in his hand.

"You killed Hida."

He raised his club into the air.

"You're going to wish it was the other way around, b.i.t.c.h."

And down it came.

48.

STILLNESS.

Chaos ran through the Daimyo's palace, and the nightingale floors sang in time with its tread. The smell of distant flames mixed with the cooking fires, entrees lying cold on the feast tables. Panic at the Kage attack was quickly replaced by outrage, vows of vengeance, drawn swords. And the Daimyo of the Tora clan led his Samurai out into the city, the Dragon Daimyo and his retinue falling into step behind these men with ash-streaked faces, these walking dead set once more like wolves amongst the flock on Kigen's streets.

A legion, almost one hundred strong, marching from the palace gates. Every one clad in great lumbering suits of iron, spitting chi smoke into the air, flags flying high in a scorching wind, tinged with the reek of burning skin. Michi watched them from an upper window of the servants' quarters, a grim smile on her face.

Soon, they will not know which way to seek the foe.

She stole amidst the corridors, down the servant's pa.s.sages, Ichizo's package in her arms. Flitting through the abandoned kitchens, the cleaner's rooms, then down into the generator room, oiled rags and tongues of flame. The hum of quiet panic, fear amongst the remaining n.o.bility suppressed beneath a stoic facade, the mask of honor, the notion of "face." It would be unseemly-indeed, shameful-to show anything but disdain for these Kage dogs, anything but absolute faith in the Daimyo's ability to restore order to his capital. Trembling wives were rebuked. Guests returned to the dining hall, nervous glances still lingering on a fire-painted sky.

And then it began.

First, an explosion within the cellars, the Daimyo's generators splitting asunder, setting the bottom floor of the eastern wing ablaze. Cries of terror from the dining hall, courtiers running through the corridors. A hastily a.s.sembled line of bushimen gathered, stretching from the garden stream to the cellar doors, dashing buckets full of cloudy water and the occasional unfortunate koi fish onto the swelling inferno.

Guests fled the feast. Tiny, hurried steps within the hems of their robes, fearful expressions hidden behind beautiful breathers and fluttering fans. The families of the Dragon clanlord retreated to the guest quarters, personal house guards barring the doors. But all too soon, they were screaming; screaming and fleeing as the bleached cedar tiles above their heads caught fire, choking smoke and burning embers dancing in the air.

Heavy boots, running feet, shouted orders, iron bells. Smoke drifting through the corridors, seeping under the doorway of the room she slipped back inside. And finally, Michi stepped into the hallway and walked toward the royal wing.

If the sight of the pristine girl and her scarlet gift box seemed strange, the bushimen dashing past appeared to have more pressing concerns. Michi made her way around the veranda, away from the bucket line and the still-blazing cellar. She yelled at a pa.s.sing bushi' brigade, telling them she saw rebels fleeing over the western walls, and they yelled thanks and charged away. Up the stairs, past the tearooms, the nightingale floor chirping beneath her sandals. Keeping her head bowed, eyes downturned from the guards who thundered past, crying for servants to bring water. The guest wing was a burning lotus field on a hot summer's day.

She heard combat somewhere out in the city, steel upon steel, the heavy thunder of shuriken-thrower fire. The tickticktick of a spider-drone roaming the halls, perching on a balcony to watch the guest wing roof giving way, fire reflected in its tiny, glowing eye. She picked up her pace, small shuffling footsteps taking her across the mezzanine above the library, until she'd gone as far as she'd reasonably hoped to get.

"Halt!"

Four bushimen barred entry to the Daimyo's wing, huge double doors locked at their backs. Banded black across their chests, iron helms and face guards, nagamaki naked in their hands. This hallway was wider than those of the servants' wing; wide enough by far to wield the longblades. And for these men to have been stationed outside the Daimyo's halls at all meant they were no strangers to the art of steel.

"You girl," barked the commander. "What are you doing here?"

"I bring gifts," she said, proffering the box in her hands.

"Gifts? What madness is this? Who are you?"

"Michi-san," said another guard. "I recognize her. She used to serve First Daughter."

The bushiman commander stepped forward. "No one is to see your mistress, Lady Michi. By orders of the Daimyo. Best to head downstairs and help with-"

She reached into the box and drew them out, scarlet card falling to the floor. Four and three feet long, gentle curves and glittering saw-blade teeth. She thumbed the ignitions on the hilts and the motors roared to life, vibration traveling up her arms and into her chest, bringing a small smile to painted lips.

Michi gunned the throttles of Ichizo's chainkatana and wakizashi. Tearing away the intact layer of her junihitoe gown, she stepped out of her wooden sandals, wriggling her feet in split-toed socks. She took up her stance, flourishing the blades about her waist and head, a twirling, snarling dance of folded steel.

The commander looked incredulous. Several of the bushimen behind exchanged amused glances, wry smiles and short bursts of baffled laughter.

"Put those down before you hurt yourself, girl," the commander said.

Michi dashed across the floorboards, narrowed eyes and gleaming teeth. The commander came to his senses first and stepped forward, bringing his nagamaki into some semblance of guard. She slipped down onto her knees, fine Kitsune silk and her momentum sending her into a skid across polished boards, blade pa.s.sing harmlessly over her head. Cutting the commander's legs out from under him, a blinding spray of red, a shriek of agony as the chainsaw blades sheared through bone like b.u.t.ter. Spinning up to her feet, katana cleaving through another bushiman's forearm, wakizashi parrying a hasty thrust from a third as the soldiers at last registered the threat. Sparks in the air as steel crashed, the girl moving like smoke between the blades, swaying to the music she made.

A blade to a throat. A crimson spray on the walls. A parry. A wheel-kick. A thrust. Red mist in the air. Heart thundering in her chest.

Then stillness.

She blew stray hair from her eyes, idling chainswords dripping into the gore pooled at her feet, staring at the commander's corpse.

"I think I'll put you down instead," she said.

She wiped her cheek on her forearm, smearing it with red, staring at the door before her. Sugi wood shod with cold iron. Rivets as fat as her fist. Six inches thick. Though she might have hacked her way through with enough time, the guards beyond would certainly hear her coming. And judging from the clamor behind her, more still had heard the screams of their dying comrades and were on their way to investigate.

She looked at the doors blocking the way she must go.

She looked back down the way she'd come.

And then she looked up at the ceiling.

49.

ADDITION AND SUBTRACTION.

Yoshi woke to the slap of ice-cold water in his face, followed by a real slap hard enough to rattle his teeth in his head. He could hear the swell of distant crowds, roaring flames and sky-ship engines. Sweat and old lotus and the stink of his own blood hung in the air. And he remembered Jurou lying dead on the alley floor, gnawed eyeless, stumps for fingers and toes, and he felt hatred burn so brightly inside him he feared he might catch fire.

Another slap to his face. Harder this time.

"Wake up, boy." A lisping growl.

Tossing the hair from his eyes, he blinked in the gloom. He was dangling by his wrists from a hook and chain, just long enough for his toes to touch the ground. Naked save for his new hakama, now bloodied and covered in filth. The concrete was sticky, stained dark. A single globe threw a circle of light on the floor. On the periphery, he could see a dozen men and women, arms folded, watching him the way corpse-rats watch a death rattle. On each of their biceps, in the negative s.p.a.ce between the tattoos, two scorpions were locked, claw to claw.

Yoshi's heart stilled inside his chest.

He saw Hana opposite him, hands bound, arms held by vicious-looking men with full-body irezumi. Her hair was draped around her face, nose bleeding, good eye closed, out cold.

Yoshi looked at the one who'd slapped him. Thin and hard and cruel, a street-sharp, angular face, dark, hateful eyes. He recognized him from their first rip; the Gambler's partner. The man held a pair of long-nosed pliers in his hands.

"Rise and shine, lazybones."

"f.u.c.k you," Yoshi spat.

"Funny." A broken yellow smile. "Your boyfriend said much the same."

Yoshi tried to lunge, succeeded only in making himself spin on his chain. The thin man laughed, all yellow, crumbling bone and dirty breath.

"My name is Seimi." The man pressed the pliers against Yoshi's cheek. "My face is the last thing you'll ever see. And for that, you have my apologies."

"My sister had nothing to do with this. Let her go."

"Nothing to do with it?" Seimi raised an eyebrow. "Do tell..."

The man turned to a workbench on the edge of the light. It was arrayed with every tool Yoshi could imagine: hacksaws, screwdrivers, tin snips, drills, pliers. A bottle of sake. A bowl of salt. A chi-powered blowtorch. A hammer.

Seimi dashed water into Hana's face. He slapped her hard as she sputtered, head rising slowly, eye rolling around her bruised socket as she blinked and tried to focus.

"h.e.l.lo, pretty one." Seimi grabbed her face, fingers and thumb pressed into her cheeks, squeezing her thin lips into a pout.

"Yoshi?" His heart nearly broke at the terror in her voice. "Yoshi, what's happening?"

"It's all right, sis." He tried to keep his own voice from rising upward toward hysteria. "It's going to be all right."

"Did you hear that, pretty one?" Seimi leaned close, stared into her good eye. "Your thieving wh.o.r.eson brother said it'll be all right. Does that still your pounding heart?"

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, you let her go! She has nothing to do with this!"

Hana was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She struggled against the men holding her, but they were twice her size, all inked muscle and gap-toothed grins. Seimi ran one hand down her throat, parted the collar of her tunic. A hungry stare caught on the golden amulet draped around her neck. A tiny stag with three crescent horns. Glaring.

"Stop."

The voice was low-pitched. Ironclad.

Soft footsteps. Measured breath. A man stepped into the light. Short. Tanned. Simply dressed. Graying hair swept back from sharp brows. Staring at Yoshi with empty, black eyes.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No." Yoshi gasped for breath. "No, I don't."

He stepped closer, hovering just inches away. Yoshi could see the pores in his skin, the lines at the corners of those bottomless eyes. There was no anger-not even a hint of malice in the man's voice.

"I am the man who paid your rent. Paid the tailor who made your clothes. The artiste who inked your skin. I paid for your smoke. Your drink. I am the man whose face you spit in, every time you spent one of those stolen coins."

"I'm sorry." Yoshi swallowed. "I'm sorry, but please, my sister didn't have anything to do with this, please just-"

"What is your name?"

"... Yoshi."

"I am the Gentleman." The man was staring at Yoshi's inkless arm. "You are lowborn?"

"Hai."

"It explains much." The Gentleman paced in a long, slow circle around Yoshi. "Do you know how we differ, Yoshi-san?"

"No..."

"I am Burak.u.min, just like you. A boy born with nothing, no clan, no family, no name. And like you, I was forced to do terrible things, just to survive this place." The Gentleman shook his head. "The things I have done, Yoshi-san. The things I will do..."

The man ceased pacing, looked Yoshi in the eye.

"But I am no thief. Everything I have, I bought with sweat and blood. I had the grace to look into men's eyes as I took everything they had. That is the difference between us. Why I stand here, and you hang there. Without your little hand-cannon." As the Gentleman spoke, he moved his face an inch or two closer to Yoshi's with every word. "You. Are. A. Coward."

Yoshi said nothing, mind awhirl. Desperate. Looking for something. Anything. Some way out of this hole, this pit he'd dragged her into. G.o.ds, not Hana, please ...

"You say your sister is blameless?" The Gentleman looked at her, then back to Yoshi. "That she knew nothing of your transgressions against the Scorpion Children?"

Sweat rolled down Yoshi's face, blood in his eyes. "Nothing."

"And you would have me let her go?"

"She doesn't deserve any of this." He licked at split lips. "Do what you want to me. I deserve it for what I did. But she doesn't deserve to see it."

The Gentleman stared, head tilted as if listening to hidden voices.

"I suppose, Yoshi-san, you are right. She doesn't deserve to see this at all."

Relief flooded through Yoshi and he almost sobbed, babbling thanks as the Gentleman turned away. And as he watched, the little man stepped up to Seimi and took the long-nosed pliers from his calloused hands, and in the s.p.a.ce between one heartbeat and the next, the Gentleman leaned in close and plucked Hana's eye from her socket.

Her scream filled the air, louder than Yoshi could have thought possible. He found his own voice caught up with hers, a shapeless roar of hatred, thrashing against the ropes binding him, spitting and screaming and flailing. The Gentleman touched the men holding Hana and they dropped her to the floor. She brought her bound hands up to her face and curled into a ball and screamed, screamed until Yoshi thought his heart would break. Tears blurred his sight, his captors reduced to smudges in the glare, the scent of smoke filling his lungs.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he screamed. "You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"