RIDICULOUS.
She could feel Buruu’s snort of contempt rumbling in her own chest, pressed her lips together lest it spill out of her mouth. The Shōgun helped his sister from the rickshaw as the herald pronounced her name. Yukiko risked a glance up at the woman, the impeccable facade hidden behind mirrored lenses and the blades of her golden respirator fan. A full dozen serving girls spilled out of the rear carriage and flocked to their Lady’s side, swathed in slippery red silk. There was the barest flicker of recognition in Aisha’s face as she stared at Yukiko, glanced down to the puppy in her arms. And then it was gone.
Yoritomo approached Yukiko, one hand resting on his sheathed katana, stopping within arm’s reach. He took off his respirator and handed it to Tanaka, slinging his long plait over his shoulder with a toss of his head.
“Rise, Kitsune Yukiko.”
His voice had an edge to it. A fervor she’d never taken note of before.
Yukiko stood, kept her eyes to the floor under the pretense of respect. Her fingertips tingled, the tantō in her obi felt heavy as a brick. She could hear her mother singing by the fireside in their little house, her voice filling the night, weariness of the day giving way to gentle dreams.
“Great Lord,” she said.
She felt his hands on her chin, and it was all she could do to hold back the scream; to not lash out with the knife and open his throat wide, bathe in his blood. He forced her gaze up from the ground, tilting her head back until they looked into each other’s eyes. There was a faint tittering among the geisha, whispers drifting in the throng.
“You have served your Shōgun well, daughter of foxes.”
“Thank you, great Lord.”
“You bring honor to your father. I am glad I did not kill him.”
“My great Lord is truly merciful.”
“Indeed. I am.” Yoritomo released his grip and glanced up and down her body, a lingering stare that made her stomach turn. “Now, where is my arashitora?”
Yukiko stepped backward out of his reach and gave a shrill whistle, fingers to her lips. The sound of claws on wood was heard overhead, a sudden rush of air, and a great silhouette blotted out the sun. The children shrieked and pointed, men and women gasped in wonder as Buruu stretched his crippled wings and dropped from the Glory’s deck. He could manage only a brief, wobbling glide, spiraling down far too quickly and sending the Guild marines and gathered bushimen running for cover. Landing clumsily, he skidded across the cobbles and gravel, talons tearing deep furrows in his wake.
He opened his beak and roared. A deafening sound, broken lightning flickering across his outstretched wings. The stupefied crowd crouched low in terror. Even Yoritomo was taken aback, stepping away and clutching the braided hilts of his daishō. The Iron Samurai drew their own blades, the chattering chainkatana growl lost in the reverberation of the thunder tiger’s wings. The bushimen advanced as the arashitora prowled toward their Shōgun, weapons at the ready, uncertain glances. Yoritomo held his ground but his face was bloodless with fear, knuckles white on his sword hilts. And as the assembled crowd gasped in wonder, Buruu dipped his head and scratched at the ground before the Shōgun’s feet.
The beast was bowing to their Lord.
Applause. Jubilant, euphoric, a giddy wave spilling over the throng and turning Yukiko’s stomach. An awful sound; all slapping sallow skin and bare, stamping feet, row upon row of grubby kerchiefs hiding a streetful of empty, crooked smiles. But the mob was overjoyed, filling the air with whistles and shouts, ecstatic that this beast from the pages of legend had immediately abased itself on seeing their Shōgun. Truly, this was a man who deserved their obeisance. Truly this was a Lord worthy of the title. His father’s son.
Yoritomo smiled and nodded, holding his hand up to the people. At a signal from Tanaka, a tarpaulin was pulled away from the back of the rearmost motor-rickshaw, revealing a large cage with bars of thick pig iron. Yoritomo strode to it and pulled aside the door, looking at the arashitora expectantly.
“Forgive this crude transportation.” He gave a small, mocking bow. “But since he cannot fly himself . . .”
Yukiko put her hand on the beast’s flank, running her fingers through his fur. She could feel his fear, saw the images painted across his mind’s eye; the moment he had awoken in that cage on the deck of the Thunder Child and found his wings mutilated.
Buruu, you don’t have to . . .
NO.
The arashitora shook his head defiantly, pushing the fear away.
I SAID I WILL PLAY MY PART.
“Up,” she said, voice harsh with command. “Get in there.”
The beast padded toward the cage, aiming a glittering amber stare directly at Yoritomo. And then as the crowd dropped into a breathless hush, he folded his wings and leaped inside.