She started by showing Ilyitch an image of Shima’s armies in retreat, packing up and flying home after Yoritomo’s death. She tried to show him the war was over. That she was not an enemy, or at least, not his.
In turn, the young man showed her burned crops and gutted buildings. Gaijin soldiers cut down under white flags, prison camps, wailing children dragged into sky-ships and flown away, never to be seen again.
She showed him Yoritomo, murdered in the Market Square. An empty throne.
Ilyitch replied with the image of a tall woman in a stone chair, grim and terrible. She had blond hair, the same mismatched eyes as Katya—one black, the other glittering rose quartz. She wore a suit of iron, black feathers adorned her shoulders, a huge bird’s skull with a cruel, hooked beak on her head. Twelve stars lay at her feet, and she gathered them in her lap, one by one.
He showed her legions of stern-faced gaijin, skins of great wolves and bears upon their shoulders, naked swords in their hands. A fleet of ships, iron fortresses floating on a storm sea, powered by the lightning they hauled from the sky.
And then Ilyitch showed her an hourglass, its sand almost run out.
So Yukiko turned away from the war and focused on Buruu. She formed pictures of the great hunt on the Thunder Child, their time trapped alone in the Iishi, their captivity in Kigen and the battle with Yoritomo’s samurai in the arena. Ilyitch watched her with something like awe during this passage, jaw slack, running his fingers over the fur at his shoulders.
The boy projected a stylized picture of Yukiko, katana held aloft, sunlight in her hair, thousands of samurai kneeling at her feet. The picture was tinged with uncertainty.
His eyebrows raised in question.
She smiled and shook her head. Showed the Kagé village in the mountains; a peaceful place, herself and Buruu laying in dappled sunlight. A quiet life.
He frowned at her then, as if he didn’t quite understand.
Yukiko projected an image of Buruu, bleeding and twisted on the rocks. A compass needle pointing north, and the pylon she’d seen near Buruu in her dream.
Ilyitch shook his head, pushed her a childish version of the map she’d seen on the wall downstairs. Dozens of pylons, studded all over the islands around the lightning farm. Not all of them were connected directly; most of the cables threaded amongst multiple towers back to the central hub, like strands of a crooked spider’s web. If the picture she’d shown him was correct, Buruu was trapped at the very end of the lines.
Miles away.
Yukiko used one of his own images; the hourglass running out of sand. A picture of food. An arashitora skeleton on black rocks.
She reached out, leather thong tight around her wrist, fingers stretching toward his own in vain. He frowned, put his hand in hers. She squeezed tight.
“Please,” she said, tears welling. “Please.”
Ilyitch sighed, glanced at the doorway behind him. Avoiding her eyes, the boy stood, pointed at Red and spoke a stern command. Red lay flat and wagged his tail.
“W-wait.” Yukiko sat up straighter, frowning. “Where are you going?”
The gaijin spoke a handful of words, held up both hands as if urging her to be still. Then he turned and clomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Where is he going, Red?
don’t know i stay here am gooddog Yukiko listened to Ilyitch’s footprints receding down the hall. She had no idea if she’d convinced him, no clue as to whether he was headed to get supplies to help her, or to turn her in to Danyk. But for the first time since she’d arrived here, she found herself alone with Red.
So either way, she wasn’t going to wait to find out.
*
The dog had gnawed through one of the tethers binding her wrists and was halfway through the second when she heard stealthy footfalls in the corridor. She looked at Red, paused with his teeth upon the leather, one ear pointing to the sky as his tail started wagging.
Is that Ilyitch?
The dog blinked.
Your Boy? Is that your Boy coming?
… no
Yukiko strained against the weakened strap, finally tearing it loose, tugging at the bindings on her ankles as the footsteps arrived in the hallway outside. She was up and coiled in the shadows as the handle turned and the door opened wide.
A figure limped into the gloom, and she struck, wrapping the bedsheet over its head and kicking the back of its knee. The figure dropped to the ground with the whine of pistons and a muffled cry of pain. She grabbed the contraption on his belt and tore it from its holster. The figure pulled the tangled sheet away from his face and turned to face her, and she recognized Piotr, pale as the sheet she’d wrapped him in, hands reaching for the ceiling.
“Stop!” His one good eye locked upon the device in her hand. “Don’t!”
Yukiko realized the man was drunk; the reek of liquor on his breath and skin so strong he might have bathed in it. She pointed the contraption at his head, finger poised over what she hoped was the trigger.
“What are you doing here?” she growled.
“Please.” He motioned to the hallway. “Please. I am wanting for you.”