The men heard soft footsteps behind, saw a figure drop from the rooftop and cut off their retreat. Another boy by the look, straw hat and dark clothes, a club studded with roofing nails.
Seimi was incredulous.
“Do you know who we are?”
“Clueless, me,” the boy replied. “Now toss the satchels, Scorpion Children.”
Hida spread his stance, rocking back and forth on his heels. The boy at the alley’s mouth aimed the iron-thrower at the yakuza’s chest, pulling ever so slightly on the trigger.
“Gambler?” The boy tilted his head. “Partial to a roll myself, matter of fact.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the one behind them growled. “Walk off or be carried. Either way, we get those bags.”
“Hells with it.” The big-eyed boy leveled the weapon at Hida’s head. “I venture we just do them. Two shots is no bother. Boy my age has plenty more in the pipe, after all…”
“All right, you little bastards.” Seimi dropped his tetsubo, raised his hands. “Take it.”
He slipped the satchel off his shoulder, tossed it to the figure behind.
“What about you, Gambler?” The boy wiggled his eyebrows at Hida.
Hida stood perfectly still, face impassive as a brick wall. He stared for a slow minute, down the iron-thrower’s barrel, up at the calm black eyes hovering beyond. Sparing a scowl for his partner, he slipped his bag from his shoulder and tossed it to the thief behind.
“Very wise, friend.”
The iron-thrower boy waited until his comrade had slunk off into the fog, yakuza and thief staring each other down. The boy’s arm was solid as a statue’s, weapon still aimed at Hida’s head. The yakuza nodded; a small gesture, barely perceptible. His voice was soft as gravel.
“See you soon. Friend.”
The boy tipped his hat.
“Doubtless.”
He disappeared into the smog like a dorsal fin beneath black water.
The Gentleman had killed his first man when he was thirteen years old.
A gang fight in some Kigen back lot, a bloody scrap over a stretch of dirty brick and concrete less than half a city block. He’d dashed into the melee, eager to show his worth to the older gangers. He’d spotted the other boy amongst the crowd, smelled the fear in a heartbeat. So he waded across the mob, blade in hand, and plunged it into the other boy’s gut.
He still remembered the warmth and smell as blood gushed over his hands. Viscous, copperish, far darker than he’d expected. He could still see the look on the boy’s face as he pulled the knife free, stuck it in again a few inches higher. Punching through ribs, twisting as it went, feeling bone crack. The boy clutched his shoulder as the Gentleman looked into his eyes, pain-bright, pulling out the knife and stabbing again. And again. Not out of any need or lust. Just because he wanted to know what it felt like. To take what could never be given back.
The Oyabun of the Scorpion Children wasn’t the most frightening man on the island to look at—truth be told, he appeared entirely unremarkable. Graying hair swept back from sharp brows. Dark eyes, tanned skin. Softly spoken, unfailingly polite. Even his enemies called him “the Gentleman.” His real name had passed the way of the panda bears of Shima’s bamboo forests, the tigers that prowled her in yesterday’s dark. Gone. Very nearly forgotten.
Calloused hands around a small cup, he took a sip of red saké. The bottles came from Danro, the Phoenix capital; quality that was hard to find in Kigen these nights. He savored the sting, the warmth spreading on his tongue. He thought of the woman waiting at home, soft hands and warm thighs. His son would be long in bed by the time he stepped inside from the smog-filled streets. But she would wait up, even past dawn. She knew by now not to disappoint him.
Where are they …
His office was a modest affair; old maple desks, reams of paperwork, a windup ceiling fan clunking away in the creeping autumn chill. Sluggish lotusflies buzzed around a small bonsai tree, suffering silently in the lotus stink. A visitor could be forgiven for mistaking the room as the office of a legitimate businessman; a man who made his living selling furniture or carpets or spring motors.
The Gentleman’s accountant, Jimen, sat at the other desk. Head clean-shaven, thin and quick, dark, knowing eyes. The little man was arranging coins into stacks, pausing after the construction of each tower to shift a bead across the antique abacus on the desk beside him. His sleeveless uwagi revealed full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Two scorpions dueled in the negative space on his right shoulder, claws intertwined, stingers raised.
“Books look good.” Jimen flapped a bamboo fan in his face, despite the cool. “Profit is up seventeen percent this quarter.”
“Remind me to send a note of thanks to our would-be Daimyo,” the Gentleman murmured. “On the good stationery.”
He raised the saké bottle with an inquiring eyebrow.
“Never seen the black market this busy.” Jimen nodded, held out his cup. “The Guild will lift the embargo soon. If this Tiger pup secures the Daimyo’s chair, he might even start the trains running to let people attend his bloody wedding. So we’d best make the most of it while it lasts.” Jimen scowled. “And the White Crane are still a problem.”
“Not for long,” the Gentleman said. “Downside is ours now. Docktown is next.”
“Scorpion Children.” Jimen raised his glass. “The last crew standing.”
“Banzai.” The Gentleman nodded, taking another small sip.
As he swallowed the saké, the Gentleman heard floorboards creaking outside his office, soon followed by a soft knock on the door. Heavy breathing. The smell of cheap liquor and sweat. The clink of a tetsubo’s studs against iron rings. Hida and Seimi.
“Come,” he said.
His lieutenants entered the room, eyes downcast. He looked up, ready to rebuke them for their tardiness, stopping short when he saw the looks on their faces. The Gentleman took note of the faltering steps. The hands clasped before them.
The empty hands clasped before them.
“An interesting morning, brothers?”
A single iron kouka in Kigen city could buy you a woman for the night. Not some gutter-trash from Downside, mind. A quality courtesan—the kind of lady who could recite the poetry of Fushicho Hamada, debate matters theological or political, and round out the evening with a finale to make a cloudwalker blush. It could buy you a night in a good inn with a warm meal, a cool bath and a bed with a remarkably low quotient of lice per square foot. It could buy you a bag of decent smoke, a bottle of top-shelf rice wine (local of course, not Danroan) or the promise of discretion from an innkeeper about the nocturnal habits of his guests.
Yoshi was staring at over a hundred of them.
Scattered across the mattress in their bedroom, illuminated by a splinter of sunlight piercing the grubby window. Jurou was crouched beside them with a grin as wide as the Eastborne Sea, dry pipe hanging from the edge of his mouth.
“Izanagi’s balls, how much you figure is here?”
“There’s enough. That’s all we need to know for now, Princess.”
Yoshi’s hat was sitting on the mattress beside the kouka piles, and Jurou fingered the four-inch gouge through the brim.
“I’m wondering if it’s ‘enough’ for you to splash out on a new shappo.”
“That’s my lucky hat. I’d sell you before I sold it.”
Jurou made a face, muttered something unintelligible.
The boys hunkered down by the light of the risen sun, listening to the hymns of the waking streets outside. The sweat from their dash across town was still drying on their skin, smiles still tripping in their eyes. It had been so much easier than he expected. So much cleaner. For all their weight, those yakuza had melted like wax. Like godsdamned snow. All thanks to a tiny iron lump in the palm of one little hand—