What did it matter where they came from, or when? They were here now, brass fingers entwined in every zaibatsu court, lurking beside Yoritomo’s throne like clockwork spiders, as vital to the Shōgunate as oxygen to a drowning man.
For their part, the Guild’s Communications Ministry was always careful to downplay the citizenry’s fears. They provided entertainments to distract the masses from their troubling thoughts about mass extinctions or spreading blacklung: the soapstar plays and traditional operas transmitted across the wondrous new wireless system, the bloody arena games using the seemingly endless stream of gaijin slaves from the wars overseas. Cheap liquor and processed lotus buds to intoxicate and befuddle; a grand, churning machine of misdirection and distraction that kept the factories grinding and the forges burning.
There was far too much at stake to allow a few missing pandas to get in the way of production quotas. The Guild had a world to conquer.
The rigging creaked above Yukiko’s head. Sharp calls rang out across the crimson sky as a cloudwalker spotted a crane in the distance; a lonely silhouette against a backdrop of burning red. The sailors called to the bird, hands outstretched, asking for good fortune. To see a crane in the sky these days was a rarity. Surely Lord Izanagi had sent it as a sign of his blessing to the Black Fox’s venture?
Masaru and Yamagata emerged from below deck, deep in conversation. Yukiko watched as the pair parted ways, the captain barking at his crew to put their backs into it. Masaru turned and stalked up to the bow.
“Kasumi,” he rasped, “I want spotlights set up on either side of the pilot’s deck. Ask Yamagata’s permission before you drill any railings. Akihito, start assembling the cage. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Kasumi and Akihito exchanged a quick glance, packed up their gear and moved off without a word. Yukiko pretended not to notice the look that passed between her father and Kasumi, the way his eyes lingered on hers for just a fraction too long. She gritted her teeth, fixed her stare on the deck.
Masaru watched the pair descend into the cargo hold, then folded his arms and turned on his daughter. Yukiko glanced up at her father. He’d changed into his sleeveless hunting haori, loose-fitting hakama covering his legs. His arms were beaded with sweat, tattoos gleaming in the red light. He looked haggard, shadows under his goggles, face drawn and gray. An angry bruise had set up camp beneath his left eye and was sending out exploratory forces across his cheek.
“You look terrible,” Yukiko murmured. “You should get some sleep.”
“Do you want to tell me what the hells you thought you were doing today?” Masaru growled.
Yukiko pulled her knife free from the deck and stabbed it into the wood again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play games with me, girl. Kenning in front of the Shōgun?”
“Was I supposed to let them kill it? Because some idiot girl wants to smell pretty and—”
“It was a damned dog, Yukiko!”
“There are a lot fewer dogs left on this island than there are people.”
“It’s not worth risking your neck over! The Guildsmen are burning Impure every bloody month. What were you thinking?”
“Probably the same thing you were thinking this morning when you risked your neck over a game of cards. That yak’ almost killed you.”
“Akihito was there,” Masaru scoffed. “Nothing would have happened.”
“You were so smoke-drunk, anything could have happened.”
“Dammit, girl, this isn’t about me! Kenning in public? What would your mother say?”
“What would she say about you?” Yukiko snapped, rising to her feet. “An old drunk so blinded by the dragon you could barely stand? Gambling and fighting and smoking yourself legless every godsdamned day? No wonder she left you!”
Masaru recoiled as if she’d slapped him, mouth agape, skin turning a paler shade of gray. Yukiko turned her back and stared out over the bow, loose strands of hair whipping about her face. She hugged herself and shivered despite the heat, great seas of swaying red and green flying away beneath her feet.
“Ichigo, I . . .”
“Just leave me alone,” she sighed.
“Ichigo” was the pet name he’d given her when she was little. “Strawberry.” It seemed trite to her now; a remnant from days that were long gone, and never coming back.
She could feel him lingering behind her, silent and hurt. Remorse began bubbling up inside her, but she pushed it down into her toes, remembering all the nights she’d dragged him to bed reeking of smoke, unable even to undress himself. The months of watching every single coin while he pissed his pay away in smoke houses and drinking pits. The shame when he slurred or stumbled or got into fistfights.