“The thought of vengeance ever hangs in my mind, fills me with a thirst no cup can slake. The loss of this court’s most favored son hangs heavy on my shoulders, even in this time of…” he swallowed, ash-dry “… joy. And bound by oaths, we gather tonight, our mourning black shed but weeks ago. Though were my Lord Yoritomo-no-miya here—”
The ground rumbled, a low, furious vibration beneath his feet, setting the tableware clinking, the lanterns in the rafters swaying. Hiro frowned, voice faltering, thinking another accursed earthquake had struck at this, of all hours. One of the guests gasped, eyes to the hall’s high beach-glass windows. Following her gaze, Hiro looked up into a night sky smeared with the color of flame. Uneasy murmurs rippled among the attendees, serving girls glancing to each other with fearful eyes, stares turning to him at the table’s head. Second Bloom Kensai stood, swift despite his bulk, his skin hissing. Brass fingers danced across the mechabacus on his chest, like a prodigy upon a shamisen’s strings.
“Great Lord. Kigen city is under attack by Kagé rebels.”
Gasps and murmurs among the guests. A thrill of adrenaline in his gut. Iron hand snaking to the hilt of his chainkatana.
“Yukiko?”
“There is no sign of the Impure one, great Lord. Reports indicate multiple groups, striking with explosives through Docktown and Downside.”
“Honorless dogs,” Daimyo Haruka spat. “They dare break peace on a night such as this?”
The Dragon clanlord stood swiftly, his retinue of Iron Samurai gathered about him. The Phoenix Daimyo stood with more languor, moving with that eerie synchronicity, narrowed eyes above ornate breather fans. Their retinue gathered and clung to them like painted leeches.
“Steel yourselves,” Hiro said, his voice rising above the growing clamor. “This attack is a blessing. That these fools have dared enter Kigen on a night when my brother Daimyo are gathered with their hosts can be viewed as no less than providence. Lord Izanagi has surely blessed these celebrations and our vengeance. The fish have brought themselves to our nets.” He drew his chainkatana, arced the motor, vibration traveling up the iron in his arm and into his flesh. “We need only gather them in.”
Haruka drew his chaindaishō, serrated teeth whirring and snarling. The Dragon Samurai about him did the same, the screech and growl of motors filling the air.
“We will defend First Daughter’s city with our lives,” Haruka said. “This I vow.”
The Phoenix clanlords turned to Hiro.
“We will return to the Floating Palace,” Shou said. “Coordinate the assault from the sky, set our corvettes to the task of routing these rebels from their dens.”
“We place our personal retinue at your service, of course, Daimyo,” said Shin.
Hiro glanced at the ceremonial swords in the Phoenix lords’ obi, the painted lips and powdered cheeks, the soft hands with manicured nails, utterly bereft of sword-grip calluses.
“An excellent notion. My thanks, honorable Daimyo.”
He turned to his Shikabane captain. “Muster the Dead. Every man is to be ready to march in five minutes. Kensai.” He turned to the Second Bloom. “Gather your Purifiers, any Lotusmen you can spare. We will purge these lice with purifying flame.”
“It shall be done.” Kensai bowed. “Shōgun.”
All in the hall took note of the title. The three other clanlords shared knowing glances.
Hiro licked his lips, tasted ashes. “You are charged to kill any Kagé you find on sight. If Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin dares show her face, I will offer substantial reward to any man who brings me her thunder tiger’s head. But the girl herself is mine. Any man who kills that Impure whore robs me of my vengeance, and he shall know vengeance in kind. Is that understood?”
“Hai!” A cry from the legion of Samurai around the room, underscored by the revving of chainblade motors, the clank and hiss of ō-yoroi.
“Draw your swords then, brothers. Draw your swords and march with me. Tonight, we restore our honor, and strike a blow that will live in the histories for ten thousand years. Tonight, we end this rebellion once and for all.”
“Banzai!” they cried. “Banzai!”
Hiro nodded.
“We move.”
46
ONE HUNDRED DEGREES
A blossom of orange flame unfurled in the nighttime hush, a tiny sun daubing the chapterhouse walls in colors of the distant dawn. Long shadows stretched out from the sudden flare, dancing across splintered cobbles as the fire took hold. The night above was already choked and black—no winking stars, no weeping moon. Great billowing curtains of smoke rushed up to kiss the dark; a sweating, autumn evening overhung with the threat of storms.
The flames rose from burning barrels, stacked high on a wooden wagon outside the chapterhouse gates. Desiccated wood crackled amongst tongues of bright heat, sparks spiraling upward like long-gone fireflies. A siren screamed inside the chapterhouse; a brittle, metallic wail rising over the fire’s roar. A knot of blacklung beggars across the street curled down in their filthy rags and winced at the volume.
The great metal doors split apart with a squeal of dry hinges, just wide enough to allow four Guildsmen to march out into the firelight. Heat flickered across their atmos-suits; burnished brass dipped in flickering ochre. Insectoid helms, biomechanical lines of cold metal and snaking pipes, large tanks mounted on their backs. Three Shatei and a Kyodai captain, all wearing the white tabards of the Purifier Sect.
The Kyodai’s eyes glowed blood-red as it scanned the street. The Shatei stepped forward, holding their hands toward the fire as if to warm them. Gouts of frothing white foam burst from their outstretched palms, engulfing the awning, wagon and broken barrels. Light and heat suffocated in the flood, leaving only charred wooden skeletons spattered in hissing foam, trailing clouds of reluctant smoke in the ember light.
The Shatei examined the wreckage under the frightened stares of the beggar-folk across the way. A few of the bolder wretches crept forward, watching the Purifiers stomp the last sparks beneath their boots. The Kyodai spoke, its voice a wasp-hive hymn.
“Accelerant?”
A Shatei knelt amidst the charcoal, looked up at its big brother. “Chi.”
The Kyodai clicked several beads across the mechabacus on its chest. It stared around the street, luminous, bloody eyes coming to rest on the beggars creeping closer. They were swathed head to foot in dirty rags, black fingernails, scabbed knuckles. The closest one was a giant, only a few feet away and shuffling forward, limping slightly.
“Stay back, citizen.” Fire flared at the Purifier’s wrist. “This is Guild—”
The man hurled a clay bottle, filled with thick, sloshing red. It smashed on the Purifier’s chest, coating its atmos-suit, and with a dull whump, burst into flame as it touched the fire burning at its wrist. The other beggars hurled more bottles, clay smashing on the stone at the Guildsmens’ feet, across their suits, painting them with gleaming scarlet. A thunderous rush of heat, roaring around the four Guildsmen and withering the spaces between. The stench of burning chi rose amidst the sound of rasping curses, the Guildsmen staggering away and turning on each other with their foam, dousing the flames with gouts of hissing white.
A motor-rickshaw tore down the street, wheels screeching. It collided with two Purifiers, crushed one against the chapterhouse wall in a bright burst of sparks. The chi tank at the Guildsman’s back split and exploded, the ’shaw’s driver rolling out of the cabin just as the vehicle’s snout burst into flame.