“Seems I’m the one who should be singing now, friend.” The smile in the boy’s voice was long gone. “Seems you’d best grab a cushion and listen a spell.”
The men heard soft footsteps behind, saw a figure drop from the rooftop and cut off their retreat. Another boy by the look, straw hat and dark clothes, a club studded with roofing nails.
Seimi was incredulous.
“Do you know who we are?”
“Clueless, me,” the boy replied. “Now toss the satchels, Scorpion Children.”
Hida spread his stance, rocking back and forth on his heels. The boy at the alley’s mouth aimed the iron-thrower at the yakuza’s chest, pulling ever so slightly on the trigger.
“Gambler?” The boy tilted his head. “Partial to a roll myself, matter of fact.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the one behind them growled. “Walk off or be carried. Either way, we get those bags.”
“Hells with it.” The big-eyed boy leveled the weapon at Hida’s head. “I venture we just do them. Two shots is no bother. Boy my age has plenty more in the pipe, after all…”
“All right, you little bastards.” Seimi dropped his tetsubo, raised his hands. “Take it.”
He slipped the satchel off his shoulder, tossed it to the figure behind.
“What about you, Gambler?” The boy wiggled his eyebrows at Hida.
Hida stood perfectly still, face impassive as a brick wall. He stared for a slow minute, down the iron-thrower’s barrel, up at the calm black eyes hovering beyond. Sparing a scowl for his partner, he slipped his bag from his shoulder and tossed it to the thief behind.
“Very wise, friend.”
The iron-thrower boy waited until his comrade had slunk off into the fog, yakuza and thief staring each other down. The boy’s arm was solid as a statue’s, weapon still aimed at Hida’s head. The yakuza nodded; a small gesture, barely perceptible. His voice was soft as gravel.
“See you soon. Friend.”
The boy tipped his hat.
“Doubtless.”
He disappeared into the smog like a dorsal fin beneath black water.
*
The Gentleman had killed his first man when he was thirteen years old.
A gang fight in some Kigen back lot, a bloody scrap over a stretch of dirty brick and concrete less than half a city block. He’d dashed into the melee, eager to show his worth to the older gangers. He’d spotted the other boy amongst the crowd, smelled the fear in a heartbeat. So he waded across the mob, blade in hand, and plunged it into the other boy’s gut.
He still remembered the warmth and smell as blood gushed over his hands. Viscous, copperish, far darker than he’d expected. He could still see the look on the boy’s face as he pulled the knife free, stuck it in again a few inches higher. Punching through ribs, twisting as it went, feeling bone crack. The boy clutched his shoulder as the Gentleman looked into his eyes, pain-bright, pulling out the knife and stabbing again. And again. Not out of any need or lust. Just because he wanted to know what it felt like. To take what could never be given back.
The Oyabun of the Scorpion Children wasn’t the most frightening man on the island to look at—truth be told, he appeared entirely unremarkable. Graying hair swept back from sharp brows. Dark eyes, tanned skin. Softly spoken, unfailingly polite. Even his enemies called him “the Gentleman.” His real name had passed the way of the panda bears of Shima’s bamboo forests, the tigers that prowled her in yesterday’s dark. Gone. Very nearly forgotten.
Calloused hands around a small cup, he took a sip of red saké. The bottles came from Danro, the Phoenix capital; quality that was hard to find in Kigen these nights. He savored the sting, the warmth spreading on his tongue. He thought of the woman waiting at home, soft hands and warm thighs. His son would be long in bed by the time he stepped inside from the smog-filled streets. But she would wait up, even past dawn. She knew by now not to disappoint him.
Where are they …
His office was a modest affair; old maple desks, reams of paperwork, a windup ceiling fan clunking away in the creeping autumn chill. Sluggish lotusflies buzzed around a small bonsai tree, suffering silently in the lotus stink. A visitor could be forgiven for mistaking the room as the office of a legitimate businessman; a man who made his living selling furniture or carpets or spring motors.
The Gentleman’s accountant, Jimen, sat at the other desk. Head clean-shaven, thin and quick, dark, knowing eyes. The little man was arranging coins into stacks, pausing after the construction of each tower to shift a bead across the antique abacus on the desk beside him. His sleeveless uwagi revealed full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Two scorpions dueled in the negative space on his right shoulder, claws intertwined, stingers raised.
“Books look good.” Jimen flapped a bamboo fan in his face, despite the cool. “Profit is up seventeen percent this quarter.”
“Remind me to send a note of thanks to our would-be Daimyo,” the Gentleman murmured. “On the good stationery.”