“No,” she finally said. “No, you have not.”
“Yet now I am forced to wait.” Yoritomo pushed himself off the floor; sudden, startling motion. He began pacing, candlelight rolling across inked muscle. “How long until it moults again? How long until I can lead my armies astride its back? The arashitora is worth nothing to me chained in a godsdamned pit.”
“Then why did you cut its feathers, brother?”
“They lied to me. They deceived me.”
“But there were any number of punishments you could have inflicted for the transgression. Starvation. Beatings. Torture. Why cripple its wings?”
He spoke like a parent to a simple, mewling child.
“Because it wanted to fly, Aisha.”
She fell silent, face like stone, watching him pace the room.
“Yet until the beast moults again, my armies languish with weaklings in command. Not one of my generals is worthy of the title. Not one!” He wiped his knuckles across his lips. “The gaijin must be broken. We need more slaves, more inochi. Twenty years and a dozen different commanders, and we are no closer to victory than when father ruled. And what do we fight? Men of honor? Samurai? No! Skinthieves and blood-drinkers.”
“They will fall before you, brother. It is only a matter of time.”
“Time?” The word was a snarl. “If you listen to the Guild we have precious little left. They wave their productivity charts and deadlands maps in my face, spitting rhetoric about the ‘fundamentals of the exponential equation.’ And every day they demand I expand the fronts. Demand! Of me! Seii Taishōgun!” He slapped at his naked chest. “I decide! I say when we will move and when we will stay. I decide where and when the deathblow falls.”
“Of course, brother,” Aisha rose smoothly, voice soothing, folding her hands inside her sleeves. “The Guild does not understand. They have minds of metal. They are not men of flesh like you. They hide in their shells and their yellow towers, quivering with fear over children who speak to animals.”
“Cowards,” Yoritomo spat. “If only . . .”
The sentence hung in the air, dripping impotence.
“I have a gift for you,” Aisha said finally.
“I have no need of your ladies tonight.”
“No.” She licked carefully at the wet stripe of red on her lips. “Something else. A way in which you might realize your dream and silence the Guild’s demands. And best of all, it will be them who pays the cost.”
“What is it?”
“Ah,” she smiled, lowering her eyes. “It is a surprise, my brother.”
“A surprise.” A smile began creeping toward the corners of his mouth. His eyes roamed his sister’s body, all of a sudden enjoying the game. “What kind of surprise?”
“The secret kind.” She laughed, mischievous, slipping her geta back on her feet. “I will deal with the Guild, take care of it all, and in the end you will have your dream. But I will need the Kitsune girl. Not imprisoned. Not chained.” “Why?” Yoritomo’s eyes narrowed.
“The little whore can make herself useful to atone for her treachery. And if she defies me, the thought of prison will seem like a mercy to her, and she will wish you had not stayed your hand. I do not possess your capacity for restraint, Shōgun.”
“You are possessed of other qualities, sister. Far more tangible.”
She turned aside, avoided his lingering stare.
“No snooping, do you hear? You tell Hideo-san to hold his little spy network at bay. I want this to be special.”
“Aisha . . .” he warned.
“I mean it!” She turned back to him, took a step closer. “We will speak no more of it. There will be comings and goings and much noise about the arashitora’s prison and you will ignore all of it. And when I bring you your gift, you must act surprised and remark what a clever sister I am. And everything you deserve will be yours. Agreed?”
She was a vision of beauty in the low, sooty light. Her face was so pale it seemed faintly luminous, punctured by two pools of kohl-stained, bottomless black. The paint on her lips was the color of their clan, the color of blood, seeming to drip down and stain her golden j?nihitoe with a scarlet pattern of lotus blooms. Twelve layers to paradise.
He finally smiled, bowed his assent.
“Agreed.”
He leaned down to kiss her mouth, and she turned her head so that his lips brushed her pale, perfect cheek. She bowed at the knees and turned away, leaving him with the sweet scent of her perfume. He watched her sashay out of the door, a river of black hair, bloody silk, soft curves. He smiled to himself.
Yoritomo loved his sister. Like no other man ever would.