Kinslayer

weak.”

“The lotus must bloom,” Kensai murmured.

The Tiger Daimyo stood slowly, flexing the arm amidst the hiss of pistons and small bursts of chi exhaust. An iron cuff sleeved his shoulder, hiding the junction where metal ended and meat began. His other shoulder was tattooed with the imperial sun, burning across sculpted muscle, a newly inked cluster of lotus blooms beneath indicating his rank as a clanlord. A Daimyo. Master of the Tiger zaibatsu.

Impressive work for an eighteen-year-old.

Slipping on a loose, silken robe, he finally spotted No One kneeling on the floor, caught her in the midst of one furtive glance. Blanching, she pressed her head back to the boards, heart pounding in her chest. She should have waited until they were gone. Should have started with the ministerial chambers instead of coming here, falling under those bloody stares—

“Be about your business, girl,” the Tiger Lord said.

“Great Lord.”

She stood swiftly, making her way into the dim bedchamber beyond. Kneeling by the chamber pot, listening to the drone of the Second Bloom’s voice.

“The Phoenix clanlords have accepted invitation to your wedding, great Lord. The Floating Palace is already on its way here. We have it on good authority the Dragons will soon follow. With Ryu and Fushicho ratifying your claim, the Kitsune will soon fall into line. If not, any thoughts of rebellion will be crushed once the Foxes set eyes on your wedding gift.”

“Wedding gift?”

“Hai. I will take you to Jukai province for an inspection. A week or so from now.”

“I have never been fond of surprises, Kensai.”

“Then this will be a first, great Lord.”

No One stood slowly, frowning, chamber pot in hand.

Wedding gift? What in the Maker’s name…?

She’d lingered too long for answers. Slipping from the bedchamber, gaze downturned, she carried her clay burden across the room. The assemblage paid her no more attention than a stain on the floor. The spider-women were packing away their tools, the Tiger Lord standing on the balcony, staring out over his city as evening smothered it into silence. The Second Bloom loomed at his back, the smell of grease and chi thick in the air.

“Now,” Kensai said. “We must speak of these … funerary theatrics among you and the other Kazumitsu Elite…”

Out the door, ducking between the two towering hulks of death-white iron standing vigil. Her mind awhirl. She had to get to the Kuro Street safe house, report to Gray Wolf. But to avoid suspicion, she’d have to work her full shift, straight-faced, no pace in her step, no fear in her eye. The girl nobody wanted, nobody knew. An insignificance in human guise, no more worthy of concern or notice than a cockroach crawling in the cracks.

Forcing those cracks wider by the day.

I am nothing.

I am No One.

* * *

The earthquake struck soon afterward—a thirty-second tremor shaking the palace walls, vases tumbling from their perches and tapestries from their hooks. The fitful tremblings of the ground beneath their feet provided momentary distraction amidst the mounting courtly intrigue, but of course, it was left to the servants to clear up the mess afterward. The house mistress was furious and No One, being who she was, wore the worst of her temper.

Lady Sun was perhaps half an hour from waking by the time No One escaped the palace. The girl walked slowly, straw hat pulled down low, through the grounds and out into the predawn still. She saw a beggar on an empty street corner, walking in circles, claiming the quake was proof of Lord Izanagi’s displeasure at the impending royal wedding. As she watched, the poor wretch was beset by fresh-faced bushimen in Hiro’s colors and treated to an impromptu boot party. When pressed by their captain, she showed her permit, and hurried on her way.

Across the river to Downside, daylight still an empty vow on the eastern horizon. Daken met her in his usual spot, slinking from the alley mouth like a blade from its sheath, the scent of freshly murdered corpse-rat smeared on his muzzle as he purred and pressed his face to hers.

… saw you first …

Clever. You want to keep lookout for me again?

… we go to thin house . .?

Just for a little while. I need to see my friends.

… Yoshi come . .?

No, Daken. Yoshi can’t know about them. My friends are a secret, remember?

… many secrets …

You won’t tell him, will you?

… have not told you his, have i . .?

The tom gifted her with a smug gaze, turned and dashed off into the gloom. For all his size, Daken moved like a shadow, silent as tombstones. From the tumbledown rooftops, he could see for miles—better than anyone who might follow her through the twisted labyrinth into Docktown. Hands hidden in her sleeves, the comforting weight of the iron-thrower beneath her arm, No One set off through the sprawl toward the bitter reek of Kigen Bay.

Doubling back. Checking at corners. Watching reflections in dirty shop-front glass. Just like they’d taught her. Her induction into the Kage had been swift; need dictating pace. After witnessing Yoritomo’s death at the Stormdancer’s hands, a tiny spark had flared inside her, dimly illuminating a formerly lightless corner of her mind. The notion of rebelling—of not only standing apart but working against the government —it simply wasn’t something she’d ever considered possible. But it was surprising how the pillars of an unshakable worldview could be reduced to rubble when a sixteen-year-old girl murders the Lord of the Imperium right in front of you. Impossible notions become plausible in the face of an event that tectonic.

The problem being, of course, she had no way of tracking the Kage down. No ingress through the doors of the cabal. The spark inside her flickered and dimmed, no kindling to help it flourish. Yoshi kept her clear of the Inochi Riots—told her flatly the systematic murder of thousands of gaijin prisoners for the sake of a flower crop was none of their business. But when the Stormdancer returned and made her speech in the Market Square during Yoritomo’s funeral, when the girl had looked into the crowd and stared right at her, No One had felt the spark burst into ravenous flame. As the Stormdancer had taken to the sky, despite the risks, despite knowing it was foolish, No One had found her fist in the air and tears in her eye and known, simply known she had to do something more.

The very next day, she’d been approached by Gray Wolf.

The safe house was an unassuming building, crammed between two warehouses, close to the towering sky-spires. Kuro Street was narrow, stubborn weeds struggling through the cracks into a life of suffocating exhaust. Boarded windows. Street courtesans beneath paper parasols stained gray by the toxic rain. Gutters overflowing with garbage, lotus fiends and blacklung beggars—just another stretch of Docktown real estate to any without eyes to see the truth of it.

No One nodded to one of the Kage lookouts (a twelve-year-old girl inexplicably named “Butcher,” who had the most astonishingly foul mouth she’d ever heard) and walked up to the safe house’s narrow facade. Knocking four times, waiting until a thin elderly woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark cloth, silver hair in a single braid, mouth covered by a black kerchief. Her back bent, fingers worn, old lines deepened by hardship at the corners of her eyes.

“Gray Wolf.” No One bowed.

The old woman motioned with her head. “Come in.”

They walked past a narrow dining area, descending creaking stairs into a dingy cellar. The walls had been knocked out, connecting the basements of the neighboring buildings into one large room, multiple stairwells leading up into the adjacent structures. An impressive collection of radio equipment was arranged on a long table,