crow’s-feet toward the other end of the alley. Yoshi fired again as they ran beneath, another gangster falling, gasping, big body skidding to a damp halt on the gravel. The remaining two were ghosts, already gone, feet pounding the street as confused residents spilled from their tenements, pale and shaken in the quake’s aftermath.
Yoshi lay against the tiles, hand pressed to gashed ribs, sticky and red. His ears still rang with the iron- thrower’s roar. He hissed, rolled off the roof and landed in a crouch, stuffing the still-warm ’thrower back into his obi. The red-faced fellow was laid out, motionless, eyes like clouded glass. The other gangster was moaning, flopping onto his belly and drawing his legs up underneath him, ground painted scarlet.
“Yoshi!” Jurou shuffled carefully through the crow’s-feet and ran to his side. “Izanagi’s balls, are you all right?”
Jurou cradled his head, pale with fear, pulling Yoshi’s uwagi off to inspect the wound. His eyes widened at the blood, so much of it, soaking into the bandage over the new tattoo, spattered on the bare flesh of Yoshi’s right arm.
The gangster groaned again, pink froth on his lips.
“Yoshi, is it?” he bubbled, grinning like a drunkard, teeth slicked and gleaming dark. His eyes were fixed on the place where Yoshi’s clan tattoo should have been. “You’re fucking dead, Burakumin Yoshi…”
Daken’s voice rang out clear in Yoshi’s mind.
The gangster rolled over onto his back, his uwagi soaked through, a hole in his chest the size of a fist, coughing thick and red. Yoshi climbed to his feet, wincing, one hand pressed against his bleeding side, the other scrabbling for purchase on a chunk of broken cobblestone.
Bushimen were on their way.
The yakuza might be dead before they arrived.
But he might not.
“Yoshi, don’t,” said Jurou.
The gangster pulled himself up into sitting position, blood streaming down his chin. Yoshi stumbled forward, blinking sweat from his eyes, white-knuckle grip on the stone. He was fourteen years old again, his father rising from the table, lashing out with the sake bottle, glass meeting bone and painting the walls blood-red.
“Yoshi, don’t.” Jurou tried to drag him away. “Don’t, please.”
“Don’t, please.” The gangster affected Jurou’s voice, high-pitched and mocking. “You two married or something? Who wears the dress?”
Yoshi raised the stone above his head.
Fourteen years old.
His sister screaming.
Mother bleeding.
Hands curled into fists.
“You don’t have the balls, you little bitch,” the gangster spat.
He was wrong.
33
BETWEEN BENDING AND BREAKING
The bruises spread like an oil slick; a swirling pattern of blacks and grays and dark, fermenting reds, traceries of broken blood vessels spun out like embroidery across his belly.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.
They were holed up in Yukiko’s room, empty sake bottles on the floor, reminders of her everywhere he looked. Kin didn’t think it was safe to stay at the infirmary. Truth be told, with Daichi laid up, he didn’t know anywhere in the village that would be safe anymore.
Ayane’s eyes never left the doorway, as if she expected the Kage to kick it down at any moment, drag her out and hurl her over the balcony for attacking one of their own. Silver limbs curled around her in a thin, razored cocoon, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped about her ankles like a bow. A perfect little package of fear.
The balm Mari had given him dulled the pain to a deep ache. The old woman had obligingly clucked over him for the few moments he was in her care, but he noted bitterly how relieved she’d seemed when he’d hobbled from the infirmary. The old woman seemed glad to be rid of him. Distracted. Worried.
They all seemed so very worried.
Fear about Daichi’s near-death and Yukiko and Buruu’s absence had spread amongst the treetops, settling in like rot in a blacklung victim. No children running across the bridges, arms spread in flight, roaring challenges to imaginary enemies. No songs in the dark, no easy talk around burning firesides. Just hushed voices on the wind, running footsteps, a tension settling like fog. And beneath it, he and Ayane stayed low, the question hanging in the air between them like wisteria perfume. Invisible. Omnipresent.
By evening, Kin felt well enough to walk. He struggled to his feet, holding his stomach as if it might burst and wash the floor with his innards. He leaned against the wall, wincing, Ayane watching him with big, frightened eyes.
There was a knock at the door.
“… Who is it?” Kin called.
“Kaori.” The woman’s voice was muffled by wood and rice-paper.
“What do you want, Kaori-san?”
“My father wishes to speak with you, Guildsman.”
Ayane stared, shook her head. Kin sighed, ran a hand over his scalp. His hair was getting longer, smooth against his palm, the sensation still so alien it barely registered as his own.
“I’ll meet you there,” he called.
Kaori hovered a few moments longer, a shadow on the landing. Finally padding away without a sound.
“Do not go, Kin-san.” Ayane’s voice was small and frightened.
“I need to speak to Daichi.”
“Do not tell him what they did. It will only be more trouble for us.” The girl hugged her knees. “For me.”
“Do you want to come with me?” Kin asked.
Ayane looked at the doorway, and her silver arms trembled like a child in winter’s chill. She shook her head. Her voice sounded as if it came from someplace dark and empty.
“I was a fool to come here.”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s going to be all right, Ayane.”
She looked at him, lips pressed into her knees. Feeble moonlight seeped through the open window, gleaming on wet cheeks. He shuffled over, knelt with a wince, brushing the tears away as gently as he could. Her words were muffled against her skin, but he could hear every one, clear as mountain rain.
“I knew I would never truly be one of them, but I hoped … I thought…” She shook her head. “But there is no place for me here. Nothing here for someone like me.”
“It will be all right.” His voice was weak. Weary. “I promise.”
He bent down and kissed her eyes, one after the other. Warmth on his lips, tasting of salt and nothingness. She found his hand, squeezed it tight, her words a frail and breathless plea, sharp as silver needles.
