Yukiko looked at her now and saw differently. The truth was, Kasumi probably knew Masaru better than her mother had. She had always been there, the long nights in the wilderness, the treks through swamp and jungle, spilling blood, sleeping under the stars together.
Did Yukiko have a right to be angry? Yes. But could she understand what a person would do for love? Could she sympathize?
“I know you do,” she whispered.
“We have to get him out of there.”
“We will.” Yukiko nodded, squeezed her hands into fists.
“Indeed?” Aisha said. “You have a plan?”
“No.” She turned to the Lady, cold stare, white knuckles. “But I’m sure you can come up with one. You’re the most powerful woman in Shima, after all.”
“Masaru-san can be freed when Yoritomo is dealt with.” Aisha waved with one pale, lacquered hand. “I mean no offense, but there are larger stakes in play here than your father’s life. The Dynasty’s bicentennial celebrations begin in two weeks’ time. All of Yoritomo’s court will be caught up in the noise and motion—a perfect distraction for the shadow games we must play. Why would I break the Black Fox out now and risk all, when the fate of the entire country rests on this one throw of the dice?”
“Because that’s my price,” Yukiko scowled. “I want a show of faith.”
“Faith?” Aisha tilted her head. “You do not trust me, Yukiko-chan?”
“You just got through telling me not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m the one risking my own life, and the life of my friends. And yet the way I see it, everyone is getting something out of this bargain but me. The Kagé get their revolution, you get a scapegoat for Yoritomo’s murder, maybe even a throne. What do I get, aside from a death-mark on my head?”
“Vengeance. For your mother.”
“If I wanted vengeance, I would have killed Daichi. I don’t care about revenge. I want my family back. I want my father free by the end of this week. I want him and Akihito and Kasumi on a sky-ship to Yama. And when they’re far from this stinking city, then I’ll stick my neck out for you. After they’re safe, you get what you want. Until then, you don’t get a godsdamned thing.”
Aisha smiled, a broad grin right to the eyeteeth that left Yukiko’s stomach cold. The world seemed breathless. A darkened hush descended as night deepened, the pale moon limping through a poisoned sky toward the hour of treason. Somewhere in the dark, a sparrow flapped its crippled wings and began to sing.
“Now, that’s the spirit, Yukiko-chan.” Aisha clapped her palms together, delighted. “We’ll make a woman of you yet.”
His name was Tora Seiji no Takeo.
A careful and proud man, thin limbs, clever hands, greatly learned in the keeping of tora—the great tigers of the Shima isles. He had inherited the craft from his father, Takeo no Neru, dead of blacklung some ten years past.
Seiji was Yoritomo’s Keeper of Tigers; an expert on an island where only three of the beasts remained alive. It was a profession that, naturally, left him with plenty of free time on his hands. This he spent chasing servant girls, or writing thoroughly ordinary poetry, or listening to pirate radio while smoking with his friend Masaaki the Stable Master (the last horse on Shima had died eighteen years before, and Masaaki had devoted his overabundance of leisure time to cultivating a truly impressive lotus addiction).
The three sickly cats that prowled Yoritomo’s gardens were kittens really, born and bred in captivity. Any idiot could feed them. Any fool with a pair of hands could pick up the dung when Naoki, the most mischievous of the trio, decided to do his business outside the kitchen door again. But Shōgun Yoritomo had insisted on keeping Seiji despite his obsolescence. Paying his wage, just like the Hunt Master and the Hawk Master and the Keeper of Cranes. It wasn’t a bad life, really. Just a dull one.
That is, until last week. And now here he was, with a kerchief mask and a shovel as wide as his arm, picking up thunder-tiger shit.
The beast was snoring in the center of the arena, great flanks pulsing, straw dancing with each heave of those mighty lungs. It had opened its eye briefly as Seiji entered the pit (the iron gate squeaked—he must remember to get some lubricant from one of the Lotusmen) but had immediately dropped back to sleep after a brief, disdainful stare.
Seiji crept on tiptoe among the lotusfly hum, wincing at the scrape of metal across stone as he scooped up another shovelful. He knew that the beast’s chain was too short to reach the pit’s periphery were he to run there. But still, he couldn’t help the tremors in his hands, the cold fear crawling in his gut. This was a beast of legend, one of the great gray yōkai, child of the Thunder God, Raijin. It had about as much in common with a tora as a tiger had with a house cat.