Steel Crow Saga

by Paul Krueger

  That brought Tala up short. Her mind throbbed from the sheer tonnage of fury it shouldered, and she wanted to direct it at every Tomodanese person she saw. “I know we’re not at war,” she said eventually, keenly aware of all the eyes on her.

  “Then you just confessed to murdering a citizen of Tomoda in peacetime,” Prince Jimuro said. “Under the Code of Steel, that crime carries a death sentence.”

  Behind him, Kurihara took a step forward, gun at the ready.

  “But,” the prince continued, “you’ve also been my diligent protector. That’s earned you my clemency. Lord Kurihara.”

  Kurihara took another step forward, his disappointment plain. “My liege.”

  “See to it that the Steel Cicadas allow the sergeant to depart safely with a functional weapon,” he said. “I’ll personally look into her safe arrival back to Sanbu, and if I hear any harm has befallen her, I’ll hold all of you responsible. Is that understood?”

  Kurihara looked as if he’d swallowed blood. “Your Brilliance,” he said, bowing.

  Every part of Tala stung. “Prince Jimuro,” she said. “Are you really putting your trust in them over me?”

  “In my own people,” Prince Jimuro said, “over a foreign soldier who until two days ago…had never even talked to me?”

  For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. The other Cicadas seemed to fade from the corners of Tala’s vision, as did the Sanbuna casualties at her feet. For that moment, Shinku—and with it, the world—was empty, but for Jimuro and her.

  Everything she wanted to tell him hung in her throat.

  She limped away from him without saying any of it.

  It had been Jimuro’s grandfather, Steel Lord Kenjiro, who had introduced railroads to the people of Tomoda. Building railroads had always been theoretically possible, but the scarcity of metal on the home island had rendered it impractical. The conquest of the Sanbu Islands had changed that. The rich ore mined there had been used to mass-produce automobiles, to improve the weapons in Tomoda’s national armory…and to finally realize the dream of a Tomoda tattooed with latticeworks of steel.

  Though Kenjiro was lionized as the father of the Tomodanese railroad, the work had largely been completed after his death, by his daughter. So it shouldn’t have been surprising for Jimuro to find massive portraits of his grandfather and mother hanging in the main atrium of Yatsura Memorial Station in Gorudo.

  And yet, there they were.

  Kenjiro was plump and jovial, more like the country’s indulgent uncle than its leader. Next to him, Yoshiko more looked the part of Steel Lord: regal and…well, steely. Something caught in Jimuro’s heart, to recognize his own narrow face in the brushstrokes of her portrait. He thought of her ashes, resting in state at the Palace of Steel. Before he took the throne, he would have to visit her first. And his father.

  And Fumiko.

  He had to say goodbye.

  Kosuke clapped a hand bracingly on Jimuro’s shoulder, shaking him from his reverie. He pointed to a spot on the wall next to Steel Lord Yoshiko’s. “That’s where they’ll hang yours.” Jimuro could hear the Your Brilliance on the back of Kosuke’s voice, but he’d caught himself just in time. He grew somber. “Do you miss them?”

  “Him, I never knew,” Jimuro said, nodding deferentially to his grandfather before regarding his mother’s likeness. “Her…every day.”

  His stomach clenched into a knot as he recalled the reports of how his mother had died: in their garden, a place of quiet contemplation, as she was attempting to usher the household staff through one of the many secret passages that would get them safely out of the palace. Reports were inconsistent as to how many Shang she’d taken with her when they fell upon her, but Jimuro knew in his bones that no matter the number, his mother had died well.

  Of course, not dying at all would have been preferable.

  He let his gaze fall from the portraits. They were the only thing worth looking at inside the cramped train station, but he didn’t want to look at them anymore. “Let’s wait on the platform.”

  The air outside hung heavy with humidity, the sky above thick with bulbous gray clouds. The passengers already waiting by the side of the tracks exchanged idle chatter as they stared up at the sky and clutched at their umbrellas. Not a one of them noticed as he and Kosuke casually took places in their midst.

  Jimuro felt a thrill of excitement as he listened to the distant rumble of thunder. The rains in Sanbu were frequent, but rarely refreshing. No matter how long they lasted, they only served to make the world heavier and stickier when they finally subsided. The Tomodanese rains—the rains he’d grown up listening to, feeling on his skin, tasting on his tongue—were crisp and clean. Before each came anticipation, and after each came renewal.

  The land wasn’t all that had been renewed. The station now had an outdoor platform with a handsome wooden awning stretched over a poured concrete floor. Old photographs showed the station had barely been a lean-to in his grandfather’s day. In his mother’s, it had been rebuilt into the small yet impressive structure it was today. Jimuro could only wonder: What sort of station would it grow into under his rule? Would it even grow? Or would his mismanagement reduce it to rubble and splinters?

  Good, he heard Tala say in the back of his head. Everything here was stolen, anyway.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear away her voice. What was he doing listening to her? These rails were a symbol of Tomodanese ingenuity. If Sanbu wanted to hang on to its metal, he thought savagely, they should’ve fought harder to defend it.

  You just called it our metal, her voice chimed in again. Doesn’t that say everything?

  “Shut up,” Jimuro growled to himself.

  Kosuke opened his mouth, then shut it again and flashed him a brief look of concern. Jimuro realized, sheepishly, that he’d just said that aloud. He shook his head to signal to his friend that everything was fine. And everything was, he knew. He was about to speed things up by abandoning Erega’s glacially paced plan and traveling by train instead. He had a small but fierce squad of loyal subjects at his back, though they’d broken into duos and trios to avoid attracting suspicion. He was in as strong a position as he’d been since the day Sanbu had captured him. He just had some lingering anger toward Tala, and he would let that go soon enough. What did he care what she thought of him? He was a prince, soon to be a king, with his own subjects to mind. From now on, his people would always come first.

  A gentle patter overhead heralded the arrival of the rain at last. Umbrellas mushroomed above the waiting travelers all around Jimuro, while other passengers simply muttered and migrated to the awning. They were all waiting so…normally. They had no idea their prince walked among them. They didn’t even act like they were living in a country under occupation. The sight gave him hope. Truly, his people were as resilient as the steel they revered.

  He smiled wanly at Kosuke, who grinned right back. Finding him had been a gift from the spirits themselves. When formulating the plan, General Erega had insisted that Jimuro put no trust in the loyal noble houses of Tomoda, but he saw now that Erega had just been trying to control him. He’d been a fool to put his trust in anyone but his own fellow children of Tomoda.

  A rumble in the distance drowned out the cicadas’ song. At first Jimuro thought it was more thunder, but then he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. Just over the horizon, a solitary white light appeared in the gloom: the southbound train that would take them from the midlands straight down to Hagane. His heart swelled at the sight. At long last, he’d laid eyes on his final deliverance, and what more fitting shape for it to take than a piece of Tomodanese engineering excellence?

  The train hissed to a gentle stop in front of him. The machine was like a steel serpent, its hide shiny and black. Its fine copper detailing gleamed beneath the dull gray sky. And the frontmost car, which housed the c
rew whose metalpacting moved the train, had dazzling veins of gold on its side that spelled out the train’s name. Jimuro took a few steps over to read it.

  In glittering characters, it declared itself to be the Crow’s Flight.

  He frowned.

  * * *

  —

  Raindrops streamed down the train windows as Gorudo slowly receded into the darkness and fog. The lights had just begun to come on for the night when the town disappeared from sight completely.

  The train was six cars long: the lead, a diner car sandwiched between two passenger cars, a sleeper car, and a freight car at the very rear. Jimuro would’ve been fine with a more utilitarian option, but Kosuke had insisted that they travel in comfort. “You’re about to come into your birthright,” he’d said. “Why not ride into your city like the hero you are?”

  So he and the Cicadas settled in the frontmost passenger car. They broke apart into separate compartments, leaving him and Kosuke to share one together: cozy, with long, soft cushions like benches, and a table between them. When a woman appeared in the doorway to take a seat with them, Jimuro scooted aside to make room, but Kosuke frowned ever so slightly and gave a tiny shake of his head. The woman reddened, then bowed in apology and excused herself without a word.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Jimuro said. “She just wanted a place to sit. She was probably going to get off soon, anyway.”

  “You’ll have the rest of your life to glad-hand the people, Your Brilliance,” he said. He seemed relieved to be able to address Jimuro formally once more. “After the ordeal you’ve been through in the clutches of those savages, you deserve a bit of time to just be yourself again.”

  Jimuro noticed Kosuke’s hand hovering tentatively near his knee. He gave Kosuke a nod, and with visible relief Kosuke laid his hand on Jimuro’s thigh. The rest of Kosuke’s body relaxed, and he slumped gently into Jimuro, resting his head on the prince’s shoulder. “I can’t believe the spirits gave you back to me, my liege.”

  “I told you, enough of that,” Jimuro said, sighing. “You’ve known me since we were children. We’ve shared a bed. You can at least call me by the name my mother gave me.” Something about his own words felt like an icicle to his heart.

  “May she—” Kosuke caught himself. “That reminds me, we need some sake.” He slid the compartment door open and hailed a crew member. “A bottle of sake and two cups,” he told her. “Warm.”

  Jimuro didn’t mean to say it. He had no intention of saying it. But when Kosuke shut the door and turned back to him, the words tumbled out of his mouth just the same: “My coronation’s tomorrow.” Saying the words aloud let him feel their weight for the first time. He tried to think of them as a cloak draped across his shoulders, and not a boot hovering over his throat.

  “Spirits willing, yes,” Kosuke said. “All the more reason to drink.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Jimuro said. “I was never supposed to be the Steel Lord so young. My mother—”

  He tamped down his words as the door slid open again. The uniformed attendant had returned bearing a metal tray, upon which rested a small sake bottle and a pair of cups. She placed them on the table, bowed, and departed once more.

  “My mother was supposed to teach me so many things before I assumed her throne,” Jimuro went on as Kosuke filled their cups. “I was supposed to do more before I assumed her throne. I was supposed to have a life, Kosuke.”

  Kosuke stopped mid-pour and looked at Jimuro with concern. “Are you saying you don’t want to be our Steel Lord?”

  “No,” Jimuro said. It sounded more heated than he’d meant it to. He softened his tone. “I do want to be the Steel Lord. I want to serve. I just…I never really gave it that much thought until now. Even after I heard that she was dead, I didn’t let myself think about it. Now I have no room to think about anything else. Tomoda needs a great Steel Lord more than ever, and tomorrow all it’s going to get is me.”

  “Jimuro.” Kosuke patted Jimuro’s leg affectionately. “I’m no monarch, but I have experience with floating in the gulf between who I am and who people think I am. Would you concede that much, at least?”

  Jimuro grunted, staring into the shallow cup Kosuke had placed in his hands. “Fair.”

  “I know it is,” Kosuke said, tempering his bluntness with a perfectly shaped grin. “But you need to set those fears aside. When you lead us into the bright future of our reborn empire, we’ll need you at your bravest and boldest. If you show the world any less, they’ll take it as a license to tear you apart.”

  Jimuro’s voice caught in his throat. Despite his best efforts, Tala’s words from the night before snaked through his head again. “We should talk about that,” he said quietly.

  Kosuke’s face darkened. “The barbarian again,” he sighed. “Is she whispering in your ear?”

  “I don’t see her here,” Jimuro said, trying his best not to consider the part he’d played on that count.

  Kosuke was uncowed. “Why else would you doubt our ability to come back from this? You’re the divine vessel of the spirits, and the beating heart of our people. If anyone’s supposed to believe in our future, it’s you.”

  “I do believe in our future,” Jimuro said. “But another war won’t get us there.”

  Kosuke stiffened and sat upright. His hand withdrew, taking its warmth with it. “I see.”

  “Think, Kosuke. We’re surrounded by our former enemies, our vaults are empty, and the people are exhausted.” Jimuro ticked each item off on his fingers. “I may have spent more time in a cell than on the battlefield, but even I know those aren’t the conditions for winning a war. Our best hopes for any future rest on the mercy of Shang, Sanbu, and Dahal.”

  Kosuke looked as if he were seeing Jimuro for the first time. He smiled unsteadily, then bowed. “Well. You have a lot on your mind. I’m sure we can talk it all out.” He raised his cup. “May you live ten thousand years.”

  “Ten thousand years,” Jimuro said automatically. They clinked their cups, thumped them against the wooden table, then drained them. Saying the number almost made him shudder. At that point, he would’ve been tired of the very act of being alive.

  Kosuke sighed. “You’re my friend, and you know I’ll follow you no matter where you lead,” he said. “I want you to remember that when I tell you: You aren’t trusting in us the way you need to, and it’s disrespectful to every child of Tomoda who’s ever made sacrifices in your name.” He coughed. “Don’t forget that first bit I said, now.”

  Jimuro made to pour himself another drink, only for Kosuke to snatch the bottle away and fill his cup for him. He slid his fingers beneath his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. This place wasn’t doing anything to help his nerves at all, but the train was up to full speed. He could hardly leave now. “Please don’t lecture me on how I see my people.”

  “You don’t trust us,” Kosuke said. “Just today, you put more faith in that barbarian soldier to solve problems than you did in the Steel Cicadas.”

  “Back in Shinku?” said Jimuro. “Of course I did. She was Sanbuna. They were Sanbuna. And do you know something? Tala had the situation under control. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw what I saw, Kosuke. She was handling things, until you opened fire.”

  “She’s a mad dog,” Kosuke said. “One who murdered Harada, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “Don’t talk about dogs that way. One of my best friends was a dog.” Ignoring the sting brought about by the invocation of another one of his dead subjects, he went on: “Before I dismissed her, Sergeant Tala claimed you’d ordered her death. Why would she think that?”

  He watched Kosuke carefully, and sure enough, Kosuke gave up the biggest tell of all: a complete, studious absence of tells. Jimuro recognized the posture well; it was a common one in courtly intrigue, when one wished to carefully cultivat
e information and its flow.

  “Like I told you,” said Kosuke with practiced inscrutability, “she’s a—do you mind?”

  The compartment door had slid open yet again. A tall young woman with a black dress and black boots abruptly sank into a bow of apology and then excused herself, leaving the door slightly open.

  Irritably, Kosuke rose and slid it all the way shut. He didn’t speak again until he’d resumed kneeling next to Jimuro. “The slaver was a mad dog, Your Brilliance,” he said. “Who’s to say what went through that mind of hers when she was full of bloodlust?”

  Jimuro knew Tala to be a fierce fighter—in fact, he’d experienced it firsthand. But there was a gulf between “fierce” and “vicious,” and in his mind Tala never crossed it, even at her ugliest. Still, he kept that to himself. The more he prodded at the subject, the deeper Kosuke would entrench himself, and any further conversation would be pointless.

  Kosuke sensed his disquiet. “Some food, perhaps,” he said bracingly. He slid the door open and poked a head out. When he couldn’t find an attendant, he said, “I’ll look for someone in the dining car.” His expression gentled. “Whatever you’re going through, I want to help you. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  Jimuro nodded, smiling tightly as he tapped his cup to the table and took a sip of sake. Kosuke gave him a lingering glance of concern, then slid the door shut yet again.

  The prince slumped back against the compartment wall with a sigh. He was so rarely alone these days. Kosuke would only be gone for a minute, but he was grateful for even that amount of respite.

  So. His friend had tried to have his bodyguard killed. The only thing about it that surprised him was how unsurprised he was. It didn’t absolve Tala of Harada’s murder, but it did make the waters even murkier than they already were. Tala was right: Kosuke had been far too willing to casually resort to murder himself.

  And now you’ve made him the only one you can rely on, his mother’s voice snapped.