By Jeremy Sumerlin Stop, she thought, Just stop coughing. He lay in the corner of their ramshackle hovel facing away from her. His body, swollen despite their poverty, spasmed with another wet cough. The tiny shack stank of cheap sake and wet earth. The girl, perhaps six, drew her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth, focusing on the sounds of the rain outside. The driving, relentless sound was better than the wheezing breaths between her father’s coughs.
“Misato…” he croaked, raising his hand. “Misato, come here…”
She shook her head , burying her head in her arms as she rocked back and forth. His breath filled the room spreading foulness. Not just sake, but illness. Death. He coughed again, the ragged sound so thick and loud. Just stop, she thought.
“Misato, I am dying,” he gasped. Her bright blue eyes met his own, and he sneered in response. Crimson drops fell from his lips. “Your wicked eyes,” his voice more raspy breath than clear words. “Your mother’s sullied bloodline.” he coughed again, straining against the pain. “When I am dead, you will be alone. You will die. You… should die. This family is cursed.” He rolled back over on the dirt floor. Misato put her head back down and resumed rocking.
He finally died near dawn. At some point, Misato stood and walked over to his lifeless form, and stared into his vacant, brown eyes. The moment lingered, then snapped as if a thread had been suddenly severed. Turning away, she stepped into the cold drizzle of the morning, drawing the blanket she had taken around her thin body. There was nothing else. Her bare feet numbed in the cold mud with each step she took. She would never come back.
“Come here, girl,” the woman said, her voice low and husky. Misato looked up from the floorboards she had been scrubbing. Standing, she approached the woman and bowed low, touching her forehead to the rough wood. She waited.
“No, no, dear child,” the woman, Akemi, said. “Look at me.” Misato did as instructed, leaning back on her haunches, and regarded the older woman. Though her youthful days were no more, Akemi embodied the poise and dignity of a well-practiced geisha. Although her facepaint did little to hide her wrinkles, she still radiated confidence, a kind of beauty that transcends the physical. Misato's face flushed as Akemi studied her intently. She stood and offered the girl her hand. Misato took it, allowing the older woman to pull her up to her feet and turn her to face the mirror, Misato in front and Akemi looking over her shoulder.
“What do you see, Misato?” she asked. Misato grimaced inwardly. At fourteen, she was lanky and awkward, perpetually undernourished and too tall. Her face seemed too plain, her ears too large. Misato knew, however, what Akemi referenced: Her piercing blue eyes. “I see an asset.” Akemi said, caressing one of Misato’s cheeks with her hand. “I know you are ashamed of these eyes, girl, but…” She turned Misato around and met her confused look with a wry smile. “Many are easily enticed by the promise of something exotic. You have that. You will learn to use it.” Akemi began toying with loose strands of hair spilling from the bun Misato always bound her hair in. “You are nearing the age when your work here will no longer have you scrubbing floors and washing clothes, my dear. We must prepare you.”
Misato’s stomach turned. She knew what services the Den of Lilies provided. She had been here four years, and she heard the sounds at night. It was a geisha house in name only, but she had nowhere else to go. She did not want to return to her begging bowl on the streets of the Second City.
As if reading her mind, Akemi shook her head, touching her hand to the girl’s cheek. “Not for that, Misato. I intend better things for you than… that. I will see to your training personally.”
Unsure of what to do, she averted her eyes from the older woman and lowered her head. “Thank you, mistress.”Akemi smiled, placing her hand on Misato’s shoulder reassuringly. “Good girl.”
****
Misato inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to push the nerves out. She shifted and fidgeted. Her unruly hair threatened to smudge the white paint that sat alien and clammy on her skin. Her long fingers idly picked at a loose strand on her obijime. As a novice, the belt was practical; strong woven fibers of a dull yellow, prone to fraying.
She had good reason to be nervous. Her two year apprenticeship was almost up. Misato was moving up from being forced to practice on leering drunken merchants. It was better, though, than the ronin and criminals who were the normal fare of the lower girls. Tales of their groping hands made her ill, and their breath reminded her too much of her father.
Tonight, she would attend her mentor as she met with her most esteemed patron, Hoji Tsuke, an honest-to-goodness noble lord from the Mantis Clan. She did not know the name, but she knew, of course, of the house of Yoritomo, the Son of Storms. It was said he pulled his mighty ships across the seas by grasping bolts of lighting from the air with his hands. No doubt any from such a clan would be awe-inspiring. Closing her eyes, she recalled her lessons. She hoped Lady Akemi had prepared this man, so he would not be offended by the sight of them. She abruptly snapped to attention when the small bell summoned her. Gathering her resolve, she hefted the tray of tea and headed down the hallway.
Sliding the door open, she faced down, as she was taught, and entered the sitting chamber. Watch your feet, Misato told herself, almost a mantra. Watch your feet. Lady Akemi’s musical laughter, so practiced and refined, filled the small space. Then, an unfamiliar one. Gravelly. He sounded older than she would have imagined. A faint scent filled the air, something cheap pretending at opulence, sickly enough to make her uneasy as she knelt to pour the tea.
“And here she is, my lord,” Akemi was saying. “My apprentice with her eyes like the sky.” Misato felt herself flush under the makeup and prayed it would not show. The man cleared his throat.
“Come on then, girl, let me see you. Do not be afraid.” Misato lifted her head and looked for a moment at Akemi, whose practiced expression betrayed no feeling beyond pleasant calm, then turned to face Hoji Tsuke.
He was old. Older than Lady Akemi by at least a decade, she guessed. His dark hair was streaked through with gray, as was his beard. He was obese, his green kimono bulging in several places as it tried to contain him. The perfumed scent that had sickened her earlier wafted from him, unable to cover the smell of sweat and cheap sake enough. He smiled pleasantly enough, but she could see it already. The hunger in his eyes as they assessed her willowy form, coming to stop at her eyes. It made her skin crawl. Was this man truly of the clan of a man who could tame lightning with his hands? This must surely be a test, she thought. One last trial, to see if she could do her duty for someone of high station, even one who was such an odious man. She smiled in return, and blanked her mind of all but her training.
As the evening wore on, she was coy and demure. She tittered at his bad jokes; feigned interest in his boring stories. She did not falter when a stray, sweaty hand touched her own, or later brushed her thigh as she walked past, though she swallowed her own screams to do so. After what felt like a sickeningly sweet eternity she was dismissed, and Lady Akemi and Lord Tsuke retired for the more intimate entertainment he sought. Returning to her small room, Misato flopped hard on her mat and exhaled in relief.
****
Misato had just finished removing her makeup and preparing for bed when the door to her room slid open, and Lady Akemi entered. Turning to face her, Misato opened her mouth to speak, but a slap silenced her. She put a hand to her stinging cheek, stunned.
“How dare you, you gutter rat,” Akemi growled. Misato opened her mouth to speak, but another slap cut her off, causing her to stumble.
“Do you think I'm a fool?” Akemi continued. “Lord Hoji is my patron! I may be older, but you are a fool to think he would trade me for a gawky stick of a child.” Akemi grasped Misato’s shoulders hard, digging her nails into the thin fabric. “We are done,” she spat, shaking Misato, “I will cast you out back on the streets, where you can spread yourself for other gutter trash like you!” A chilling calm came over her as she turned away, “The other girls are right to whisper about you,” she sneered, “There is nothing in your eyes but wickedness.”
Misato felt something within her snap, and in a confused daze her obijime was off, and around Akemi’s neck. The older lady’s hands shot up in surprise, desperately trying to get under the belt and pull it away from her skin. Leveraging her height, Misato pushed the woman to the ground on her stomach, and planted her bony knees into Akemi’s lower back, as she pulled the belt tight as hard as she could. Minutes passed, and Misato’s muscles strained with the effort, until finally Akemi ceased her struggles. Even so, Misato kept pulling for another minute or two, before relaxing. Her hands trembled. Her hair fell over her eyes and sweat-drenched forehead as she worked to control her gasping breaths.
The hardest part was getting the body out of the Den undetected. Once in the humid streets of the Second City, she made her way with a cart to the docks. Unwrapping Akemi, Misato regarded her for a moment. With her paint gone, and stripped of all her nice clothing, she would be just another body floating in the bay. They were common, and frequently forgotten. Her eyes lingered on Akemi’s lifeless brown ones. Misato expected to feel something: sadness, fear, regret, relief, or even disgust, but there was nothing. Just like her father.
****
Misato bowed low as she entered the room. Hoji Tsuke could not hide his excitement. “Where is Lady Akemi?” he asked.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” Misato said, “Since you visited last month, Lady Akemi was called away on urgent personal matters.” She looked up, locking her oddly foreign eyes with his. “I would be honored to provide you with whatever services you need in her stead, if you feel I am fit to the task.”
She already knew what his answer would be. She would not end up back on the streets. She would not allow this world to discard her. She would use the awful people the world seemed to delight in surrounding her with, and she would build something.
The man touched his forehead to the simple green scabbard, then back to the floor.
“Arise,” the hatamoto said, “and stand proudly now, as a member of the house of Hoji.” The man stood, tucking the wakizashi into his belt, and bowed to the hatamoto, then to the old man and young woman seated on the dais in front of him. The old man gestured and the man now known as Hoji Tsai backed out of the room. A moment later, the hatamoto was dismissed as well, leaving the two alone. The old man sighed. At 60, Hoji Tsuke found that his muscles complained if he sat too long. It was a perverse irony, he thought, to be so heavy set, yet so frail.
“That is the fifth man this month we have invited into our house,” he said to his young wife. “I am not certain we can afford to expand our family like this, Misato.”
The lithe twenty-year-old lowered her fan, a practiced smile on her lips. "Worry not, husband. They will prove their worth and bring prosperity to our house.”
“Their demeanor concerns me” he grunted, speaking over her. “Many of them carry a bearing that… speaks to an ill character.” He turned to her. “Where did you find such people?”
“Beloved,” Misato purred, placing a hand gently on his gnarled one, “I have told you, the finances of our small family continue to grow since you have allowed me the honor of managing them. I have encountered many useful people whose loyalty will benefit us.” Tsuke grunted, his usual reply. These days his mind felt foggy, and finances were never his strong suit. But still, something nagged at him.
****
Misato played with a loose strand of her dark hair as she languished in the hot bath. She blew it from her face and stretched as far as she could. They lacked a proper bath house, and her husband would not pay for a tub long enough for her height, despite her complaints. It was one of the few battles he chose to fight. She listened to the heavy rain pelting the ceiling and let the warmth envelop her.
She was just standing up as the doors were thrown open, and Tsuke stomped angrily into the room. Misato did not react to this intrusion, but instead simply slipped her robe around her still dripping form.
“Criminals!” Tsuke spat angrily, shaking a scroll he clutched in his hand. “They are criminals!”
“Husband, please,” Misato said, her voice quiet and calm. She pulled her hair into her normal bun, securing it with two lacquered sticks. “Calm yourself, and speak slowly, so I might follow.”
“Do not deny it!” He spat. “I am old, but I am not a fool! I felt that there was something off about them! I had Osure look into it!” He threw the scroll down on the small puddle of water that had gathered around Misato’s feet. “Some of these men you have invited into our house, they are known criminals! Now they hide behind the Hoji name! We are disgraced! What is the meaning of this?”
“Stop.” Misato said, and Tsuke faltered. All traces of kindness and warmth had fled from her face. Her eyes were ice. “Just… stop talking.”
A commotion caught Tsuke’s attention, and he turned to see a figure stumble into the room. His hatamoto, Hoji Osure, gripped the door frame with one hand, while the other desperately tried to stop the flow of blood that ran from a deep wound in his neck and down his kimono. His mouth opened and closed, gasping like a fish out of water. He took one step into the room, then another, and fell face first onto the floor. Behind Osuge, in the hall, Tsuke could see Hoji Tsai and another man he had recently taken on, Hoji Okura. Okura held the bloodstained blade.
“Could this have waited?” Misato asked, annoyed. Tsai propped himself against the doorframe and shrugged.
“Couldn’t be helped, Lady Misato,” he said. “Osuge asked too many questions. Our friends in the Ivory Magistrates office passed some of them along.”
“Very well,” Misato sighed, and nodded towards Tsuke, who had turned back to face her. “Let us finish this.”
The younger man kicked the back of Tsuke's knees, causing him to fall forward. Two sets of strong hands gripped either of his arms, holding him up. He struggled as Misato walked over and looked down at him. “Misato, why?” he croaked.
“I required a family,” she said. “Yours will do.” She caressed his weathered cheek with one long gold-lacquered nail, then traced it over his eyelids. How far she had come, how much farther she would go.
“Such boring eyes,” Her voice was soft, yet edged with steel. “They lack vision.” With that, she withdrew the pins from her long, dark hair, and she brought them down with all her might. Before they pierced his own, the last thing Tsuke saw was one bright blue eye amidst the dripping strands of hair. Then, all was darkness and silence.
This time, Misato found a feeling stir within her: satisfaction.
“I must admit,” the man said, lifting the teacup, “I find what you’ve done here to be quite impressive.” The statement hung in the air, intentionally vague.
Yoritomo Seiki was all charm and confidence. Even here, in her estate, he seemed perfectly relaxed, as if it were his own home. He placed the cup back on the tray and nodded to the serving girl. Misato saw her struggle to avoid returning his smile, and mercifully dismissed her with a gesture.
“You honor me with your kind words, Lord Seiki,” she replied. He shook his head, never losing that charming smile. He studied her, taking her measure. Her height and his casual posture meant that their eyes were practically level. She gave him nothing.
“Please. We are all Mantis here. Such formalities are not needed.” He stood, and began to pace leisurely around the room. “I mean what I say, though. Your work with the city’s many displaced war orphans is commendable. Your orphanage will alleviate much unnecessary suffering. I too have a soft spot for the disadvantaged.” He lied so effortlessly.
“Yes, your reputation precedes you regarding the city’s peasant population.”
Seiki laughed. Melodic. Disarming. Full of practiced authenticity. He was known to indulge in these kinds of emotional behaviors, no doubt to throw people off balance. His facade was finely honed, and he wielded it like a Kakita master. He was clearly a dangerous man. “I suppose it does, for better or for worse,” he replied. “I assure you, I am neither as terrible nor as interesting as the rumors would have you believe.”
“I do not give much credence to rumormongers.” She replied. Seiki had stopped in front of a large painting that dominated the center of the room. His back was to her. “They certainly do not return the favor where either of us are concerned.” He mused. “I cannot wait to hear what they make of this meeting. The lecherous, peasant-chasing roustabout paying an evening visit to the young, blue-eyed widow. It will certainly be interesting to hear.” He nodded to the painting. “Your late husband?”
“Yes,” Misato said after a moment. “Nearly a year now. The illness was sudden, but mercifully short. I thank the fortunes he did not suffer.”
“You have my condolences all the same,” he said. His sympathy was performative and empty to her practiced ears, and she was certain he knew that. “I regret that I did not have the chance to meet the man. Though, considering at the time I was a mere merchant and not Champion of the Mantis Clan,” he emphasized the last part with an almost amused tone, “I doubt he would have felt he had missed much.”
“At the risk of seeming like a poor host,” Misato interjected, “Perhaps you can share with me the purpose of this meeting, so that I might know how I may serve you?” Seiki looked back at her over his shoulder. “There are not many of us left, and even fewer of us here in the Colonies." He looked back at the painting. "As leader of our clan, It’s my duty to meet with everyone.”
“Our holdings are small, and our resources are meager,” she said. “Surely we are of no consequence.”
“On the contrary,” Seiki said, turning to face her once more and walking in her direction. “The Hoji are small, but you are growing at an impressive rate, in both size and wealth. Enough to attract my attention. I have also heard you retain people of certain talents, ones I might be in need of.”
“Whatever I have is yours, my Champion,” she said, “To do with as you like.” Her icy blue eyes met his deep, brown ones. They were as empty as hers.
He knelt next to her and grinned. His practiced veneer cracked, if only for a moment. It was both genuine and unsettling. “Excellent. We have much to build, you and I.”
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