But Seiji was a loyal man, sworn to his oath of service, grateful to Yoritomo-no-miya for sparing him from the breadlines and the overflowing gutters of Downside. And so, when he’d been commanded to care for the arashitora, he had bowed and murmured thanks to his great Lord, Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty, next Stormdancer of Shima, and set about finding a bigger shovel.
As he wiped his brow, Seiji stole a glance at the arashitora again. It was magnificent, possessed of a majesty that demanded attention; a beast from children’s stories and dusty histories sprung inexplicably to life. Rumor was already rife about the strange (and, Seiji had to admit, pretty) girl who had arrived with it. “Arashi-no- ko,” they called her. “Storm girl.” The bushimen whispered that she was training the beast for the day it would begin its moult, growing new feathers to—
Wait.
Seiji squinted in the gloom, shovel poised in his hands.
What is that?
The Keeper of Tigers crept forward in the dark, soft slippers muffling his footsteps on the stone. Head tilted, eyes narrowed at the white shape under the straw a few feet from the arashitora’s hind paw. The beast snorted and rumbled in its sleep, and Seiji froze as still as kabuki dancers when the music stops. Flies tickled his skin for several agonized minutes before he felt safe to move again.
He knelt down and snatched it up, hurriedly tiptoeing back to his barrow and holding the object out in the grubby light of his chi lamp. His breath caught in his throat as he turned it over in his hands. As broad as his thigh, snow white, cut cleanly in half by what must have been a razor-sharp blade.
It was a feather.
A moulted feather.
29 Mayflies
Yukiko sat atop Buruu’s shoulders, off-balance, face gleaming, reins wrapped twice around her fists. The arashitora weaved through the obstacle course, a continuous circuit around the iron pillar he was chained to, like a dog endlessly chasing its own tail. Their pulses pounded in time with each other, a single heartbeat holding hands with itself. She could feel the muscles at play beneath his feathers, smell the faint mix of ozone and sweat, like the promise of rain hanging in the air before a storm.
She had taken a fall once already for the benefit of the bushimen, relaxed her muscles, ready to take another.
Now.
She tugged hard on the reins and Buruu tossed his head, veering left and crashing into the straw. With a curse and a convincing shriek, Yukiko flew from his shoulders, bounced across the bale and crashed onto the stone in a tangle of limbs. Buruu stood on his hind legs, making a grating noise in his throat that sounded suspiciously like chuckling. Several of the bushimen watching the show burst into laughter. Yukiko tore off her goggles, glowering up at the beast as she pushed the hair out of her face.
“Clumsy oaf!” Her shout drowned out the laughter from the benches above. “How hard can it be? Are you blind or just stupid?”
Buruu’s defiant roar was a comforting vibration in her chest. She smiled into his mind even as she cursed aloud, overjoyed simply to be close to him again. Amidst all the whispered conversations and shadowed intrigues of the past weeks, he was a constant, a true north by which to find her way. She felt his absence as a dull ache when they were separated, but in the few hours they spent together every day, she felt more complete than she had since Satoru died. She realized his words on the deck of the Guild liner had been true. He was her brother now.
AISHA AGREED TO YOUR DEMAND?
Yes. They’re going to smuggle my father from his cell in the next few days. She’d rather wait until the bicentennial celebrations, but she didn’t see him locked in that hole. What it was doing to him. I don’t care if she says it will be difficult. As long as it’s not impossible.
NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE.
A sigh as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, hauling herself up from the stone where she’d fallen. She winced and rubbed at her hip, massaging her thigh as she stood.
Only a few more days of this charade. And then we are gone.
A FEW MORE DAYS OF THIS AND YOU WILL BE NOTHING BUT BRUISES.
Somber applause cut through the sound of Buruu’s laughter in her head; a single pair of hands clapping, reverberating along the arena floor and up into the empty grandstand. All eyes turned toward the noise, surprised gasps and the sound of men slapping their palms over their fists soon followed. All deep bows and stern faces, the bushimen threw off their smiles and studied the floor.
“Shōgun,” one whispered.
Hiro was on his feet amidst the lubricated swish of gears and whine of tiny motors. He bowed deeply and hurried to his Shōgun’s side, sparing a quick nod for the four Iron Samurai that Yoritomo had brought with him. Like Hiro, the men wore the gold-trimmed jin-haori of the Kazumitsu Elite, oni masks, the daishō blades of chainsaw katana and wakizashi paired at their waists.
“Seii Taishōgun,” Hiro said. “Your arrival was unannounced. Forgive me, I would have ensured a suitable . . .”
Yoritomo held up his hand, words dying on Hiro’s lips. The Shōgun’s eyes were still fixed on Yukiko. He strolled down the stone stairs between the seats to the arena floor, unblinking, holding the girl pinned in that glittering, reptilian stare.