MERCIES
Ichizo watched the Daimyo of the Tora Clan raise his sword, blood-red sunlight gleaming on the blade, level with his opponent’s throat. Hiro’s foe drew breath through clenched teeth, weapon hanging from his grip as if it were an armful of bricks. Hiro glared at the samurai facing him across polished boards, amidst the lifeless stares of hollow men, muscles gleaming, iron arm spitting a thin plume of exhaust into the stifling air.
Then he lunged.
Ichizo could barely track his cousin’s movement, Hiro’s prosthetic a blur, his blade smashing aside his foe’s guard, the Daimyo spinning on the spot and bringing his katana in a sweeping arc across the man’s ribs. The wooden blade cracked against the samurai’s breastplate, denting the metal, a spattered, damp exhalation leaving his lips as the man fell to his knees, clutching his side, face twisted in pain. Hiro stood above him, sword raised above his head for the would-be deathblow.
The samurai raised his hand in surrender.
“Yield, great Lord,” he rasped. “I yield.”
Ichizo’s applause mingled with that of the servants, Hiro’s four other sparring partners, bent and bruised and hovering at the training dojo’s edge. Their Daimyo had been beating on the men for the best part of an hour, Ichizo hovering outside, listening to the sharp cries, the grunts of pain, until he had finally lost patience, entering to seek words with his clanlord.
Hiro helped his opponent to his feet, and noticing Ichizo amidst the retinue, raised an eyebrow in question. The Daimyo was fighting unarmored, all muscle and sweat, flesh gleaming in the fading light. Long black hair was drawn back in a tail, a sodden river trailing down his chest, clinging to his skin. A short puncture scar marred the taut pectoral muscle above his heart, just a few inches shy of a killing blow. The flesh at his right shoulder was inked with a mangled tiger tattoo, an iron collar affixed around his bicep, hiding the union between his flesh and the prosthetic the Guild had gifted him. Ichizo was unnerved by the sight—the union of meat and machine far too akin to a Lotusman for his tastes.
Shogun Yoritomo had always kept his distance from the chi-mongers—always kept the delineation between throne and Guild clear. But it seemed Hiro had thrown in with them without so much as a backward glance. He knew the power the Lotusmen offered his cousin, knew how much rode upon this union between Hiro and Lady Aisha, what would become of the nation if the clans fell to civil war. And yet, unease at this overt alliance with the Guild grew in him daily—more than the threat of Kage insurgents hiding in the shadows, the Stormdancer fermenting discontent from the north. And he wondered what price the Daimyo would truly pay for his throne.
And yet Hiro was his cousin. His blood. His Lord. To think such things—
“You wish to speak with me, Ichizo-san?”
Hiro dropped his bokken to the floor, the wooden sword striking the boards with a sharp clatter. A servant scuttled from the periphery with a cup of almost clear water, hovering by his Lord’s side.
“It is no matter, great Lord.” Ichizo bowed. “I should not have interrupted your training. It can wait.”
“Well, you have interrupted now. We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
The Daimyo motioned to the row of wooden katana, the training dummies clad in practice armor. A small smile on his lips.
“I fear I would prove little contest for you, great Lord,” Ichizo said.
Hiro grinned. “Since when did that stop you in the past?”
“Oh ho.” Ichizo grinned in return. “I recall besting you once or twice, at least.”
“Make it three times, then. Or are those magistrate’s robes I put you in sending you soft?”
Ichizo bowed with a wry smile, walking to one of the wooden figures and slipping on the training armor, a servant buckling it in place. Hiro sipped his water as Ichizo suited up—heavy gauntlets, breastplate, a cowled helm—watching his cousin test a half-dozen practice blades before he found one with balance to his liking. The Lord Magistrate finally stepped into the sparring circle, raised his sword in salute. The Daimyo tossed his cup to another servant, swept his ponytail back over his shoulder and flourished a new bokken with his iron sword arm.
“Defend yourself,” Hiro hissed.
The Daimyo charged across the room, footsteps echoing floor to high ceiling, bringing his sword down toward his Lord Magistrate’s head. Ichizo parried, impact jarring his wrists, knocked aside amidst the hiss and whirr of Hiro’s prosthetic. A foot to his chest sent him stumbling back, hissing and coughing, opening his eyes just in time to fend off another flurry of blows from Hiro’s blade—face, chest, gut.
He backed away, astonished at the ferocity of the attack. Hiro smiled, watching him over the edge of his blade, waiting for his counter.
“So,” he said. “Speak.”
Ichizo lunged, once, twice, Hiro fending off both strikes with practiced ease, the sharp notes of wood cracking against wood ringing in his ears.
“It is of little import, great Lord.”
Strike. Parry. Lunge.
“Come now,” Hiro said, dancing away. “It seems I speak of nothing these days save wedding plans.” Strike. “Of ministers who cannot be allowed to sit with magistrates at the reception because of slights three decades old.” Feint. “Of whether to offer insult to the attending Guildsmen by serving food and drink they consider impure, or insult by serving nothing at all.”
“My sympathies, cousin.” Ichizo ducked a scything blow aimed at his head, fell back for breathing room. “I suppose dominion over an entire nation comes with its drawbacks. But the wedding at least will be over soon.”
Feint. Dodge. Lunge.
“Hai,” Hiro nodded. “All the oni in the hells could not stop it now.”
“… Would you wish them to?”
Hiro struck, clipped Ichizo’s shoulder, kicked him again in the chest. The Lord Magistrate staggered away, blade at half-guard, but the Daimyo did not press.
“Come,” Hiro said, breathing easy, flexing his iron arm. “Speak your piece. Your intrigues offer welcome diversion if nothing else.”
Ichizo waved the request away with one hand, sweat burning his eyes.
“I fear it is a trifling thing, great Lord.”
“Trifling. This would be about your prisoner, then…”
Ichizo felt his stomach turn. He risked a glance at the servants. The other samurai. A humorless smile creased Hiro’s lips, and he dismissed the retinue with a wave of his blade. The group shuffled from the room with low bows, the sparring partners looking particularly grateful. Silence descended on the dojo, broken only by the sparrows choking in the gardens outside, the creak of the boards beneath their feet, Ichizo’s sodden gasps dragged into burning lungs.
The Lord Magistrate cleared his throat. Swallowed hard.
“You have heard.”
“You would be surprised what the Guild knows about the happenings in this palace.”
Ichizo glanced at the spider-drone perched on the railing of the mezzanine above. That cursed blood-red eye, seeing and telling all. “It displeases you?”
Hiro’s eyes were as hard as the prosthetic at his side. Just as cold. Just as lifeless. Ichizo searched his cousin’s face for some remnant of the boy he had played soldiers with around his father’s estates; toy bokken in their hands, swiping the wooden swords at imaginary legions of Shima’s enemies. Always smiling, always laughing.
Centuries ago.
“It displeases me,” Hiro said.
“She is beautiful, cousin. Like the first flower after winter’s end.”
“She is dangerous. I asked you to question these girls, Ichizo, not bed them. You have lost your clarity. Her mistress is purest poison. Who is to say how far her taint spread?”
“Yoritomo’s assassin tried to murder this girl. Cut her to pieces and nearly caved her head in. That hardly
