“Great Lord, your humble servant begs forgiveness for this intrusion.”
Yoritomo did not bother to look over his shoulder, instead glaring down the barrel at the mottled rind of his next victim.
“What is it, Hideo-san?”
The old man paused, drew a crackling breath on his pipe.
“News from the Iishi, great Lord.”
Yoritomo’s arm dropped to his side and he turned toward his minister, hidden in the shade of the palace’s eaves. He squinted into the shadows, making out the looming forms of several Iron Samurai surrounding the major-domo, wreathed in chi exhaust, two more figures lurking in the gloom behind. The Shōgun beckoned. The samurai trod down the stairs onto the river-smooth stones of the garden path, pushing the figures before them. As the pair stepped out into the fading light, a hiss of surprise escaped from between Yoritomo’s teeth.
“Masaru-san.” Confusion in the Shōgun’s voice, tinged by faint suspicion. “And Captain Yamagata.”
“Your humble servant, Seii Taishōgun.”
Yamagata’s clothing was worn and travel-stained, his skin filthy, his hair a bedraggled mess shoved back into a rough tail. He still wore his custom Shigisen goggles, but appeared to have lost his breather, mouth covered instead with a torn strip of gray rag. Masaru was in a similar state, hair and clothing disheveled, his skin smeared with chi smoke and grime. The right lens of his goggles was smashed, cracks spreading out across the glass like a spider web, the kerchief around his mouth drenched in sweat. Both men knelt on the ground, pressed their foreheads into the dying grass at the edge of the path.
Yoritomo pulled off his breather with a wet, sucking sound.
“I was not informed that you had set sail back to Kigen.”
The statement was aimed at the huntsman and cloudwalker, but the Shōgun’s glare was fixed firmly on his chief minister.
“They informed no one, great Lord.” Hideo’s long, narrowed eyes roamed the backs of the two kneeling men, blue-black smoke drifting from his lips. “They arrived late this afternoon by heavy rail direct from Yama, presented themselves at the palace gates and begged for audience. I brought them here immediately.”
“By rail?” Yoritomo glanced down at Yamagata, cold and iron-hard. “Where is your ship, Captain-san?”
“Destroyed, great Lord.” Yamagata’s voice was muffled against the ground. “Lightning struck us in the Iishi. Our inflatable was set ablaze. The Thunder Child fell to her death in the accursed mountains.”
Yoritomo’s face darkened, muscles at his jaw clenched. He licked once at his lips. A servant materialized at his side as if conjured from the spirit realms, offering a mug of tepid water on cupped palms. The man faded into the background just as quickly when he caught the gleam in his Lord’s eye.
“You failed to find the beast.” A statement, not a question. “Undone by misadventure before the hunt even began. And now you wish to beg for mercy.”
“All respect, great Lord,” Masaru kept his tone steady, his fingers pressed into fists. “We did not fail. The beast was found, exactly as you commanded.”
“You saw it?” Yoritomo’s eyes widened. “It exists?”
“Hai, great Lord.” Masaru dared a glance up from the ground, pulled the grubby kerchief down around his throat. “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors. The beast exists. And moreover, great Lord, we captured it.”
A strangled snatch of laughter spilled from the Shōgun’s mouth, spittle flecked on his lips. He stared at Hideo, a bright, brittle joy shining in his eyes, the corners of his mouth drawing upward as if pulled by hooks in his cheeks. He took a step forward, cast his gaze among the courtiers, to his sister, dragging shaking fingers across his lips.
“It exists.” Another gasp of strangled laughter, longer than before. “Hachiman be praised, it exists!”
Yoritomo roared, veins standing taut on the flesh of his throat, a triumphant, wordless challenge to the sun sinking toward the horizon. He stomped about in a small circle, grabbed a nearby servant by the cloth at his throat, shaking the little man back and forth until the umbrella dropped from his hands.
“It exists, you beautiful little whoreson!”
The Shōgun shoved the servant away, the man tumbling across dead grass and smooth stones, one sandal flying from his foot. Yoritomo seized hold of Masaru’s uwagi, dragged him to his feet, pulling his face close enough that the Hunt Master could see the veins scrawled across his Lord’s eyes. The Shōgun tore the broken goggles from Masaru’s face, chest heaving, laughter caught in his teeth.
“Where?” Yoritomo’s grin stretched his lips to splitting. “Where is my arashitora, Masaru-san?”
Masaru took a deep breath, swallowed hard. A bead of perspiration trickled down pale skin. There was pain in his eyes, distant and clouded by lotus smoke.