Hiro fought to struggle in a body that felt nothing at all.
Drew ragged breath to scream.
And woke.
Woke as he did every morning. Sweat in his eyes. Heart rolling and heaving in his chest. Taste of metal on his tongue. And as he looked down at the mutilated nub of flesh where his sword arm should be, studded with bayonet fixtures and snaking iron cables, he sank his head into his hand—his only hand—and let out a shuddering, bone-deep sigh.
A False-Lifer was waiting outside his chambers, ready with the prosthetic cradled in her arms. He felt its weight as she slipped the limb onto its couplings, jacked hungry inputs with gushing feeds, clicking and snapping and tweaking and twisting, finally slipping a thin robe over his sweat-slick flesh. He flexed the arm back and forth; a slow grind of gears and pistons, a sound like chromed spider limbs. He could feel cable pulling beneath his skin. Smell grease.
Pushing open the balcony doors, he stepped out into the scorching sun. The city’s stink rushed inside, underscored with the sharp, wood-smoke tang of burned buildings and dissent. Garish heat licked his skin, a blast-furnace glare forcing his eyes closed. To the south, Tiger ironclads hung limp about the docking spires, forlorn in the poisoned wind. Faint, choking sparrow calls drifted in the gardens; pitiful wretches flitting about on clipped wings, staring mournfully at the red sky above.
He could feel it moving behind his back; the machine set in motion by the Guild and the ministers intelligent enough to have backed him from the outset. The machine of politics, grinding just beneath the palace’s skin. The promises of promotion or coin, the thugs and assassins dispatched to deal with those who could not be bought. Like the clockwork hanging from his right shoulder, smooth and unfeeling. All of this. This estate. This city. This clan.
Soon.
Hiro smiled bitterly. Shook his head. Finding no comfort.
Mine.
“Shateigashira Kensai, exalted Second Bloom of Chapterhouse Kigen!”
Matsu’s voice tore Hiro from his brooding. The servant stood behind him, bowing low, shaved head gleaming.
Heavy steps. The hiss of exhaust. Cloying chi-scent. Hiro glanced over his shoulder at the Shateigashira’s approach; extravagant polished brass, the beautiful, frozen face of a boy in his prime, black cable flooding from his lips. Kensai joined him on the balcony, floorboards groaning in protest.
“Shōgun Hiro.” The Lotusman covered his fist and nodded.
“Do not call me that,” Hiro said.
“Brethren of Chapterhouse Kawa have sent confirmation.” Kensai inclined his head; a small bow barely worthy of the label. “The Dragon clanlord has accepted invitation to your wedding, and is en route. You are one step closer to absolute rule of Shima.”
Hiro tried his best to scowl. He forced down the faint thrill that coursed through his veins at Kensai’s words, crushing it beneath suspicion’s weight.
“You really believe the clanlords will bow to me? I am barely eighteen years old, Kensai-san.”
“Yoritomo was thirteen when he ascended the throne.”
“Yoritomo-no-miya was a blooded firstborn son.”
“As your son will be.”
“This is madness. There is nothing close to Kazumitsu’s blood in my veins.”
“It is not your blood that matters. Only that of your bride. It is through her you bind yourself to Kazumitsu’s line. Through her you will restore the dynasty, and bring order to the chaos wrought by those Kagé dogs and that Impure abomination. The war effort against the gaijin has disintegrated without the banner of a Shōgun to rally behind. We have reports of Dragon and Fox forces actually firing upon each other during the retreat…”
“Their lords desire the throne for themselves.” Hiro’s mouth curled in disgust. “And is it any wonder? In days past the samurai of this nation believed in honor. In the Way of Bushido. But now?”
“Any nation is only as noble as its ruler.” Kensai’s atmos-suit hissed as he shrugged. “The fish rots from the head down.”
“Have a care.” Hiro glared at the Second Bloom. “I will brook no insult to the name of my murdered Lord. I am Kazumitsu Elite. My oath to Yoritomo holds even in death.”
“Until it passes to Kazumitsu’s heir.”
“Kazumitsu has no heir.”
“Not yet, Lord Hiro.” Kensai’s eyes glittered like a viper’s. “Not yet.”
“Why are you here, Kensai?” Hiro turned to the Shateigashira, glare narrowed. “Any minion could have delivered news of the Dragon clan’s acceptance.”
“Lady Aisha is recovering well. Our False-Lifers have deemed she no longer need be kept under constant sedation. She finds herself … distressed by her predicament.”
“If I awoke from a near-fatal beating to find myself engaged to a simple samurai’s son, I think I would be more than distressed, Kensai-san.”
“The topic of her impending nuptials…” Kensai shifted, as if discomfited by the notion, “has not yet been … broached with the Lady.”