Daughter of the Sword (9 page)

Beautiful Singer was sitting in the sword stand in the alcove. A moonbeam shone through one of the paper windows and cast a silky square of luminescence over the weapon. The blade’s song echoed in Saito’s mind. He walked over to the alcove and picked up the sword.

Its balance could not have been more perfect. Soundlessly he
slid the sword from its ill-fitting sheath and spun it through the air. It was a thing of beauty. Inazuma truly was a master among masters; no other sword smith could possibly duplicate the balance of lightness and strength Saito now held in his hand. Still naked, he had nowhere to wear the scabbard, so he laid it aside, then wrapped both hands reverently around the silk-bound sharkskin handle. Beautiful Singer floated in his grasp. He stepped forward and back with it in a ready stance, the Inazuma blade becoming one with him. A silent step off line, and he executed a mock parry and slash. The blade sang again as it fell, and indeed, somehow the cicadas were able to harmonize with it. It was as if Inazuma had taken the pulse of the heart of nature itself and crafted this sword with its rhythm. The gleam of the moon off the blade, the way it hummed in perfect harmony with the cicadas’ song—the effect was unmistakable. Saito had never experienced a more perfect human creation in all his life.

Shoving the sword back into that inferior scabbard would almost taint the weapon. Still, he could hardly leave its blade exposed in the sword stand. He glanced outside and saw the moon was still high in the sky. It would be hours before daybreak, hours before a new scabbard could be commissioned. Saito looked at the sheath on the floor indecisively. One of the horses stirred outside. Horses. Of course, he thought. Wasn’t the city of Seki just half a day’s ride away? And wasn’t Seki home to the finest craftsmen in the country when it came to swords? The smiths, the polishers, the men who braided cords for the grips—Seki was home to them all. The finest blades in the world were crafted in Seki, only six or seven hours from here. Saito picked up the scabbard and resheathed the
tachi
. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but for tonight the Beautiful Singer must wear a shoddy kimono.” Then he dressed quietly and prepared for his ride.

11

It was well after noon when Hisami learned her husband was returning. A rider burst into the compound, enveloped in a cloud of dust from the road, and reported that Saito was coming from the west and would arrive within the hour. She cursed the messenger for his lateness and ineptitude—a necessity, since thanking an informant would only make him lazy the next time—and sent another servant into town to fetch the sword smith.

She didn’t have the first clue where her husband had been, nor why he’d slipped away in the middle of the night. The sword wasn’t resting in the alcove when she awoke, but that meant nothing; a samurai was never without it. For a moment she was afraid she would find his body sprawled in the garden, slain by an assassin or a burglar during the night. She knew it didn’t make sense—why would anyone kill him and leave her alive?—but all the same she had searched the grounds that morning and found no trace of him. Nor did she see any signs of a struggle, nor any evidence that a messenger from Lord Ashikaga had come to summon her husband away. Though her network of servants and messengers stretched for twenty
ri
in every direction, not a single one of them could tell her of her husband’s whereabouts. Several had heard a single horse galloping hard in the night, but none of the useless dung-eating cretins had identified the rider. Of course it was him, she thought. To think they did not even recognize their own lord!
Hisami had relied on imbecilic farmers and craftsmen long enough. With the new wealth Lord Ashikaga had bestowed on the house of Saito, she would hire night watchmen to be her eyes and ears.

The only assumption she was left with was that her husband had gone to one of the pleasure houses. She could accept that, but it didn’t explain why he’d been away so long. Perhaps last night hadn’t satisfied him. It had pleased her well enough, but somehow he seemed distracted. It was only natural for a man to go to a pleasure house if his wife could not sate him, but why go to one so far from home? How was she supposed to settle the bill if she didn’t know which brothel had serviced him?

She masked her frustration as well as she could when Saito finally rode up to the house. She could see the sword smith coming down the road, shuffling in his deep blue robes, and she knew her husband would be happy to have his sword taken to be remounted. There was one problem, however: Saito wasn’t wearing his sword.

“By all gods,” Hisami exclaimed as he dismounted, “you gave me a fright. Where did you go last night?”

“What concern is it of a wife’s where her husband chooses to go?” His voice was gruff, and she could see the sleeplessness under his eyes.

“I do not mean to pry. I was only worried—”

“Stop questioning me, woman! If you want to worry, worry about getting some tea and something to eat. I’m starving.”

With an effort she bottled her exasperation. Now she would have to find some excuse to send the sword smith away. Getting him to come back again would be another feat; how could she explain that her samurai husband was without his
tachi
? How could she explain to her husband that to protect his honor, a respected artisan had to be curtly turned away?

Before she could deal with any of that, however, she knew she had to dispel his anger. She sweetened her voice. “Of course. How thoughtless of me. Here, let me help you with your sandals. Haruko!” The name came from her mouth like the crack of a whip. Instantly a servant girl appeared. “Tea for the master! Can’t you see he is exhausted from riding? And rice, and fish! Can’t you see he is hungry?”

12

Hisami disappeared out the front door almost as quickly as the serving girl disappeared through the back, leaving Saito alone to wonder what had gotten into his wife. Usually she was properly obedient, but today she was salty. No, he corrected himself. Her tongue always carried an edge. That was one of the things that attracted him to her: she wasn’t a meek little rabbit like so many other women. Still, there were times when such a tongue did not befit a woman, and it had already been a long day. The old saying held true: a samurai should allow himself to be wedded only to the sword.

It drove Saito mad to be without his Beautiful Singer. He always felt naked without a blade at his hip, and now that feeling was especially strong. The night ride to Seki was hard and very dangerous in the dark, but with his new weapon bouncing at his side he’d felt no fear. Naturally, he rode back in daylight, and though he was safe from the many dangers of riding by starlight, the trip home left him feeling far more vulnerable. In the dark, pushing a horse to its limit had its thrills: ducking the occasional low-hanging branch, wondering when or if his horse would falter, break a leg, or throw him. Riding unarmed in broad daylight held no such excitement, only the ignominious possibility of being waylaid by bandits.

Saito shook his head and watched Haruko, the serving maid, quietly set tea before him on a lacquered tray. Wrinkles gnarled his cheeks as he
pursed his lips in a self-reprobating frown. It was no band of highwaymen that left him feeling cold this morning. It was the sword, or rather the lack of it, and he knew it. Even without his
tachi
, Saito wasn’t completely unarmed. In his waistband he still wore his
wakizashi
, a short sword that no self-respecting samurai was ever without. As fine a sword as it was, a
tachi
could break in battle. That was simple reality. A
wakizashi
was never to be used in combat except in the event that a warrior found himself without his primary weapon. But the true purpose of the
wakizashi
was to be an ever-present reminder of the samurai’s mortality. There were only two honorable ways for a true follower of Bushido to die: in battle, or by his own hand in the act of seppuku. Both were the highest act of sacrifice in the service of one’s lord. The
wakizashi
was the implement of seppuku, and since honor might demand a samurai’s death at any time, he could never be without his short sword. No bandit could face Saito and his
wakizashi
and live. Saito knew that. Even though it was a shorter weapon, he was more than skilled enough to turn that disadvantage against an enemy. It was not the highway thieves that worried him on his ride back from Seki; it could only have been the sword.

What if something happened to her? The craftsmen of Seki were the best in the land, perhaps the best in the world, but, still, none of them was on a level with the immortal master Inazuma. Would they show Beautiful Singer the respect she deserved? Saito grunted and sipped his tea. Of course they would. These were men who devoted their lives to the sword just as Saito had, albeit in a different manner. They would have no choice but to honor her. How could anyone fail to recognize her beauty, her perfection?

And if they did fail? Saito wasn’t sure how the question crept back into his thoughts. As he replaced the cup on its tray, a falcon keened outside. The cry swept over the house as the bird continued to circle, and Saito heard a familiar note in it, the song of his Beautiful Singer. What if she was somehow damaged? The question was ineluctable, and with a moment’s reflection he knew the answer: anyone who tarnished that sword would die.

It could be no other way. His response was only natural, he assured himself. Anybody who saw someone destroy a great work of art would be similarly moved. Could a person simply look on as a madman put the sculptures of Unkei to the torch? Could one stand by and allow someone to tear
The Tale of the Heike
to shreds? Never. None of the artisans at Seki would do any harm to his Beautiful Singer, but no one who damaged her could live.

Settled by his decision, Saito began eating his meal. A bowl of steaming rice and a small rectangular plate with slices of raw octopus were sitting on the table before him. Saito realized the serving girl had set them there without his noticing, and the realization shook him. Ordinarily it was impossible for someone to enter a room without his being immediately aware of how they stood, whether they were armed, what defenses there were from where he was seated. That a mere servant could walk in on him unawares was troubling, to say the least. “The ride,” he said to himself, taking a mouthful of rice from his chopsticks. It must have been the ride that exhausted him so.

He nodded, satisfied, and dipped a purple-and-white slice of octopus in a shallow dish of soy sauce and wasabi that Haruko had left him. Yes, it
was
the ride. He’d been in the saddle for twelve of the past fourteen hours, more than enough to wear on any man. If it had been left to him, Saito would have stayed the day in Seki, waited to retrieve his sword, and returned home the following afternoon. But no samurai was his own man. Saito was only an instrument of Lord Ashikaga, and Ashikaga did not like his vassals running about without his knowledge. Not even a high-ranking samurai would leave his own village without the lord’s consent. Allowing one’s warriors to go where they pleased was the surest way to invite insurrection and assassination. Saito was lucky that he fell in the middle ranks among Ashikaga’s legions, high enough to wear the twin swords and topknot but low enough to escape scrutiny of his every move. Still, it would not do for him to be absent from home should the lord’s messengers come to call. It would also be imprudent to make another unauthorized voyage to Seki; next time he would need permission.

The next time, he knew, would be soon. The craftsmen he’d commissioned in Seki told him that if they rushed, they could finish Saito’s new
tsuba
by tomorrow. Saito knew they would have to keep their forges burning day and night to do it; so much the better, he thought. Weren’t these tasks what the lower castes were born for? The wooden scabbard he requested would be ready by then as well, and wraps for the grip and sheath were readily available. Very well, he decided as he scooped the last of the rice into his mouth. It would be tomorrow.

He sent for Haruko again and ordered her to tell the house’s head messenger to prepare a carrier pigeon. Soon enough the messenger came to the porch, and Saito dictated a request to make the trek to Seki. Satisfied, Saito went to the bath already prepared for him and drifted off to sleep.

13

In the morning a new pigeon was waiting in the coop of the Saito clan compound. A tiny cylinder of hollowed bone was tied to its leg, and the case found its way to Saito’s breakfast table. He slid the translucent scroll of paper from the little tube and read it silently.

Hisami’s curiosity was obvious. “Lord Ashikaga sends word?”

“Yes,” Saito replied. “He says the taxes are late in Iwatani. I am to go immediately to investigate.” It was only a lie of omission. The tiny note did in fact say all of that. It also said that Saito’s voyage to Seki was approved, but that in the future he would not be so vague in his requests of the lord. This last part was not stated directly but rather by nuance. Not that Ashikaga himself had ever shied away from being blunt. Quite the opposite: the man had no talent whatsoever as a diplomat. Subtlety was beyond him, perhaps even beneath him. But a pigeon could only bear so much weight in flight, and there was only so much room to write on such a tiny scroll. The note’s actual text read, “Iwatani taxes late. Investigate and report. Seki approved; kill your pigeon keeper.”

Though unstated, the true message was clear. Saito’s communiqué was deemed curt, presumptuous, and wholly improper for a vassal of his lowly status. He had committed an act of gross misjudgment in making his vacuous request to go to Seki without informing the lord of his purposes, but this time the lord would choose to interpret this
as the messenger’s mistake. Saito would have to find himself a new pigeon master, a man of greater discretion. This essentially meant Ashikaga would never grant Saito this sort of reprieve again. One warning was more than the lord was wont to give, and though the note made Saito’s face redden, he knew he was lucky.