Kinslayer

Too good to be true.

She ran one finger across his cheek, smoothed strands of silken black from his eyes. He smiled then, like a little boy on his naming day, murmuring in his sleep.

“I know what you are,” she whispered.

Seducing her jailer had been the most logical route out of her cell, so seducing her jailer was exactly what she’d done. He was mere flesh after all, and she a woman who knew the simple craft of turning a man’s head. And if the sour taste of giving over her body bothered her at first, it was soon sweetened by the fact that Hiro’s new Lord Magistrate was not an unattractive man, nor entirely unpleasant company if all truths were told. Learned, but not arrogant. A philosopher, a lover of poetry, a noble not inclined to cruelty toward his servants. There were worse men to find keeping the keys to her cell in the palace of the Tora Daimyo.

She was a murderer. A killer who had ended a dozen men and lost not a wink of sleep over it. She’d committed the highest treason, abetted a terrorist, sought to bring down the government of the Imperium itself. What was the thought of giving over her body next to that? If she could take a man’s life, destroy everything he was and would ever be with a wave of her hand, she could certainly spread her legs and fake a sigh or two. For the opportunity to escape her cage, to find Aisha and free her from whatever contrivance kept her chained within these walls? She could fake more than a sigh.

The problem being, of course, that Ichizo was almost certainly playing the same game she was.

The first time she’d felt his lips pressed to hers, she’d known. His kiss was too tender, too hesitant. She’d had to coax his hands onto her skin, throw herself upon him. He played the smitten fool, whispering sweet words, showering her with secret gifts. And it might have been plausible—she might have almost believed it, until last night when he’d cupped her cheek in his palm, kissed her on each eyelid and whispered that he thought perhaps he loved her.

Love.

No magistrate, no servant of the Tora could be that obtuse.

This bastard was playing her, as surely as she was playing him. Any night now, she expected him to turn talk to Aisha. To Yukiko. To the Kage. Only a matter of time. She had to be out of here before he realized she knew exactly what he was.

The nightingale floor began singing; the high-pitched chirp of nails within metal clamps, the creak of dry pine. She heard footsteps, too light to be a bushiman, too cautious to be a servant simply doing her rounds.

No One.

Michi watched Ichizo’s face, listened for any catch in his breathing as the footsteps stopped outside her door. But his features were as serene as a sleeping babe’s, the rise and fall of his chest smooth as clockwork in a Lotusman’s skin. She stood, fluid motion and whispering silk, making less sound than the candlelight shadows flickering on the walls. And in four silent steps, she knelt beside the threshold and waited.

Moments later, a scrap of rice-paper slipped through the crack between door and floorboards. Three inches square, covered in artless kanji.

“Safe to talk?”

Flipping the paper over, she marked her reply with a kohl stick.

“Not alone. Must be swift.”

She slipped the paper back under the door, waiting for the reply.

“Who with?”

“Lord Magistrate Ichizo.”

A deathly still pause. A catch in the girl’s breath beyond the door. Michi heard her rise, thought for a moment she might be leaving. When she opened the next note, it was hastily scrawled with a trembling hand.

“Are you mad?”

“Some would say.”

“Overheard rumor he spoke to Daimyo on your behalf. Wondered why. Makes sense now.”

“Ichizo spoke to Hiro?”

“Asked him to release you. Bushimen said he was mooning over you like lovesick boy.”

Michi glanced back to the bed, eyes narrowed.

“He is a serpent. Nothing more. Hiro’s response?”

“Refused. Cares only for power consolidation and Stormdancer’s death.”

“What of Aisha?”

“Saw her yesterday evening on balcony.”

“How was she?”

“Could not ask. Guildsmen with her.”

“How did she look?”

“Bruised. Sick. Sad.”

“Wedding?”

“Proceeding. Dragon and Phoenix clanlords both en route.”

“What news from the Iishi?”

“Kuro Street safe house hit in dawn raid. No way to talk to Iishi.”

Cold panic set her jaw to clenching, breath catching in her lungs. She glanced over her shoulder at Ichizo’s sleeping form, licked at suddenly dry lips.

“Raid? How? Anyone taken?”

“Akihito safe. Staying with me. Others maybe scattered. Maybe imprisoned. Checking drop box again today with Akihito when shift finishes. No word yet.”

“If we cannot speak to Iishi, must save Aisha ourselves.”

“The three of us?”

“Wedding must be stopped.”

“Cannot even escape room?”

Michi sat for a handful of heartbeats, listening to Ichizo breathing, the wind whispering in the stunted gardens outside. Eyes roaming the bedchamber that was her prison. Mind racing.

“Wait.”

She stood, moving like smoke. Formless. Soundless. Stooping beside Ichizo’s clothes tumbled at the foot of the futon, she fished amongst silk and cotton, fingertips finally brushing a cold circlet of iron. And holding it tight in her fist, the clink and tink muted beneath the fabric, she drew the magistrate’s keys out into the flickering light.

With a soft breath, she blew out the candle in her window, its center melted into a deep scarlet pool about the smoking wick. She poured the wax into a saucer from her tea service, waiting a few moments for it to cool. And holding up Ichizo’s keys, she chose the one she’d seen him use on her bedroom door more times than she cared to remember, and pressed it into soft, blood-red warmth.

She watched him, counting his breaths, refusing to remember the feel of him inside her. The way he breathed into her hair afterward, speaking his lies. Talk of courting and love, promises she would attend Hiro’s wedding on his arm, that all whispers of her treachery would soon be put to rest. She’d played the fool of course, pretended she believed him, thanking him in the most obvious way a dishonored lady in waiting could. But the truth was she was a warrior, this bed just another battleground, her body just another weapon.

The lotus must burn.

Pulling the key free of the candle wax, she squinted at the impression it left behind: good and deep, sharp lines, more than enough to craft a forgery. More than enough to free her from this serpent’s nest.

She slunk back across the boards, eyes on Ichizo, not making a sound. Kneeling by the door she slipped the saucer beneath; a soft scrape of porcelain upon polished pine. No One’s note swiftly traveled back across the threshold.

“Key to your room? Why not come with me now?”

“Will not leave this palace without Aisha. Can work with this?”

A tremulous pause.