“Try now,” said a metallic, sibilant voice.
She stepped into the room, taking in the lantern-light scene before dropping to her knees and pressing forehead to floorboard. Three Guildsmen were gathered around a hospice chair. The first pair were indistinguishable; vaguely feminine in form, clad in skintight, earth-brown membranes and long, buckle-studded aprons. Silver orbs were affixed to their spines, eight long, gleaming limbs unfolding in a razor-sharp halo about them. They had featureless faces and bulbous eyes, glowing heartsblood red.
She recognized the third Guildsman immediately—Kensai, Second Bloom of Chapterhouse Kigen, voice of the Guild in the Tiger capital. A hulking figure over six feet tall, muscular lines shaped into the atmos-suit of burnished brass covering his flesh. Eyes aglow. Mechabacus on his chest, stuttering and chattering the indecipherable language of the machine. Disconcertingly, the face molded into the Second Bloom’s helm was that of a perfect, beautiful boy, segmented iron piping spilling from a mouth frozen in a perpetual scream. As always, the sight of him unleashed a slick of cold fear in the girl’s belly.
“Lord Hiro, please.” Kensai’s voice was an iron rasp. “Try again.”
No One glanced up swiftly, focused on the figure reclining in the hospice chair. Long dark hair and a pointed goatee. Piercing green eyes, like Kitsune jade. High cheekbones and smooth skin, bronzed and well-muscled, six small hills on an abdomen that seemed carved of kiri wood. She thought he could have been handsome in a different place, a different time. But sleepless nights had drawn gray circles around those beautiful eyes, and lack of appetite (she’d noted his meals were always untouched) had left him gaunt and stretched.
Lord Hiro lifted his right arm, frown darkening his brow, closing his fingers one by one.
No matter how many times she saw it, she had to admire the artistry. The ball-joint digits with their case-hardened tendons. The intricate lace of machinery, at once awful and beautiful. A hissing, whirring construct, cogs and interlocking teeth, crafted of dull, gray iron.
A clockwork arm.
“Excellent,” Kensai breathed. “Your response speed is most promising.”
“Will I be able to wield a sword soon?” Lord Hiro’s voice came from far away.
“Certainly.” A spider-woman nodded, silver limbs flexing. “The prosthetic is far stronger than mere meat and bone. But the finesse with which you wield a weapon is up to you. Practice, Hiro-sama. Skin is strong. Flesh is weak.”
“The lotus must bloom,” Kensai murmured.
The Tiger Daimyo stood slowly, flexing the arm amidst the hiss of pistons and small bursts of chi exhaust. An iron cuff sleeved his shoulder, hiding the junction where metal ended and meat began. His other shoulder was tattooed with the imperial sun, burning across sculpted muscle, a newly inked cluster of lotus blooms beneath indicating his rank as a clanlord. A Daimyo. Master of the Tiger zaibatsu.
Impressive work for an eighteen-year-old.
Slipping on a loose, silken robe, he finally spotted No One kneeling on the floor, caught her in the midst of one furtive glance. Blanching, she pressed her head back to the boards, heart pounding in her chest. She should have waited until they were gone. Should have started with the ministerial chambers instead of coming here, falling under those bloody stares— “Be about your business, girl,” the Tiger Lord said.
“Great Lord.”
She stood swiftly, making her way into the dim bedchamber beyond. Kneeling by the chamber pot, listening to the drone of the Second Bloom’s voice.
“The Phoenix clanlords have accepted invitation to your wedding, great Lord. The Floating Palace is already on its way here. We have it on good authority the Dragons will soon follow. With Ryu and Fushicho ratifying your claim, the Kitsune will soon fall into line. If not, any thoughts of rebellion will be crushed once the Foxes set eyes on your wedding gift.”
“Wedding gift?”
“Hai. I will take you to Jukai province for an inspection. A week or so from now.”
“I have never been fond of surprises, Kensai.”
“Then this will be a first, great Lord.”
No One stood slowly, frowning, chamber pot in hand.
Wedding gift? What in the Maker’s name…?
She’d lingered too long for answers. Slipping from the bedchamber, gaze downturned, she carried her clay burden across the room. The assemblage paid her no more attention than a stain on the floor. The spider-women were packing away their tools, the Tiger Lord standing on the balcony, staring out over his city as evening smothered it into silence. The Second Bloom loomed at his back, the smell of grease and chi thick in the air.