Each raindrop was a whisper.
Not the gentle whisper of a lover in Kin’s ear, she in his arms, he entwined with her hair’s perfume. He didn’t know what that whisper might sound like. And not the whisper of father to son, looking upon a world of metal and rivets and iron teeth as he leaned down and said, “All this, I give to you.” That lay too far back in his life to even remember now. Not the whisper of the earth, the breath of this great thing beneath our feet that holds us close from cradle to grave, opening at the last to keep us in her arms as we forever sleep.
No, it was the whisper of the machine.
He could hear Kaori’s voice as he raised his hand outside Daichi’s door, low and urgent, no pause for breath. He could smell peppermint and cedar, the faint scent of wisteria. And his hand fell still, hovering just a breath away from the knock that would change it all forever.
He looked around the Kage village; this tiny knot of life carved in the deepest wild, this cluster of insurgency threatening to bring down a nation. He saw the will it had taken, to shape it from raw wood and empty boughs, to walk out here alone, away from everything and everyone, to be the first to cry “enough.” But most of all, he saw the people, with their little lives and their fragile dreams, their hopes for a better future, for their children and children yet unborn.
He thought of the girl waiting in Yukiko’s room, huddled in a corner, breathing fear like a fume. He thought of her lips on his, gentle hands and a sad smile. Blood on her skin. Weeping. And he gritted his teeth and made his heart a flint-black thing inside his chest, curled his fingers into a fist and smacked it sharply against the doorframe.
“Come,” Daichi said, his voice like sandpaper.
He pulled the door aside, stepped through, blinking in the gloom. The old man sat by the fire, looking thinner and paler than Kin could remember. Chest still bound in bandages, bruises upon his skin and smudged beneath his eyes. Kaori knelt beside him, face hidden behind a curtain of hair. Her father’s hand sat in hers, smeared with black fluid. When she spoke, he could hear tears in her voice, anger so terrible it threatened to choke the life from her.
“What do you want, Guildsman?”
“Kin-san.” Daichi swallowed with a wince. “This is not the best time—”
“Yukiko isn’t coming back.”
Even as he said the words, he couldn’t believe them. They were heavy in his mouth, falling from his lips rather than spoken, clumsy and cold.
“What makes you—?”
“She’s gone, Daichi.” He shook his head. “She’d never leave us like this, something has happened to her. We can’t rely on her to save us, we don’t have time. Hiro will wed Aisha and cement his claim, the Earthcrusher will march upon the Iishi, and these islands will fall into a darkness no sunlight will end. But I can see a way through. A way to end it all.”
The earth shuddered beneath their feet; a faint tremor deep within her bones, underscoring Kin’s words.
“Do you remember our chess game?” Kin stared at the old man across the embers, the fire burning in tired, steel-gray. “What you told me?”
Daichi stared, unblinking, cold and reptilian. Wheels within wheels, weather-beaten and aged, weighed down by guilt and responsibility and the lives of those who needed him. Now more than ever. Now, when he was at his weakest.
A slow nod, black stains on his lips. “I do.”
“Then we need to talk.”
He nodded to the old man’s daughter.
“Alone.”
40
FODDER FOR THE JUDGE
Her dreams were of broad, strong hands.
Drenched in blood.
Fingers broken.
Tears.
Yoshi was waiting for her when she dragged herself from her bedroom. He was slumped at the table, bandage across his bare chest, the dazzling new mural of Izanagi and his spear running over hard muscle, shoulder to hip. The iron-thrower was laid out in front of him, a few inches from outstretched fingers. His hair was a knotted curtain framing sunken cheeks and too-pale skin.
Fistfuls of coin covered the tabletop; dull iron amongst the bloodstains. The air stank of sweat and lotus burn, sunset light cutting scarlet through the ash. Their room was practically palatial; a slick suite in an Upside bedhouse, all polished boards and white walls. The overweight steward who ran it had scowled down a flat, spotty nose as they’d walked in from the street, covered in shit and tears and blood. Yoshi had slapped ten iron kouka onto the countertop, demanded the best room in the house. The fat man’s disdain had dissipated like lotus exhaust on a sea breeze; less palpable, but its scent still hanging in the air. He’d handed over the key with a reluctant bow.
Daken lurked above the windowsill, watching as Hana emerged from her bedroom, tail switching back and forth.
“Sleep good?” Yoshi’s voice was hoarse from liquor and secondhand smoke.
“I have to go, Yoshi. I have to leave, now.”
Yoshi stared at the tabletop, eyes losing focus, a faraway place reflected in flint-black irises. A dozen voices skittered in his head, scratching claws and scabbed feet, the taste of waste in his mouth. After a minute, he returned to the here, to the now, frowning at his sister.
“There’s no bushimen coming, what’s the—”
“I have to go back to the palace.”
Yoshi rolled his eyes. “Are you smoking? Don’t let Jurou fool you, that shit will roll you faster than a Docktown manwhore, girl.”
“Listen to me, Yoshi.” Hana’s eye was wide, liquid. “There’s a room in the Shogun’s palace. Inside it is a Kage infiltrator named Michi, who’s planning on rescuing the Lady Aisha before her wedding to Daimyo Hiro. I was supposed to get Akihito to carve an impression of the key so she could escape her room.”
“So?”
“So when the bushi’ kicked in our door, I left the mold behind. But without that key, the whole plan goes to the hells. I have to get back in there. Get another mold somehow. Find someone who can make a cast of it. Or find Akihito and get him to carve one for me.”
Yoshi gave her a sour look, rubbing the pale dusting of whiskers on his cheeks. “We’ve run our mouths about this as far as we’re going to, sister-mine.”
“Yoshi—”
“No!” His fist slammed down on the tabletop, setting the bottles and iron-thrower jumping. “Can you hear yourself? You’re talking about ghosting back into that palace? They know your face, Hana! Figuring you’ll just stroll past the gate dogs with that shy little smile? Dragon and Phoenix and Tiger Lords up there and all?”
He kicked back his chair, sent it spinning across the room, adopting a lilting voice.
