Strike. Parry. Lunge.
“Come now,” Hiro said, dancing away. “It seems I speak of nothing these days save wedding plans.” Strike. “Of ministers who cannot be allowed to sit with magistrates at the reception because of slights three decades old.” Feint. “Of whether to offer insult to the attending Guildsmen by serving food and drink they consider impure, or insult by serving nothing at all.”
“My sympathies, cousin.” Ichizo ducked a scything blow aimed at his head, fell back for breathing room. “I suppose dominion over an entire nation comes with its drawbacks. But the wedding at least will be over soon.”
Feint. Dodge. Lunge.
“Hai,” Hiro nodded. “All the oni in the hells could not stop it now.”
“… Would you wish them to?”
Hiro struck, clipped Ichizo’s shoulder, kicked him again in the chest. The Lord Magistrate staggered away, blade at half-guard, but the Daimyo did not press.
“Come,” Hiro said, breathing easy, flexing his iron arm. “Speak your piece. Your intrigues offer welcome diversion if nothing else.”
Ichizo waved the request away with one hand, sweat burning his eyes.
“I fear it is a trifling thing, great Lord.”
“Trifling. This would be about your prisoner, then…”
Ichizo felt his stomach turn. He risked a glance at the servants. The other samurai. A humorless smile creased Hiro’s lips, and he dismissed the retinue with a wave of his blade. The group shuffled from the room with low bows, the sparring partners looking particularly grateful. Silence descended on the dojo, broken only by the sparrows choking in the gardens outside, the creak of the boards beneath their feet, Ichizo’s sodden gasps dragged into burning lungs.
The Lord Magistrate cleared his throat. Swallowed hard.
“You have heard.”
“You would be surprised what the Guild knows about the happenings in this palace.”
Ichizo glanced at the spider-drone perched on the railing of the mezzanine above. That cursed blood-red eye, seeing and telling all. “It displeases you?”
Hiro’s eyes were as hard as the prosthetic at his side. Just as cold. Just as lifeless. Ichizo searched his cousin’s face for some remnant of the boy he had played soldiers with around his father’s estates; toy bokken in their hands, swiping the wooden swords at imaginary legions of Shima’s enemies. Always smiling, always laughing.
Centuries ago.
“It displeases me,” Hiro said.
“She is beautiful, cousin. Like the first flower after winter’s end.”
“She is dangerous. I asked you to question these girls, Ichizo, not bed them. You have lost your clarity. Her mistress is purest poison. Who is to say how far her taint spread?”
“Yoritomo’s assassin tried to murder this girl. Cut her to pieces and nearly caved her head in. That hardly seems in keeping if they were allies. I am not a fool, Hiro.”
“No? And what does your beauty say when she lies in your arms at night? That she loves you?” Hiro flourished his blade in his iron hand, hissing fingers drumming across the hilt. “A woman’s betrayal cuts bone-deep, cousin.”
“Not all of them are liars, Hiro. Not all of them are false.”
“What would you have of me?”
“To set Michi-chan free. Under my recognizance. She wishes to see her mistr—”
“We have spoken of this before.”
His breath returned, Ichizo struck without warning, the blow narrowly missing Hiro’s face. The Daimyo struck back, ferocious, no smile on his lips, pressing hard with blow after blow until Ichizo again backed away.
“Tenacity is one of my strengths, great Lord,” he grinned, gasping.
“You ask the impossible, Lord Magistrate.”
“I would consider it a personal favor, Daimyo.” Ichizo looked at his cousin, eyes pleading. “To a kinsman who ran with you when the deadlands in Blackstone province were still lotus fields, and who always let you beat him with the bokken.”
“Let me beat you?”
Hiro laughed despite himself, his smile bright. For a brief moment, the facade of the Daimyo, the Iron Samurai, fell away, and all that remained was the boy Ichizo had always known. The boy he’d grown up with. The boy he trusted.
“Lord Izanagi strike you down for a bastard and a liar, cousin,” Hiro grinned.
“Please, cousin.” Ichizo stepped closer, smile slowly fading. “There is much to be said for a merciful rule.”
Hiro stroked his goatee, breathed deep. He stood for a silent minute, motionless as the training dummies surrounding them. Blue-black smoke hung about his brow, turned his eyes the deep green of lotus leaves. When he finally spoke, his voice rang across the dojo, cold and hard as a knife sinking into Ichizo’s back.
“Those boys you spoke of are men now, Ichizo-san. Those days you spoke of are gone. Best to forget they ever were, and remember what you are.”
“I am a man in love, cousin.”
Ichizo looked at Hiro with pleading eyes.