She could hear the gaijin flying machine drawing closer, its engines like the pulse throbbing at her temples, the beating of distant drums.
She flopped over onto her stomach, vision blurred, watching Ilyitch crouch beside Buruu. The twitching tail was the only sign of life, but she could feel him, struggling toward the surface, the rippling light of a distant sun above. She tried to reach into the Kenning, but her thoughts slipped away between the cracks in her skull, bleeding from her ears.
Ilyitch scowled as he inspected the metal wings, running his fingers over iridescent metal, ball joints, pistons and false quills. Lifting the canvas covering, he pawed at the blunt, severed feathers that were Yoritomo’s legacy, hacked off in Kigen arena ten thousand lifetimes ago. And with a muttered curse, the gaijin boy stood, spat on the ground and stalked over to Skraai.
Boots crunching on shattered obsidian.
Howling wind.
Thunder.
The nomad was stirring, talons that could rend an ironclad like cloth curling into fists, leaving gouges in the black glass beneath. Ilyitch ran his fingers through the feathers at the arashitora’s neck, over the mighty wings, breathing deep, a slow smile alighting on his face. The quills glowed with a faint luster; the charge of static electricity lighting his eyes with hunger.
He nodded.
“No,” she moaned. “Don’t…”
Ilyitch straddled the arashitora’s head, one boot on either side, face turned to the sky.
“Imperatritsa, butye svidetilem!” he cried. “Moya dobicha! Moya slava!”
The boy raised the knife.
“Ilyitch,
Lightning in the skies, reflected in the blade.
Descending.
“NO!”
And with a flash of steel, an impossible gush of red, the boy opened up the thunder tiger’s throat.
PART 3
ASHES
Prayers first for the Judge,
Offerings for Enma-o, burned in blessed flame.
Coin and holy words, invocations unto him, that he judge them fair.
And from fire’s belly, when all heat and light shall fade, a handful of ash,
Spread upon cold skin, bloodless faces and dead lips,
That we shall know them.
37
OFFERINGS
He always knocked on her door. As if she had some say whether he entered or not.
Michi plastered on her smile as Ichizo nodded to his retinue of bushimen, sealing them outside in the bustling, servant-strewn hallway. She stepped across the room, joy on her face if not in her eyes, pressing her lips to his and wondering how long it would be before the serpent in her arms reared back to strike.
“My love,” he said. “I missed you.”
“And I you,” she lied. “I get so lonely without you.”
Her hands slipped to his waist, over the hilts of his chainkatana, steel calling to shivering fingertips. How easy would it be, to close her fist about that plaited cord and draw it forth, thumb the ignition, listen to the engine sing …
She began untying his obi.
“Wait, love.” He caught up her hands and kissed each fingertip; eight feather-light touches, eyes sparkling. “I thought we might go for a walk.”
She allowed her eyebrow to rise slightly. “Around the room, my Lord?”
“I thought we might take some fresh air by the sky-docks.” He smiled. “Such as it is.”
A blink.
“You mean I’m—”
“Lord Hiro has assented to you leaving your rooms for a stroll in my company.” He put a finger over her lips, cutting off her cry of delight. “The Daimyo of the Phoenix and Dragon clan are due to arrive this afternoon. Lord Hiro wishes his court present to greet them.”
“Oh, gods!” She threw her arms around his neck. “You did it!”
“Not quite. Once we are done, you must return to your room. But it is a beginning. I said you would be on my arm at the wedding, love. Tora Ichizo keeps his promises.” He kissed her lips. “Now, go change into something that will dazzle them. I will be waiting.”
She turned and ran to the dressing room, still smiling even after she turned away. And if there was some kernel of true feeling behind it, it was only because she hadn’t stepped outside her room in nearly a month. Or perhaps because she might catch a glimpse of Aisha at the reception. Not because he’d lived up to his promise. Not because even in the midst of all this, he’d somehow made her happy.
No, not at all.
The sun was drowning at the edge of Kigen Bay.
Even through her breather, Michi could smell the reek slinking in off the water, the shambling sea breeze carrying rot in its arms. The docking towers along Spire Row loomed over the sun-bleached boardwalk, a lone seagull above drawing aimless circles in tar-spattered skies. Greasy water slurped and burbled at the rotting pier, the blood-red air vibrating with the murmur and hum of thousands upon thousands of people—half the populace of Kigen, surely—gathered at their Daimyo’s command to greet the masters of the Phoenix and Dragon clans.
Countless faces swathed in grubby kerchiefs and ash-fogged goggles. Silks of every shade of red imaginable, Tiger banners snapping and rippling in the poison breeze. She fancied she could hear the dissent, building like a tide against a crumbling dam. Looking around the thousand faces, the rotting shell of this diseased city, she found herself smiling.
The court was gathered in all its finery—magistrates and scribes, courtiers and officials, soldiers and courtesans. The Lotus Guild had also turned out in force, no doubt to impress their support of the Tiger clan upon their Dragon and Phoenix visitors. Dozens of brass-clad insectoid figures stood amidst the crowd, rank and file Lotusmen along with the fanatical Purifiers in their white tabards and soot-stained gauntlets. A dozen more
