She could see his eyes in the dark; the beautiful sea-green that had haunted the dreams of a girl lost in the Iishi. It all seemed so terribly long ago—the oni and the Kagé, the endless swaying ocean of rain-washed gloom. The girl who had crashed in those woods and dreamed of those eyes was a stranger now.
Yukiko sighed again and turned from the window, toxic, muted moonlight at her back. She shrugged the robe from her shoulders, slipped naked into the bed beside him and wrapped herself in his arms again. Closing her eyes, she pretended the next few days would be enough. Pretended she wasn’t lying to him with every breath she mustered.
“Loyal to a fault.” Aisha said.
She lay in the dark, eyes wide open, listening to his heartbeating.
I can’t tell him.
Hideo watched the grubby dawn light filter through the beach glass, shadows of the windowpane creeping across the floor to his master’s bed. The pipe in his hands was long-stemmed, bowl carved like a tiger’s head, smoke drifting from its open mouth. His morning fix was almost done; after two more puffs he would be dry, and soon the scratching, sour-tongued need would begin building again. The monkey on his back, chattering and digging its fingers into his spine. The demon who knew all his secrets.
What an old fool you are. Master of the Imperial Court. Eyes in every tavern, ears on every street corner. Not a man nor mouse who could hide from you in all of this land, and you cannot find a way to rid yourself of this wretched weed.
Poring over another document, he dipped his calligraphy brush into the cuttlefish ink. He made three short, precise strokes, giving permission for the Dockers Union to stop work and attend the bicentennial gala at weeksend. It could just as easily have been a purchase order for a hundred new slaves to toil and die on the Shōgun’s lands. An arrest order for a dissenter who would disappear one night and never speak again. A death warrant.
Inhale. Close your eyes. Feel the dragon slide down your throat, spreading heavy coils throughout your veins. Hold your breath. Listen. Hear the emptiness inside your head. Embrace it. Be nothing. Know nothing. That you are nothing. That the need to breathe inside your lungs, building, burning, like all things, is only an illusion. Exhale. Open your eyes and watch the smoke dance in the muted light.
He blinked at the calligraphy brush and fancied it a blade in his hands. A weapon that had killed more men than a bushiman or Iron Samurai could ever dream.
I am consort to Lady Izanami, Mother of Death. This ink is the blood of my victims.
Yoritomo yawned and sat up in bed, blinking around the bedchamber as if confused. He ran his hand across his irezumi, palm rasping on his skin, eyes finally falling on his minister kneeling in the sitting room outside.
“I commanded that the lady wait in her own chambers, great Lord, equal of heaven.” Hideo’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “She can return when we are done if that is your wish.”
Yoritomo sipped at the water by his bedside, grimacing at the chemical tang.
“No.” He shook his head. “Send her back to her father with some iron for her dowry. I have no more need of her. Ryu women leave an aftertaste if savored for too long.”
“As you say, great Lord. The lady will be returned to her family once the marks of your . . . affection fade.”
“Is there anything important this morning?” Yoritomo waved at the stack of documents on Hideo’s table. Smoke curled up from the tiger’s mouth, drifting across the pages. The minister put the pipe to his lips.
“Lord Hiro asks again to beg your forgiveness personally, Seii Taishōgun. He seems genuinely contrite, and seeks to make amends to his sovereign Lord and master.”
“Hiro,” Yoritomo growled. “I should have had him commit seppuku for his failure.”
“My sister and her husband have asked that I convey their eternal gratitude for sparing their only son your wrath, great Lord. Hiro is most dear to them.”
“He is too young to wear the ō-yoroi and the golden jin-haori. He is too young to stand among the Kazumitsu Elite. You spoil him, Hideo.”
“My sons are dead, great Lord.” An old man’s sad smile, his eyes red with lotus smoke. “Fallen before their time in the glorious war, green saplings cut down beneath the Empire’s flag. You will forgive an uncle his indulgences to his only nephew, and make time to hear Hiro’s lament?”
Yoritomo sighed, nodded, “Very well.”
“Your generosity is boundless, Seii Taishōgun. My heartfelt thanks.”
“What else?” Yoritomo waved at the table.
“Preparations for the gala are well underway. The marching order that the courtiers will use during the parade has at last been finalized.” Hideo waved his pipe as he spoke. “Tora first, naturally. The Ryu retinue will march in front of the Fushicho, followed by the Kitsune. The ruffled feathers of the Phoenix emissaries have been smoothed over after some initial difficulties.”
“What did you promise them?”