and swollen eyes. But not so hard as to split her lip, to leave a mark that wouldn’t set to fading after an hour or so. Spittle sprayed her face as the warden bellowed.
“Answer me, you little bitch!”
The girl hung her head, weeping, face hidden by a curtain of tangled hair. Her sobbing echoed off the damp stone of the prison cell, lank straw strewn underfoot. Manacled wrists, long knife wounds scabbed down her forearms. A cracked and swollen cheek healing slowly. Bare and bruised legs dotted with fresh lesions. A perceptive man might have noted the wounds were shaped like rat bites.
The warden’s patience had frayed to a few lonely threads over the past week. Each maidservant in his custody was technically nobility; in theory they had families to press the Tora Daimyo for their return—presuming a new clanlord was ever chosen, of course. Even after they’d been arrested, no official accusation was leveled by the disintegrating judiciary. And thus the warden was placed in the unenviable position of having to “make inquiries” of his prisoners without the burning iron or water torture usually employed during interrogations in Kigen jail.
It was enough to drive a fellow to drink.
The warden seized the girl’s throat, forced her head back so she could see his eyes. He saw naked fear, pupils dilated, discolored cheek wet with tears.
“You served Lady Aisha.” The girl gurgled as he tightened his grip. “Your mistress spent hours with the Kitsune girl, plotting her brother’s assassination. You were privy to all of it!”
“She always … sent us … out.” A croak through a cinched windpipe. “Always—”
“You are a Kage spy! I want names, I want—”
“Warden!”
The shout rang out in the cell’s confines, taut with command. The warden turned and saw two bushimen in black-banded armor outside the cell, flanking a third man in a tailored kimono of rich scarlet.
The man’s hair was drawn back in an elaborate braid, pierced with golden pins. He was a good-looking fellow with a studious air; a handsome face with perpetually narrowed eyes, as if he spent too much time reading by lamplight. A chainkatana and wakizashi were crossed at his waist—the chainsaw daisho marking a nobleborn member of the military caste. He clutched a beautifully crafted iron fan in one hand. Smooth shaven, sharp jaw covered by an expensive clockwork breather. He was in his early twenties at most, but his rank was that of a man two decades older.
“Magistrate Ichizo.” The warden released the girl and bowed. “Your visit was unannounced.”
“Obviously.” The man’s eyes flickered to the girl crumpled on the stone. “This is how you treat your wards? Ladies of court? You disgrace yourself and dishonor our Lord, Warden.”
“Forgiveness, honorable Magistrate.” The warden bowed. “But I was commanded to uncover any Kage operatives—”
“And you believe torturing handmaidens will bring you closer to them?”
“Each one of these girls served the traitor whore, Lady Aish—”
The blow was so swift, the warden almost couldn’t track it. Ichizo’s iron fan caught him full in the face, hard enough to open a small cut across his cheek. The crack of metal upon flesh faded, a stone-heavy silence in its wake, broken only by the girl’s quiet sobs.
“You speak of the last daughter of Kazumitsu’s line,” Ichizo hissed. “The blood of the first Shogun flows in her veins, and the next heir to this empire will grow in her womb.” He slipped the fan into his sleeve. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
The warden pawed the cut on his cheek, lowered his eyes.
“Forgiveness, Magistrate. But the Chief Treasurer demanded—”
“Chief Treasurer Nagahara resigned from office two hours ago. The stresses of public life have extracted a grievous toll upon his health. He has retired to his country estates with the blessings of our Lord, Daimyo Hiro.”
The warden sighed inwardly.
At last count, three nobles had claimed leadership of the Tora zaibatsu; two senior ministers and the young Iron Samurai who had lost his arm (and very nearly his life) defending Yoritomo-no-miya from his assassin. Now it seemed the time for diplomacy was ending. Hiro’s faction had assassinated four high-ranking ministers in the last two weeks—courtly machinations turning inevitably toward the politics of the duelist’s katana and the assassin’s blade. Swordmen like the warden were caught in between—bound by oaths to the Daimyo, but unsure who the hells the Daimyo even
“This barbarism will end.” The magistrate’s gaze roamed the cell. “Lady Aisha’s handmaidens will be escorted to the palace and placed under house arrest. I will speak to each girl personally regarding their treatment whilst in your care.”
“This one was injured when she came in,” the warden mumbled. “I had the apothecary tend her wounds to ensure she wouldn’t fall to infection.”
“And the rat bites?”
“I—”
“I know the nature of her injuries, Warden. I have read the report. Multiple knife wounds. Beaten bloody, cheek cracked, comatose for days. Lucky to escape the Stormdancer with her life. Yet you believe she was in collusion with the Kitsune girl?”
“There were many secrets in the wh…” the warden cleared his throat, “… in the Lady Aisha’s chambers. Some of these maidens must have been privy to them.”
“This girl is barely seventeen years old.”
“All due respect, Magistrate, but Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin was sixteen.”
“And you thought to beat the insurgency’s secrets out of a girl that
“I was commanded to investigate all—”
“Your loyalty is admirable, Warden. But your confusion about where to place it is of grave concern. You should invest thought in your future.” The magistrate’s eyes glittered above his breather. “My noble cousin, Daimyo Hiro, would be disappointed to learn you had also been … retired for the sake of your health.”
“I understand, Lord Magistrate,” he nodded. “My thanks for your wisdom.”
“Unchain her at once.”
The warden unlocked the girl’s manacles, blanching as he noted the raw bruises on her wrists. Ichizo shouldered him aside, throwing his robe around her to preserve her modesty. The magistrate tut-tutted as he assisted her from the cell.
“It is over, my dear.” His voice was soft as feather down. “It is all over now.”
The girl continued crying, hugging herself as the magistrate escorted her down the stone corridor. The warden heard the sound of heavy boots: more bushimen marching into the prison, barking orders at his men to release the other maidens. He could feel it all around him—the entire country teetering on a knife edge. The promise of bloody conflict looming among the clans. Kage insurgents infecting the city like a cancer. Samurai thrashing about like spoiled children, concerned with nothing but carving paths toward the throne.
The warden sighed again, wished for a return to simpler days. Days when a soldier knew where his allegiances lay. Days before the Stormdancer had taken his world away.
Then he clomped out of the cell and went in search of that drink.
“Your suite, I believe.”
They stood in a wide palace hallway, flanked by four bushimen, the stink of their motor-rickshaw journey still clinging to her skin. The girl had stared out the window as they drove from the jail, forehead pressed to glass as Kigen city brushed past in all its misery. Market stalls standing empty and abandoned, broken glass crunching under their wheels. People in rich garments scurrying to and fro, hunched shoulders, nervous glances behind custom goggles. Past the empty, bloodstained arena, through the tall iron gates of the palace grounds. Stunted gardens behind high walls; gray stone with a broken-bottle crust. Autumn had finally broken the awful summer heat, and yet everywhere she looked, she could see the color of flame. Smell the tinder, waiting for the spark.
