Kin, godsdamn you.
“The Kagé broadcast news about your rebellion against my wishes,” she said. “I never wanted any of you put in danger. I want us to be—”
“Do you know how many of us died today?”
It was one of the Lotusmen who spoke. Arms folded, skin splashed with blood.
“No,” Yukiko said. “But I’m sorry anyone died at all.”
“The great Stormdancer,” the Lotusman sneered. “Slayer of Shōguns. Ender of dynasties. You expect us to believe the Kagé do anything without your say-so?”
“The Kagé existed long before I came along. And if dissent can fracture the Lotus Guild, you can be godsdamned sure a faction of anarchists, arsonists and fanatics can find a way to argue about the color of the sky.”
“Ten.”
The words came from one of the False-Lifers, her bulbous, glowing eyes fixed on Yukiko. A Guild child was cradled in her arms—an infant in brass and leather who couldn’t be more than a year old. Her voice sounded like an iron boot stepping on beetle shells.
“We lost ten of us,” she said.
“Enma-ō judge them fair.”
“We do not believe in your gods, Stormdancer.”
“Then I can only say I’m sorry.”
“So are we,” the False-Lifer hissed. “So are their children. Didn’t the Kagé realize what the Guild would do when they named me over the wireless?”
“You’re Misaki…” Yukiko breathed.
“They hung us out to slaughter. Not just us, our children! Animals! Bastards!”
“Misaki-san, I’m sorry—”
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
The child in her arms began wailing; a distorted, metallic cry that set Yukiko’s teeth on edge. The False-Lifer pressed it against her cheek, eight silver arms encircling the babe as she rocked it back and forth, whispering words Yukiko couldn’t hear. The Kagé refugees whispered among themselves, the wind whispering through the rigging.
My Gods, this is surreal.
THAT THEY MOURN THEIR DEAD?
No, I just … hidden behind those suits. Those masks. I never thought of them as parents who loved their children. I never realized …
“I have something for you, Misaki-san,” she said.
“You have nothing I want or need, girl.”
Yukiko reached into her obi, beside Daichi’s katana, the short-bladed tantō her father gave her. The satchel was beaten leather, held out to the False-Lifer in Yukiko’s upturned palm.
“What is that?”
“A letter,” Yukiko said. “From your daughter’s father.”
“… Takeo?”
Buruu bristling beside her, Yukiko handed the satchel over. Misaki cradled the snuffling infant in her arms, drawing out the letter with her false limbs. The paper was stained with blood and salt and rain. Yukiko could remember the words as if she’d read them yesterday: a missive from the Guildsman who’d saved Piotr’s life, to the woman he loved until his dying moment. A plea that she fight on and bring the Guild to its knees. Death to the Serpents, whatever that meant. Freedom for Shima. A declaration of love, for this woman and the daughter in her arms.
She heard strangled weeping, saw Misaki’s shoulders trembling. The woman sank to her knees on the Kurea’s deck, letter clutched to her breast. Another False-Lifer took the child from her arms as she curled into a ball and screamed; screamed in anguish and rage, so full of hurt it brought tears to Yukiko’s eyes. The child began screaming also, echoing its mother’s cries, setting off several of the other Lotuschildren. A chorus of wails filled the sky-ship’s deck, Blackbird’s cloudwalkers watching on uncertain, hands slack on their weapons.
Misaki began clawing at the bulbous eyes set in her mask. Gouging them loose, she tore at the artificial skin covering her head as if she were suffocating. Heavy lidded, bloodshot eyes and pale, tear-streaked skin. A gentle oval with delicate lips, lashless, browless, hairless. Pulsing veins. Gritted teeth.
The words “I’m sorry” sat pathetic on the tip of Yukiko’s tongue, and she bit down hard, felt them die. Would it have made any difference if someone had told her “sorry” after her father died? Did “sorry” do anything to mend the hurt, the helplessness, the fear of walking life alone?
Sorry was just a word.
WORDS STILL HAVE POWER. EVEN HERE. EVEN NOW.
In some places, they have no power at all.
THAT IS NOT TRUE.
Winter draws near. The black rains will fall. The Earthcrusher will march. Blood like a river, you said, remember?
Yukiko shook her head.
The sun is setting on the time for words, Buruu.