A cadre of infantrymen followed behind the Iron Samurai, naginata spears clutched in their gauntlets. The weapons were nine feet tall, curved blades as long as katana mounted at the end of thick hafts, a glittering thicket of folded steel. Each man was clad in the banded iron breastplate, scarlet tabard and flanged helmet of a soldier in the Shima Army. Fierce, grim faces were hidden behind polarized lenses and blood-red kerchiefs. Known as “bushimen,” each of these common-born warriors was sworn to the same code as the samurai nobility: the Way of Bushido.
Loyalty. Sacrifice. Death before dishonor. These were the principles that beat within the living chests of the Shōgun’s war-machine. Bushido was the glue that held the military together, a code of conduct that the very first samurai of the nation had lived and died by. More than a simple philosophy; Bushido was a way of life that defined every facet of a soldier’s existence, a dedication to martial prowess, honor and servitude. Encased in a lumbering shell of deadly clockwork or a simple breastplate of black iron, to die gloriously in service to their Lord and Shōgun was the greatest honor any of these men could hope for.
Three motor-rickshaws trundled along in the soldiers’ wake. Geisha girls with bone-white faces and black goggles sat atop the vehicles, wrapped in long flowing kimonos of scarlet silk. Waving and laughing behind their breathers, they threw tiny bags of lotus buds into the vast crowds lining the streets. A small legion of children marched around the bushimen, filling the air with bright voices; a hymn to the glory and majesty of his resplendent highness, Ninth Shōgun of the Four Thrones of Shima, firstborn son of Kaneda the Nagaraja Slayer, Yoritomo the Mighty.
“The Mighty?” Akihito frowned. “I thought he was ‘the Fearless.’ ” “That’s no ministerial pro cession.” The toxic glare refracted on Yukiko’s goggles. “It’s too big.”
“You’re right,” Kasumi nodded. “Yoritomo must be coming to see us off personally.”
“Izanagi’s balls, I haven’t had a bath in three days.” Akihito gave his armpit an experimental sniff.
Yukiko kicked her father, who started up from his sleep and tumbled backward off the crates. He rolled up into a crouch, hand on his nunchaku, glaring about like a startled cat.
“The Shōgun is coming,” she hissed.
“Aiya,” Masaru groaned. “My head feels like an oni took a shit in it . . .”
The quartet set about making themselves presentable. Masaru scratched at the dried blood on his face while Yukiko tried to run her fingers through her hair. Countless knots and tangles snagged her hands and entwined among her knuckles. Kasumi noticed the girl’s struggles and slipped one of the combs from her ponytail, held it out in her palm with a smile. Yukiko eyed the jade tiger as if it might bite her. Her voice was cool as the sea breeze.
“No thank you.”
Kasumi’s smile faded. She slipped the comb back into her hair without a word.
The pro cession snaked down Palace Way, past the looming walls of the arena and the clamor of the Market Square, into the wide central street of Docktown. The soldiers fanned out to press back the common folk, gathered en masse to catch a glimpse of their Lord and a handful of his generosity. The children’s song drifted on the poison wind, growing louder as the group approached the sky-spires. Captain Yamagata arrived via the spire’s elevator, hair slicked back, face freshly scrubbed. The cocksure cloudwalker looked distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of meeting the supreme overlord of the Empire.
The hunters lined up in a row and dropped to their knees, eyes averted as the pro cession made its way up Spire Row, finally grinding to a halt before the Thunder Child’s berth. The children were clad in snow-white furisode robes, their long sleeves dragging across filthy cobbles. They gathered in a knot before the centremost of the three elegant motor-rickshaws and continued singing, a full five minutes passing before their choir mistress rang a small brass gong to command silence.
The motor-rickshaws were low-slung, made of iridescent metal that reminded Yukiko of the dragonflies she’d seen as a child. Their lines were sharp and semi-organic, each retching a great plume of lotus smoke behind it as the engine idled. One of the children stifled a cough, receiving a stinging rebuke from the back of his choir mistress’s hand.
The door of the foremost rickshaw unfurled, and a paunchy man in a flowing kimono of cream and scarlet stepped out from the velvet interior. He wore an elaborate breather over his face, an embossed iron breastplate and a pair of beautifully crafted neo-daishō at his belt: the chainkatana and wakizashi that marked him as one of the landed military class.
Yukiko stole a quick glance and recognized the man as Tora Tanaka, herald of the Shōgun. Downside rumor had it that the Tiger lord had tested his new swords on the necks of no fewer than thirteen Burakumin peasants before he declared them to be of acceptable quality.