The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

  Next, doctors and surgeons. No healers, as despite reports to the contrary, the Imperial Treasury has its limits. Still, a good doctor could serve an entire community—and it was their attention I sought. Some physicians in Fujino refused to serve anyone darker than sackcloth, and my father had done little to discourage them. So, whenever I heard tell of someone doing this, I added another doctor to my own payroll, and promptly sent them over.

  Food, too, was important. Thankfully it was also both the cheapest to acquire and the easiest to distribute. All it took in that case was a network that ran from the Imperial kitchen out onto the streets and into eager hands.

  I do not want to sound as if I fixed the problem single-handedly. I did not, and surely all of my efforts would have been in vain if not for the contribution of hundreds of others. Doing my best to help brought me comfort, and gave me something to focus on besides the war. I asked for nothing more than this.

  In my other hours, I chained myself to the page, rewriting and editing “Queen of Crows.” More than anything, I tried to convey the senselessness of the Qorin war—the despondency. I told the entire story as plainly as I could. Seven hundred lines of spare metaphor and cold truth.

  By the time I released the thing, it had drained me of all my life and energy, in the best possible way. Within two days I received my first letter, from one of my old calligraphy instructors. Ikuhara Ryuji’s hand was widely considered the finest in the Empire at the time.

  The letter was as brief as it was cutting.

  I wish you’d sent me only the hundred lines about Minami Shizuru. You are a creature of beauty; bleakness does not suit you.

  It hurt, of course—and then there was no one to discuss it with. If I told Iori that my latest work was ill-received he’d never let me hear the end of it. My father didn’t even bother listening to me whenever I spoke about it.

  So, there I sat, those two lines cutting through my stomach lining, my guts spilling out for all to see.

  It couldn’t be true, could it? Perhaps that was just his opinion. Perhaps others who had seen the things I’d seen would appreciate it.

  But every day more letters came in deriding the thing, each one another needle in my flesh. It seemed this poem I’d been so enamored with was little more than an amateur’s scribbling. Everyone seemed to agree that this was my worst work yet—with one equally unanimous exception: the depiction of that glorious warrior. My readers delighted in her. In letter after letter they commended me for capturing such a perfect image of that noble heroine, Minami Shizuru. Other poets seized that title, that imagery, and ran with it—by the end of that year there were at least a hundred works about the Queen of Crows.

  Yet no one wanted to listen to me talk about my fear or my sadness, or my experiences at war. Only my longing for love interested them—only my observations on nature and beauty.

  To know that something which had brought me such comfort met with such derision … it was as if the whole nation had watched me bleed before them, and not a single one offered to help. I was reminded, in the cruelest way, of the dying I’d seen at war—of that haunting look in their eyes. Dwelling on that memory left a sour taste in my mouth, no matter how relatable I found the image. A metaphor means nothing if it is misused. Who would dream of arguing that my suffering equaled that of a dying soldier’s? No, I knew my place. This was ill-received poetry. I would live to write another day.

  But to make matters worse, my father then fell ill. It was all very gradual—unexplained aches and pains—until the day he collapsed, howling in agony, while entertaining Doan Jiro. From that moment on the prognosis was dire. Healers are capable of any number of minor miracles—but in this instance there was only so much they could do. The poison in my father’s blood would keep returning, over and over; any procedures he underwent now would only prolong the inevitable.

  And so he chose to die.

  Iori took it well. He began lording over the palace staff the moment our father told us of his decision. My brother strutted like a peacock down the Endless Halls, pronouncing to anyone who would listen all the things he’d change once he was Emperor.

  It was not long before he got his chance. My father passed away in his sleep two days before the beginning of Ni-shen. I cannot say I was especially sad to see him go. The world would not lament the passing of Emperor Yorihito. His legacy—eight academies and a war—would long outlive him.

  But during his last few days it was difficult to look on him without falling into despair. My father rode in General Iseri’s army to conquer Xian-Lai; he was hale and hearty well into his old age. Yet the man who lay in bed before me was a withered husk. Even the most anemic branch of bamboo would be thicker than his arms. Gone was his trip-wire mind; he could no longer recognize either of his sons. All my life he’d bragged of Iori’s physical talents and my mental ones—but in the end he was silent and still.

  I did not miss the Emperor. But I would miss the man who raised me.

  Despite miming his filial duty for years, Iori did not mourn. Our father’s body was not yet cold the first time Iori donned the Dragon crown. Oh, he made a show of attending funerary services, but it was not hard to see the aura of joy about him.

  His first decree was that, for all rights and purposes, our father died on the first of Ni-shen. Dying in Tokkar was too much of an ill omen; a coronation would go no better.

  He was right on that account. Ascending the throne during the Brother’s month would cast a shadow on his reign that death itself could not banish. In Hokkaro, where omens were everything, it was best to err on the side of safety. Wise, even.

  His second proclamation was more in line his previous bouts of stupidity: a tournament to find the sixteen finest warriors in the land, who would then march beyond the Wall of Flowers to slay the Traitor. This was, to any Hokkaran, a just and righteous thing to do—the Traitor’s foul creations were beginning to break through the Wall of Flowers. Shiseiki faced the worst of it, beset by demon attacks and the blackblood plague alike, yet there were other signs throughout the eight provinces. Shiratori’s famed caverns full of gems were collapsing at an astonishing rate; Oshiro’s golden fields returned smaller harvests every passing year; livestock throughout the empire were dying well before their time. That this was the Traitor’s doing was not a matter for debate—all the theologians in the Empire were in perfect agreement.

  Yet a force of sixteen heroes—mortal men and women—to slay a god? And he mocked me for being obsessed with stories! It boggled my mind. Did he think it would work? Or did he, like our father before us, believe in the spectacle of the thing more than its efficacy?

  I will give him a little credit: the tournament served as a fine distraction from the nation’s grief. A gathering of warriors renowned for their skill, dueling for the honor of saving the Empire? A fine plot for a novel, and a finer one to see play out before your very eyes. Though it cost an astronomical sum to put on, the tournament also drew crowds from all over the Empire.

  Forced to attend his little show, I told myself that I might see something inspiring, but my heart was not in it. Inspiration was a distant memory.

  Until, on the fitfth day of competition, my eyes at last fell upon her face.

  At first, I had no idea who she was. Her opponent was Sugihara Gendo, who in any other era would go down as the most famous duelist of his time. Sugihara stood closer to our viewing platform and was announced far earlier than his opponent.

  When she walked out onto the field—when I first saw her—it was as if I’d awoken from a long dream. As if nothing prior to that moment mattered. Who was this woman, cloaked in rough-spun robes humble even by a monk’s standards? Who was this woman with a shaggy lion’s mane of unbound hair? Though she stood in front of thousands of civilians and the Emperor himself, she held a pipe in her hand, curls of smoke coming up out of it.

  I found myself leaning forward as she walked to the center of the field, where Sugihara Gendo awaited her. She took a drag from
her pipe before stashing it away within her chest pocket.

  “Ara, we’ve got a crowd!” she shouted, so loud and clear that I heard her without issue despite the distance.

  “Who is this boar?” Iori asked. The city’s governor, Kahei Junpei, who was in charge of the tournament and all the lists, shared our platform. He did not need to check his records; indeed, he could not hide his smile.

  “That,” he said, “is the Queen of Crows herself, Minami Shizuru.”

  My heart fell into my stomach. That was the woman I’d written about? How I wished I’d met her before I started writing! The woman before me was a staunch iconoclast, and I’d cast her as the height of Hokkaran monarchy.

  I had to laugh. After this duel was over I was going to have to track her down and apologize!

  “All right, you lot,” she said. “Who do you think is going to win this match? Me, or Gendo-kol over there?”

  Gendo-kol! As if he were a scholar, or a smith! I could not tell if she meant to insult him or if she simply didn’t care which honorific she used. Either way I was entranced. Other competitors boasted—but none were as charismatic as she was. Her friendly country accent coupled with her relaxed posture made it easy to forget she was such a war hero.

  I leaned forward, my eyes wide, my heart pounding.

  The crowd erupted into cheers. It was hard to make out any particular winner with all the shouting, but the moment Minami Shizuru waved them off the whole crowd went quiet.

  “They’re excited! Gendo-kol, what do you say we make this more interesting, hmm? Every time I hit you, you’ve got to buy one of my famous bamboo mats.”

  “Bamboo mats?” sneered my brother. “She can’t be serious.”

  “She is,” said Kahei. “Haven’t you heard of Minami bamboo mats? They’ve been selling them for the last five years.”

  I laughed, again, louder and harder than I had since the war. Bamboo mats! I knew of the Minami clan’s financial troubles, but bamboo mats of all things?

  Sugihara was also laughing. “Then I shall walk away without a single mat,” he called. Next to Minami Shizuru, everything about him was stiff and old-fashioned, including his accent. “And what of you? For each blow of mine, what do you offer?”

  Minami Shizuru grinned. I could not remember the last time I saw a noble grin in public. “Don’t be so cocky!” she said. “How’s this—if you can hit me even once, I’ll run an entire lap around the palace, naked as the gods made me.”

  Sugihara did not hesitate. “Accepted,” he said. He drew his sword, and Minami Shizuru followed suit.

  Except that she wielded nothing more than a wooden training sword.

  I could not believe my eyes. A wooden training sword? Against Sugihara Gendo? How was she going to parry with that thing?

  And yet!

  I watched, flabbergasted, as she dodged his most expert strokes. That woman turned herself to water right there in the arena. How else to explain the fluidity of her movement? One moment she was a laughing brook, swaying away from his sword; the next, she was falling rain landing blows on his arms and shoulders. All the while she was grinning, laughing, teasing him. When she ended the duel by breaking his nose, it was a mercy to the man’s reputation.

  In the end, Sugihara Gendo bought no less than fifty bamboo mats, and no one saw Minami Shizuru naked.

  Over the course of five more duels she made the same wager. The results never changed: fifty mats sold, and not a lap taken. The winners of the tournament received ten thousand ryo each, but at this rate she was going to win that purse solely through selling mats.

  And all this with a wooden sword! Where was the Minami clan’s fabled Daybreak blade? That, too, I longed to see in person—though watching the endlessly entertaining Shizuru was its own reward. Kahei informed me that Shizuru and her brother traded the sword each day they were in competition.

  “Where is he competing, then?” I asked. There were eight arenas spread throughout the city, though obviously the palace courtyard was the most prestigious. I’d seen Keichi dispatch two street thugs at once on the third day, now that I thought of it—and he was using the wooden sword. He was impressive, but he lacked his sister’s effortless charisma.

  “Out in the Harabana district,” said Kahei. An hour’s walk—and Minami Shizuru was not yet done for the day. As I looked out at her taking drags from her pipe, I knew without a doubt who I would rather watch.

  I called for paper and a brush, and then for someone to carry my letter. To this day I remember it.

  Minami Shizuru,

  Eight thousand apologies for misrepresenting you. I admit, I should have waited to write that poem until we met; your true self is far more interesting than my lines. Before you I am as awestruck and speechless as a schoolboy. Will you allow me the honor of your company after your final match of the day?

  May the Fallen Son favor you today,

  O-Itsuki

  I watched the servant run out from our platform, watched her weave through the crowds to reach the Queen of Crows. I watched her tear open the letter without a wink of care for the expensive paper. I tried to search her expression for any hint of her reaction, but it was difficult to do as far apart as we were. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

  She flipped over the letter, shouted at someone for a brush, and scrawled something back. I was so eager to read it I stood and walked to the edge of our viewing platform, that I might receive it heartbeats earlier.

  Her handwriting was as rough and untamed as the rest of her. Some of those characters were so badly done they’d paint a scholar scarlet.

  But I loved them. Who else would dare to send me such a thing? It was so honest!

  Poet Prince,

  The price for my company is fifty mats and two bottles of plum wine. Afterward, if I like you, it’ll be twenty-five mats and a single bottle. Impress me.

  The Queen of Drinking You Under the Table

  Needless to say, it was a price I was more than happy to pay. That night, Minami Shizuru introduced me to a teahouse the city guard didn’t dare go near—White Leaf, White Smoke. She did so on the condition that I keep a hat pulled over my face the whole time, and that I dismiss my bodyguards.

  “And should I be attacked by an assassin?” I wondered. “Whoever shall protect me?”

  “Are you as dumb as you are pretty?” Minami Shizuru replied. She smelled of smoke and sweat and wine and leather. “It’s your brother they’re after, everyone in the empire loves you.”

  “Do you count as ‘everyone,’ Minami-zun?” I said. There was an ease to being around her—I did not have to try so hard. She did not expect metaphors to drop out of my mouth as easily as honorifics.

  She pulled the pipe out again—offering a quick glimpse of her scandalous tattoo—and bit down on the stem. Even so, she was smirking. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  Though I badgered her to expand, to confirm one way or the other, I soon discovered her fluidity also extended to conversation. She’d turn my inquiry into a question about Yusuke the Brawler, or my inspirations, or my opinion on whatever painted opera the Fujino Theater Company was putting on. From there we’d branch out, like a river, into any number of conversations. By the time I walked her to her room at a local inn it was nearly Second Bell—but I didn’t care.

  I might have used all the luck in my life that night, for Shizuru agreed to see me a second evening. And then a third. And soon Minami Shizuru’s presence became as essential to my nights as the moon, as the stars, as the breath in my lungs and the blood in my veins.

  Being with her—meeting her even once—was the culmination of my life till then. Every experience I’d had—every sorrow, every joy—had prepared me for her. The first time we kissed I knew that I would ask her to marry me.

  I resolved to ask her one evening as the two of us sat in White Leaf, White Smoke. Keichi was with us. I felt it was appropriate to have him there when I asked, in case he had any objections he wished to discuss with he
r.

  But fate, as I have said, is a cruel mistress, and she had other plans that day. As we sat together, the three of us sharing our first round, we noticed an outpouring of people coming from the back of the teahouse. White Leaf, White Smoke was packed more often than not—a spot near a table was a treasured thing to have. To see so many abandoning their hard-earned space did not bode well.

  Minami Keichi sniffed. “I’ll give it a look,” he said, before setting off to do just that.

  Shizuru finished her cup. “Better not be any problems,” she said. “I like this place too much to see it shut down.”

  I followed Keichi with my eyes. The rough-cut crowd parted for him, for the most part, though he wore the wooden sword at his belt and not the Daybreak blade. “I’m certain it’s nothing,” I said. “Perhaps there was a spill.”

  When Keichi returned to us his face was hard. There was simmering anger in his brown eyes; thick ropes of tension flowing down his neck. “It’s her,” he said.

  “Who is her?” Shizuru asked. “Keichi, don’t be an idiot. Say what you mean or don’t say anything at all. I don’t know why I have to keep—”

  “It’s the Wall-Breaker.”

  My blood froze. Burqila Alshara. No one was particularly happy to see her competing in the tournament, yet no one could deny that she was one of the finest warriors alive. I’d missed her inaugural match due to a few of Shizuru’s distractions, but I’d heard about it after the fact. She’d shown up on horseback. Qorin customs being what they are, she must have thought it would be acceptable.

  The judges demanded that she dismount per the terms of the tournament. After a tense, albeit polite, argument with her interpreter she agreed.

  Her opponent was a young man with a polearm who stained his trousers at the sight of her. When he charged her, she kicked him in the leg, pulled the polearm out of his hands, and bashed him over the head with it. As he lay bleeding onto the arena she pulled a slate and chalk from her chest pocket.