“You speak of the last daughter of Kazumitsu’s line,” Ichizo hissed. “The blood of the first Shōgun flows in her veins, and the next heir to this empire will grow in her womb.” He slipped the fan into his sleeve. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
The warden pawed the cut on his cheek, lowered his eyes.
“Forgiveness, Magistrate. But the Chief Treasurer demanded—”
“Chief Treasurer Nagahara resigned from office two hours ago. The stresses of public life have extracted a grievous toll upon his health. He has retired to his country estates with the blessings of our Lord, Daimyo Hiro.”
The warden sighed inwardly.
So. Another power shift.
At last count, three nobles had claimed leadership of the Tora zaibatsu; two senior ministers and the young Iron Samurai who had lost his arm (and very nearly his life) defending Yoritomo-no-miya from his assassin. Now it seemed the time for diplomacy was ending. Hiro’s faction had assassinated four high-ranking ministers in the last two weeks—courtly machinations turning inevitably toward the politics of the duelist’s katana and the assassin’s blade. Swordmen like the warden were caught in between—bound by oaths to the Daimyo, but unsure who the hells the Daimyo even was.
“This barbarism will end.” The magistrate’s gaze roamed the cell. “Lady Aisha’s handmaidens will be escorted to the palace and placed under house arrest. I will speak to each girl personally regarding their treatment whilst in your care.”
“This one was injured when she came in,” the warden mumbled. “I had the apothecary tend her wounds to ensure she wouldn’t fall to infection.”
“And the rat bites?”
“I—”
“I know the nature of her injuries, Warden. I have read the report. Multiple knife wounds. Beaten bloody, cheek cracked, comatose for days. Lucky to escape the Stormdancer with her life. Yet you believe she was in collusion with the Kitsune girl?”
“There were many secrets in the wh…” the warden cleared his throat, “… in the Lady Aisha’s chambers. Some of these maidens must have been privy to them.”
“This girl is barely seventeen years old.”
“All due respect, Magistrate, but Yoritomo-no-miya’s assassin was sixteen.”
“And you thought to beat the insurgency’s secrets out of a girl that same assassin had already beaten near to death?”
“I was commanded to investigate all—”
“Your loyalty is admirable, Warden. But your confusion about where to place it is of grave concern. You should invest thought in your future.” The magistrate’s eyes glittered above his breather. “My noble cousin, Daimyo Hiro, would be disappointed to learn you had also been … retired for the sake of your health.”
“I understand, Lord Magistrate,” he nodded. “My thanks for your wisdom.”
“Unchain her at once.”
The warden unlocked the girl’s manacles, blanching as he noted the raw bruises on her wrists. Ichizo shouldered him aside, throwing his robe around her to preserve her modesty. The magistrate tut-tutted as he assisted her from the cell.
“It is over, my dear.” His voice was soft as feather down. “It is all over now.”
The girl continued crying, hugging herself as the magistrate escorted her down the stone corridor. The warden heard the sound of heavy boots: more bushimen marching into the prison, barking orders at his men to release the other maidens. He could feel it all around him—the entire country teetering on a knife edge. The promise of bloody conflict looming among the clans. Kagé insurgents infecting the city like a cancer. Samurai thrashing about like spoiled children, concerned with nothing but carving paths toward the throne.
The warden sighed again, wished for a return to simpler days. Days when a soldier knew where his allegiances lay. Days before the Stormdancer had taken his world away.
Then he clomped out of the cell and went in search of that drink.
“Your suite, I believe.”
They stood in a wide palace hallway, flanked by four bushimen, the stink of their motor-rickshaw journey still clinging to her skin. The girl had stared out the window as they drove from the jail, forehead pressed to glass as Kigen city brushed past in all its misery. Market stalls standing empty and abandoned, broken glass crunching under their wheels. People in rich garments scurrying to and fro, hunched shoulders, nervous glances behind custom goggles. Past the empty, bloodstained arena, through the tall iron gates of the palace grounds. Stunted gardens behind high walls; gray stone with a broken-bottle crust. Autumn had finally broken the awful summer heat, and yet everywhere she looked, she could see the color of flame. Smell the tinder, waiting for the spark.
Waiting to burn.
Magistrate Ichizo slid the door to her suite open, and she stared into the small, familiar room. Unmade bed, drawers upended, clothes strewn over the floor. She could see the congealed bloodstain on the wicker matting, reached up to touch the scab at her cheek, the memory of the knife strikes on her forearms, the blow to her face, fresh and real in her mind.
“You will forgive the state of things.” Ichizo’s tone was apologetic. “Another minister must have ordered your possessions searched. The past month has been … turbulent. I am sure it will not take long to put all back in order.”
“My thanks, my Lord.”
“You … do not remember me, do you?”
A shake of her head. “Forgive me, my Lord.”
“We met last spring festival.” A gentle smile in his voice. “The Seii Taishōgun’s banquet. We spoke about poetry. The strengths of Hamada over Noritoshi. I recall that evening fondly…”
She looked up at him then, still clutching his robe about her shoulders, and her face crumpled like candle wax in a burning fireplace. She threw her arms around him and sobbed, pressing herself into his chest to muffle her wails. The magistrate was taken aback, unsure whether to embrace her or push her away. He nodded to the bushimen flanking him, and they retreated to spare her further loss of face.
“Come now, my dear.” He patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “You shame yourself.”
“It was so awful.” Hot tears soaked into scarlet silk. “The l-last thing I remember was the Kitsune girl h-hitting me. Then I woke in that cell and they were screaming at me, calling me a tr-traitor. My gods, there was no servant more loyal to Yoritomo-no-miya than I…”
“Hush now.” He tried to hug and push her away simultaneously, failing on both counts. “They will not hurt you again. You may not leave these rooms unattended, but you will suffer no more ill-treatment. Upon my honor, I vow it.”
“Thank you, Lord Ichizo. Bless you.”
She stood on tiptoes and kissed him, soft as summer showers down his cheek, until at last she reached his lips. And there she pressed herself, just a little longer, pushing her body against his. He broke away with a nervous smile, extricating himself and straightening his kimono.
“Very good, very good.” A small cough. “Duty well served.”
She was ushered inside, tear-soaked, pawing her eyes with her sleeve. Ichizo bowed and backed out of the room, shutting and locking the door behind him, his cheeks a subtle shade of rose. She stood amidst the flotsam and jetsam and continued sobbing, just loud enough to be heard through the walls. As their footsteps faded across the polished boards, she counted one hundred heartbeats, weeping still. And finally, she dropped her hands away from her face and the tears stopped as if someone had choked them.
She stared into the warm void on the back of her eyelids, listening to the emptiness inside her head. Still and mute in the free air. Finally, she moved, stalking toward the washroom, toward clean water and sweet-smelling soap, intent on scrubbing the prison from her skin.