by Jay Kristoff
Endsinger.
A small bowl of rice was set before this final tapestry to appease her hunger.
Yukiko remembered Daichi in the Kagé village, telling the story of Lady Izanami’s fall, surrounded by smiling children. Sorrow gripped her so tight she couldn’t breathe.
“Are you all right?” Hana asked.
“I’m fine.” Yukiko squeezed the girl’s hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, good. Because I’m about to mess my unmentionables…”
Their footsteps rang out on the nightingale floors as they approached the Daimyo’s wing, boards chirping in a dozen discordant notes. Hana was pale as old bones as she ran her fingers through her messy bob, throwing another mournful glance at her shabby clothes.
Ginjiro stopped before another towering set of double doors, studded with fat iron bolts. He knocked three times, iron against iron. After a series of somber clunks, the doors split apart on rumbling hinges. The general stepped inside, calling in a deep voice.
“This humble servant begs pardon to present the noble Arashi-no-odoriko, Kitsune Yukiko and her comrade to his honored Lord.”
A short man in black robes and a tasseled hat almost as tall as he was scuttled forth.
“Step forth and kneel before the Fivefold Throne, seat of Okimoto, first Daimyo of the Kitsune zaibatsu, and his beloved descendent, Kitsune Isamu, immortal Lord of Foxes!”
Hands locked, Yukiko and Hana stepped into the room. Dark wooden floors lined a vast open space, lit by the extravagance of old-fashioned flower-oil lanterns. Thick pillars of the same wood lined the approach, shadows dancing in the stuttering light.
More than a dozen ladies and lords were gathered around the dais at the end of the room: dour-faced magistrates in jet-black, courtesans with kohl-rimmed eyes, scribes in skullcaps with ink-stained fingers. These were surrounded in turn by a small legion of Iron Samurai, watching behind their fox masks with fierce, narrowed eyes. And on the fifth step, ensconced on a mahogany throne of carven flowers, sat Isamu, supreme clanlord of the Kitsune.
He was dressed in courtly robes, chainswords paired at his waist beside the snub-nosed lump of an ornate iron-thrower. A golden breather crafted like a fox’s face was strapped over his mouth. And though he was old and bent and shriveled, Yukiko could see the samurai coiled beneath his skin. Surrounded by courtiers, Isamu looked as out of place as a battle-worn blade amidst a sea of pretty fans. His brow was a scarred scowl. His moustache reached his waist.
“He looks about seven thousand years old,” Hana whispered.
“Legend has it he’s lived a hundred years. One of the greatest luminaries of my Clan.”
“Gods, imagine what’s going on under that robe. His luminaries would be hanging around his knees—”
Yukiko aimed a horrified glare at the girl.
The sentence died a quiet, if not dignified death.
“Stormdancer,” said the Kitsune Daimyo. “We are honored by your presence.”
“Daimyo Kitsune Isamu.” Yukiko bowed low. “The honor is mine.”
Hana was still squinting at the lord of the Kitsune clan, her expression slightly pained. Yukiko tugged her pants leg, and the girl gave a clumsy bow.
“… Most Handsome Worshipfulness,” Hana said.
The haunting music of koto and shamisen drifted in the room, and glancing around, Yukiko finally found the source. A machine stood against the southern wall; a collection of humanoid figures inside a crescent-shaped scaffold. Crafted in female form, the automatons were made of brass and tin; faces painted white, gowns of patterned gold and swirling black. Metal fingers flitted over the strings and skins of their instruments with inhuman precision.
The music was beautiful, yet somehow Yukiko found it empty. Perhaps it was the way the automatons moved, heads wobbling on their necks. Perhaps because they reminded her of Kin; the little metal arashitora he had made for her, the clockwork wings he’d built Buruu.
She turned away from the thought, throat squeezing tight.
“I won’t usually see guests without invitation.” The Daimyo’s voice was hard behind his breather. “But for the mighty Stormdancer, I will make an exception. I trust the ruin and bloodshed you brought to my city did not inconvenience you on the way in?”
He leaned back in his throne, drummed his fingers on the dark wood.
He looks annoyed, Buruu.
THE KAGÉ JUST STARTED A WAR IN HIS CITY. YOU ARE A FIGUREHEAD IN THE KAGÉ REBELLION. YOU WERE EXPECTING HIM TO NAME A STREET AFTER YOU?
… Maybe a little one?
“Great Daimyo,” Yukiko began. “I deeply regret the chaos that befell your beautiful city today. Please know it was a chaos not of my making. I do not stand here as a representative of the Kagé council. I am a simple refugee, seeking safe harbor for my friends.”
“A simple refugee.” The Daimyo raised one gray eyebrow. “Riding a thunder tiger.”
Yukiko risked a small smile. “A complicated refugee, then.”
“My streets are awash with blood because of you and yours, Stormdancer.”
“Great Lord, I am no longer a part of the Kagé rebellion. It was they who started the war within the Guild. I begged them not to, and when they wouldn’t listen, I left their stronghold.”
“So what are you now, then? A beggar? A freelance troublemaker?”
Yukiko squared her shoulders. “I am an enemy of the Lotus Guild. An enemy to their puppet, Tora Hiro. An enemy to the government that chokes our skies and murders innocents for the sake of blood to feed—”
“Gods, you’ve got a set on you, girl. Standing there and crowing about murder.”
Yukiko blinked. “Daimyo?”
“You murdered our Shōgun. And while I loved Yoritomo-no-miya like I love my kidney stones, he was sovereign lord of these isles. The power vacuum he left behind is your doing. The civil war tearing these lands apart is your fault.”
The words were a slap, draining the blood from Yukiko’s face. She was taken aback for a second, pinned by the pale stare above the breather. The Daimyo seemed almost to be enjoying himself—she swore she could see a smile in his rheumy eyes.
“He murdered my father, Daimyo.” She did her best to keep the righteous anger from her voice. “And my mother and her unborn child. So yes, I killed him. And I’d do it again.”
“Rumor has it you slew him simply by looking at him.” The old clanlord raised an eyebrow. “The Shōgun of this land, to whom all owed allegiance.”
Hana rolled her eye, pressed her lips shut and stared at the floor.
“I swore no oath to him,” Yukiko growled. “Never in my life did I make a promise to that baby-killing bastard.”
A murmur rippled amongst the courtiers, as if a pebble had been dropped into quiet water. She felt dark stares on her, heard Buruu’s voice rolling in her mind.
REMEMBER WHERE YOU HAVE STOOD. WHAT YOU ARE.
She stared at Isamu.
“The Kazumitsu Dynasty was a tyranny, and its alliance with the Lotus Guild has dragged this nation to ruin. You see it, too, Daimyo. Or else why give insult to Tora Hiro by not attending his wedding?”
“Tora Hiro?” The old man crowed with laughter. “That sniveling little upstart? I wouldn’t drag my carcass out of this chair to piss on him if he were on fire, let alone all the way across the country to attend his sham of a wedding.”
“So Hiro is your enemy.”
“Hiro is an insult. I am descended from the first Daimyo of this zaibatsu—great Okimoto, the warlord who subjugated the clans of Serpent, Falcon, Spider and Wolf.” He thumped his fists on his armrest. “This is one of the Four Thrones of Shima, mine by right of blood and birth. And I should bow before a samurai’s son?”
THERE IT IS. HIS WEAKNESS.
Yukiko nodded.
Pride.
PRESS IT.
“We’ve heard through our agents the Guild are upset with your defiance,” she said.
“I should be impressed?” The old man waved a ha
nd, as if swatting a bothersome fly. “Everyone knows they withhold their boons after I slighted their would-be Shōgun.”
“That’s how they control you. Through the promise of fuel. In Kigen, they’re offering payment to people who bring victims to the Burning Stones. People like Hana and I, who carry the Kenning. More innocents murdered, just for an accident of birth.”
“So we have a common enemy. Your point?”
“My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”
“You have a fine way of treating your friends, girl. Setting their cities on fire.”
“It’s the Guild who burned your city, Daimyo. The same Guild who starve your armies of fuel until you do your duty. Obey the forms of Bushido. Kneel before your new Shōgun.”
Isamu’s eyes narrowed to papercuts.
“I fought the gaijin in Morcheba for twenty years. I sent all five of my sons to the war and none returned. I do not need Bushido or duty explained to me by some filthy chi-monger, and I do not kneel before anyone, girl. Least of all some crippled Tiger puppet!”
“Nor should you, honorable Lord.” A grim smile lit Yukiko’s face. “And I have no doubt you’ll help us teach a lesson to those who think you will.”
The Daimyo glanced at General Ginjiro.
“The pair on this girl…”
“Solid brass,” the general nodded.
“Honorable Daimyo,” Yukiko sighed. “It comes to this. We have common purpose and a common foe. I need a place for my friends to stay. A harbor for the Guild rebels. If you’re actually serious about defying the Guild, now is your chance to prove it.”
“Why should I help?” the clanlord asked. “What do you offer?”
Yukiko glanced around the room, the narrowed eyes above fluttering fans, the hiss of serpent’s breath behind golden breathers. She looked again at the Daimyo—this withered old viper with razored teeth. Was he an honorable man, or just a grumpy old warmonger? Was he defying the Guild because he believed in their evil, or because he just wanted to pick a fight?
“Tora Hiro marches north with the Earthcrusher to make you kneel before him,” she said. “I’ll defend Yama from this Tiger army, the Guild war machine behind it.”
Isamu leaned back in his chair. “You’ll swear to me, then?”
“I swear to no throne,” Yukiko said. “I pledge myself to Shima’s people. The mothers and fathers and sons and daughters who choke under poisoned skies. Who sent their children off to die in a war made of lies. I pledge my life to them. Not you, Daimyo. Them.”
Hana was staring at Yukiko, jaw hanging slack. Looking around at the assembled Kitsune court, the girl stepped up beside Yukiko and took her hand.
“Godsdamn right.”
The Daimyo glanced at his general, a smile in his eyes. He looked down at the swords at his waist, the courtiers assembled around his throne, the two girls before him. The mechanical musicians played on in the corner, their song suddenly and terribly out of place.
“Solid brass,” he muttered.
The clanlord stood, covered his fist and offered a bow.
“I accept your terms. If only because I can’t wait to see the look on Tora Hiro’s face when a pair of thunder tigers fly up his hindparts and start cutting his dogs to ribbons.” Isamu nodded. “I offer you and your friends sanctuary in Kitsune-jō.”
Yukiko sighed, relief flooding over her in warm waves.
“My thanks, great Lord.”
Buruu’s voice rang inside her head.
IS EVERYTHING WELL, SISTER?
Better than well, brother. Hana and I are coming out now.
Yukiko grabbed Hana’s hand and walked from the throne room, a grim smile on her face.
And we’re bringing an army with us.
9
WHAT WILL BE
Kensai had no time for a rebellion.
The Second Bloom strode the hallways of Chapterhouse Kigen, listening to the tumbling, jumbling clatter of the mechabacus in his head: reports of insurrection in Chapterhouse Yama, a suicide attack incinerating Second Bloom Aoi and the bulk of his command staff aboard his flagship. But worse, news filtered through command frequencies that the rebellion was not confined to Yama—that every chapterhouse in Shima was probably infested with insurgents.
And from the Yama frequencies themselves, where once there would have been noise and life and meaning, there was only a constant 50-cycle hum.
This should have been a moment of triumph. Hiro had mustered his troops, was sailing toward the Stain even now. In two days’ time, the Tiger Lord would rendezvous with the Phoenix fleet and begin the march north. Fifteen days for the Earthcrusher to be unleashed on the Kagé—the nights, months, years of his life spent designing the colossus, agitating for its construction, all of it crystallizing in this single moment. And now, at the eleventh hour, to find traitors within the Guild’s own ranks …
“How is this even possible?”
Kensai slammed a fist onto the stone tabletop of the Chamber of Council, glaring at the trio of Inquisitors at the other end of the room. His command staff was assembled, watching the show with blood-red eyes. The walls were lined with maps of the Shima Isles, chattering banks of instrumentation. The undertones of great engines growling and grinding in the building’s bowels, overlaid with the rising uncertainty in the hallways outside.
“I have little time to waste on enigmatic silence,” Kensai spat. “I suggest one of you wake long enough to offer explanation!”
“Explanation?”
The lead Inquisitor spoke, bloodshot stare aimed at the ceiling. Of the two others in the room, one peered at his fingers, moving them as if weaving invisible thread. The third watched the air directly above Kensai’s shoulder, blinking once per second with timepiece precision. As each exhaled, blue-black smoke drifted from the grinning breathers over their faces.
“An explanation!” Kensai drew himself up to his full height. “The Inquisition is meant to recognize Impurity in all its guises. Is that not why you breathe lotus smoke every minute of your lives? To bring you clarity? How is it you failed to see rebellion festering in the Guild’s heart?”
The lead Inquisitor looked sharply at the empty air to his immediate right. Taking one step left, the little man spoke with agonizing slowness.
“Who is to say we did not, Second Bloom?”
“Do you mean you foresaw—”
“We see much. Many possibilities.”
“This is as it should be,” said another. “This is … satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?” Kensai was incredulous. “A Second Bloom has been assassinated!”
“Are you certain?” The Inquisitor looking at his fingertips met Kensai’s stare—the first of the group to have done so. “Did you see?”
“What do you see, Shateigashira?” the first asked.
“I see madmen,” Kensai spat.
The statement was met with uneasy murmurs around the council table. Kensai ignored the rumblings of his lower Blooms, stalking toward the trio.
“I see charlatans who predict the What Will Be, but cannot see corruption growing before their own eyes. I see lotusfiends wreathing addiction in metaphysical nonsense, stumbling about in the dark and hoping one of their mumbled prognostications actually comes true.”
The lead Inquisitor blinked again, eyes losing focus. “Then you see nothing.”
“Soon you will,” the second nodded. “Soon…”
Kensai seethed within his metal skin, bidding himself be still. Once the Earthcrusher destroyed the Kagé, once the gaijin war was renewed, he must speak with the Second Blooms of the remaining chapterhouses. Surely they must see the Inquisition’s influence was becoming destructive? Surely they must realize the First Bloom’s time was over?
The first Inquisitor spoke again, cutting Kensai’s musings to ribbons.
“This insurgency cannot be permitted to spread. We assume you will remain here in Kigen and see to the dissent in your own house.”
Not a question. A command.
“No,” Kensai replied. “I will travel north with the Earthcrusher and destroy the Kagé.”
“You are a Second Bloom, Kensai-san. Your first duty is to your chapterhouse.”
“All my life has led to this day. It is I who should be standing on the Earthcrusher’s bridge as it storms the Iishi. I designed its every—”
“You had assistance, did you not? Kioshi, former Third Bloom of this chapterhouse, was the genius behind its engines. And Kioshi’s son sits here in this very chamber.”
Kensai glared momentarily at his newest Fifth Bloom, the boy’s single glowing eye downturned, not daring to meet his gaze.
Kin-san.
“You cannot mean to send him in my stead?”
“And why not? He is intimately familiar with the Earthcrusher’s design. He knows the engine schematics better than any save perhaps yourself.”
“Two weeks ago he was part of the Kagé rebellion!”
“And since then, has handed over the Kagé leader to us, and would have gladly executed him at our command. Of your entire chapter, there is none less likely to be a traitor than he.”
“You do not know,” the second Inquisitor breathed, “what he Will Be.”
“But we know,” said the third. “We have seen.”
Looming over the black-clad trio, Kensai found himself contemplating heresy for the first time in his life. But to raise a hand to an Inquisitor …
“The Earthcrusher is my dream,” he hissed. “My design. I will be dead before I see this child steal my glory after all he has done.”
The first Inquisitor’s voice was barely a whisper. “That is…”
“… disappointing,” finished the third.
“First Bloom will hear of this…”