The Gentleman knelt on a satin cushion at the head of a long oaken table. The reflections of the overheads on its surface were tiny stars on lacquered midnight, twinkling with more vibrancy than the real stars overhead could ever dream. A pretty duet of koto and shamisen music drifted through the drinking house walls, competing with the growl of the generator downstairs.
The table was dressed for eight, each place set with fine porcelain, a saké cup, a thousand-thread linen napkin; all as white as Iishi snow. Jimen the accountant sat at the Gentleman’s right hand. Each other cushion was occupied by a yakuza lieutenant; a collection of muscle and scars, narrowed eyes and gleaming, tattooed flesh. Five men and one woman, each stripped to the waist, every inch of flesh below their necks and above their wrists sporting beautiful, intricate ink work. Canvases of flesh, painted by the greatest artisans in Kigen.
Seimi knelt with fists upon knees, Hida beside him, pawing at one cauliflower ear. The room was cool as autumn’s kiss, the heady scent of liquor veiling the stink of sweat and exhaust from nearby sky-docks. Seimi could see the horizon through the bay windows, the shades of night studded with the silhouettes of docked sky-ships, forlorn as abandoned lovers.
And not a breath of wind.
“Brothers.” Jimen looked around the room. “The Gentleman thanks you all for coming.”
As one, the lieutenants covered their fists and bowed. The Gentleman nodded in return, saying nothing.
“Why are you here?” Jimen asked.
Uncertain glances flickering amongst the yakuza. No one made a sound.
The Gentleman waited a long, silent moment, breathing slow, the mournful notes of the duet drifting in the air like the scent of old chi.
He clapped his hands.
Half a dozen serving girls slipped into the room, charcoal eyes downcast, painted faces pale as the hungry dead. Pink kimonos, drum bows the color of rain clouds at their waists, tiny steps as quiet as smoke. Delicate hands laid two rice-paper bundles before each lieutenant. The packages were long and cylindrical, arranged on the place settings with all the precision of a tea ceremony. When they were done, the girls bowed as one to the Gentleman, then scuttled from the room with eyes still on the floor.
“Open them,” Jimen said.
The room was filled with the whisper of tearing paper, translucent strips fluttering to the ground. When he was done, Seimi stared down at the gifts before him. The thicker package contained a tantō in a short, lacquered sheath, mother-of-pearl inlays gleaming on the hilt. The second gift was a six-inch iron file: sawtoothed and thoroughly ordinary.
“Each of you has failed our oyabun.” Jimen stared around the room, not a hint of anger in his voice. “Each of you has been robbed by these gutter-thieves who plague us. Each of you will now be given the opportunity to atone.”
The Gentleman said nothing. Simply folded his arms and waited, patient as a glacier.
Seimi and Hida glanced at each other, then picked up their napkins. The other lieutenants followed suit, using the snow-white cloth to tie a tight knot around the top knuckle of their left-most fingers. Several were already missing the tips of their smallest digits and were forced to tie the knot at the second knuckle. Seimi unsheathed the tantō, watched his fingernail turning purple. The lieutenants filled the room with the ring of drawn blades.
All save one.
“Nakai-san.” Jimen aimed a cold stare in one man’s direction. “You falter?”
The other yakuza looked at Nakai. He was a few years older than the rest, graying hair swept into a thin topknot. His ink was faded with the slow press of time, blacks running to blue. A knot of lean muscle, bloodshot eyes and a slightly gray hue to his skin telling his fellows that he’d been hitting the smoke a little too hard recently. He stared at his left hand, at the empty knuckle where his little finger should have been, the ring finger already missing its first joint. He held it up to the Gentleman, blinking over severed digits.
“Oyabun,” he said. “My sword grip will be ruined.”
“Why do you need a sword?” Jimen raised an eyebrow. “In a room full of your kin?”
“Not here.” He nodded toward the window. “Out there.”
“On the street?”
“Hai.”
“The streets where children play in shadows they once feared? Where two guttersnipes are enough to see a lieutenant of the Scorpion Children hand over his iron, then tuck tail and run? Those streets, Nakai-san?”
“You do not speak to me that way,” Nakai spat. “You’re a godsdamned accountant. A book-monger. You know less than nothing about life in this city.”
“I know you shame yourself now.” The little man’s voice was soft. Dangerous. “Just as you shamed yourself when you handed over our coin to children.”
“They had an iron-thrower. What was I supposed to—”