In the distance she heard a low roar, a rumbling that shook the earth. Looking through her tiny window, she saw flames lighting the sky, daubed upon the clouds in clumsy, orange strokes. She heard faint cries. Iron bells. Running feet. Looking around the room at the bodies, slowly cooling, these men who had thought her a mouse. A fool. A whore.
She smiled.
And picking up the box Ichizo had brought her, now lighter than it had been before, she stepped into the corridor and locked the door behind her.
44
THE HAMMER FALLS
There comes a point where the bite of cracked ribs amidst every breath, the searing kiss of salt in fresh wounds, or the throb of bamboo shards beneath your fingernails makes you want to sing. Where any absence of new pain feels for one delirious moment like the greatest gift you’ve ever received, and it seems you should blubber thanks through swollen lips at the men who’ve stopped hurting you, if only for that wonderful, shining moment. Where the thought of one more blow, one more second of fresh agony becomes so terrifying you’ll say anything, do anything to avoid it.
But the boy wasn’t there yet.
“Whoresons.” Bloody drool spilled over his lips, gathering below his chin to drip onto the floor. “Whoresons, the both of you.”
Seimi stepped into the dim light, licking the yellowed rubble lodged in his gums. The yakuza’s face was calm, spotted with stray flecks of blood.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” His tone was that of a man asking for the daily specials, or directions to the sky-docks. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“Your father told me.” A ragged, bubbling gasp. “When he was done swallowing.”
Seimi grinned, sipped a cup of red saké with rock-steady hands. Hida stood by the doorway, arms folded, scratching at one cauliflower ear. A lukewarm bottle of liquor sat on a table beside a collection of tools; a hammer, pliers, tin snips, blades of varying lengths. A stained rag. A handful of bamboo slivers. Five bloody toenails.
The boy was naked save for his trousers, wrists bound with thick rope, suspended from a hook in the ceiling just long enough for his toes to touch concrete. His ankles were chained to the floor, a lonely globe casting a circle of pale light on bloodstained ground.
Seimi hefted the hammer. Its claw head was dull, rusted iron, the wooden handle grubby and unfinished. He patted his palm with the business end and sat crossed-legged in front of the boy, smiling up into swollen eyes.
“Where’s your friend? The one with the iron-thrower?”
“Your mother’s house.”
“What’s his name?”
“She’s never asked. She doesn’t talk with her mouth full.”
Seimi looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hida, shook his head. He grasped the boy’s ankle with his left hand, lifted the hammer with his right. The boy curled his toes up instinctively, breath coming quicker. Teeth gritted. Muscles taut. Sweat rolling through the bloodstains and glazing his lips a watery red.
Seimi slammed the hammer down on his smallest toe.
The sharp crack of metal on flesh, the wet scrunch of splintering bone. Seimi felt the impact through the floor, heard the boy scream through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, listened to the wail trail off into silence as the boy’s breath ran out, the sharp intake of oxygen into empty lungs, the whimper bubbling over split lips.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” He lifted the hammer again, stared up into glistening tears. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“You cowards. Miserable, gutless—”
The hammer fell again. The scream became a roar, the openmouthed howl of a wounded animal. The boy thrashed against the ropes, sawing skin raw, head flailing, muscles stretched, tendons standing out sharp in his throat. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m g-gonna kill you.” Teeth clenched. Spittle flying. “Fuck you!”
Seimi’s voice was heavy as a brick in a wriggling burlap bag, cold as the river water it was tossed into.
“No, little boy. Those nights are done. It’s us fucking you now.”
He brought the hammer down.
Again.
And again.
When Seimi stood and picked up the pliers, he saw Hida turn and leave the room without a sound. He had to stop halfway through his routine to get more saké. There were threats and pleas, showers of bloody spit, brief periods of unconsciousness ended with handfuls of salt. The smell of burning hair. The sound of snipping. And clipping. And screams. Big and bright and beautiful.
But finally, the boy arrived.
That blessed place, where the absence of new pain is the greatest of all gifts. And the man who stays his hand, even for a heartbeat, becomes the god at the heart of your world.
And at last, in that wonderful, shining moment, he sang.
45
TEN THOUSAND YEARS
Lord Hiro stood at the head of the table, staring down the length of polished oak to his legion of guests. The feasting hall was decked in scarlet silk, paper blooms, bright lanterns hanging from the rafters, talismans of joy and fortune on the walls. A small army of serving girls moved among the celebrants, soft pink kimonos, arms decked with platters of steaming saké and real fruit juices, filling every glass. The Phoenix retinue knelt at Hiro’s right, a swathe of sunburnt yellow and flameburst orange, Daimyo Shin and Shou sitting so close they touched. The Dragons were arrayed at his left, decked in bright azure and silvered iron, Daimyo Haruka looking dour and out of sorts.
“Your fiancée will not be joining us for the feast, Hiro-san?” the old Dragon asked.
Hiro glanced at the empty cushion beside him. He tried to smile, felt the ashes caked on his face crack and flake away. His voice was toneless. Formless.
“We beg your pardon, honorable Haruka-san. My beloved Aisha-chan is unnerved by the thought of the ceremony tomorrow, and bids me ask your indulgence. A bride can be forgiven her anxieties on the eve of her wedding, surely.”
Haruka looked to his own wife, nodded slowly. “As you say. I recall the eve of my own betrothal. It is no small thing, to be bound to another for the rest of one’s life.”
Lord Shou glanced at Hiro, the death-clad legion of Iron Samurai looming behind him.
“No matter how short that life may prove…” he muttered.
Hiro raised his cup, tapped one finger on the lip to call for silence. He looked to Second Bloom Kensai and his Lotusman retinue, seated at the far end of the table with empty plates and empty glasses, swathed in chi exhaust. The nobles of his own court assembled in all their finery, golden breather masks fashioned like tiger maws, pale, powdered faces and silk of bloody red. All of it so gaudy. So hollow and meaningless. He noted two empty cushions, consternation creasing his brow as he realized who was missing.
Where is Ichizo?
“Esteemed guests,” he began, speaking as if by rote. Metal in his mouth. “Brothers of the Lotus Guild. Noble Daimyo and trusted friends. I am humbled and honored to receive you on this, the eve of my wedding, and bid you welcome to the Tiger’s palace.”
where once she lay in my arms
she who laid me low
she