Yama’s apartment locked itself with a Kchunk! as soon as he stepped out into the hallway. Are we all housed here on this floor? Maybe I should find where Anna is staying.

  “Or where Kano is,” the specter said in his mind. “Only so many doors. He’s bound to be in one of them.”

  “Go away,” Yama muttered, slapping his head as if a fly landed on it. There was no fly and the blow was followed by the sound of the specter’s mocking laughter. Not sure why I thought that would do anything.

  Another Kchunk! pulled Yama from his thoughts as a pale woman in a dark-green dress stepped into the hallway from two doors down. Is that…Maria Facia, the Emerald Mistress of Magotsfield? Yama wondered as he squinted down the hallway at the figure who did the same.

  “Wow,” Yama said once he was within grabbing distance of the woman, clocking out just below his shoulders. Her pale, grey-white skin clung tightly to her in some places and nearly flaked off in others. Her long-sleeved dress matched her voluptuous mint green waves—and the hems had a pattern of tall grass and cat tail reeds embroidered onto it. The neckline had an embroidery of white skulls, each facing another on the opposite side. “I can’t believe I’m in the presence of Maria Facia,” Yama said, winded.

  (I’m still mad you didn’t get her autograph,) the girl says with a huff, upsetting the bowl of soup in her lap.

  (Hey, I wanted her autograph too, and since when did you care about mercenaries?) the giant asks.

  (Mercenary?) the girl asks with a raised brow. (She’s a goddamn imperial treasure is what she is, of course I have heard of her. I have a poster of her in my room if you want to see.)

  The giant shakes his head. (Maybe after this soup,) he says before continuing the story.

  Maria smiled as she looked up at Yama. How her spine didn’t crack from stretching her neck so much, Yama did not know. “I see my reputation precedes me,” she said with a rich and airy voice. “Yours, however, does not, I am afraid. What is your name, tall man from two doors down?”

  “Yama, Yama Kikuchi,” Yama said as he held out his hand that dwarfed Maria’s by at least double.

  “Well, Yama Yama Kikuchi”—Maria giggled—”it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said before she put both of her bony hands on Yama’s one and shook it, her hands feeling lighter than the washcloth Yama had cleaned himself with. A thin mesh of skin hung over her hands like fingerless gloves, as if a pustule had taken up residence several times over and formed a gel around her hand; alterist-mitts, the first organoid any self-respecting alterist grafted onto themselves. Feeling Maria’s skin shift like a pustule, Yama was glad he hadn’t been cursed with a larger soul in addition to a larger body.

  “You are correct. I am Maria Facia, the Emerald Mistress”—Maria performed airquotes—”and a dozen other titles. Are you Kano’s bodyguard or servant of sorts? I didn’t realize the help got their own suites as well.”

  Yama did his best to maintain a smile. “No. I’m a contestant, a lesser one.”

  Maria’s eyes widened and she brought her hands together. “Forgive me for I have insulted you so. I was unaware that the lesser”—she shook her head—”the giftless candidates had been chosen. There is still tomorrow before the tournament begins.” Her eyes widened nearly beyond what her frail skull could contain. “The other, were they chosen as well? Did you see them? Do you know them? Are—”

  Yama pulled his hands back gently before Maria could ask a thousand questions. “Yes, yes, and yes,” he said. “Her and I managed to jockey for the spots amongst the other giftless candidates.”

  “Does she have a name? Where does she hail from? What are her talents? How are her bones and her skin?” Maria asked. Before Yama could pick which question to answer first, Maria waved her hand dismissively. “Ah! I’m getting ahead of myself. I suppose I will see tonight at dinner which is in”—Maria turned her palm over to look at it—”little more than half an hour.” She snapped her head back to Yama. “Will you accompany me, oh knight of muscles?”

  Yama held out his arm. “Of course, my lady,” he said as Maria took his arm. “Only problem is everybody was too busy to tell me where to go.”

  Maria shook her head. “This palace drama has everybody working overtime. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve asked to see their morgue or their crematorium?”

  “N-no,” Yama stammered. Am I supposed to know this?

  “Seven! Seven times,” Maria exclaimed. “If it wasn’t for the Executive Body sending me here, I’d have left days ago. The tea is bloody awful, but luckily, I brought some good stuff from back home. I swear if the princess doesn’t get her act together, I will have to tell the Body that we’re better off leaving these people for the crows.”

  Yama raised an eyebrow as they took the first of several stairwells to the main hall. “What exactly is going on?”

  “The khan is arranging for his daughter to be married and she doesn’t like that at all, not one knuckle’s worth.”

  I can see why she’d throw a fit over it, but her father should rein her in as lord of the realm, Yama thought. ”Who is she being married to?”

  “One of the other khans I’ve heard,” Maria said as the duo took a turn. “But I’ve also heard he may try to bury the saber his father left him with the Aurcourians,” she rolled her eyes, “one of them, anyway. Personally, I think this tournament will just end up pissing everyone off. Too many competitors.”

  “Then why come?”

  “Because I was sent, duh. The Body makes its will known and the bones make it realized. That and”—Maria pointed a finger to the ceiling—”the Bone Father spoke to me and Orphiel.”

  “Everyone thinks he’s gonna win this thing,” Yama said before he leaned into Maria and whispered, “but I’m not gonna let that happen.”

  Maria laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “He’s all flesh and no bones. He’s strong, yes, but plenty of people are strong. If you’re a tad creative, he shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

  “Not confident in your countrymen?”

  Maria shook her head, a knowing, dagger-thin smile creeping across her lips “Maybe I want to see the top dog lose,” she said softly as the duo hit the bottom of the staircase. “What about Kano? Anything I should know?”

  “That I’m gonna kill him,” Yama said in a low voice. “By the end of this tournament, he’ll be dead, or I will.”

  Maria chuckled nervously. “Do I want to know what beef is being chewed up by those micro-guts of yours?”

  Yama shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, he’s a dead man anyway.”

  “Well, you ought to figure out how you’re going to kill him and how to get out of here quick, then,” Maria said before whispering, “we’re close.”

  Maria pushed against a section of wall, revealing a large sitting room beyond. Yama had to crouch to get in and scanned the room for other contestants.

  “You made it!” Anna exclaimed as she ran to him. “You certainly clean up well.” She waved her hand over Yama’s outfit. “Oh Sword Saint of the land of Cree-ah-teen, what is thy word?” she asked before giggling.

  Yama rolled his eyes. “Are we just supposed to wait for someone to come and get us? I didn’t exactly get a briefing.”

  Anna shrugged. “I guess.” She turned to Maria. “Have you heard anything else?”

  Maria shook her head. “Only that the captain is to lead us in. I was supposed to meet Orphiel here to put our heads together before the dinner, but that knucklehead is nowhere in sight. You haven’t seen him have you, miss”—Maria rolled her hand.

  “Schulz, Anna Schulz,” Anna said. “It’s an honor, lady Facia.”

  Maria took both of Anna’s hands in her own “Likewise. Do—”

  Whatever Maria was going to say died on her pale tongue as a section of the wall opposite where Yama and Maria had entered was pushed open. The first of the new entries was a portly man that rose to Yama’s chin, while the second was leaner—gaunt was the word—and went up to the first figure’s chin. They both had the snow-white skin of Far-northerners and the comma shaped marks that their souls had generated during times of great emotion, but the similarities ended there.

  Brass waves fell to the shoulders of the taller man, complimenting the gold comma-shaped markings freckling his face. Part of Yama wanted to reach out and touch them to know of the events in question, but he stayed his hand as to not be rude. The man’s black duster was open to reveal a partially unbuttoned white shirt, joined by matching black dress pants and boots. Peeking below the arm of the duster were two black-steel hands with a bevy tubes connecting higher on the arm. Grigori Medvedev. What the hell is the Bratva doing here?

  His friend was a matchstick, fiery red tufts topping a frail, spindly body. Red markings—anger—covered his palms, while blue marks—serenity—lined his eyes and lips like concealer and lip gloss. White and pink blotches filled out the rest of his clean-shaven face, some faded enough to almost blend in with his snow skin, other fresh enough to have their own topography. A grey fur-lined bomber coat rested over an orange jumpsuit, and a scowl rounded out his pissed off, punch-happy look.

  Thick callouses of skin hung like fingerless gloves around his hand, larger than Maria’s by double. Short, hollow columns of bone jutted from the spaces between knuckles and the center of his palm like exhaust pipes, not enough to make writing impossible, just uncomfortable. He split from Grigori immediately as they cleared the doorway, pulling a cigarette from his coat and lighting it with a conjured spark as he went. This made his scowl relax, but not by much. What’s his deal?

  “Grigori, how nice to see you,” Maria said dryly, like she had been served the wrong order. “Who’s your friend?”

  Before Grigori could answer, the false wall opened again, revealing two more contestants. The first—the Janusian assassin Ginevra Walker—wore a sleeveless, light purple dress with a darker rim at mid-calf, along with a matching hood and cape. White and cyan strings of data ran in columns down her white-blue, broadband skin, the symbols changing as they traveled. The skin had a slight, uncanny gleam to it, as if woven from many thin tubes of plastic. Beneath the hood, Yama saw streaks of mint-green data, numbers and letters typing themselves across her face. She pulled back her hood and shook her ginger waves, letting them settle along her shoulders. In the new light, smaller streaks of data trudged back and forth, their values suddenly changing. Glitch-scars, Yama knew.

  The other figure wore an orange three-piece with a white shirt underneath, like a creamsicle. In place of a hood, a halo of golden threads rested on his short blond curls, casting light on his bronze skin. By the Bone Father, he’s too bright, Yama thought. Windswept would have described the soft look of his skin, but wispy would have done the job better. He was a statue, labored over for ten years and two bitter divorces, remade with the same maddening care every time he breathed or made the smallest movement.

  “Ginevra it is so good to see you!” Maria ran to Ginevra, throwing her arms around the woman’s neck. Ginevra mouthed help at Yama as she slowly brought her arms up around Maria. Maria pushed away from the hug after a moment before looking past Ginevra at the radiant man. “Is he a friend?”

  Ginevra sighed and looked over her shoulder. “Him? No. He just followed me, and I assumed from his get-up that he was a candidate, maybe one of the lessers.”

  The man stepped forward and bowed deeply. “I am Mordecai Ramirez,” he said before straightening. “The Lords of the Sun have sent me far from Yuuca. At first, I objected, but I did not know Tata had such beauties.”

  Maria and Ginevra exchanged nervous smiles. “Flattery will get you everywhere, dear.” She leaned toward Mordecai’s ear. “Including a knife between T4 and T5,” she whispered before backing away. “I look forward to a good competition from all of you.”

  “Well, there is always later.” Mordecai turned to Yama. “I did not know someone had come that might compete with Orphiel in size. Tell me, what is your name?”

  The words came unbidden to Yama’s tongue. “Yama Kikuchi,” he mumbled, hoping the runt would leave him alone, “and I think you’re annoying and I want to see how far I can throw you.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Mordecai clutched at pearls, staring at Yama before he went over to Grigori’s short friend. The redhead conjured a grape sized ball of fire at the ends of each of his fingers. Mordecai understandably backed away, each step accompanied by a chuckle more nervous than the last as the redhead stared him down. “What about you Grigori?”

  “I came to drink and to fight, in that order,” Grigori said before patting his stomach. “If you can’t indulge the former, I’m sure you can indulge the latter,” he said quietly, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  “Oh. If it’s spirits you want, perhaps you will join me after dinner tonight?” Mordecai proposed. When Grigori smiled, Mordecai grinned, a wide shit-eating one that Yama wanted to pack with actual shit. “That goes for all of you. Drinks are on me!”

  “I’d rather re-stitch my skin without anesthesia,” Maria muttered. “Girls, if you want a real drink, come by my room,” Maria said, louder this time, before poking her head above the group around her. “That goes for you too, Grigori, you and your little friend.”

  Grigori smiled. “You should know I always bring my little friend, especially with company like this.”

  “Invitation rescinded, you fucking creep,” Maria said before ducking her neck below her group

  “Do you two have history or”—Anna let the words hang in the air—”chemistry? Anatomy?”

  “All of the above, sadly,” Maria said with a sigh. “Look, we were both laid over in Warsaw and—”

  “You war-saw that dick,” Ginevra said between coughs. Both Anna and Yama wore grins behind their hands as they tried to contain laughter. Yama, being a good samurai, was better at this than Anna, who only stifled three giggles.

  Maria rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ginevra, I war-saw and war-shagged that dick and have been trying to scrub it from my brain ever since. Are you happy now?” Ginevra nodded. “Did you see anybody else following you besides the sun-child?”

  “No, Ginevra said, “although, I did see Kano and that Aurcourian talking earlier in the day. Maybe they’ll be next.”

  “They better hurry up. Dinner’s in 30 and we’re still 11 short,” Anna said, pointing at a clock on the wall. As soon as the last word left Anna’s mouth, a rumble rolled over the room from the door that Grigori and his friend came from.

  Maria brought her hands together. “Apparently not. It’s the big man himself!”

  Yama had expected a skeleton to duck his head into the false-wall door and pull his body through like he himself had done. That would have been normal. Instead, Orphiel’s body swallowed up the door as he came through, limbs trailing behind him as if attached weakly by thread. When Orphiel finally brought his body through the door, Yama didn’t know whether awe or horror was an appropriate reaction.

  Orphiel stood a full head taller than Yama and a full shoulder girdle wider. He’s got to be nine, ten, feet tall stretched out, Yama reasoned, unknowingly comparing his features to Orphiel’s. What are they putting in the bone broth back in Nerconor?

  Orphiel had a backpack of micro-guts under his leather shirt, and the march of guts continued unabated beneath his green, skull-and-bone strewn kilt. Like Yama and the rest of the contestants, pink-red thrash-tendons ran from head to feet and head to hands, ready to carry electrical signals to the extra fast-twitch fibers and myofibrils implanted below. Unlike the rest of the contestants who had meager lines, Orphiel had entire trees visible beneath his pale skin.

  And yet, his stature didn’t bow to the weight of the grafted gear, not beyond a small slouch that was only visible from the side. Yama knew why, better than anybody else in the room, and he didn’t believe it. Orphiel had acromegaly like him, enough to feed all of his extra muscles, or, enough to keep his shots low. Yama was flabbergasted, but it soon faded to awe. What he wouldn’t give to be both stronger and free of the pain, free of the hunch that made him bow even to people he towered over. Gluttony always beget gluttony, but Orphiel had broken the rule through smart augmentation and a fuck-ton of it.

  Yama felt the need to flex his own muscles, to show that while Orphiel had him beat on size, he still had the more appealing physique. He banished the thought. Orphiel’s size was its own quality, and he wasn’t exactly slacking in the masonry department. He can probably chew marble with his teeth.

  (Ha ha), the girl laughs. (You got upstaged and there wasn’t even a stage for it.)

  (Hey, you should have been there. I wasn’t sure if he was going to compete or eat everyone,) our hero says.

  Maria poked at Orphiel’s sternum, which was level with her forehead. “Oh Orphiel,” she sang before ducking around his legs and poking at his back. The man spun—somehow knocking nothing over—but Maria had already moved back to where she had been before.

  “Maria!” Orphiel exclaimed. “There you are!”

  “Here I am!” Maria exclaimed as she extended her arms out to her side. “Where were you? I thought we were going to talk before this dreadful dinner.”

  Orphiel hung his head in shame. “The princess requested my presence, and I did not think refusal would be a good idea. I am sorry.”

  “Oh,” Maria said. “In that case, I understand. What did the princess have to say?”

  Orphiel looked over the room full of contestants who were still mostly in awe of him. “Not here,” Orphiel tried—and failed—to whisper. “Have you made any friends?”

  Maria nodded before skipping over to her previous group. “The blonde is Anna Schulz, the big grey blob is Yama Kikuchi, and you already know Ginevra,” she said, waving her hands over them like they were auction items.

  Orphiel crouched low and extended his hand. “A friend of Maria’s is a friend of mine. It is good to meet all of you.”

  Anna and Ginevra both took the handshake with a hand on either side of Orphiel’s, but Yama met the giant’s much larger hand like a normal shake, his hand drooping at first contact. “I can’t wait to see what the great Orphiel Skulley is made of. Wrestling? Size for size, muscle for muscle, bone for bone.”

  Orphiel grinned. “If you think you can wrestle me, you’re either insane or a great wrestler. Wrestling it is.”

  Anna and Ginevra’s jaws dropped at Yama’s greeting, but Maria waved her hand dismissively. “Oh boys, you can do your dick measuring later, but I think I hear the others coming. Orphiel, my dear, did you see any contestants following you?”

  “Oh, there were some tiny ones behind me, I guess,” Orphiel said with a shrug. “But they’re all small. I didn’t pay them too much mind.”

  Maria rolled her eyes. “Orphiel, we talked about—” the door opened again. “Well, it seems the Tatans have arrived at their own tournament,” she muttered.

  Indeed, they had. Two midnight blue Tatans, each halfway between Grigori and his redheaded friend in height, stepped into the room. “Well Batu,” one of the figures said in Tatan as he scanned over the group. He wore two stuffed, black horse heads as pauldrons over a black fur mantle, their amber eyes helping him scan the room for threats. Two neighing horses had been inlaid in silver on the black plate carrier he wore over a black dress shirt. A short, black box beard hung from his bald head like a door knocker that Yama—and presumably the other contestants—had to restrain himself from using as such. “Your lord has gathered quite the stable to compete.”

  The other Tatan nodded. Black air flowed freely to his shoulders while a temptingly twistable fu man chu rested on his upper lip over plains of black stubble. He had also decided to wear full armor—white—the steel pauldrons wrought in the shape of two horses standing on their hind legs. “Yes, Bolor. It should be a good tournament.”

  Maria strode over to Batu, the one in white. “Batu, dear,” she called out. “You wouldn’t happen to know where everyone else is, would you?”

  “The others should be on their way, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some choose to spend their dinner elsewhere doing other things,” Batu said before raising a finger and adding, “I do know for a fact that Blackpaw, Lee, Becker, and Kano will all be attending.”

  Maria seemed pleased by this, but Ginevra was not. “Okoro? Hayes?”

  Asha Okoro of the Sand Serpents, number 11 merc for billings? Yama remembered from a bounty board. Just how many assassins are here?

  Batu shook his head. “Okoro told me she wouldn’t be attending, and Hayes hasn’t left her room since she got there.”

  Ginevra nodded. That sounds like Okoro and Hayes,” she mused. “Who does that leave unaccounted for?”

  Mordecai raised his hand and spoke before it was called on. “I did happen to see Ms. Hayes earlier in the day.”

  “Did you stalk her too, you little cretin?” Ginevra shot back, only turning briefly to glare a dagger at Mordecai before turning back to Batu. “Since my friend Brianna is not dead, who is left unaccounted for?”

  Batu scanned over the room for a moment. “That leaves Balderson and some priest from Phar named Anu.”

  Grigori’s friend—who had remained on the fringe of the room—stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against. “Balderson, eh?” he asked hoarsely. “So that’s who Sigmund sends, huh. Could have chosen better if you ask me,” he muttered. “Have you seen this Anu?”

  Batu nodded. “Yea, lanky, grainy, red-brown skin, refused to speak in uni when I tried to talk to him; could have been casting a spell on me for all I know.”

  “Do you know who this Anu represents?” Mordecai chimed in.

  Batu nodded again. “The khan said he came with eight deep space transport ships, all loaded with a different metal from Phar. I was not privy to this meeting, but the khan said he was interested in hearing more from the pharaoh’s emissary.”

  Yama nodded. “He’s not a mercenary I’ve ever heard of. Anybody else?” Nobody nodded.

  “That they are here, this far north, is interesting in itself,” Anna said before turning to Batu. “How long has it been since someone from Phar has darkened your door?”

  “We have the occasional merchant, but someone of this caliber”—Batu paused—”never,” he finally said. “I’d wager 1000 mares we haven’t had one in a hundred years.”

  “Okoro is here and she’s from further south,” Ginevra pointed out.

  Grigori waved his hand dismissively. “One, they have sleeper ships for crossing the Southern Band. Two, she’s an assassin, not representing any of the empires. Speaking of which”—Grigori smiled and looked around—”anybody want to place bets on who she’s here for? I’ll say she’s here for either Lee or Kano for”—Grigori paused—”200 runemarks.”

  “I’ll join that, Grigori,” Mordecai chimed in. “200, but I say she’s here for the princess.”

  Grigori stroked his chin. “Maybe. What about you two?” he asked, turning his gaze to Anna and Yama. “You have no gift, so you’re clearly not representing anybody. So who are you trying to kill?”

  “Kano,” Yama said nonchalantly. Nothing good will come from lying, and Kano knowing that I am after him will not save him. “I am here to kill Jira Kano during the course of the tournament for the whole universe to see,” Yama explained as the door opened again, along with one along the far wall.

  From the door Yama had entered came an Atlasian woman with short red hair and a red-skinned man with the face of a bear. The lapel of Heidi’s grey Atlasian uniform—for it could only be her—bore more medals than Anna’s, and her proud cap obscured much of her red curls. Anna waved at Heidi as she entered, conjuring a small blush across Heidi’s cheeks as she waved back. Friends? Yama wondered.

  Heidi’s companion—who could only be Bennet Blackpaw—wore a litany of small scars along his face, mostly hid by his bushy black mutton chops and beard. The same bristly hair covered those parts of him not covered by his cutoff black leather jacket and blue jeans. Bennet immediately found Grigori and embraced him in a one-armed hug. “Aha, I thought I smelled a bear in the castle!” Grigori exclaimed.

  The duo talked but Yama paid them no mind as he turned to the other door, where two more figures emerged. The first figure’s golden skin shined as if smoothed by the wind, reflecting the room’s light into the untamed golden waves that fell to his shoulder. To dull his radiance, he wore a storm-grey, cross-collared robe over a black inner garment and matching wide legged pants, all bearing embroidery of wispy white clouds. For a moment, Yama wanted to sink to his knees and bow to the Aurcourian, nobility of the Fēng Shì that he must be.

  But Yama didn’t do that since Lee was not the lord of the estate. Even if he was, his companion was of far more interest to Yama. Garbed in a black kimono with white cranes in shallow pond, was Jira Kano, bastardly as ever. Yama locked gazes with Kano who simply squinted back at him. After blinking several times, Kano bounced his hand off his head. “You’re Hinata, right?”

  “That’s my brother,” Yama said, stomping cross the hall to Kano. His hands gripped the legs of his pants tight, each one half of the Bone Father’s gesture of ribs. He prayed for strength, not so he could hit Kano, but so that he wouldn’t. “You remember who he worked for?”

  Kano chuckled as Yama got closer. “Shokuto Ishimura. Tell me, how’s the old man’s arm doing?”

  “He got a prosthetic and he’s going by Ishimasa now.”

  Kano raised an eyebrow. “Really? Pegged him a hair too prideful for that. Good for him.”

  “Me neither. Maeda got a new eye too, for what it’s worth.”

  “Did he now?”

  Yama scoffed and shook his head. Danzo would never. “No; said he’ll get a new one once you’re all dead.”

  Kano rolled his eyes. “Of course he did, of course he did!” He shook his head. “You know, the empress says she’ll still take him if he wants to come back to the winning side, all of you, actually.”

  Yama used the image of strangling Kano with his hands to bring a smile to his face. “Tell her we’ll pass,” Yama said before adding quietly, “all of us.”

  Kano shrugged. “Pity. I guess I’ll have to send the offer to Ishimura along with whatever box they find to put you in.” Kano grinned. “I guess you can pass along a message to Ieyasu as well when—”

  Yama had come to restore order; not tolerate slights to the dead. Breaches in decorum, he had been taught, were the first step to anarchy. He reared his fist back and slammed it into Kano’s face, rippling his skin and sending the message from his mouth.

  Before Yama could take another step, Lee stepped between Kano and Yama with a blade of sharpened wind in his hand. Out of my way, Yama thought before he felt a pair of hands on his left arm, and two pairs on his right. Glancing over his shoulder, Yama saw Anna, Ginevra, and Grigori working to pull him back as Maria circled around him and joined Lee between the two Nimese.

  “Not here, Kikuchi,” Maria said, “you’ll get your chance!”

  “Keep his name out of your fucking mouth!” Yama barked. Anna and Ginevra were light on his arm, and Yama considered throwing them at Kano as a distraction before he pummeled the bastard.

  Maria’s words rang in Yama’s mind. I’ll get a chance, Yama reasoned as his arms fell slack at his side. He was fully ready for his father to cane him, not for the outburst, but for the uncouth language, the quick jump to using his fists. There were steps to these matters, and he had leapt over all of them on a geyser of boiling blood. I need to do this for the whole universe to see, after all.

  Spit pooled at the corners of Kano’s grinning mouth, and this may have been the first thing Yama couldn’t blame Kano for. “You’re dead Kikuchi! I’ll kill you for the whole universe to see and then work my way up the rest of your bastard brood!”

  So he does remember me, Yama thought. “I’m the only samurai you need to concern yourself with,” he said. “Before this week is over, you will be dead by my hand, and the universe will know that honor and order yet live. When you get to hell, tell your bitch of a queen to keep the door unlocked.”

  Kano ground his teeth together, growling like a starved mutt. Before he could speak, a cleared throat drew all eyes to another false door adjacent to the one that Lee and Kano had entered from.

  A Tatan with a military cut of black hair and a groomed goatee of the same color stood beside a false wall with one hand behind his back. Yama supposed he was grabbing the invisible rod that made his posture so rigid and pressing it to his back. He wore black pants and an asymmetric black vest, leaving him a blue head and silver medals floating on a human-shaped void. “If you are done making declarations, dinner can begin,” he said in a dull voice that hid the why did I have to get put on freak duty? that he really wanted to say. Batu and Bolor followed first, and the man took this as all the permission he needed to lead them to dinner.

  Yama yanked his hands from their restraints before getting in the line of initiates. Luckily, Kano had entered the line first and five other contestants stood between the two samurai and whatever blows or words they wanted to exchange.

  Before he entered the door, Kano turned back to Yama. “Kikuchi, don’t die before the final round of this. Your stomach and my sword have a date.”

  A samurai must control himself.

  A shifting support is of no use to a lord.

  The Tenets of Tenshi