“Lady Tora Aisha.”
“Kitsune Yukiko,” Aisha replied, husky, smoke-scarred. “We thank you for
visiting us.”
“It is my honor, Lady.”
The terrier in Aisha’s lap bounded down to the floor, bounced up to Yukiko
and started licking her ear. She sat upright, squirming, and a chorus of bright
laughter rang out again from the legion of serving girls. Aisha drew her fanshaped respirator from within her sleeve to cover her smile. Yukiko ruffled the
puppy’s ears, feeling the world fall away beneath her feet, the vertigo of the
Kenning turning the earth upside-down.
Hello! Happy! Play?
Yukiko felt Buruu’s absence like a fresh wound as she stared into the puppy’s eyes.
Not now, little one.
The puppy barked and danced in a small circle.
“Come, sit with me, Kitsune Yukiko,” said Aisha.
Yukiko dragged herself forward on her knees until she knelt before the table. The puppy gnawed at the geta sandals she had left by the door. She watched
Aisha prepare the tea; a stylized, elegant dance of pot and saucer and sweet-smelling steam. Three of the girls began plucking at shamisen, filling the air
with soft, hypnotic music. The instruments were almost six feet long, crafted
of exquisitely carved kiri wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. They were played
laid flat on the floor, the girls kneeling beside them, striking the thirteen
strings with fingers and thumbs. The wavering notes were long and sweet, almost melancholy in parts, as if the instruments were searching in vain for a
voice beautiful enough to match their own.
“They tell me that you captured a thunder tiger.” Aisha’s eyes were fixed on
the tea service, scooping a bowlful into Yukiko’s cup. “And saved a Guildsman’s life. All alone in the Iishi for days.”
“Hai.” Yukiko turned her cup three times before accepting it, bowing to
Aisha.
“That must be an extraordinary tale.” Aisha bowed back, filled her own
cup. “You must tell it to me sometime.”
“If you wish, Lady.”
Aisha glanced down at Yukiko’s cup, waiting for her guest to drink first. “How old are you, Kitsune Yukiko?”
The j?nihitoe pressed down on Yukiko like the air in a tomb. Sweat burned
her eyes. She longed to rub them, but was afraid of smudging the wretched
make-up. She tried to blink the sting away instead, lifting her cup and taking
a small sip of the steaming liquid.
“I am sixteen, Lady.”
“So young. And yet here you are, the toast of our city.”
“. . . I would not know, Lady.”
“And so modest!”
The serving girls giggled. Aisha took a sip of her tea, watching Yukiko over
the rim of the cup.
“You are very beautiful, Yukiko-chan.”
“You honor me, Lady.”
“Your accommodations are suitable?”
“Hai, Lady.”
“I trust that Michi-chan was of assistance?”
“Hai, Lady. Very much so.”
“The j?nihitoe suits you.”
“My thanks for your gift, Lady.”
“My brother, the Seii Taishōgun, is overjoyed.”
“As you say, Lady.”
“I have not seen him this happy in many years. You have brought him a
great prize.”
Yukiko found herself growing angry, impatient at this silly ritual and this
pointless one-sided conversation. She felt as if this painted doll was talking at
her, not to her. That she didn’t care what Yukiko said or felt, that this was just a
momentary distraction in Aisha’s life of banality, of pretty dresses and hours
in front of looking glasses.
She knew she should keep her mouth shut, that she should nod her head
and sweat in this ridiculous dress and sip her bloody tea with a smile. But she
couldn’t.
“And yet your brother has my father locked in his dungeon,” she said.
“Starving. Almost naked, with bare rock to sleep on and a bucket to shit in.” A collective gasp, music stopping dead, corpse-pale painted faces turning
paler still. Aisha was motionless as stone, cup poised before her lips, blinking
once at Yukiko with dark, liquid eyes. She heard Michi behind her, whispering something under her breath. A prayer, maybe.
“Leave us,” said Aisha, an iron note of command in her voice. As one, the
serving girls stood and fled the room, tiny steps scurrying across the wicker
matting.
Yukiko bowed her head, uncertainty getting the best of her anger. This aggression, this impatience; it wasn’t like her. She was normally level-headed,
grown pragmatic beyond her years in the shadow of her father’s addictions. It
was almost as if . . .
Of course.
Buruu. Once so primal. Impulsive and feral. But now he showed capacity
for restraint, patience, complex thought, reason overcoming his bestial nature. Their shared dreams. Shared feelings. The bond between them growing
by the day.
He’s becoming more like me.
“I am sorry, Lady,” she murmured. “I beg your forgiveness.”
And I’m becoming more like him.