Kinslayer (40 page)

Kaori stepped close to Kin, her face inches from his. “If it weren’t for your damnable machines, none of this would have happened!”

“Your people are the reason this happened! The shuriken-throwers were
sabotaged,
Kaori!”

“You are wasting time.” Ayane’s voice cut through the clamor, soft as silk, sharp as the limbs on her back. “With respect, this man has precious little left. If we do nothing, he is as good as dead. I do not see how allowing me to try can make matters worse.”

Kin ran his hand over his scalp, met Kaori’s stare with defiance.

“What say you, Kaori? Will you trust Ayane, or watch your father die?”

Kaori’s eyes drifted to her father. His struggles had grown feeble, shallow breath sucked ragged through bloody teeth. Fear carved long furrows across her brow, into the corners of her mouth. Clenched fists, clenched jaw, trembling breath. She looked at Ayane, moments ticking by like minutes, like hours, like
days
until at last Daichi started coughing,
coughing,
his whole body shaking and shuddering, lips painted with blood. Kaori knelt by her father’s side, clutching his hand. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Can you really save him, girl?”

The chromed arms uncurled from Ayane’s back one pair at a time, like peacock feathers, gleaming in the lantern light. She touched the blood spattered on her face, smearing it between her fingers as if savoring the sensation.

“I can save him.”

Kaori sighed.

Nodded once.

“… Then do it.”

28

MOVING PICTURES

There is power in words.

There are words that bid us laugh and make us weep. Words to begin with and words to end by. Words that seize the hearts in our chests and squeeze them tight, that set the skin on our bones to tingling. Words so beautiful they shape us, forever change us, live inside us for as long as we have breath to speak them. There are forgotten words. Killing words. Great and frightening and terrible words. There are True words.

And then there are pictures.

It was a slow process at first. Sitting opposite one another on the metal cot, Yukiko pushing images into Ilyitch’s mind, waiting for him to form his clumsy replies. His eyes were wide, mouth slack. And though he had no idea how it was all happening, the boy seemed enthralled enough by the process that he didn’t waste time seeking explanations.

Ilyitch’s images were blurry impressions; finger paintings in the rain, running and bleeding at the edges. By comparison, Yukiko’s thoughts were intricate, full of light and color. But they found an equilibrium between them, and she soon found enough meaning in the gaijin’s mental shorthand to understand his intentions. She tried to inject emotion into her thoughts, to make him feel like she was a friend, but had no idea if she was succeeding.

Her nose started bleeding almost as soon as they began, and it took a long time to explain that the blood was nothing to be concerned about, that there were more important things at stake. Her skull was close to splitting, the wall she’d once again built herself trembling with the strain, barely keeping the Kenning’s fire at bay. But something held it in place, stopped it collapsing utterly; something fierce and bright and desperate inside her. Born perhaps of fear for Buruu, lost out there in the dark, or perhaps rage at her own helplessness to save him.

She started by showing Ilyitch an image of Shima’s armies in retreat, packing up and flying home after Yoritomo’s death. She tried to show him the war was over. That she was not an enemy, or at least, not his.

In turn, the young man showed her burned crops and gutted buildings. Gaijin soldiers cut down under white flags, prison camps, wailing children dragged into sky-ships and flown away, never to be seen again.

She showed him Yoritomo, murdered in the Market Square. An empty throne.

Ilyitch replied with the image of a tall woman in a stone chair, grim and terrible. She had blond hair, the same mismatched eyes as Katya—one black, the other glittering rose quartz. She wore a suit of iron, black feathers adorned her shoulders, a huge bird’s skull with a cruel, hooked beak on her head. Twelve stars lay at her feet, and she gathered them in her lap, one by one.

He showed her legions of stern-faced gaijin, skins of great wolves and bears upon their shoulders, naked swords in their hands. A fleet of ships, iron fortresses floating on a storm sea, powered by the lightning they hauled from the sky.

And then Ilyitch showed her an hourglass, its sand almost run out.

So Yukiko turned away from the war and focused on Buruu. She formed pictures of the great hunt on the
Thunder Child,
their time trapped alone in the Iishi, their captivity in Kigen and the battle with Yoritomo’s samurai in the arena. Ilyitch watched her with something like awe during this passage, jaw slack, running his fingers over the fur at his shoulders.

The boy projected a stylized picture of Yukiko, katana held aloft, sunlight in her hair, thousands of samurai kneeling at her feet. The picture was tinged with uncertainty.

His eyebrows raised in question.

She smiled and shook her head. Showed the Kagé village in the mountains; a peaceful place, herself and Buruu laying in dappled sunlight. A quiet life.

He frowned at her then, as if he didn’t quite understand.

Yukiko projected an image of Buruu, bleeding and twisted on the rocks. A compass needle pointing north, and the pylon she’d seen near Buruu in her dream.

Ilyitch shook his head, pushed her a childish version of the map she’d seen on the wall downstairs. Dozens of pylons, studded all over the islands around the lightning farm. Not all of them were connected directly; most of the cables threaded amongst multiple towers back to the central hub, like strands of a crooked spider’s web. If the picture she’d shown him was correct, Buruu was trapped at the very end of the lines.

Miles away.

Yukiko used one of his own images; the hourglass running out of sand. A picture of food. An arashitora skeleton on black rocks.

She reached out, leather thong tight around her wrist, fingers stretching toward his own in vain. He frowned, put his hand in hers. She squeezed tight.

“Please,” she said, tears welling. “Please.”

Ilyitch sighed, glanced at the doorway behind him. Avoiding her eyes, the boy stood, pointed at Red and spoke a stern command. Red lay flat and wagged his tail.

“W-wait.” Yukiko sat up straighter, frowning. “Where are you going?”

The gaijin spoke a handful of words, held up both hands as if urging her to be still. Then he turned and clomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Where is he going, Red?

don’t know i stay here am gooddog

Yukiko listened to Ilyitch’s footprints receding down the hall. She had no idea if she’d convinced him, no clue as to whether he was headed to get supplies to help her, or to turn her in to Danyk. But for the first time since she’d arrived here, she found herself alone with Red.

So either way, she wasn’t going to wait to find out.

*   *   *

The dog had gnawed through one of the tethers binding her wrists and was halfway through the second when she heard stealthy footfalls in the corridor. She looked at Red, paused with his teeth upon the leather, one ear pointing to the sky as his tail started wagging.

Is that Ilyitch?

The dog blinked.

Your Boy? Is that your Boy coming?

… no

Yukiko strained against the weakened strap, finally tearing it loose, tugging at the bindings on her ankles as the footsteps arrived in the hallway outside. She was up and coiled in the shadows as the handle turned and the door opened wide.

A figure limped into the gloom, and she struck, wrapping the bedsheet over its head and kicking the back of its knee. The figure dropped to the ground with the whine of pistons and a muffled cry of pain. She grabbed the contraption on his belt and tore it from its holster. The figure pulled the tangled sheet away from his face and turned to face her, and she recognized Piotr, pale as the sheet she’d wrapped him in, hands reaching for the ceiling.

“Stop!” His one good eye locked upon the device in her hand. “Don’t!”

Yukiko realized the man was drunk; the reek of liquor on his breath and skin so strong he might have bathed in it. She pointed the contraption at his head, finger poised over what she hoped was the trigger.

“What are you doing here?” she growled.

“Please.” He motioned to the hallway. “Please. I am wanting for you.”

“Why? What do you want with me?”

“Using you.” He licked his lips, gaze roaming from head to toe. “The body. Using for the body.”

“My body?”

He reached up, put his hands on her shoulders, ran them down over her breasts. Yukiko took a step back, lip curling in disgust.

“Please.” Piotr looked her up and down, put his finger to his lips. “Wanting you. Come for me. We must come.”

“You sick bastard,” she growled.

“Sick?” The man frowned. “No get sick, is—”

Her knee collided with his crotch midsentence, her elbow with his jaw. His head twisted across his shoulders, spittle and blood spraying between split lips, eyes rolling up in their sockets as he hit the concrete with a wet thud. Red hopped off the bed and snuffled at the man’s face, licking his nose with a hopeful wag of his tail.

killed!?

No, I didn’t.

She massaged the pain in her knuckles, stared at the gaijin with utter contempt.

Although I should. Godsdamned pervert. He’s old enough to be my father.

A quick search of the man’s clothing revealed his carved fish pipe, a satchel of the strange leaf that gaijin all seemed to smoke, and a ring of iron keys. She was eyeing off the strange weapon in her hand when Red heard Ilyitch’s footprints in the corridor. She stood and pointed the device at the doorway, not knowing how her benefactor might react upon seeing his unconscious comrade.

Ilyitch stopped at the threshold, frowning. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw Yukiko and the contraption coiled in her hands. He raised one eyebrow, letting the three satchels he was carrying fall to the ground. Catching sight of Piotr collapsed beside her, he shuffled forward with hands raised, crouching and searching for the man’s pulse. A stream of nonsensical words followed, hissed through clenched teeth, accompanied by furious hand gestures.

Yukiko pushed the picture of Piotr’s attempted assault into his mind, the image of his hands pawing her chest. The boy fell silent, looked at his fallen comrade with an uneasy expression. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder but she shied away, and Ilyitch let his arm drop. Turning to the satchels he’d brought with him, he knelt and rummaged inside the largest. He tossed Yukiko a dirty red coverall, heavy boots, and a yellow rubber rainskin. Not needing to be told, Yukiko slipped into the coverall and rainskin (too big), sat on the bed and buckled up the boots (also too big). She pulled the hood over her head, tugged the hem-ties as tight as she could.

Ilyitch had two coils of thick rope looped over his shoulders. He peeled one off and hung it around her neck, hefted one of the satchels, handed her another. The bag was heavy, stinking of raw fish. She guessed it was Buruu’s dinner, and she was momentarily overcome with gratitude for this strange boy with tarnished silver eyes.

She stepped up and kissed his cheek, careful of the swollen, purple bruise. His skin was salty smooth against her lips.

“Thank you, Ilyitch,” she said.

The gaijin shot her a pretty smile, scratching at the base of his skull and blushing. She stooped to pat Red, let him lick her nose.

You stay here, all right?

can’t come with you?

Not unless you can fly.

flew here

You did?

from houses on the water

Houses?

so many so loud!

“Yukiko.”

Hearing Ilyitch say her name pulled her from the dog’s mind. The boy nodded toward the door, motioned for her to follow.

Good-bye, Red. I’m sorry about before. For making you be bad.

She gave him an affectionate scratch behind his ears.

You’re a gooddog. Always.

you goodgirl too

A faint, grim smile.

Not that good.

Hood pulled low over her eyes, she followed the gaijin from her cell.

*   *   *

“You can’t be serious!”

Shrieking gales snatched the words from her mouth, dragging them off to drown in the sideways rain. Cautious feet had brought them up an auxiliary stairwell near the catchment room and from there onto the roof. The storm was so heavy it seemed night had fallen, and the glow of grubby tungsten was all that stood between them and almost pitch blackness.

Black clouds rolled overhead, thunderous, flashes of lightning catching the world in freeze-frame. All around them, copper spires stretched into the sky, twin cables as thick as her wrist leading off into the dark. She could hear the ocean below, waves crashing against the structure and shivering it in its moorings. The cables hummed in the wind; a lonely, metallic dirge over the percussion of Raijin’s drums.