Yukiko had never seen so many people in Docktown before. As the Glory pulled into its berth, she looked over the ship’s railing at a sea of upturned faces, thousands upon thousands, respirators and kerchiefs and bare, filthy flesh, goggles bright, fingers pointing. Humble sararīmen and slick neo-chōnin, filthy karōshimen and filthier beggars, guards, gaijin and geisha. Rumor had obviously spread; half the city had turned out to clap eyes on the legend. The word was a whisper, riding a tide on a multitude of lips, lapping in waves of growing volume until it became a tsunami, an impossible thought given voice and crashing among the dust and cobbles.
“Arashitora.” Buruu poked his head over the railing to glower at the crowd and they burst into thunderous cheers. Startled, the thunder tiger ducked back out of sight, tail between his legs. He shook himself like a wet dog, as if to shake the trepidation away.
SO MANY. INSECTS, ALL.
I am with you. I am here.
I WOULD LEAVE THIS PLACE.
I know. But we have work to do.
WHEN IT IS DONE, WE WILL FLY FAR FROM HERE. FAR FROM THIS
SCAB AND ITS POISONED SKY. WE WILL DANCE IN THE STORMS, YOU AND I. Until then, we must be careful. He must think me a simple girl, you a dumb beast.
Buruu glanced over the side again, ignoring the crowd’s rapture, glaring at the arriving convoy of low-slung motor-rickshaws. They glittered in the sun like beetle shells, crawling with men and their growling swords, surrounded by a choir of wailing monkey-children. Reeking of wealth, of stinking excess, of blind, mad hubris. He had yet to lay eyes on this Yoritomo-no-miya, and he already despised him.
I WILL PLAY MY PART. FEAR NOT.
Yukiko smiled, ran her hands along his flanks.
I fear nothing when you are near, Buruu.
The arashitora purred, nuzzled her with one broad, feathered cheek. He prowled about her, brushing gently with his wings, wrapping his tail about her legs. Yukiko watched him with a smile on her face, dragging her fingers through his fur. There was a subtle cough, and the Guildsman standing a respectful distance away spoke with a sandpaper tongue.
“We will descend and pay our respects to the Shōgun now.”
Yukiko nodded and fell into step beside the Lotusman, Buruu staying on the Glory’s prow. She stepped across to the sky-spire and began climbing down, painful memories of the day she had first arrived in Kigen welling in her mind. She could see herself sitting on her father’s back as he descended, the entire city at her feet. The applause of the crowd was a dirge in her ears now, the hum of her mother’s funeral hymn.
She wondered where they had buried her.
Yukiko reached the ground, flanked on all sides by Guild mercenaries and Lotusmen, the air abuzz with the noise of their suits, the rasp of their breath. The greasy reek of lotus crawled over her tongue and the back of her throat, making her feel ill. The pristine air of the storm-wracked Iishi seemed a distant memory now, so far back in time, so far away she could only barely see the edges, a blurry haze on a distant horizon. She tried to remember the taste of clean rain, and failed.
The crowd looked at her with unabashed curiosity. This dirty, bedraggled girl who had tamed a thunder tiger and brought it from the heart of the wilds to lay at their Lord’s feet.
“Arashi-no-ko,” she heard them whisper.
She could feel Buruu frown in her mind, puzzled by the word’s shape.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
She smiled, embarrassed, turning her eyes to the floor.
Storm Girl.
His pride warmed her insides.
I LIKE THAT.
The first rickshaw opened and Herald Tanaka stepped out, golden breastplate reflecting dirty scarlet sunlight. Yukiko pressed her forehead to the dirt as Tanaka crowed the full list of Yoritomo’s titles, the speakers at his throat amplifying his voice into a rasping shout. “Guardian of the Holy Empire,” “Resplendent Sword of the Four Thrones,” “Son of the Nagaraja Slayer.” It was all a blur, an insectoid humming in her ears, empty slogans and hollow words until the final phrase, a sharp kick to her gut that sent a murmur of appreciation through the crowd.
“Next Stormdancer of Shima.”
Yukiko kept her head low, swallowed the rage boiling up inside her. She imagined tearing the scroll from Tanaka’s hands, shoving it down his throat and screaming the truth to all these docile sheep.
Rapist.
Murderer.
Butcher of unborn children.
CALM. BE CALM. SOON WE WILL RIGHT THESE WRONGS.
She smiled to herself, reached out and touched Buruu’s mind. She kept her forehead to the floor, watching the scene through his eyes.
Soon.
Tanaka rolled up his scroll and the central rickshaw cracked open. Yoritomo-no-miya stepped out with a flourish, and the assembled mob dropped immediately to the dust. The Shōgun wore a brand-new respirator, solid gold, crafted so that his face resembled an eagle’s, twin filtration cylinders sitting either side of a curved beak, eyes hidden behind amber glass. His embossed breastplate was fashioned with a small golden wing on each shoulder, the corners of a red silk cloak spilling out from each metal pinion and billowing in the contaminated breeze.