Hands in fists, breath hissing through his bellows, the Second Bloom stopped before the throne with barely a bow. His backpack spat a mouthful of chi smoke into the air as the Iron Samurai closed the doors behind him. Spring-driven ceiling fans clicked and swayed in the exposed beams high overhead. Somewhere in the distance a servant roamed the halls, ringing in the Hour of the Wasp on his iron bell.
Yoritomo had watched the Guildsman approach, languid in the heat, face impassive behind a small indoor respirator. Rumor had it that Kensai was a bloated pig beneath his suit; the sheets of metallic muscle were a facade hiding slabs of soft, spotted blubber, the beautiful childlike face covering a mongrel visage that not even a mother could love. Hideo also had it on good authority that Kigen’s Second Bloom had a predilection for gaijin women. Imagining the sweaty, faceless hog soiling himself with some poor, abducted barbarian girl, Yoritomo found it easy to ignore Kensai’s intimidating stature. The Shōgun actually found himself stifling a smile at the scandal.
“Shateigashira,” he nodded. “Voice of Chapterhouse Kigen. You honor us with your presence.”
“The honor is mine, Seii Taishōgun, Conqueror of Eastern Barbarians, equal of heaven.” Kensai’s voice was a deep, metallic rumble, completely at odds with the youthful lines of his mask. “Amaterasu shine on your fields, and bring bounty to your people.”
“You are here to discuss the bicentennial, I presume? I trust my saddle will be ready on schedule?”
Hideo materialized beside Yoritomo’s throne, the long stem of his pipe resting on bloodless lips. The throne itself was twice as tall as the little minister, a twisting amalgam of golden tigers, sweeping lines and silken cushions. Tapestries swayed in the dirty breeze, slapping against the columns behind. The pillars were black granite shot through with cobalt, sleek and polished as the Guildsman’s eyes.
“The venerable Second Bloom wishes to discuss the Kitsune girl, great Lord.” Hideo bowed, exhaling a puff of sweet blue-black, narrowing his bloodshot stare.
“Ah,” Yoritomo nodded. “My arashitora wrangler. What of her?”
“Forgive me, great Lord.” The Guildsman gave an almost imperceptible bow, barely worth the charade. “I wish to give no cause for insult, nor weaken the ties of friendship and honor that bind First House and your court together. I know you have offered shelter to this girl in your own—”
“Spit it out, Kensai.” Yoritomo’s eyes flashed, pretense sliced to ribbons and slumped bleeding on the floor. “We both know why you are here.”
“The girl is Impure, great Lord.” His voice was a storm of bumblebees, plump and chitinous. “Tainted by the blood of yōkai. As is commanded in the Book of Ten Thousand Days, her filth must be cleansed. Purity’s Way must be walked.”
“Mrnm.” Yoritomo did his best to look troubled. “Yōkai-kin, you say?”
“It is our deepest-held suspicion, Seii Taishōgun. The incident with the Lady Aisha’s dog. The way she handles the arashitora . . .”
“Suspicion?” A raised eyebrow. “You mean to say you have no proof?”
A long pause, filled by the sound of the mechabacus spooling on Kensai’s chest. As Yoritomo and Hideo watched, the Guildsman reached up and flicked several of the beads across to the other side. His tone was that of a man choosing his words with utmost care.
“With all due respect, great Lord . . . since when has proof ever been required?”
The guest suite sprawled along the western wing of the palace, thin rice-paper walls, polished teak and no real privacy at all. Every inch dripped with excess. The furniture was hand-carved, masterpieces by Ryu Kamakura and Fushicho Ashikaga hung on the walls, long aquariums of clouded beach glass were set into the floor and populated with thin, miserable koi fish in all colors of the rainbow. But it all felt pompous. Fake. Coin spent not for the comfort of the guest, but for the sake of the Shōgun’s majesty.
Yukiko turned to Hiro, hovering by the door.
“You can come in if you like.”
“That would be unseemly.” His armor sang as he shook his head. “Lady Aisha would have me branded if she discovered I had entered a Lady’s bedchamber unaccompanied.”
“So, are you just going to sit outside?”
“Hai.”
Yukiko thought she could hear a smile hidden behind his fearsome iron
mask.
“Can you take that thing off?” She pointed to the mempō. “I’ve seen enough
oni to last a lifetime.”
“You have seen oni?” To his credit, there was only a small trace of skepti
cism in the samurai’s voice. “Where?”
“It’s a long story.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Can you just take
it off, please? I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me under that thing.” Hiro worked the clasp at his throat, the faceplate swung away with a wet
sucking sound and he peeled the helm from his head. His hair was plastered to
his scalp, face damp with sweat. Strong jaw, small pointed goatee, smooth
cheeks beneath those glittering, wonderful eyes.
“I am not making fun of you, Lady.”
She stared for a long moment, remembering her dreams and feeling that
ridiculous flush rising in her cheeks again. She chided herself; a quick, seething