Applause. Nauseating, deafening applause.
“Great Lord,” said Yukiko, staring at Yoritomo’s split-toed boots. “With your permission, I will ride with the arashitora to the palace. He may become unnerved by the noise of the city.”
“Your family seems to enjoy the view from behind bars.” Yoritomo laughed, still waving to the crowd. “But do as you wish. Just keep it calm until we get to the arena.”
“Arena, my Lord?” She swallowed.
Surely he cannot intend to have Buruu fight for sport?
“You will see, Kitsune Yukiko.” Yoritomo dropped his hand and strode toward his waiting rickshaw. “You will see.”
Buruu prowled the arena floor, tail lashing. The chain tether rasped across stone and straw, clanking as he paced. The rock beneath his feet was dark with the blood of a thousand gaijin: victims in the spectacles that kept Kigen pacified on festival weekends and feast days. Countless pale throats dragged across the waves, opened up to the tune of the roaring crowd.
The arena pit was sunk ten feet into the ground, a hundred feet in diameter. The stone floor had been pierced at its center with a single bar of black iron, driven deep into the rock. Empty stone benches rose in concentric circles all around the pit, wind howling mournfully in the vast, hollow space. Above them sat the empty imperial box, tiger flags whipping in the breeze. Though there were no bars above his head, thick chain and crippled wings kept Buruu firmly tethered to the hateful earth. He looked up at the red sun and squinted, shook himself like a soggy tomcat. The iron collar at his throat clanked with the motion.
AT LEAST I CAN STILL SEE THE SKY.
I’m sorry, Buruu.
I WILL ENDURE.
The Guild Artificer affixed the other end of Buruu’s tether to the iron spike
in the middle of the arena, its arc torch flaring sun-bright, blobs of molten solder spattering thick on the floor. A rectangular eye of black glass reflected the white-hot flare. As Yukiko watched, the Artificer turned off its welding iron and stabbed a switch on its chest. The black pane over its eyes slid aside to reveal a slab of malevolent red. She stared at the brass mask, wondering who was really inside that suit, whether they were truly as evil as the Kagé would have her believe.
She thought of Kin lying burned in the rain, murmuring the Guild mantra over and over to himself. The desire to ask whether the boy had been punished was tempered with the knowledge that a hadanashi girl showing any kind of concern for him might only make his punishment worse. And so she kept her questions to herself, picturing her friend standing in the rain on the bow of the Thunder Child, and prayed for Kitsune to watch over him.
Yoritomo stared at the Guildsman, nodded when the task was done. He was surrounded by half a dozen Iron Samurai in the golden jin-haori tabards of the Kazumitsu Elite. Each warrior stood nearly eight feet tall, clad in great, hissing suits of ō-yoroi armor, gleaming black, chi exhaust spitting from the power units at their backs. Their masks were iron, crafted to resemble the faces of oni, twisted and grinning. Chainsaw katana and wakizashi were worn at their waists, heavy iron gauntlets never straying far from the hilts. Beside the Shōgun stood Herald Tanaka and the bent figure of Chief Minister Hideo. The old man clutched a walking stick in one hand, a lotus pipe in the other, occasionally lifting his breather to suck down a lungful of smoke. The scent reminded Yukiko of her father.
I hope he is all right.
Buruu pawed at his collar, glanced at his ruined wings and said nothing. “So.” Yoritomo addressed the Guildsman. “You will begin constructing the
saddle immediately. I have drawn the one I saw in my vision. It must be exactly as I have illustrated here.” Yoritomo snapped his fingers, and Minister Hideo dutifully handed a carven mahogany scroll case to the Artificer. The Guildsman accepted it, nodded its head.
“I expect it to be ready in time for the bicentennial celebrations next month.” Yoritomo’s eyes were fixed on Buruu, glazed with hunger. “The Kazumitsu Dynasty has ruled these islands for the past two hundred years. I intend to usher in the next two hundred on the back of this arashitora. Am I understood?”
“As you command, great Lord.” The clicking of cicada wings. “The lotus must bloom.”
“The lotus must bloom,” the Guildsman repeated, touching its forehead
with two fingers. With a hiss of chi smoke and the whirr of a dozen clockwork engines, the figure clanked off across the stone floor under the watchful eye of the Iron Samurai. Two other Guildsmen waited as patiently as spiders beneath one of the outer arches. Yukiko watched the trio exchange brief words, casting glowing stares in her direction before departing. Dread clutched at her stomach. Heavy footsteps rebounded across sweating stone, their shadows sliding down the wall and out into the lotus-choked light.