Hands locked, Yukiko and Hana stepped into the room. Dark wooden floors lined a vast open space, lit by the extravagance of old-fashioned flower-oil lanterns. Thick pillars of the same wood lined the approach, shadows dancing in the stuttering light.
More than a dozen ladies and lords were gathered around the dais at the end of the room: dour-faced magistrates in jet-black, courtesans with kohl-rimmed eyes, scribes in skullcaps with ink-stained fingers. These were surrounded in turn by a small legion of Iron Samurai, watching behind their fox masks with fierce, narrowed eyes. And on the fifth step, ensconced on a mahogany throne of carven flowers, sat Isamu, supreme clanlord of the Kitsune.
He was dressed in courtly robes, chainswords paired at his waist beside the snub-nosed lump of an ornate iron-thrower. A golden breather crafted like a fox’s face was strapped over his mouth. And though he was old and bent and shriveled, Yukiko could see the samurai coiled beneath his skin. Surrounded by courtiers, Isamu looked as out of place as a battle-worn blade amidst a sea of pretty fans. His brow was a scarred scowl. His moustache reached his waist.
“He looks about seven thousand years old,” Hana whispered.
“Legend has it he’s lived a hundred years. One of the greatest luminaries of my Clan.”
“Gods, imagine what’s going on under that robe. His luminaries would be hanging around his knees—”
Yukiko aimed a horrified glare at the girl.
The sentence died a quiet, if not dignified death.
“Stormdancer,” said the Kitsune Daimyo. “We are honored by your presence.”
“Daimyo Kitsune Isamu.” Yukiko bowed low. “The honor is mine.”
Hana was still squinting at the lord of the Kitsune clan, her expression slightly pained. Yukiko tugged her pants leg, and the girl gave a clumsy bow.
“… Most Handsome Worshipfulness,” Hana said.
The haunting music of koto and shamisen drifted in the room, and glancing around, Yukiko finally found the source. A machine stood against the southern wall; a collection of humanoid figures inside a crescent-shaped scaffold. Crafted in female form, the automatons were made of brass and tin; faces painted white, gowns of patterned gold and swirling black. Metal fingers flitted over the strings and skins of their instruments with inhuman precision.
The music was beautiful, yet somehow Yukiko found it empty. Perhaps it was the way the automatons moved, heads wobbling on their necks. Perhaps because they reminded her of Kin; the little metal arashitora he had made for her, the clockwork wings he’d built Buruu.
She turned away from the thought, throat squeezing tight.
“I won’t usually see guests without invitation.” The Daimyo’s voice was hard behind his breather. “But for the mighty Stormdancer, I will make an exception. I trust the ruin and bloodshed you brought to my city did not inconvenience you on the way in?”
He leaned back in his throne, drummed his fingers on the dark wood.
He looks annoyed, Buruu.
THE KAGé JUST STARTED A WAR IN HIS CITY. YOU ARE A FIGUREHEAD IN THE KAGé REBELLION. YOU WERE EXPECTING HIM TO NAME A STREET AFTER YOU?
… Maybe a little one?
“Great Daimyo,” Yukiko began. “I deeply regret the chaos that befell your beautiful city today. Please know it was a chaos not of my making. I do not stand here as a representative of the Kagé council. I am a simple refugee, seeking safe harbor for my friends.”
“A simple refugee.” The Daimyo raised one gray eyebrow. “Riding a thunder tiger.”
Yukiko risked a small smile. “A complicated refugee, then.”
“My streets are awash with blood because of you and yours, Stormdancer.”
“Great Lord, I am no longer a part of the Kagé rebellion. It was they who started the war within the Guild. I begged them not to, and when they wouldn’t listen, I left their stronghold.”
“So what are you now, then? A beggar? A freelance troublemaker?”
Yukiko squared her shoulders. “I am an enemy of the Lotus Guild. An enemy to their puppet, Tora Hiro. An enemy to the government that chokes our skies and murders innocents for the sake of blood to feed—”
“Gods, you’ve got a set on you, girl. Standing there and crowing about murder.”
Yukiko blinked. “Daimyo?”
“You murdered our Shōgun. And while I loved Yoritomo-no-miya like I love my kidney stones, he was sovereign lord of these isles. The power vacuum he left behind is your doing. The civil war tearing these lands apart is your fault.”
The words were a slap, draining the blood from Yukiko’s face. She was taken aback for a second, pinned by the pale stare above the breather. The Daimyo seemed almost to be enjoying himself—she swore she could see a smile in his rheumy eyes.
“He murdered my father, Daimyo.” She did her best to keep the righteous anger from her voice. “And my mother and her unborn child. So yes, I killed him. And I’d do it again.”
“Rumor has it you slew him simply by looking at him.” The old clanlord raised an eyebrow. “The Shōgun of this land, to whom all owed allegiance.”