“Uncle?” Kensai scoffed. “What madness is this?”
“You and my father were as brothers. When he died, you treated me as your own son. Do you fault me for thinking of you as the uncle I never had?”
“We were as brothers, he and I.” Kensai leaned forward. “So believe me when I say if he were alive today, your actions would have shamed him to suicide.”
“I will never fail you again.”
“I will give you precious little chance, believe me.”
“You can trust me more than you can trust any member of this chapterhouse.”
A hollow burst of mirthless laughter. “How so?”
“My father never told you, did he? What I saw during my Awakening ceremony? My glorious future laid out in the Chamber of Smoke?”
“We never spoke of such things. It would have been improper.”
Kin spoke as if by rote, voice thick with reverb.
“Do not call me Kin. That is not my name. Call me First Bloom.”
Kensai felt the words as a blow to his stomach. A cold fist sucking breath from his lungs, forcing him to steady himself on the table’s edge.
Kin? As First Bloom?
The boy stood, a silicon-smooth hiss of pistons and chi exhaust. He approached Kensai, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. That single eye burned with the heat of a thousand suns.
“One day I will sit on the Throne of Machines, Uncle. One day I will rule this Guild. You may have forgotten the faith you once held in me, but I still hold faith in you. I will do all I can to see this cancer in the Guild uprooted. And when you and the Earthcrusher burn the Iishi to cinders, I will be there in spirit beside you.”
Kin turned to leave, heavy boots thudding in time with Kensai’s pulse.
“Burn them for me, Uncle.”
A nod.
“Burn them all.”
*
“What Will Be…”
Kensai strode the hallways to his habitat, whispering the phrase over and over, thoughts all atumble in his mind. Could it be true? Could Kin be destined to lead the Guild once First Bloom Tojo was gone? The old man had ruled for longer than any could remember, but even he must eventually go the way of flesh. Was Kin really the one to take his place?
Kin?
All Guildsmen were shown visions of the future in the Chamber of Smoke, reliving it nightly while they slept. Some saw only snatches and riddles, some saw their futures clear as glass, some were driven mad by what they witnessed. For Kensai, his vision had been of the Earthcrusher—a towering goliath of iron and chainblades, sweeping entire armies before it.
The vision had always been there, a certainty he could set his back against, a desire that had driven him to excel. Designing the behemoth, convincing the other chapterhouses to invest the resources required to fashion this colossal deathblow for the Kagé and gaijin. And now to learn that Kin was destined to rule the entire Guild? While the Inquisition tried to rob him of his glory and see the boy stand in his stead on the Earthcrusher’s bridge?
Kensai had long assumed he would be the one to supplant the First Bloom. He was Shateigashira of the most powerful chapterhouse in Kigen—it was only logical if Tojo fell, he would step into his boots. He’d dreamed of the changes he’d make, clipping the wings of those rampant spiritualists in the Inquisition, putting them back in the cages they’d long ago been allowed to fly. The thought of Kin ascending instead, of having to bow and scrape before that treacherous little boy-child …
But if those fools in the Inquisition couldn’t even spot an insurrection brewing inside the Guild, who was to say whether their vision for Kin was true?
Who was to say any of it was right?
And if not them, who knew What Will Be?
Kensai spat a curse under his breath, stabbed at the controls for his habitat.
He had no time for a rebellion …
The chamber was vast, sparsely adorned. A bed dominating one wall, varnished oak and silken sheets of bloody red, his one real indulgence. A large desk loomed in a far corner, piled high with reports; deadlands percentile, crop forecasts, price fluctuations. An automated dictagraph sat beside reams of rice-paper, awaiting his voice to lurch into life.
He sat at the desk, clicked the dictagraph to record. The device was made of polished brass, gleaming and clean. He could see his reflection in its surface, the mask of the beautiful youth he’d never be again. He was an old man underneath his skin now, speeding toward middle age, thinning hair cropped upon his scalp, crow’s feet and liver spots glaring every time he dared look with his real face in the mirror.
Less and less these days.
Skin is strong. Flesh is weak.
Leaning close, he spoke to the microphone.
“Kensai, Shateigashira Chapterhouse Kigen. Reporting seventh—”