The tunnel the usher led them through was no lighter or in any better state than the rest of the castle’s tunnels. Yama knew nothing would attack him from the alcoves, but the idea that any of the assassins in line—conservatively half of the contestants—thinning the guest list before the first course had even been served eased his mind none. New beginnings alright, he mused, rolling his eyes, emphasis on beginnings.

  “I am Captain Altan Ulgen, by the way, for those of you who haven’t met me,” the usher said.

  A hand shot up and spoke before it was called upon. “I must say, you leave much to be desired,” Maria said. “Is there someone I can talk to and file a complaint?”

  Altan sighed. “Maria, I have nearly pulled my hair out running up and down this estate to serve you and the other contestants in addition to the court drama.”

  “I jest, Altan, you’re doing lovely.”

  “Altan,” Heidi called out in perfect Atlasian. “Has there been any change in the situation with the princess?” she asked, curling the final syllable of each word.

  “No,” Altan called back in Atlasian. “It is still a headache.”

  Altan turned to the line of contestants as he continued to lead them, the change to backpedaling not slowing him at all. “For those of you who don’t know, the gonji is to be married soon after the conclusion of this tournament,” he said in uni-vernacular.

  “May we ask to whom?” Heidi asked, now in uni-vernacular. “I am sure we are all dying to know.”

  “She is being wed to the heir of the Dulgun clan, Batbayar, unless that has changed recently, Bolor,” Altan called out.

  “My brother is alive and very much looking forward to the union,” Bolor said in thick Tatan. “It will be good to combine the Dulgun mines with the armies of Ganzorig.”

  Altan smiled thinly, teeth gleaming in the dim light. “I’m quite glad to hear that there is someone who is not miserable from this little business between houses.”

  Bolor laughed. “When the festivities begin, I think you’ll sing a different tune, dear Altan.”

  “I guess we should all take it easy on the little Dulgun,” Grigori called out. “Would hate to sour a wedding.”

  “You mean sour it in a way that isn’t fucking the bride,” Bennet clarified, drawing a laugh from Grigori.

  “Oh, I don’t mind seeing if the groom is of stock either,” Grigori countered, “you know, to see if he’s good enough for the bride.”

  How crude, Yama thought as he rolled his eyes at the jokes bandied about.

  “Hey, Altan,” Grigori’s friend called out.

  “Yes. Kiril?”

  “Balderson, he here or is that cyka gonna be a no show?”

  “I thought I told you to shut it,” Grigori hissed as his silhouette stood on its tippy toes to loom over Kiril.

  The shorter man’s cigarette warded off much of Grigori’s shadow, making the attempt rather pathetic. Kiril waved his hand dismissively and put another silhouette between himself and Grigori. “Balderson will not be joining us for tonight,” Altan said.

  “He give a reason?”

  Altan shrugged. “There is a reason, yes, but it is between himself and the khan, not you.”

  “Fucking figured,” Kirill grumbled before he reached into his jacket and lit up a cigarette.

  “Kiril, you will have to put that away at dinner,” Altan said. “Otganbayar does not like smoking in his presence.”

  Wisps rose from Kiril’s mouth. “Fucking pity.”

  “Grigori Grigori Grigori,” Maria sang like the start of some ballad about how bad a lay he was, “you should worry less about your little friend and focus on the people who want to kill you.”

  Kano laughed. “I like this one,” the samurai-not-samurai said.

  “Are you going to kill me, my love?” Grigori sang back. “Would be such a shame.”

  “No, but I might,” Ginevra called out, followed by the sound of metal scraping metal. “Or anybody here.”

  “I won’t kill you, Mr. Medvedev!” the twerp that was Mordecai exclaimed.

  “Nobody will be killing anybody, at least not until after dinner.” Altan pushed on the wall, flooding the dark tunnel with light. “And if any of you try anything at dinner”—a thin throwing dart materialized between his fingers—”I will put you out.”

  The false wall deposited them on a landing between two sets of stairs wide enough for the contestants to form a chain of hands and not touch the wall. At the top of the higher set was another landing that housed a gate three times Yama’s height. Red banners hung from every pillar, each bearing Temujin’s neighing-black-horse-with-a-saber-in-its-mouth insignia

  Two more horse statues flanked either side of the gate, the face of the rider rounder and less worn than the statue of Temujin outside the walls. So that must be Otganbayar, Yama reasoned.

  “Now, can you all act like adults and get in line without problem?” Thankfully for Altan, there were only a few grumbles as he directed the contestants into line. “Now, when I call your name, step forward and take a seat. File in towards the khan, odds on the right, evens on the left.”

  Altan ran up the stairs once the contestants were in order. “My lord, may I bring in the contestants of your tournament?” After receiving some confirmation, Altan waved for the first contestant to enter.

  “Presenting to Lord Ganzorig, the heir of the Dulgun clan, The Highlander, Bolor Dulgun!”

  Fifteen seconds later, Altan called for the next contestant. “From the west, sent by the queen herself, The Eternal Champion Jira Kano!” Altan called out.

  Yama shook his head as Kano ascended. Eternal? Not for long.

  Fifteen more seconds passed before Altan called the next name. “Wielding all of the might of Atlas, Broomhandle Heidi Becker!”

  “From his seat on the Aurcourian Council, Genji Lee!”

  “From this very castle, The Hand of the Khan, Batu Jargal!”

  “From the crypts of Nerconor and the depths of hell, The Ogre, Orphiel Skulley!”

  “From the nightmares of all men, The Emerald Mistress, Maria Facia!”

  “You’re goddamn right!” Maria called out as she skipped up the stairs, her leaps sending her past an Altan whose shoulders had already slumped to the ground with how done he was.

  He regained himself quickly and straightened himself with his invisible pole. “From the freezing north, The Fist of the Bratva, Grigori Medvedev!”

  As Altan turned back to the contestants, a man with grainy bronze skin ran up the stairs, the sole black dreadlock in the center of his head trailing behind him like a fuse. If his sandy, mid-calf robe and heavy, gem-studded necklace brought him any discomfort as they bounced, his gait did not show it. As he ran up, Altan ran down to meet him and rushed back up the stairs muttering, “where have you been?”

  Altan stopped at the door and straightened himself with his invisible rod. “From the pharaoh in the sand is his loyal right hand, The Jackal, Anu Said!”

  “From kennel to castle, The Hound in the East, Bennet Blackpaw!”

  “From the bright lands of Yucca, The Man Who is the Sun, Mordecai Ramirez!”

  (Shithead, more like,) the girl and giant say in unison before laughing.

  (Are we going to tell the audience you nearly broke your pencil writing that?) the girl asks when she regained herself a minute later.

  (We are now,) the giant says with a shrug before continuing the story.

  “From the darkness and into a dinner dress, The Purple Phaser, Ginevra Walker!”

  “From the fiery heart of the freezing north, The Bratva’s Red Bomber, Kiril Petrov!”

  “Just in time too,” the redhead said as he handed Altan the butt of a cigarette before walking into the hall.

  “I’m next, wish me luck,” Anna said to Yama before turning around and taking several deep breaths.

  “Knock them dead,” Yama said with a smile as Altan motioned for Anna to come up. “For Gantulga.”

  Anna smiled and nodded. “For Gantulga.”

  “She’s a long way from home but she’s looking to make her shot, The Heir of the 10,039th, Anna Schulz!”

  My turn, Yama thought as he took the prayer beads from around his neck and wound them around his hand.

  “He speaks a simple word of blades and battle, The Sword Saint, Yama Kikuchi!”

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  Yama pumped one fist in the air as he ascended the stairs and stepped into the hall beyond. Marble columns carved into the shape of a neighing horse replaced the wooden pillars from outside, their eyes filled with blue LEDs. A gentle, ethereal glow hung over the room, and Yama loosened as he stepped inside. It was as if a ghost was taking one step for each one he took, and after a shot stint on a sprinter ship, Yama wasn’t going to say no to help from beyond..

  A round table of lacquered wood dominated the center of the hall, with 24 seats rather than the 19 Yama had figured there’d be. Sitting beyond the contestants were Namuunaa, the other tailor, and Jochi, as well as an empty seat for Altan. Both tailors wore snow-white, fur capelets over dark blue dresses and white heels, while Jochi wore a black three piece whose neckline he kept pulling at. I feel you buddy, Yama thought.

  Otganbayar’s statue hadn’t been a lie, his round face flanked by chin length black hair and rounded out with a well-groomed box beared. Black jaguar illustrations broke up his red kimono, all ready to pounce on whoever defied the khan. Yama’s heart dropped an inch at the sight. How many of his friends had died to the queen and her occult friends, only for her emissaries to start courting the Tatans five decades later as if Ishimasa’s rebellion had never happened? Too many, he reckoned, too many for what their sacrifice had gotten them.

  Yama shook his head. Otganbayar was not his father, the mad khan that Yama had very nearly crossed blades with several times. The tournament was proof enough of that, and if Otganbayar would have Yama—a former enemy—at his table, Yama figured he could at least help maintain the peace…minus a certain backstabbing samurai or two.

  To the khan’s right sat a small woman, shoulder-length black waves falling gently over an opal-white kimono embroidered with pink flamingoes. In addition to light makeup—see, hasty, lazy, last minute—she wore a scowl and a pair of darting eyes. When Altan came into the hall, her shoulders slumped as if to say can you use your sleeping dart on me?

  “My lord, are these guests to your liking?” Altan called out once Yama had sat, standing at the vacant seat next to the tailors.

  “They are, Altan, you may sit,” Otganbayar called out, his voice gentle like the patter of rain against a window. Yama figured that this was how a lord’s voice should be. The princess—Lady Bolormaa—rolled her eyes and while Yama wanted to stand up and lecture the girl on dinner etiquette, he reasoned it wasn’t his place.

  Otganbayar stood, clapping his hands together. “Welcome my contestants! I trust that you are as eager to compete as the universe is in in watching you. I know you will do the family of Ganzorig proud, and I know you will do your families and countries proud as well,” Otganbayar continued before he sighed deeply. “But for now, let us feast, for tomorrow you will complete in your first trial.”

  From the shadows beyond the horse statues merged several servants, dressed in black pants and white shirts under black vests. Yama thought they looked like the penguins he had seen while deployed in the Driftport region of the north, if they hadn’t been mutated. Whatever they wanted with him, he did not know and wasn’t keen to figure out. Nobody took his order; he took theirs, silently.

  “What will you be having?” one of them asked, pencil hovering over a small notepad; most curious penguins indeed.

  Yama showed his open palms, hoping the penguin-man understood the gesture. “What can I have?”

  The waiter shrugged. “Well, whatever you can think of, I’m sure our chefs can make. What do you fancy?”

  Yama eyed the penguin-man suspiciously. Was it penguin cuisine that was on offer, or cuisine fit for a proper human? Yama supposed it didn’t matter, since his diet of ration cubes and grumbling likely resembled neither. I should probably get something like what the khan is getting, Yama reasoned. “What does lord Ganzorig prefer?”

  The waiter smiled. “Lord Otganbayar fancies the Wellington, done rare and served with mashed potatoes and steamed carrots.”

  “Wellington? What’s that?” The Nerconorians had a General Wellington who had died fighting in the north, centuries ago. Yama had no desire to eat from a frozen corpse, let alone one so old.

  The waiter’s shoulders dropped a bit. “It’s a beef dish, from Nerconor.”

  A horde of sick cows stampeded to the forefront of Yama’s mind before they all collapsed in a massive heap of dead flesh. “Are the cows ok?”

  The waiter sighed. “I don’t know man, they’re dead.”

  “He’ll get the Wellington and so will I, along with some spiced wine,” Anna said from across the table. “It’s a steak wrapped in a pastry shell.”

  Yama glanced down the table to Orphiel, so polite and effortless in his ordering that his waiter looked almost pleased for the privilege. “What she said and a rotisserie chicken and a rack of lamb ribs,” he added, following Orphiel’s lead. It was a start to putting his micro-guts at ease after he hadn’t eaten all day.

  Kiril laughed from besides Yama as the brute’s waiter scurried away, thankful to not be eaten. “This tournament is going to be fun.” He turned to his own waiter. “18 garlic parmesan wings and then 18 of the hottest thing you have in that kitchen.” He grabbed his waiter’s shoulder, “I want her”—Kiril pointed at Anna—”to cry from being around it.”

  Kiril’s waiter laughed nervously. “We’ll see what we can do. What would you like to drink with that?”

  “Vodka, leave the bottle.” The waiter nodded and hurried off back into the darkness, no doubt relieved that he didn’t combust.

  “You know I can handle spice and heat, right?” Anna asked.

  Kiril shrugged. “Not my kinda heat you can’t.”

  Anna flagged down another waiter. “Whatever wings he’s having, I’ll take some as well,” she said with a syrupy sweet smile that made Yama want to push her down a well.

  Kiril smiled. “I like you. Stop by my suite after this?”

  Anna rolled her eyes, but before she could turn down the chain-smoking delinquent, Maria’s voice rang through the air. “Otgan—”Yama wanted to tackle her for the disrespect”—what can we expect from the first challenge tomorrow?”

  Otganbayar smiled and set his glass down, seemingly unphased by the lack of title. “Lady Facia, so eager. While I do enjoy your enthusiasm, such questions can wait until the meal has been served, at the very least until the wine has been poured.”

  Maria pointed a bony finger at the man’s glass. “You have wine.”

  “I am the lord of the estate,” Otganbayar stammered. “Trust me, Lady Facia, you will know of tomorrow’s trial before the night is over.”

  Maria turned away from the khan as a waiter delivered her a glass of deep red wine. “Very well then. I will hold you to it.”

  Kano nudged the khan. “I want to fight her,” he whispered loudly into the khan’s ear.

  “Take a number and get in line,” Grigori called out. “If anybody gets first shot at her, it’s me.”

  “And me!” Mordecai chimed in, waving his hand above his head.

  “I call dibs on the little shit,” Ginevra said through her teeth.

  “Ginevra, I think we all call dibs on the little shit,” Maria interjected.

  Ginevra shrugged. “I’m open to hearing offers.”

  Altan rose halfway from his seat before being stopped by Otganbayar, smiling at the theatrics. Beside him, the princess looked like she wanted to slam her head into the table and sleep the night away. The wine in her glass was little more than a few teardrops worth, and Yama guessed it wasn’t her first drink. Certainly not the last, Yama thought, mouth growing dryer by the second.

  Thankfully for Yama, his waiter returned a minute later with a glass of deep red wine. Yama raised the glass to sniff it, like he had seen Ishimasa and his brother Danzo do. Gone was the chemical aroma, replaced by the scent of cinnamon that grabbed him by the nose and pulled him into a searing bonfire. He didn’t know if that was indicative of anything other than it probably being tasty. He set it to the side, waiting for someone else to appraise their wine before he took a sip. He could quench his thirst when he knew he wouldn’t look a fool for doing so.

  Mordecai clutched at nonexistent pearls, “How dare you?” he gasped. At what insult he was gasping at, Yama wasn’t sure. “I take back what I said prior, you are not beautiful at all!”

  Ginevra rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Fine by me if it keeps you away.” She raised her hand and looked to Otganbayar. “My liege, can I change my order to have his head on a platter?”

  Anu raised his hand. “And can I have his little balls as well for a spell of mine?” he asked, his voice wispy and just as likely to lead you to your room at one in the morning as it was to kill you once inside.

  “You have spells that need balls?” Maria asked. “Anu, just what spells are you performing?”

  Anu shrugged. “I have many spells, some of which require small bits of flesh. No waste in using a heart when a tongue, finger, or testicle will do, no?”

  “I suppose you’re right perhaps we will have to compare notes.”

  Anu smiled. “We shall,” he said before waiters emerged from the darkness, each with a small, covered bowl held at their chin.

  “This is bansh,” Otganbayar called out as the waiters set down the bowls before revealing a collection of spiral dumplings, garnished with small green leaves; grass clippings, maybe. “I do hope you enjoy it as much as we Tatans do.”

  Bolor speared a dumpling with his fork. “Mmmm!” he exclaimed, head rocking back. “You made the Dulgun recipe, Otganbayar.” Upon hearing this, the princess dropped her fork into the bowl with the dumpling still attached and pushed the bowl away from her.

  How rude, Yama thought. Could you at least act like you care, little girl?

  “And somehow, your cooks did it better than ours,” Bolor finished.

  With such a ringing endorsement, the other contestants followed suit in spearing their dumplings. The dough parted at the first prod of Yama’s fork before he brought the steaming morsel to his mouth, reanimating the formerly dead cows to stampede anew over his tongue. I will definitely have to learn how to make these, he thought, spearing another dumpling.

  “Is now still too early to ask what tomorrow’s trial will be?” Maria asked, causing everyone but the khan to facepalm.

  “I suppose not,” Otganbayar said with a heavy sigh. “Two of you will be thinned before the tournament begins, one with tomorrow’s trial and one the day after. In the spirit of our empire, tomorrow’s games will be a trial of athleticism and the day after will involve a trial of horse racing. After all, one must master their own body before they can master the horse and the saber.”

  “Kikuchi it seems like you might just get past the first round after all,” Kano called out, “although, you’ll probably crush the horse.”

  Having been on the hind end of a Tatan warhorse, Yama knew the beasts would be fine. He had never ridden a horse but Kano probably had while around court. If it’s a race, I’ll run it myself to beat that prick, he thought. It wasn’t enough to get by; he had to show the world that the samurai of old still lived and could compete with the pretenders in the queen’s palace.

  Orphiel raised his hand and waited for Otganbayar to call on it. “Do you have a horse big enough for me?”

  Otganbayar nodded. “All of you will be provided with a horse from my stables, save for Batu and Bolor who have brought their own,” he said. Batu and Bolor grinned at each other, with Bolor dragging a finger along his neck.

  “We all know who isn’t getting thinned,” Anna mumbled.

  Heidi’s hand shot into the air, and she spoke immediately, unlike Orphiel. “Horses or warhorses?”

  “A warhorse, of course,” Otganbayar said.

  Heidi nodded, satisfied, and beside her, Maria shot her bony hand back into the air. “Can we inspect these horses tonight? Perhaps pick which we would like to ride?”

  The khan shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You will be monitored to make sure nothing happens to my horses.”

  The waiters emerged from the shadows again, bring the contestants their meals. On Yama’s plate sat a fist-sized lump of golden-brown breading—seemingly trapped in a net of more breading—three scoops of mashed potatoes in a triangle, and a pyramid of steamed carrots arranged like lumber. Where’s the meat? Yama wanted to ask, but decided not to, instead poking at the breading, causing flakes to fall off. When he saw that everyone else had begun to eat, he speared the lump through the top and cut down the middle. A browned steak with a deep red core greeted him as steam fled from the cut and into Yama’s nose.

  Anna smiled. “Good, isn’t it?” she asked, drawing a nod from Yama as images of cows with angel wings flooded his mind.

  Lingering ominously to Yama’s side was Kiril’s order from hell, the orange glaze of his wings bubbling. How they didn’t burn through the ceramic, Yama didn’t know, but he knew having two plates of them so close together was a chemical handling violation. Kiril popped one into his mouth, followed by a regular wing, followed by a sip of vodka and then water. He didn’t bother separating the bones from the meat, letting whatever gut-augmentation he had lap up the extra nutrients.

  Across from him, Anna prodded at them nervously, as if considering conceding to Kiril with each nudge. After letting out a deep breath, Anna stabbed two whole wings onto her fork and swiftly swallowed them. Yama would have been impressed at the move if he wasn’t absolutely disgusted. As eyes looked on at the barbarous display—including Kiril—Anna grabbed her glass and guzzled it down before flagging one of the remaining waiters. “Can I get a pitcher of water?”

  Kiril laughed. “That’s actually impressive. I though a girl like you would melt. Can you do the other 16 though?”

  Anna’s glassy skin had turned dark as a blueberry, but she nodded. “Bring it.”

  Otganbayar laughed and brought his hands together. “I can see this will be a lively few days,” he said before cutting into his own dish—an assortment of sushi that Kano had recommended, no doubt—and raising the morsel into the air. “Let us eat and be merry, for tomorrow we shall toil.”

  A samurai must follow his lord.

  There is no benefit from chaos

  The Tenets of Tenshi