The days of waiting were almost unbearable. A few of the nights were not so bad. Hiro had been taken off her guard detail, and the two new Iron Samurai stationed outside Yukiko’s door had barely spoken a word to her. They would step aside to allow servants to bring in her meals, to change the linen, fill the bath. Her attempts at conversation were met with metallic silence. Michi was her only real company when the sun was up, and the two girls whiled away their time over decks of cards or listening to the sound box, speaking in tiny, hushed voices about the wheels that had been set in motion around the city.
Michi had brought her small folded maps of the palace, outlining the entrances that the servants used to move from wing to wing, or exit into the grounds. She had showed Yukiko how she could stand on her dresser and shove aside the panels in the roof, squeeze through the space between beam and shingle and circumvent the nightingale floors entirely. Told her about the bent maple tree in the southeastern corner of the garden, and how the serving girls used it to slip over the wall and tryst with their lovers in the city proper. How the palace of the Shōgun was not the impregnable fortress he believed, and that it was compromised by people he considered beneath his notice every single day.
The bicentennial of the Kazumitsu Dynasty was fast approaching, and the court was abuzz with excitement. A grand gala had been planned, and Yoritomo was set to make one of his rare appearances before his people. Since the arena was already occupied, the sky-docks had been chosen as the venue for the celebration. Free food and drink for every citizen of Kigen, followed by a magnificent parade of the Shōgun and his court down the Palace Way into Docktown. A few hours before the Hour of the Fox fell, and the third century of Kazumitsu rule over Shima began, the gala would culminate in a twilight fireworks display the likes of which the city had never seen.
“As the sun sets over Kigen Bay,” Michi said, “it sets for the final time over Yoritomo’s dominion.”
“What about my father?” The bruise on Yukiko’s cheek was turning an ugly
yellow at the edges. “Kasumi and Akihito?”
“The sky-ship they escape on will be in dock tomorrow. Papers are already
drawn up for the return trip to Yama. The authorities will suspect nothing, nor
will they have time for scrutiny with all the traffic around the gala. The ship
flies Phoenix colors, but her captain is a friend of ours. We have friends ready
at the docks too.”
“Where do these ‘friends’ come from? Can you trust them?” Michi tilted her head at the questions.
“You are not the only one who has been wronged by the Shōgunate of
Shima, Yukiko-chan. Aisha and Daichi-sama have been gathering contacts for
years, waiting for the opportunity to strike. In a system as brutal as this, there
are always people who slip through the cracks. Countless lives ground between
the gears of the machine.” She shrugged. “This is how the rain becomes a flood.
One drop at a time.”
“There will be bushimen everywhere around the sky-docks during the celebrations. Iron Samurai too, if Yoritomo is making an appearance. Isn’t there a
safer way to smuggle them out? By train, maybe?”
“There will be so much noise and saké at the gala, three more shadows in
the mob will not be noticed. Besides, the bushimen and samurai will have
more pressing concerns, assuming you have done your part.”
“Have no fear of that.”
“Are you certain you are ready for this?”
Yukiko glared, iron in her eyes, not saying a word. Her fists were balled on
her knees, jaw clenched, her whole body as still and quiet as midnight. Michi
met her stare for a silent moment, a faint, grim smile curling the edges of her
mouth. She nodded.
“You are ready for this.”
On the third night, as she was preparing to slip into the crawlspace in the roof, Yukiko heard urgent, hushed conversation outside her bedroom door. Creeping closer, she could make out three male voices under the clank and hiss of ō-yoroi. The first two were her new guards, their tone stiff with challenge. When she recognized the third, her heart skipped a beat.
The door slid open and there he stood, wrapped in a kimono of dark red silk, embroidered with gold. Chainsaw daishō tucked into his obi, long hair drawn back into a simple tail, the light of flickering globes reflected in irises of beautiful sea-green.