She was sixteen years old. He was supposed to be looking after her.
The truth was she missed her father. She missed the strong proud man who had put her and her brother on his shoulders as he stalked through the bamboo forest. She missed sitting by the fire on her mother’s knee, listening to him tell stories of the great hunts, his quick, dark eyes alight with life and flame. She missed the days before they had moved to Kigen city; those brief, wonderful years when they had all been together and happy.
It was all gone now. Forest, brother, mother, life. All of it disappearing in a puff of blue-black smoke.
You never even let me say goodbye to her.
She heard his boots scrape on the deck, soft footsteps retreating into the distance.
She was alone.
8 Kin
Yukiko awoke in the deep of night, staring at the hammock above her. Her father snored, swaying with the tilt and roll of the ship as it trekked northward. The room stank of lotus smoke, a half-empty pipe still clutched in Masaru’s hand. She sighed, sitting upright and swinging her legs to the deck, her toes searching unsuccessfully for her sandals.
She stood and rubbed her eyes, steadying herself against the wall. The room was cramped but private, a round portal of cloudy beach glass staring out into the dark beyond. She had dreamed of the Iron Samurai with the sea-green eyes; a silly, girlish fancy of flowers and longing stares and happy-ever- afters that left her stomach fluttering with a hundred butterfly wings. She shook her head, pushed the thought from her mind. Nobility didn’t mix with the common-born, even if she was a blooded clansman. Yōkai kin didn’t mix with folk who would gladly see them burn on Guild pyres, either. The muck she stood in was deep enough already without starting to entertain childish fantasies.
The little room felt stifling, closing about her with wooden, smoke-stained fists. She opened the door and slipped out onto the deck.
The engines droned their metallic song through the still night. The cloudwalkers on watch were huddled in a small knot on the starboard side, passing a pipe back and forth and muttering over a game of dice. The sound of bones rolling across wood masked her soft footsteps, and she passed by without being noticed. The balloon above her creaked; the swollen bladder of some great, prehistoric beast. The wood was smooth and warm beneath her toes.
The Thunder Child measured one hundred and twenty feet from the dragon figurehead carved at her bow to her square, towering stern. Yukiko padded across the deck, hands stuffed into her obi. She headed up toward the front of the ship, as far from the engines as she could be, hoping for a moment’s relief from the stink of burning fuel. Stepping up onto the foredeck, she felt a rush of cool wind in her face, whispering fingers running through her hair. A dozen barrels of chi were packed at the bow, and she leaned on them with both hands, looked out into the blackness with wide, dark eyes.
The moon was a smear of pink across a hazy sky. It cast a sullen light on the land below, enough to make out the lotus fields, the serpentine shadow of the iron pipeline, the gleam of a little river snaking down from the mountains on the horizon. They must be close to the lands of the Dragon clan by now, and the ship would soon have to turn northeast to avoid the no-fly zone around First House. Small pinpricks of light were dotted about the landscape, and in the distance she could see a tiny bright cluster in the foothills of the eastern mountain range: the great Ryu metropolis of Kawa.
She sighed and watched the night, trying not to think about a boy with an oni’s face and a pair of dazzling, sea-green eyes.
“What do you see?” A soft voice. Behind her.
She whirled about, hand on the tantō at the small of her back. There was a boy in front of her, perhaps a little older than she, knife-bright eyes staring from a tired, fragile face. He was plainlooking, unstained by soot or smoke; neat as freshly washed sheets or an unopened book. Clean gray linen was loosely draped over his lean body, hair cropped close to his scalp. He raised his hands and took half a step back, ready to ward off a blow.
“Hold, Lady.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Yukiko snapped.
“I am sorry that I startled you.” He bowed, hand covering fist.
Yukiko glanced back at the huddle of cloudwalkers at the other end of the deck. She heard a snatch of laughter, the sound of dice. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, cool breeze kissing her face. Annoyance had replaced her sudden fear, and she wished the boy would be on his way.
“What do you see?” The question came again, just as soft.
“Who are you?” she frowned, half turning. She thought she had already met most of the crew. He was too old to be a cabin boy. Perhaps a galley worker?
“My name is Kin.” He bowed again.
“Your clan?”
“I have none, Lady.”
“And why do you bother me, Burakumin Kin?”