by Jay Kristoff
Daichi would oversee the Shadow strike into the Tiger palace—just a swift handful, light as knives, stealing through the chaos and wresting the Lady Aisha from her wedding bed. Kin stared at the Kagé who would guard their general on the back lines, young and fierce as tigers. The faces of the boys who had tried to kill him. Who had hurt Ayane.
Isao. Atsushi. Takeshi.
Their distrust was palpable, stares drifting to the input jacks at his wrists, the pale slip of a girl behind. The legacy of her assault was still carved on their arms. Their vengeance written in her hollow, haunted eyes.
Daichi patted Kin’s back; a show of endorsement, of faith despite it all. The way his father used to do in the workshop, in days before he dreamed of dissent or betrayal or revolution. Before he even knew what those words meant.
Kin unrolled a hand-drawn map of the refinery sewage system, took a dozen chess pieces and began to speak. He outlined approach. Breach. Security. Contingencies. Every nuance, every possible outcome. He took Kaori over the homemade chi explosives again and again, explaining in minute detail how to arm the devices and where they should be placed for optimum results.
“The explosion will be large enough to damage the refinery core and draw out their troops,” he said. “But you need to place the charges in the catalyst tanks on level two. Anywhere further along the line, you risk setting off a reaction that could ignite the chi stores.”
“So?” Kaori said. “The more damage we do, the better.”
“There are close to fifty thousand gallons of chi in those tanks. If they ignite, they take most of Kigen with them. You must hit the tanks on level two. Nowhere else.”
Kaori scowled. “You should be coming with us. You know this pit better than anyone. This city is a bleeding scab, but I’ve no mind to blow it all to the hells.”
“I’m no warrior.” Kin shook his head. “The battle with the oni should be proof enough of that. And believe me, you’re going to need warriors inside. Even drawing out their forces, the refinery will still be crawling with Lotusmen. You’re going to have to fight your way out.”
“Nevertheless, we could use you, Guildsman.”
Kin felt Ayane slide up behind him, press against his spine, slip her hand back into his. He remembered her sobbing in the dark.
The taste of her tears.
The echo of her voice.
“We don’t belong here.”
“Just stick to the plan,” he said. “I’ll be of more use elsewhere.”
43
NOT FALLING
Michi sat alone in the dark, red candle burning in the window. Waiting for the tickticktick of the Guild drones, or the bushimen come to arrest her, or No One to arrive against all hope and deliver the forged key beneath her door.
But none of them came.
Night fell with no sign of her fellow conspirator, and her hopes began to fade. Unless she’d been discovered, No One would have found some way to get word to her. If she was compromised, she was probably in a torture cell right now, trying to keep Michi’s name from spilling into the air along with her screams.
All around her, she could hear wedding preparations underway; servants running past her doorway, raised voices, distant music. She peered through her barred window, saw great amulets of red silk strung from the garden balconies, cooking smoke billowing from the kitchen doors, the children of some Fushicho noble playing with wooden swords in the garden. Would the Kagé let this happen? Would Yukiko? Surely they were on their way? In Kigen already? And she knew nothing of their plans.
Blind. Deaf. Dumb.
Gods, I feel so helpless.
She was trying to unscrew the bolts in the ceiling with her bare hands when she heard the tickticktick of a drone above her head, traversing the narrow spaces that had once been just another hallway to her and her fellows. She tried picking the lock on her door to no avail. And finally she punched the doorframe, bloodying her knuckles, pacing her room like the tigers imprisoned in the palace grounds. Breath heaving. Heart pounding.
“Burn slow,” she whispered. “Burn slow.”
But she couldn’t. This was the moment everything hung in the balance. Not just the fate of the First Daughter, the Tora clan, Kigen city. This was the future of the entire country. The wedding would give new life to the dynasty that had enslaved Shima to the chi-mongers. Another monster on the throne. Another century of slavery, death and suffocating smoke.
She crouched in a corner, banging the back of her head against the wall, her hopes breathing their last. No One wasn’t coming. She’d been discovered. They were undone, here, at the eleventh hour. Fists clenched. Mouth dry. So far away.
And then came a knocking at her door.
She looked up at the sound of a key in the lock, smoothing the hair from her face, wiping frustrated tears from her eyes. She stood, gritted her teeth, ready to go down fighting as the bushimen seized her. As good a place as any to die, she supposed. But they’d never take her alive. On her feet. Not crawling. Not falling. Never.
Never.
A figure stepped into the room, nodded to the bushimen outside, closed the door behind him. Smile upon his face. A large package in his arms.
“… Ichizo?”
“Hello, love.” He held up the package; a long box of scarlet card, set with a white, silken bow. “I brought you a gift.”
She blinked. Standing motionless. He was dressed in a beautiful blood-red kimono embossed with roaring tigers. His hair was swept up in coils, pinned at his crown with four long golden needles, chainsaw katana and wakizashi crossed at the small of his back—a new luminary of his clan, arrayed in his finest. A golden breather was strapped across his mouth and jaw, fashioned like the maw of a snarling tiger. But the eyes above it were soft with concern.
“Have you been crying, Michi?”
“No, my Lord.”
“You look upset.”
“What are you doing here?”
He proffered the box, and she took it into her arms as if it might burst into flames.
“Open it.”
She looked at him for a long moment, mouth dry as grave soil. She was conscious of the iron keys at his obi. The chaindaishō at his waist. The bushimen outside the door. Placing the package on the bed, she untied the bow. Inside was a radiant jûnihitoe gown; twelve layers of beautiful scarlet and cream, embroidered with small tigers and tiny jewels, a broad obi of golden silk to match his own.
“I was hoping you would attend the feast tonight,” Ichizo said. “As my lady.”
Her gaze drifted from the dress to his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I love you, Michi-chan. With everything inside me. Every part of me.”
She simply stared, mute and unblinking.
“I brought you something else,” he said. “Just in case.”
He proffered a smaller box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. As she took it, she heard something rattle inside. Even before she opened it, she knew what it was; pulling back the lid and tipping it into her own hand. A saucer, filled with blood-red wax, set with the impression of her room key.
No One had failed.
“We found this in your accomplice’s home, along with a palace servant’s uniform.” There was no anger in Ichizo’s voice, just a wounded, wilting sadness. “I need only say the word and the bushimen outside will step in here and drag you back to Kigen jail.”
“So do it.”
“I do not want that, Michi-chan.”
He stepped forward, put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “Your plot is undone. But I can protect you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I love you. Godsdamn me for a fool, but I do. And I look into your eyes and know some part of you loves me too.”
“I…”
“I am a good man, am I not? Have I ever treated you ill? Done anything but care for you? Even now I betray my oaths, my very blood to keep you safe. I love you, Michi.”
Too good to be true …
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“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“What do I gain from doing this? And what do I lose?”
“You’re lying.” Michi shook her head. “You want me to betray the others. Give away the location of the stronghold. Identities of the city cell—”
“I don’t care about your rebellion!” His voice was a fierce whisper, and he glanced at the doorway, the bushimen just beyond. “I don’t care about the throne or the dead man who would sit on it. I don’t care about any of that. We can run away once the wedding is done. You and I. As far as we want. I have money, I have favors. We can leave all this behind us.”
Michi said nothing, lips parted, struggling to breathe.
“Tell me you do not love me,” Ichizo said. “Tell me you do not feel something.”
“I…”
He tore the breather from his face, seized her wrists.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not feel what I do. When you feel my lips on yours. When you whisper my name in the dark. Tell me there is nothing between us.”
She felt tears spilling down her cheeks. Lower lip trembling. Hands shaking as he searched desperately within her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come, and her face crumpled like someone had kicked it in.
“Don’t cry…”
He kissed her eyelids, one after another, the same way he’d done when first he said “I love you.” Hands pressed to her cheeks, gentle as feathers.
“I know you,” he whispered. “Who you really are. You’re not a traitor. You’re not a Shadow. You are my lady. You are my love.”
She fell into his arms, mouth seeking his, hot with the flush of her tears.
“You are my love…”
She tasted salt as their lips touched, his body against hers. And in that brief pin-bright moment, she saw everything she thought she’d never have. A life spent in peace, far from blackened shores. A good man to share it with; a man who’d risked everything to be with her, who loved her more truly than Daichi or Kaori or Aisha ever would. A glimpse of happiness she’d long ago given up any hope of holding, here, now, in her arms, if only she could find the words to speak it.
She pressed her hands to his cheeks, running her fingers through his hair, breathing the words into his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Ichizo…”
Fingers around the golden needle holding his hair in place.
Slipping it free, quick as flies.
“I truly am…”
Sliding it up under his ear, behind the curve of his skull and into his brain. Her mouth over his to smother the gasp, the feeble, choking cry as his eyes opened to the sight of hers looking back at him, filled with tears. And his legs gave way and she caught his weight, lowering him twitching onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him as she pulled the needle free, leaving a tiny spot of blood on his skin.
“But I am not your lady,” she whispered. “And I am not your love.”
She slipped the needle into his heart, just to be sure. A fool’s heart, to love a girl who’d abandoned the very idea of it, too long ago now to remember.
“I am Kagé Michi.”
* * *
The key turned and the door opened wide.
The girl was dressed in a beautiful jûnihitoe, all scarlet and cream and smooth, smooth skin. Her face was powdered white, thick kohl rimmed about her eyes, a vertical stripe of cherry-red paint on her lips. She was facing to the left of the door, smiling, bowing from the knees.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said.
The four bushimen straightened, waiting for Magistrate Ichizo to appear behind her. The girl stepped into the hallway, tiny steps hobbled by the gown’s hem, and her feet caught upon the threshold. With a small cry she lost her balance, pitched forward. Two bushimen stepped up to catch her and she straightened, arms extended, driving hair needles up under their chins before either could blink.
Quiet gurgles. Stupefied expressions. Men dropping like stones.
The other two guards cried out, hefted their nagamaki; four-foot blades of polished steel with hafts of equal length, far too long to wield in the narrow corridors of the servant’s quarters. And Michi drew two more of the long, glittering needles from her hair and stepped between them, whirling as if she danced, burying one into each man’s eye.
This is what I am.
The bushimen hit the boards like lead, limp and breathless, armor ringing on polished pine like iron bells tolling the changing of the hours. The air was stained with the stink of blood and urine. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes and breathed deep.
This is where I belong.
Scanning the corridor, she grabbed each corpse and dragged it into her bedroom, struggling with the weight. Blood wiped from the floorboards with a scarlet tabard, staining golden tigers red. Hefting one of the nagamaki, she rucked up the outer layer of her jûnihitoe and slit the eleven layers underneath, all the way up to her thighs. She wiped the needles clean, reinserted them into her hair, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. Finally the face of the girl she knew—the vacuous, servile mask torn away and left bleeding on the floor.
In the distance she heard a low roar, a rumbling that shook the earth. Looking through her tiny window, she saw flames lighting the sky, daubed upon the clouds in clumsy, orange strokes. She heard faint cries. Iron bells. Running feet. Looking around the room at the bodies, slowly cooling, these men who had thought her a mouse. A fool. A whore.
She smiled.
And picking up the box Ichizo had brought her, now lighter than it had been before, she stepped into the corridor and locked the door behind her.
44
THE HAMMER FALLS
There comes a point where the bite of cracked ribs amidst every breath, the searing kiss of salt in fresh wounds, or the throb of bamboo shards beneath your fingernails makes you want to sing. Where any absence of new pain feels for one delirious moment like the greatest gift you’ve ever received, and it seems you should blubber thanks through swollen lips at the men who’ve stopped hurting you, if only for that wonderful, shining moment. Where the thought of one more blow, one more second of fresh agony becomes so terrifying you’ll say anything, do anything to avoid it.
But the boy wasn’t there yet.
“Whoresons.” Bloody drool spilled over his lips, gathering below his chin to drip onto the floor. “Whoresons, the both of you.”
Seimi stepped into the dim light, licking the yellowed rubble lodged in his gums. The yakuza’s face was calm, spotted with stray flecks of blood.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” His tone was that of a man asking for the daily specials, or directions to the sky-docks. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“Your father told me.” A ragged, bubbling gasp. “When he was done swallowing.”
Seimi grinned, sipped a cup of red saké with rock-steady hands. Hida stood by the doorway, arms folded, scratching at one cauliflower ear. A lukewarm bottle of liquor sat on a table beside a collection of tools; a hammer, pliers, tin snips, blades of varying lengths. A stained rag. A handful of bamboo slivers. Five bloody toenails.
The boy was naked save for his trousers, wrists bound with thick rope, suspended from a hook in the ceiling just long enough for his toes to touch concrete. His ankles were chained to the floor, a lonely globe casting a circle of pale light on bloodstained ground.
Seimi hefted the hammer. Its claw head was dull, rusted iron, the wooden handle grubby and unfinished. He patted his palm with the business end and sat crossed-legged in front of the boy, smiling up into swollen eyes.
“Where’s your friend? The one with the iron-thrower?”
“Your mother’s house.”
“What’s his name?”
“She’s never asked. She doesn’t talk with her mouth full.”
Seimi looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hida, shook his head. He grasped the boy’s ankle with his left hand, lifted the hammer with his right. The boy curle
d his toes up instinctively, breath coming quicker. Teeth gritted. Muscles taut. Sweat rolling through the bloodstains and glazing his lips a watery red.
Seimi slammed the hammer down on his smallest toe.
The sharp crack of metal on flesh, the wet scrunch of splintering bone. Seimi felt the impact through the floor, heard the boy scream through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, listened to the wail trail off into silence as the boy’s breath ran out, the sharp intake of oxygen into empty lungs, the whimper bubbling over split lips.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” He lifted the hammer again, stared up into glistening tears. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“You cowards. Miserable, gutless—”
The hammer fell again. The scream became a roar, the openmouthed howl of a wounded animal. The boy thrashed against the ropes, sawing skin raw, head flailing, muscles stretched, tendons standing out sharp in his throat. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m g-gonna kill you.” Teeth clenched. Spittle flying. “Fuck you!”
Seimi’s voice was heavy as a brick in a wriggling burlap bag, cold as the river water it was tossed into.
“No, little boy. Those nights are done. It’s us fucking you now.”
He brought the hammer down.
Again.
And again.
When Seimi stood and picked up the pliers, he saw Hida turn and leave the room without a sound. He had to stop halfway through his routine to get more saké. There were threats and pleas, showers of bloody spit, brief periods of unconsciousness ended with handfuls of salt. The smell of burning hair. The sound of snipping. And clipping. And screams. Big and bright and beautiful.
But finally, the boy arrived.
That blessed place, where the absence of new pain is the greatest of all gifts. And the man who stays his hand, even for a heartbeat, becomes the god at the heart of your world.
And at last, in that wonderful, shining moment, he sang.