“Magistrate Ichizo.” The warden released the girl and bowed. “Your visit was unannounced.”
“Obviously.” The man’s eyes flickered to the girl crumpled on the stone. “This is how you treat your wards? Ladies of court? You disgrace yourself and dishonor our Lord, Warden.”
“Forgiveness, honorable Magistrate.” The warden bowed. “But I was commanded to uncover any Kagé operatives—”
“And you believe torturing handmaidens will bring you closer to them?”
“Each one of these girls served the traitor whore, Lady Aish—”
The blow was so swift, the warden almost couldn’t track it. Ichizo’s iron fan caught him full in the face, hard enough to open a small cut across his cheek. The crack of metal upon flesh faded, a stone-heavy silence in its wake, broken only by the girl’s quiet sobs.
“You speak of the last daughter of Kazumitsu’s line,” Ichizo hissed. “The blood of the first Shōgun flows in her veins, and the next heir to this empire will grow in her womb.” He slipped the fan into his sleeve. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
The warden pawed the cut on his cheek, lowered his eyes.
“Forgiveness, Magistrate. But the Chief Treasurer demanded—”
“Chief Treasurer Nagahara resigned from office two hours ago. The stresses of public life have extracted a grievous toll upon his health. He has retired to his country estates with the blessings of our Lord, Daimyo Hiro.”
The warden sighed inwardly.
So. Another power shift.
At last count, three nobles had claimed leadership of the Tora zaibatsu; two senior ministers and the young Iron Samurai who had lost his arm (and very nearly his life) defending Yoritomo-no-miya from his assassin. Now it seemed the time for diplomacy was ending. Hiro’s faction had assassinated four high-ranking ministers in the last two weeks—courtly machinations turning inevitably toward the politics of the duelist’s katana and the assassin’s blade. Swordmen like the warden were caught in between—bound by oaths to the Daimyo, but unsure who the hells the Daimyo even was.
“This barbarism will end.” The magistrate’s gaze roamed the cell. “Lady Aisha’s handmaidens will be escorted to the palace and placed under house arrest. I will speak to each girl personally regarding their treatment whilst in your care.”
“This one was injured when she came in,” the warden mumbled. “I had the apothecary tend her wounds to ensure she wouldn’t fall to infection.”
“And the rat bites?”
“I—”
“I know the nature of her injuries, Warden. I have read the report. Multiple knife wounds. Beaten bloody, cheek cracked, comatose for days. Lucky to escape the Stormdancer with her life. Yet you believe she was in collusion with the Kitsune girl?”
“There were many secrets in the wh…” the warden cleared his throat, “… in the Lady Aisha’s chambers. Some of these maidens must have been privy to them.”
“This girl is barely seventeen years old.”
“All due respect, Magistrate, but Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin was sixteen.”
“And you thought to beat the insurgency’s secrets out of a girl that same assassin had already beaten near to death?”
“I was commanded to investigate all—”
“Your loyalty is admirable, Warden. But your confusion about where to place it is of grave concern. You should invest thought in your future.” The magistrate’s eyes glittered above his breather. “My noble cousin, Daimyo Hiro, would be disappointed to learn you had also been … retired for the sake of your health.”
“I understand, Lord Magistrate,” he nodded. “My thanks for your wisdom.”
“Unchain her at once.”
The warden unlocked the girl’s manacles, blanching as he noted the raw bruises on her wrists. Ichizo shouldered him aside, throwing his robe around her to preserve her modesty. The magistrate tut-tutted as he assisted her from the cell.
“It is over, my dear.” His voice was soft as feather down. “It is all over now.”
The girl continued crying, hugging herself as the magistrate escorted her down the stone corridor. The warden heard the sound of heavy boots: more bushimen marching into the prison, barking orders at his men to release the other maidens. He could feel it all around him—the entire country teetering on a knife edge. The promise of bloody conflict looming among the clans. Kagé insurgents infecting the city like a cancer. Samurai thrashing about like spoiled children, concerned with nothing but carving paths toward the throne.
The warden sighed again, wished for a return to simpler days. Days when a soldier knew where his allegiances lay. Days before the Stormdancer had taken his world away.
Then he clomped out of the cell and went in search of that drink.
*