Hard enough to rock the girl’s head back on her shoulders, bring tears to already red and swollen eyes. But not so hard as to split her lip, to leave a mark that wouldn’t set to fading after an hour or so. Spittle sprayed her face as the warden bellowed.
“Answer me, you little bitch!”
The girl hung her head, weeping, face hidden by a curtain of tangled hair. Her sobbing echoed off the damp stone of the prison cell, lank straw strewn underfoot. Manacled wrists, long knife wounds scabbed down her forearms. A cracked and swollen cheek healing slowly. Bare and bruised legs dotted with fresh lesions. A perceptive man might have noted the wounds were shaped like rat bites.
The warden’s patience had frayed to a few lonely threads over the past week. Each maidservant in his custody was technically nobility; in theory they had families to press the Tora Daimyo for their return—presuming a new clanlord was ever chosen, of course. Even after they’d been arrested, no official accusation was leveled by the disintegrating judiciary. And thus the warden was placed in the unenviable position of having to “make inquiries” of his prisoners without the burning iron or water torture usually employed during interrogations in Kigen jail.
It was enough to drive a fellow to drink.
The warden seized the girl’s throat, forced her head back so she could see his eyes. He saw naked fear, pupils dilated, discolored cheek wet with tears.
“You served Lady Aisha.” The girl gurgled as he tightened his grip. “Your mistress spent hours with the Kitsune girl, plotting her brother’s assassination. You were privy to all of it!”
“She always … sent us … out.” A croak through a cinched windpipe. “Always—”
“You are a Kagé spy! I want names, I want—”
“Warden!”
The shout rang out in the cell’s confines, taut with command. The warden turned and saw two bushimen in black-banded armor outside the cell, flanking a third man in a tailored kimono of rich scarlet.
The man’s hair was drawn back in an elaborate braid, pierced with golden pins. He was a good-looking fellow with a studious air; a handsome face with perpetually narrowed eyes, as if he spent too much time reading by lamplight. A chainkatana and wakizashi were crossed at his waist—the chainsaw daishō marking a nobleborn member of the military caste. He clutched a beautifully crafted iron fan in one hand. Smooth shaven, sharp jaw covered by an expensive clockwork breather. He was in his early twenties at most, but his rank was that of a man two decades older.
“Magistrate Ichizo.” The warden released the girl and bowed. “Your visit was unannounced.”
“Obviously.” The man’s eyes flickered to the girl crumpled on the stone. “This is how you treat your wards? Ladies of court? You disgrace yourself and dishonor our Lord, Warden.”
“Forgiveness, honorable Magistrate.” The warden bowed. “But I was commanded to uncover any Kagé operatives—”
“And you believe torturing handmaidens will bring you closer to them?”
“Each one of these girls served the traitor whore, Lady Aish—”
The blow was so swift, the warden almost couldn’t track it. Ichizo’s iron fan caught him full in the face, hard enough to open a small cut across his cheek. The crack of metal upon flesh faded, a stone-heavy silence in its wake, broken only by the girl’s quiet sobs.
“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
“Answer me, you little bitch!”
The girl hung her head, weeping, face hidden by a curtain of tangled hair. Her sobbing echoed off the damp stone of the prison cell, lank straw strewn underfoot. Manacled wrists, long knife wounds scabbed down her forearms. A cracked and swollen cheek healing slowly. Bare and bruised legs dotted with fresh lesions. A perceptive man might have noted the wounds were shaped like rat bites.
The warden’s patience had frayed to a few lonely threads over the past week. Each maidservant in his custody was technically nobility; in theory they had families to press the Tora Daimyo for their return—presuming a new clanlord was ever chosen, of course. Even after they’d been arrested, no official accusation was leveled by the disintegrating judiciary. And thus the warden was placed in the unenviable position of having to “make inquiries” of his prisoners without the burning iron or water torture usually employed during interrogations in Kigen jail.
It was enough to drive a fellow to drink.
The warden seized the girl’s throat, forced her head back so she could see his eyes. He saw naked fear, pupils dilated, discolored cheek wet with tears.
“You served Lady Aisha.” The girl gurgled as he tightened his grip. “Your mistress spent hours with the Kitsune girl, plotting her brother’s assassination. You were privy to all of it!”
“She always … sent us … out.” A croak through a cinched windpipe. “Always—”
“You are a Kagé spy! I want names, I want—”
“Warden!”
The shout rang out in the cell’s confines, taut with command. The warden turned and saw two bushimen in black-banded armor outside the cell, flanking a third man in a tailored kimono of rich scarlet.
The man’s hair was drawn back in an elaborate braid, pierced with golden pins. He was a good-looking fellow with a studious air; a handsome face with perpetually narrowed eyes, as if he spent too much time reading by lamplight. A chainkatana and wakizashi were crossed at his waist—the chainsaw daishō marking a nobleborn member of the military caste. He clutched a beautifully crafted iron fan in one hand. Smooth shaven, sharp jaw covered by an expensive clockwork breather. He was in his early twenties at most, but his rank was that of a man two decades older.
“Magistrate Ichizo.” The warden released the girl and bowed. “Your visit was unannounced.”
“Obviously.” The man’s eyes flickered to the girl crumpled on the stone. “This is how you treat your wards? Ladies of court? You disgrace yourself and dishonor our Lord, Warden.”
“Forgiveness, honorable Magistrate.” The warden bowed. “But I was commanded to uncover any Kagé operatives—”
“And you believe torturing handmaidens will bring you closer to them?”
“Each one of these girls served the traitor whore, Lady Aish—”
The blow was so swift, the warden almost couldn’t track it. Ichizo’s iron fan caught him full in the face, hard enough to open a small cut across his cheek. The crack of metal upon flesh faded, a stone-heavy silence in its wake, broken only by the girl’s quiet sobs.
“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
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