The Lotus War - Kinslayer Part 21

Yos.h.i.+ won't win. Not this time.

But soon.

Brisk footfalls broke the predawn hush, echoing down the suffocated gloom of Kigen's streets. A pair of long shadows preceded their owners across shattered cobbles, through palls of sweat-stale lotus exhaust; dark slivers wearing the shapes of men. The men themselves wore black kerchiefs, broad hats, shoulders cloaked in dark gray against autumn's chill. They walked empty lanes and broken roads, listening to the Guild criers calling in the Hour of the Phoenix and paying the Daimyo's curfew less notice than Lady Sun pays to Father Moon.

Hida clomped along in front; short, ox-wide, a broad, flat face set with piggy eyes, his ears so deformed from years of fistfighting they resembled an extra set of knuckles on the sides of his head. Seimi followed close behind, taller, leaner, crumbling yellow rubble for teeth, sharp lines of his cheeks and chin betraying a feral, gutter-born cunning. Each man carried a clinking satchel and a wooden tetsubo studded with fat iron rivets. Both clubs were stained at the business end; dark smudges that only a simpleton would confuse with varnish.

A tomcat yowled his l.u.s.t somewhere in the distance; a solitary cry almost unheard of in Kigen these nights. A pack of corpse-rats perked up their ears, hearing a dinner bell instead. All glinting eyes and crooked fangs, they scampered off through the choking smog.

"Three irons say they get him," said Seimi.

Hida shrugged, said not a word.

They walked on through Docktown's warehouse district, as sure of their welcome as a groom at a wedding feast. Past rusting sh.e.l.ls, empty windows like sightless eyes. As they crossed over the sluggish tar reek of the s.h.i.+roi River, Seimi looked south toward the dry-docked sky-s.h.i.+ps, hanging around the Docktown spires like flayed rats in a butcher's shop window. The pentagonal flanks of the Guild chapterhouse loomed on their right, yellow stone stained by black rain. Seimi doffed his hat in the building's direction.

When the Kage rebels dropped their bombsh.e.l.l and kick-started the so called "Inochi Riots" four weeks back, the Communications Ministry had rebuffed all claims about the fertilizer's manufacture. But that didn't mean the rioters themselves were to go unpunished. h.e.l.ls, no. Not a drop of chi had been s.h.i.+pped from Kigen's refinery since the uprising. The embargo was a "reminder to the people" about where their loyalties should lie. And as the engines ground to a halt, as the price of fuel rocketed skyward, they sure as h.e.l.ls remembered quick.

Rationing began almost immediately; sky-s.h.i.+p traffic had slowed since Yoritomo's death, and the trains hadn't run since his corpse hit the cobbles. Commonplace items became luxuries overnight. As the city s.h.i.+vered with tiny ripples of civil unrest, curfews were tightened, martial law extended. Music to the ears of men who made their living in the shadows, who swam in markets from murky gray all the way through to ink-black. Men who made it their business to get people what they wanted. What they needed. Provided the price was right.

Men like the Scorpion Children.

Hida and Seimi turned off the thoroughfare, cutting through Kigen's network of filthy alleyways. The pair were lieutenants of the Children, hard as gravestones, moving through the sprawling labyrinth as easily as a koi fish through still water. The tomcat shrieked nearby, hissing, spitting. Rats screeched, the sound of scuffling bodies rang out in the dark. Seimi grinned through tumbledown teeth.

"Got him."

The squeezeway was a thin stretch of broken cobbles stinking of beggar p.i.s.s. It was barely wide enough for the pair to walk down, crawling with sleek, black corpse-rats as long as a wakizas.h.i.+. But the shortcut would steer them clear of the bus.h.i.+' patrols on the main drag, not to mention shave a few minutes off their trip. As it was, the Gentleman was going to chew them out for making him wait past dawn, and neither man was really in the mood for a stabbing.

The rats perked up on their mounds of filth, watched the gangsters approach with eyes like black marbles.

"Mei still giving you trouble?" Seimi asked.

His comrade grunted in reply; Hida never used a word when a shapeless noise would do. He could go days at a time without forming a whole sentence.

"If she's such a bother, why keep her at all?" Seimi aimed a kick at a fat corpse-rat running between his feet. "The little brothers should be dealing with the White Crane gang, not gutting each other over a dancer. Izanagi's b.a.l.l.s, we're ninky dantai, not-"

Seimi heard soft scratching on the corrugated metal above. He looked up and saw smoke-gray fur, missing ears; a huge tomcat peering at him with bright yellow eyes. The thing stood on the awning overhead, spattered with rat blood. Seimi tilted his hat away from his eyes.

"Well, I'll b-"

"Is that what you call yourselves?" A voice rang out in the smog ahead.

Hida ground to a halt, feet scuffing the gravel, hefting his tetsubo in sausage-thick fingers. Seimi squinted into the rolling pall of exhaust fumes, making out a lone silhouette in a broad straw hat at the alley exit ahead.

"Ninky dantai?" The smile behind the figure's kerchief was obvious. "'Chivalrous organization?' Who you fooling, yakuza?"

"Yakuza?" Seimi hefted his tetsubo, he and Hida stalking toward the stranger. "That's a dangerous accusation to be throwing about, friend."

"Close enough, friend," the figure warned.

The yakuza kept advancing, knuckles white on the hafts of their war clubs. Seimi could make out the figure a little clearer. His straw hat had a four-inch gouge down the front, as if someone had taken a swipe with a blade and barely missed. Even behind the black kerchief, it was obvious the stranger was young. Pale, dirty skin and big black eyes. Skinny. Unarmed.

Seimi laughed.

"Does your mother know where you are, boy?"

The boy reached into his obi, drew out a snub-nosed shape. The device gave out a small hiss, a stuttering click. Hida and Seimi rumbled to a stop and stared down the barrel.

"Where the h.e.l.ls did-"

"Seems I'm the one who should be singing now, friend." The smile in the boy's voice was long gone. "Seems you'd best grab a cus.h.i.+on and listen a spell."

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."

"h.e.l.ls 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." 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 impa.s.sive 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 b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.p 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 l.u.s.t. 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 pa.s.sed the way of the panda bears of s.h.i.+ma'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 sake. 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sake 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s. "The last crew standing."

"Banzai." The Gentleman nodded, taking another small sip.

As he swallowed the sake, 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 Fus.h.i.+cho 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.

Yos.h.i.+ 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 b.a.l.l.s, how much you figure is here?"

"There's enough. That's all we need to know for now, Princess."

Yos.h.i.+'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 G.o.dsd.a.m.ned snow. All thanks to a tiny iron lump in the palm of one little hand- "Yos.h.i.+?" Hana's sleep-drunk voice from outside the bedroom. "You back?"

"s.h.i.+t!" he hissed, lunging for a pillow as his sister knocked gently and opened the door. He threw himself and his thin, feather-stuffed s.h.i.+eld over their haul, a strangled "oof!" slipping through his lips as Jurou sat on top of him, the pair drawing more attention to the coins than if they'd lit them on fire.

Daken followed Hana into the room, regarding Yos.h.i.+ with a glittering stare.

... smooth, boy ...

"What the h.e.l.ls?" Hana breathed, sleep-crusted eye growing wide. "Where did you-?"

Yos.h.i.+ rolled to his feet, pulled her inside. Glancing across the living s.p.a.ce at his sister's bedroom door, he pushed his own shut, quick and quiet. Hana was fully awake now, her frown building up a slow head of steam.

"Where did all this money come from, Yos.h.i.+?"

"A friendly kami gave it to me," he whispered. "Maybe if you sing louder, it'll flit back with second helpings."

She fixed him in that paint-flaying, one-eyed glare. "I'm serious."

"So am I," he hissed, glancing at the closed door. "Volume down. Unless you want your lump of mattress-meat to overhear?"

The pair fell into a silent staring contest, which Yos.h.i.+ eventually broke from. Hana felt around her eyepatch, touched her forehead, running fingertips across pale, grubby skin. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the tiny looking gla.s.s on Yos.h.i.+'s dilapidated dresser and made a show of squinting at her reflection, still pawing at her brow.

Jurou frowned up at her. "What the h.e.l.ls you doing, girl?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." She glared at Yos.h.i.+ again. "I just figured someone had tattooed 'idiot' on my forehead while I was sleeping. You take the 'thrower out for the night and just happen to find a Daimyo's fortune in iron? What are you in, Yos.h.i.+?"

"I was all set to ask you the same yesterday before I remembered whose business I'm supposed to mind."

"Me?" Hana flipped hair from her eye. "Chamber pots are about the size of my affairs."

"Must be some scary brown in that palace, if you have to go around shooting at it." Yos.h.i.+ folded his arms. "Or did you think I wouldn't spy the 'thrower was one shot light? And who the h.e.l.ls is that lump of beef in your room? Your whole life, I've never seen you bring anyone back home for a roll, and that cripple has been here two days straight."

"Don't talk about him that way."

"You don't tell me how to talk, little sister. I'm the man in this pit."

"Keep running that mouth, you're gonna wake up a lady, brother-mine."