Tanaka unfurled a scroll, raising his voice over the scrabbling wind. He touched a button at his throat, and his voice emerged from the breather as a loud metallic rasp, amplified by the speakers nestled among the filter coils around his mouth. He proceeded to recount a full list of Yoritomo’s titles, a litany that seemed to take an eon beneath the scorching afternoon sun. The hunters kept their foreheads pressed into the dust as the herald’s voice droned over their heads, the monotonous white noise of a broken sound box.
Tanaka finished his list and glared around the assembled multitude from behind lenses of smooth polarized glass. The throng dropped to their knees as if someone had flipped a switch; only the Iron Samurai and Lotusmen remained on their feet, bowing from the waist. The door to the central rickshaw bloomed.
A young man emerged, dressed in a banded golden breastplate and red silk kimono. A magnificent pair of old-fashioned daishō swords was crossed at his obi, alongside the snub-nosed barrel of a chi-combustion iron-thrower—a recent Guild invention that hurled small metal balls with enough force to kill an armored man at a hundred feet. His hair was a black ribbon flowing in the fetid breeze, head held high and proud. The lenses of his goggles glittered like metal. An elegant mechanical breather was affixed to the lower half of his face with dark leather straps and gleaming buckles. The device was lacquered with the same golden finish as his breastplate, crafted to resemble a tiger’s maw, fangs bared and grinning in a jagged, razorblade smile.
The Shōgun of Shima surveyed the people around him, a casual grip on the crisscrossed bindings of his katana’s hilt. He then reached into the rickshaw and offered his hand.
Pale fingers dipped in gleaming red enamel took his. A beautiful painted woman dripped out of the door, wrapped head to foot in an exquisite red j?nihitoe gown embroidered with golden tigers. Her face was caked in pearl white. Deep slashes of kohl rode around the goggles covering her eyes, a vertical wet stripe of scarlet glistened on her lips, bright as fresh blood. A small black and white terrier wriggled in her arms, struggling to free itself.
“Lady Tora Aisha, beloved sister of Shōgun Tora Yoritomo-no-miya, first daughter of Shima!” the herald cried.
Yukiko stole another glance. A small army of serving girls were fussing about their Lady as Aisha drew a delicate breather from within her sleeve. The device was crafted to resemble a fan, and she unfurled it in front of her face, still struggling to keep the puppy in her embrace.
It had been years since Yukiko had seen a dog in the city; the combination of toxic lotus exhaust and the growling bellies of Kigen’s populace had put paid to the notion of house hold pets long ago. Funny how quickly man’s best friend became man’s next meal when there were no more cows or pigs left to slaughter. Funny how tasty the idea of roasted tomcat could sound after three days of eating nothing but dust and choking, blue-black smoke.
Aisha’s puppy was worth more money than the average sararīman could hope to earn in a lifetime. Yukiko couldn’t imagine what the gown and breather must have cost. Enough to clothe every child in the city, most likely. Enough to feed a hundred blacklung beggar girls for a month. Even though the wealth on display between the imperial siblings was probably meant to inspire awe in their subjects, Yukiko looked at the filthy, starving faces around her and felt only a vague disquiet. After seven years of living at the periphery of Yoritomo’s court, the opulence she found there had begun to raise unanswered questions in her mind. The kind of questions that were bad for your health. The kind that ended with an arrest warrant scribed with Chief Minister Hideo’s signature and a quiet death by starvation in the stinking bowels of Kigen jail.
Yukiko pressed her forehead back into the ground.
Shōgun Yoritomo released his sister’s hand and took three strides forward, split-toed boots crunching in the gravel at the boardwalk’s edge. His cool gaze swept over the prostrate hunters, one hand still on his katana.
“Masarusan, my Black Fox.” His voice was honey-smooth, tinged with a hint of metal from the respirator’s depths. “Rise.”
Masaru snapped to his feet, eyes still fixed on the ground, delivering a waist-deep bow. The Shōgun returned the bow with a slight nod, covering one fist with his palm. He unclasped the buckles behind his head and removed his goggles and breather with a wet, sucking sound, offering a small, tight smile as he put his hands on his hips. His face was fierce, handsome, smooth and cold as ice. There was an undeniable aura of authority about him despite his youth; a regal bearing that had reduced many of his older ministers to quivering heaps, and courtly women to wistful sighs.
“You are well, Masarusan?”
“Hai, great Lord.” Masaru’s voice was deadpan neutral.
“And you know what I command of you?”
“Hai, great Lord.”
“I have no doubt of your success. The man who stood beside my father as he slew the last nagaraja of Shima will not be troubled by a simple thunder tiger, hai?”
“You honor me, great Lord.”