The man hurled a clay bottle, filled with thick, sloshing red. It smashed on the Purifier’s chest, coating its atmos-suit, and with a dull whump, burst into flame as it touched the fire burning at its wrist. The other beggars hurled more bottles, clay smashing on the stone at the Guildsmens’ feet, across their suits, painting them with gleaming scarlet. A thunderous rush of heat, roaring around the four Guildsmen and withering the spaces between. The stench of burning chi rose amidst the sound of rasping curses, the Guildsmen staggering away and turning on each other with their foam, dousing the flames with gouts of hissing white.
A motor-rickshaw tore down the street, wheels screeching. It collided with two Purifiers, crushed one against the chapterhouse wall in a bright burst of sparks. The chi tank at the Guildsman’s back split and exploded, the ’shaw’s driver rolling out of the cabin just as the vehicle’s snout burst into flame.
The beggars threw aside their black rags and drew weapons from within the folds, bearing down on the two remaining Guildsmen. The Kyodai raised its hand, skin still black and smoking, screeching a warning as the big man rushed it with his war club raised high.
Akihito pictured Kasumi lying in a puddle of blood on the floor of Kigen jail. He pictured Masaru’s name etched upon a hundred spirit tablets around the Burning Stones. He pictured Yoritomo’s face atop the burnished brass shoulders.
The Purifier’s helm split at the seams, one glowing red eye spinning off into the dark, a leaden whungggggg ringing out as the tetsubo connected. Wet crunching. A metallic rasp. The Purifier fell back, hands to its shattered face. Metal hit stone and it cried out, the sound all too human; a moan of fear and pain.
“No.” It held up its hand. “Don’t, wait—”
The tetsubo crashed down on the Kyodai’s head, the crack of metal on metal ringing down the street. Akihito hefted the club, bringing it down onto the Guildsman’s helm again. And again. And again. Until the faceplate buckled and the light in its eye cracked and died and thick red bubbled between the broken seams. The Kyodai twitched once and was still.
“Come on!”
The other Kagé had dispatched the remaining Purifiers, the fuses in the back of the still-burning motor-rickshaw were already lit. They grabbed Akihito’s arm and tugged the big man away from his kill. Heavy metal footsteps could be heard beneath the wailing siren within the chapterhouse; a multitude approaching fast. The street was strewn with broken metal bodies, lit by the rickshaw fire, black, acrid smoke burning his throat and scratching at his eyes.
He nodded. Smiled.
The Kagé disappeared amongst the shadows.
*
An explosion tore across Downside, a bright bloom of flame lighting the clouds over Chapterhouse Kigen, smoke rushing skyward like a new bride into the arms of her groom. Daichi looked at the firelight sky, counting beneath his breath, one, two, three, and ah, there it went. A second explosion to the east, then a third; three dry-docked sky-ships bursting into flame and sinking slowly onto Spire Row, draping the boardwalk with burning skeletons. The Docktown fuel depot went up ten seconds later, and it seemed for a moment the sun had risen early, great feathered hands of fire stretching forth over the warehouse district, hard shadows and roiling smoke, screams of fear and pain, the reverb settling inside his bones. The night was filled with the drone of sky-ship propellers, Phoenix corvettes buzzing and slicing overhead, the belly of the Floating Palace lit with the lurid glow of Kigen’s growing pyre.
Daichi put one hand to his mouth and coughed. Licked his teeth and spat. Hand pressed to tortured ribs, more bruise than skin beneath the bandages. Every breath was fire. Every word a trial. His speech to the Kagé had taken almost everything he had.
They were settled on the upper floor of a town house with a perfect view of the Shōgun’s palace, waiting for the tigers to leave their den. Ayane knelt at a small table, head tilted, listening to the chatter of the mechabacus in her head. The device hung around her neck, plugged into the jack at her collarbone, the beads chittering back and forth across her breast. Dirt still clung in the crevices, fingerprints of rust on the faceplate from its slumber beneath damp earth, a slight scratch from the shovel used to dig it free. She would lean close to the boy beside her, lips brushing his ear, and Kin would relay the incoming data about troop movements, numbers, disposition to the Kagé in the field via the shortwave transmitter on the table before him. There was intimacy to the pair, kneeling so close they almost touched—a kind of symbiosis Daichi found unsettling.
He could hear bells ringing, heavy feet, shouted orders. A cadre of Guild mercenaries spilled from the chapterhouse and stormed east over the Shiroi bridge, dozens more heading south to bolster the refinery defenses. Firelight gleamed on their night-filter goggles and bulbous helms, like a hundred scarab beetles ready for war. Bushimen were taking position on the bridges, motor-rickshaws roaring through the streets, Iron Samurai mustering in the palace grounds. The fire spread across Docktown as the timber boardwalk caught and burned, cutting off access to most of the dry-docked Tiger fleet. Daichi smiled up at the black storm clouds overhead and whispered a prayer to Susano-ō, begging the Storm God to show his blessing to Lord Hiro’s wedding and withhold the rain for just one more day.