The Shōgun took the older man by the arm; a shocking display of familiarity that sent whispers rippling through the throng. Yoritomo ushered Masaru aside and spoke in a low voice, intended for the hunt master’s ears only.
“Hachiman, almighty God of War has sent me a vision of this beast, Masarusan. I ride it at the head of a great army, subjugating the gaijin barbarians across the seas to my will. I will be as the great Stormdancers of old: Kazuhiko the Red, Kitsune no Akira, and Tora Takehiko.” His grip was painful, eyes bright with mania. “Bring me this prize, and you shall be the richest man in all of Shima.”
Masaru cleared his throat. “And . . . if no such beast exists, great Lord?”
The Shōgun stopped short, eyes narrowing to slits. His mouth opened, but whether it was to reply or rebuke remained a mystery. At that precise moment, the terrier in Aisha’s arms growled and sank puppy-sharp teeth into his Lady’s finger. She cried out and dropped him. He scrabbled up in the dust and ran straight to Yukiko, yapping and wagging his tail. Aisha sucked her bitten finger as opened-mouthed horror washed through the crowd. Most people averted their eyes to spare their mistress further loss of face, and themselves the Shōgun’s inevitable wrath.
Yoritomo’s face grew dark, eyes narrowed with rage. He snapped his fingers at a nearby Iron Samurai and pointed at the pup bouncing around Yukiko’s head.
“Destroy that mongrel.”
“Hai!”
The warrior’s bark rang out through the iron covering his face. He stalked toward the pup, his armor making a din like fighting vipers. Yukiko climbed to her feet, cradling the dog in her arms. The samurai stepped close, lotus smoke rising from his power unit, glaring from beneath his helm. His oni faceplate was horrifying to look at; sharp metal tusks protruding from a freakshow grin, twin horns sprouting from his forehead. Towering over the girl, he held out a hand encased in embossed black iron, silently demanding the frightened terrier.
“Yoritomo!” Lady Aisha cried. “Please!”
Yukiko glanced from the Lady Aisha to the chubby pup, who licked her nose with a bright pink tongue. She blinked and looked into his eyes as the wind played in her hair and the earth fell away from her feet. The sun glinted on his pupils, red pinholes in a curtain of night, and she fell into brightness as dazzling as a newborn rainbow.
“Yukiko!” barked her father.
She started from her reverie.
“But . . .”
“Daughter, give him the dog!”
“But he didn’t mean to hurt her!” Yukiko felt a stab of dread as the words tumbled from her mouth. “The Lady’s perfume burns his eyes! He just wanted to get away from it!”
With an impatient hiss, the samurai tore his chainkatana from its sheath and thumbed the ignition. The internal motor roared to life, the serrated chainsaw teeth skirting the weapon’s edge blurring in time with each squeeze of the throttle. The samurai reached out toward the dog, iron fingers curled into claws.
“Hold.” Yoritomo’s command was flint on steel.
The samurai froze. Silence descended over the street, blue-black and full of menace, broken only by the idling of the chainkatana’s motor. The Shōgun walked slowly toward Yukiko, head tilted to one side. The girl lowered her eyes, uncertain where to look, gaze flitting from the ground to the growling blade in the samurai’s hand. The assembled crowd held its breath, most thinking they would have the pleasure of witnessing an unscheduled execution.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Kitsune Yukiko.” Masaru blurted her name before she could speak. “My daughter, great Lord. Forgive her, I beg you.”
The Shōgun’s stare was cool, one finger on his lips.
“Ah, Fox’s daughter. I remember.” He held out his arms expectantly. “Give me the dog, Kitsune Yukiko.”
Yukiko obeyed, handing over the puppy before dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead into the dust.
“Forgive your humble servant, great Lord.”
Yoritomo held the puppy up by its scruff. A spotted pink and brown belly swelled above a rapidly wagging tail. The Shōgun glared, scowling as the puppy licked his nose. One of the choirboys clapped his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the giggle spilling out between his fingers. His mistress raised her hand for a slap, but abruptly fell still. She turned, eyes wide, and looked at her sovereign Lord in amazement.
Yoritomo-no-miya, Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty, was laughing.
Ripples of amusement spilled through the crowd, and soon many were covering their mouths and laughing aloud. A bright chorus of children’s laughter wafted on the noxious wind, the tinkling of a hundred silver bells. Mirth bounced off the pitted warehouse walls, refracting in the eyes of stoic Lotusmen as the Iron Samurai looked to each other in confusion. Yoritomo tucked the puppy under his arm and ruffled its ears, turning his stare back to Yukiko.