Would she?
He closed his eyes, banished thoughts of Yukiko. The memories of their time together in the Iishi were locked in some small and hidden corner of his mind, a secret, brilliant joy he kept for himself, visiting only when the stench got too bad, the days grew too dark. But this was his life. Here in this chittering, steaming ants’ nest, bent over a tool station and working on the Shōgun’s pet projects until he was well enough to ship out again, away from the slaughter and the inescapable stink. Presuming they ever let him fly again, of course.
His father had been a great man. Third Bloom; a Fleet Master. He had made engines sing like the legendary nightingales, knew the troubles of an injection system or combustion chamber with a touch of his hands. Kin had inherited his father’s gift for machines, and Old Kioshi had passed on the bounty of his knowledge, raising his son high in the esteem of Second Bloom Kensai before he died and was pro cessed in the vats. A great family. An honorable legacy. Kensai’s patronage had been enough to see Kin posted to a flagship like the Thunder Child, enough for them to allow him to carry his father’s name.
Problem was, he liked his own.
And now he’d lost face. Been seen skinless by a hadanashi. An Impure one at that. A source of quiet disdain from his fellows, stinging rebukes from his Kyodai. Even with Kensai speaking on his behalf, an example needed to be made. And so they’d locked him in some far-flung workstation, given him a scribble marked with Yoritomo’s seal and commanded that he turn the lunatic’s vision into reality. They’d promised Yoritomo that the best Artificers in the entire Kigen chapterhouse would be working on his ridiculous saddle. That a dozen brethren would not rest until the Shōgun had his desire. In reality, there was only Kin and old Tatsuo pottering away on alternate shifts.
Truth was, antipathy for Yoritomo had been spreading among the Kigen Chapter for years. His excesses, his arrogance, his inability to provide final victory against the gaijin. But ever since Shateigashira Kensai’s recent meeting, the contempt from the Upper Blooms had become almost palpable. An indignant hush had descended when news of Yoritomo’s defiance spread among the Shatei. Who did this princeling think he was, to deny the Way of Purity?
We supply the weapons. We supply the armor. We supply the fuel for the war machine, and only we know the secret of its creation. We are Shima. Defy us at your peril, for what is given can be taken away.
The Shōgun had already been informed that “regrettable delays” meant his saddle would not be ready in time for the bicentennial. That Shateigashira Kensai would not be attending the gala due to “pressing Guild business.”
Secretly, Kin was overjoyed to hear of Yoritomo’s rebuke to Kigen’s Second Bloom. The thought of Yukiko kept him up at night: dark eyes reflecting emerald green, those brief, wonderful moments in the Iishi swimming so vibrant in his memory that sometimes he swore he could still feel the wind, taste the water. He could see the line of her face, closed his eyes now to reach out and touch it, aching with de-tox. She was in his veins. In his head.
“Skin is strong. Flesh is weak.”
He opened his eyes, seeing it for the first time. A flat sheet of paper, folded beneath his temperfoam futon, corner peeking out into the dim light. A smooth high-pitched whine came from his skin as he crouched down, picked it up, noting the fine misting of dust on the floor under the ventilation duct.
Someone had been in his room. Crawling through the vents, dropping down and depositing this paper beneath his mattress. Why? Who?
He opened the quartered sheet, sharp folds, a little over a foot wide. It was a square of opaque parchment, marked with simple drawings of an arashitora. An overlay of translucent rice-paper sat on top. A contraption was drawn on it, sitting neatly over the thunder tiger’s frame.
There was a note in the corner. A five-word fist in his gut, his heart threatening to burst through his ribs and fly from his chest.
“We need to talk—Yukiko.”
Masaru woke from the dream with a moan, images glowing in his memory like the afterburn of a sun stared at too long. A rolling field of animal bones, ribs and skulls and empty eye sockets, overgrown with mile after mile of blood-red lotus. He’d stood in the dark, a flickering light in his hand, and then dropped the torch and watched it burn. Sucking in lungfuls of smoke, listening to the screams piercing the night and realizing, finally, that they were his own.
He sat up on raw stone, hands shaking, smudging the dream from his eyes. The cell stank of old sweat, shit, vomit. His skin felt greasy, smudged with gray. But, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt clean. No lotus in his veins, no ashen fingers snaking through his skull. Unshackled, weight falling from his shoulders and drifting away in rolling clouds.
“ Masaru-sama.”