“Whoever they are, they’re cruel and wicked,” Yukiko frowned. “Those poor people . . .”
“Aye. Wretches without the courage to face the enemy with a sword in their hands.” Yamagata spat onto the deck. “Bastard cowards.”
They stood together and watched the fields burn.
9 Smoke on a Starless Sky
The propellers hummed their monotone lullaby, but the dreams still dragged Yukiko from her sleep. The hammock above her was empty, a slack tangle of pale, knotted cord, bereft of father and the stink of lotus smoke. A moment’s panic gripped her as she realized he was gone, but she clenched her teeth and shoved it away. She peered out of the window to the starless sky, tried to guess what time it was. A long way from dawn, she figured. A longer way from home.
Slipping from the room, she stole toward the stairwell, the wood beneath her feet vibrating with the constant hum of the engines. She was becoming numbed to the chi-stink, the lightness of head and shortness of breath that altitude carried in its arms, but still, it was the promise of a few moments of fresh air that drew her out onto the deck. Not the thought that her father might have stumbled up there, drunk on smoke. Not the knowledge that it would take one clumsy step to send him over the side and down into the dark. Not at all.
She found him keeping company with the watchmen in a puddle of lantern light, sitting cross-legged on a looped pile of thick hemp rope, and her momentary relief evaporated as the familiar smell of lotus smoke crept into her nostrils. Three others sat with him, passing a wooden pipe back and forth. A young man in a dirty straw hat, another man around her father’s age, and a young boy not more than eleven or twelve.
The younger man wore no clan irezumi on his shoulder, just a collection of koi fish and geisha girls that marked him as lowborn Burakumin. The boy wasn’t yet old enough to be considered an adult and sported no ink, so Yukiko could only guess at where he came from. His skin was pale, but not pale enough to be Kitsune. Phoenix, if she had to guess.
Yukiko crept forward and stood in the dancing shadows beside them, listening to the rough jests and gutter-talk and snatches of hoarse laughter. It was a few minutes before the cloudwalker in the straw hat finally noticed she was there. He blinked with bloodshot eyes, taking a few seconds to focus on her face. Dragging deeply from the pipe, he passed it to the young cabin boy sitting next to him.
“Young miss?” His voice sounded thick and raw, smoke drifting from his lips with each word he spoke. “Can I get you something?”
The others looked up from the circle, Masaru last of all. A quick glance was all she got, but it was enough to see the shame in him.
“I want for nothing, thank you, sama.” Yukiko gave a small, polite bow, eyeing the lotus pipe with distaste. “Just seeking to clear my head with the fresh air.”
“Precious little of that to be found up here,” the young boy said, passing the pipe along to Masaru with a grimace.
The older cloudwalker clipped the back of the boy’s head, fast as a jade adder. He wore a three-day growth of beard, graying at the chin, a simple dragon tattoo on his right shoulder etched by some Docktown artiste.
“Mind your tongue in the presence of ladies, Kigoro.” He held a single, stained finger up in front of the boy’s nose. “There’s plenty of fresh air waiting over the starboard side for those who dishonor this ship.”
The cloudwalker in the straw hat chuckled, the young boy mumbling apologies and turning a bright shade of red. For a moment, the only sound was the bass rattle of the Thunder Child’s bones, the hypnotic drone of the great propellers, the iron growl of the engines in her belly. Yukiko stared at her father, who steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.
“Forgiveness, please.” The older cloudwalker covered his fist and nodded to her. “My name is Ryu Saito. This is Benjiro.” The younger cloudwalker bowed in his straw hat. “The little one with the large mouth is Fushicho Kigoro.”
The young boy rubbed the back of his head, bowed to her.
Phoenix, then. I was right.
“I am Kitsune Yukiko . . .”
“We know who you are, Lady.” Saito held up a hand in apology. “The tale precedes you in the telling. You are daughter of the Black Fox, Masaru-sama,” he thumped her father on the shoulder, “come to hunt the thunder tiger at the command of Shōgun Tora Yoritomo.”
“Next Stormdancer of Shima,” the boy added.
Saito frowned and took back the pipe. The wad of lotus resin inside the bowl glowed red-hot as he sucked on the stem.
“Is that what you think, young Kigoro?” Saito held the smoke in his lungs as he spoke. “Yoritomo-no-miya will be a Stormdancer?”
The boy blinked.
“It is what they say.”
“ ‘They?’ ” Saito exhaled and waved his hand about. “Who are ‘they?’ The air kami?”