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Imperial City, Luthien
Late evening, 20 January 3135
An hour trying to meditate and her thoughts still jumped like a hummingbird zipping from one blossom to the next; her feet ached from kneeling, and her toes had cramped. But she couldn’t free her mind of what her father had said: A crown is only as valuable as its jewels, new and old. And that reference to black pearls… What could it mean?
Sighing, Emi opened her eyes. Her room was very dim, lit only by two fat candles set upon her private kamidana. She used a standard arrangement: two evergreen sasaki branches in vases; the jinja, an ark containing sacred o-fuda, front and center; two miniature jars filled with sake and a tiny water jug at center, flanked on either side by two shallow ceramic vessels: salt on the right, rice on the left. There was one difference between her kamidana and everyone else’s: an elaborate, ivory-carved Kurita dragon centered on the sake jug, and it was this upon which her eyes lingered. The Combine was the Dragon, and the coordinator the Combine, a sort of holy trinity upon which her universe hinged.
Exasperated, Emi pushed up from her knees, bowed, clapped her hands twice, and then bowed more deeply before backing three steps until she felt hardwood floor beneath her stocking feet. The floor had cooled as the evening progressed, and her feet whispered over the burnished wood as she paced.
It behooves us to care for such a daughter. Obviously, that was Katana Tormark. But did her father truly mean for her to act? Despite his assurances, perhaps he was just as worried as she was that House Kurita would crumble. If the other, silent corruption of our blood doesn’t destroy us first… Emi slammed down on that particular line of thought. There was nothing she could do about that anyway—not unless she was willing to throw honor to the wind. Besides, she had caught the cu
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of knocks upon a shoji, then, no more than taps: a code. “Come,” she said. The translucent rice paper screen slid to one side, and Joji Ashida, her personal bodyguard and one of her most trusted O5P agents, entered. Ashida was thirty-five, a year older than Emi, but he carried himself with the bearing of a much older, more experienced man. His black eyes glittered with a keen intelligence, and a shoulder-length fall of hair, a shade of black like the raven’s wing, was bound to his head in a traditional topknot.
Ashida bowed. “Jokan, I have news.”
“Speak.”
“Tai-shu Sakamoto has called a meeting of oyabuns : Atsutane Kobayashi from Kitalpha, Jazeburo Enda from Shibuka, and Minukachi’s Hideki Ame.”
A prick of alarm stabbed her chest. “Why would Sakamoto… what could yakuza…?” Then Emi gasped. “Sakamoto wants war.”
“But a general needs armies, and the armies need supplies. So he turns to the oyabuns. They’re rich because Sakamoto suffers them in exchange for three itches that require periodic scratching”—Ashida sniffed—“sweets, women and wine.”
“You forgot power,” Emi murmured, but her mind was already jumping ahead. How could she use this information to her father’s—and the Combine’s—advantage? “What about Bhatia?”
“Anyone’s guess. Either he’s turning a blind eye to treason, or he doesn’t know.”
“What would he gain if he does know?”
“It depends on his timing. He may wait until Sakamoto falters, or he might let the chips fall where they may, even if House Kurita collapses, hoping that he’ll gain Sakamoto’s favor.”
Emi came to a decision. She crossed to her writing table and pulled out a drawer, from which she extracted a holovid disk. At the touch of a button, a scroll of wood retracted; a flat screen unfolded and locked into position, and a wash of blue light indicated that the system’s holo-projector was ready to record. “We aren’t going to wait around for either alternative. Go, bring Miko. I have an errand for her.”
She was done by the time Ashida returned a few moments later, a young jukurensha in tow. The girl’s eyes were heavy with sleep, her hair mussed and her simple gray kimono improperly knotted and slightly askew, the fabric falling away and revealing a tantalizing swell of breast. She bowed. “You summoned me, Jokan.”
“Yes,” said Emi, ejected the disk from her computer and standing. She hated giving the duty to a novice, but Miko Tanaka was one of her most advanced and learned girls, bright and quick. Neither Emi nor Ashida could be linked to the message in any way. Emi handed Miko the disk. “I want you to send this as a priority communiqué,” and she gave the girl the link number and destination.
The shadow of a frown marred Miko’s smooth forehead. “A priority message, Jokan?” Miko’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “To a fabrics merchant?”
Emi saw that the girl was thoroughly awake now. She managed a small chuckle that she hoped telegraphed embarrassment. “Your Keeper’s been remiss. There’s a state banquet in two months, and I must have a new kimono.”
A lie. Emi watched as the girl tucked the disk into her sleeve, bowed and hurried out. Keepers weren’t supposed to lie. But needs must that she lie, and so she did. Yet Emi wondered how many more rules she would bend. Or break.
Ramadeep Bhatia’s Mansion
Midnight, 21 January 3135
Bhatia couldn’t sleep. He’d ordered the easternmost shoji opened and stood there now. A breeze skimmed Lake Tonada, and brought the scent of water and jasmine. He wore a plain, black dressing gown, liking the feel of silk and air whispering over his skin. Perhaps a woman’s fingers or the fan of her hair would’ve been better. Maybe when he’d calmed down… but not right now.
Weeks gone and Mori still silent. Bhatia gnawed the inside of his lower lip. The agent’s last contact was six weeks ago, and Bhatia’s instructions then had been specific. Push Sakamoto into action by whatever means necessary. But Mori had gone silent; a necessary evil of intelligence work but for so long…
If he’s dead, I’m in the dark. A finger of wind raised the gooseflesh on Bhatia’s arms, and he shivered. If Mori was dead, then it might’ve been an accident—Sakamoto in one of his famously ill humors, perhaps—or Mori had been discovered, then executed. That Sakamoto hadn’t informed Kurita might mean that the warlord was waiting until the time was right—say, if things went badly during his little campaign. Then Sakamoto could accuse Bhatia of treason; lay it out for the Peacock that, here, one of Bhatia’s men had goaded him to war and poor Sakamoto, what was he to do? Bhatia could practically hear Sakamoto now: Tono, I could only assume that Bhatia acted with your approval…
Would nothing go well? Damn this outage anyway! Bhatia’s fists balled and his fingers itched with the urge to break something.
I’ve only got one other option. Two, actually: one in Katana’s camp, and the other close by, but if either ploy fails or, worse yet, I’m discovered…
He was so preoccupied he didn’t hear the person behind him until much too late. Suddenly his unconscious mind spiked an alarm, and he half turned, but an arm locked around his neck; there was a cruel pressure on his throat. Choking, Bhatia tried reaching behind to gouge out his assailant’s eyes, but his hands met empty air. It was only then that he realized—his assailant was small, light. A woman…