Daughter of the Sword (10 page)

Saito didn’t bother to mention any of this to Hisami. He barked to one of the house retainers to prepare his horse. Hisami reached out and touched his hand. She swallowed dryly before she spoke. “What’s troubling you?”

He grunted noncommittally. “Nothing. It’s just that Iwatani is so far from here. Our fief has expanded, but it hardly stretches that far. This should be none of my concern.”

This was also a lie, but only partially. Iwatani was his concern by way of sheer coincidence. The town lay a mere thirty
ri
from Seki, on the periphery of Lord Ashikaga’s domain. Its nonstrategic location and small population made it unworthy of a permanent garrison. Thus, if Saito rode to Seki, he would conveniently become Ashikaga’s closest samurai to the area. If Saito hadn’t sent his request, he wouldn’t have been dispatched to Iwatani. Saito wondered whether the errand had been given as a minor form of punishment.

Again he chose not to voice any of this to his wife. She would be suspicious enough of where he’d gone the night before last, and all this time she’d been holding her tongue about his sword. He knew she’d noticed it was gone. She was samurai, after all. That she hadn’t made mention of its absence yet was only a testament to her good sense. If she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to answer, so he wouldn’t have to lie and thus would not be caught in a lie. Her silence preserved honor for both of them. Now if only he could get out of the house and into his saddle before she decided to say something.

“Don’t worry so much,” was her only advice. “The lord has already widened your fief,
neh
? Perhaps he has plans to extend it further. Perhaps he will grant you everything between here and Iwatani! That would be grand, wouldn’t it?”

Saito smiled despite himself. “You are a good woman, Hisami. Buy yourself a new kimono while I’m gone.”

She beamed. “Oh! Thank you! You’re too good to me. Tell me when you’ll be back so I can have it on for you when you return. And then I’ll take it off for you,
neh
?”

He smiled again, but this time it was hollow. Somehow the thought of lying with her made his stomach turn. He was anxious to get on the road and return his Beautiful Singer to his side. “Yes. When I return.”

“When will that be?”

He made some quick calculations in his head and said, “Tomorrow.” On a map Iwatani was farther than Seki, but the road to Seki followed the wide curves of a valley, making that journey the longer one. Getting from Seki to Iwatani involved backtracking along that valley, and he knew he couldn’t retrieve his sword and finish his business in a single day. “There may be a great deal to settle in Iwatani,” he said, stretching the truth again. “I can’t promise I’ll make it home tonight.”

She nodded, smiled, and helped him prepare for his journey. Saito only took a moment to locate the man in charge of his pigeon coops and tell him to start looking for his own replacement. Then he went back to readying himself for the journey to Iwatani. He packed only what he would require for the road, leaving behind everything he knew he might need should he be delayed in Seki and be forced to camp between there and Iwatani. A man didn’t carry a bedroll unless he planned to sleep on it, and as far as Hisami was concerned, Saito would spend tonight at home or at an Iwatani inn. Even as he chose to leave the bedroll stored where it was, he wondered why he was deceiving Hisami yet again this morning. In the seven years they had been married, he couldn’t recall one instance of lying to her before yesterday.

14

“It is an exceptional blade, my lord,” the sword smith stammered. Saito looked at the man quizzically. He was young, not yet thirty, but hardly a boy to be frightened into stammering by the presence of a samurai. He was clad in the white robes of a Shinto priest, a black cap atop his head. All the smiths of Seki were priests, and their swords were fashioned with religious ritualism. It was their reverence and dedication that made them the best. “I have never seen the like.”

“No, you have not.” Saito expected relief to wash over him upon seeing his Beautiful Singer again, but instead his heart plunged into his bowels. The priest’s nervous tone was enough to sicken him, and over the white-robed shoulder he saw his beloved sword lying stripped on the tatami mat behind the priest. The handle was removed from the weapon, and the blade lay naked on a silk cloth. “What have you done to her?” he demanded.

The priest-smith’s eyebrows rose momentarily at the accusation. “N-nothing. The
tachi
is fine; we simply have not remounted the handle yet.”

“Why not?”

“The, um”—the sword smith faltered—“the inscription. You have seen it?”

“No, though you are an insolent one for asking.” The smith might
have been an ordained priest, but he still ranked below a man of samurai lineage. “I know what it says. It is an Inazuma.”

“More than Inazuma, lord. It is the Beautiful Singer.”

Saito’s brow gnarled. “And?”

The priest-smith’s eyebrows jumped again. “I dare not offend you, but it is best that you know: the blade is cursed.”

“Is said to be cursed,” Saito corrected him.

“But the legend—”

“Is nothing but a legend. I’ve faced scores of men on the battlefield; do you expect me to be afraid of mere words?”

The young priest swallowed. “Begging my lord’s forgiveness, ‘mere’ is not a word I would use in connection with this blade.”

“Quite to the point—she is anything but ordinary. I assume the work you have done for me is equally exceptional?”

The priest knew he had already overstepped his bounds and hastily turned to pick up the new
tsuba
. “I sincerely hope it pleases you.”

Saito took the metal disc in his hand. It was black-lacquered steel with the Saito family crest gilded in the center. The crest was a double-diamond motif, one layered atop the other. A hole the shape of an elongated teardrop would allow the
tachi
’s blade to be inserted right through the center of the diamonds. The double diamonds gleamed in gold against the black, and Saito inevitably thought of his deceased father. The Saito clan had long been samurai, but it was Saito’s father who rode into battle under the flag of those diamonds and made them worthy of Ashikaga’s notice. The house of Saito had been a minor one until then, but his father’s victories pushed the family’s star high into the sky, making Saito proud to bear his name. Saito hoped he could accomplish as much himself one day.

Next the priest offered Saito the new scabbard, while two other acolyte-smiths carefully fitted the Inazuma blade with her new grip and
tsuba
. The scabbard was oak, lacquered to a flawless black sheen with the Saito crest once again in gold leaf. The craftsmanship was unsurpassable, the final product a masterpiece, but Saito paid it no
mind. His eyes glossed over the scabbard, but his thoughts remained locked on the sword itself. When the sword smiths finally bowed and presented her to him, it was all he could do not to snatch her out of their hands, and to thank them instead.

Once she was back in his grasp, he felt like a whole man again. Abruptly he realized his earlier haste and tried to cover it. “You have done well,” he said, sheathing the sword. He bowed to the three smiths and they to him; then he was off to Iwatani.

15

The sight of a samurai on horseback was more than enough to terrify the average farmer. In the saddle, any warrior was fearsome—a thousand pounds of galloping muscle were threatening enough—but when that warrior wore the topknot of a samurai, his riding inspired fear and reverence in any commoner. So it was that Saito entered the village of Iwatani. Roads cleared for him, and crowds hushed as he passed. By the time he reached the town square, all eyes were fixed on him.

“Who is your headman?” he bellowed.

A reed of a man scampered out from the encircling crowd and fell to his knees, dust rising around him. “I am, lord.” The village headman was old, nearing sixty, and Saito could see almost every bone and tendon in his body. Few commoners were overweight, but this man looked as if the skin had been pulled tight against his frame by some goblin sitting inside his chest. He was browned by long hours in the rice paddies and wore no more than a loincloth and straw sandals.

Saito looked down at the top of the man’s head. “Your name?”

“You may call me Ojiya if it pleases you, lord.”

Saito urged his horse to retreat a few steps, then dismounted. “Rise, Ojiya. Look at me.”

The frail little man obeyed. He met Saito’s gaze with awe, as if staring
at the very face of Buddha himself. Then, with the same reverence, he dropped his eyes again to Saito’s chin. “My lord?”

“Taxes,” Saito said, seeming to project his height over the man into his voice. It was no wonder the villagers were struck by him. A samurai ate fish and vegetables with every meal; these people were lucky to get more than a bowlful of rice gruel a day. They were also lucky to be drawing breath, Saito reminded himself. Without Ashikaga’s protection, bandits or other warlords would steal even their gruel from them. That protection demanded a price. “Taxes,” he intoned again.

“We have paid ten
koku
, my lord.”

“The tax is forty.”

Ojiya bowed again, trembling with nervousness. “My lord, we have paid what we can. You can see for yourself we have no more.”

Saito’s eyes roamed the surroundings. “I see perhaps a hundred of you standing here. Why are these people not in the fields?”

“My lord, it has not rained in twenty days. Lord Ashikaga must understand—”

“Lord Ashikaga understands what he wishes to understand; you are in no position to tell him what he
must
do.” Saito’s tone earned him a new fit of bowing, heads all around the square bobbing with renewed vigor. “Now, then,” he said after Ojiya returned to his feet, “you will tell me when the remaining thirty
koku
will be paid.”

“Lord, we cannot—”

“You must have something stashed away. How else do all these people get food? I can see for myself that they aren’t farming it themselves.”

“But the rain—”

“Rain does not concern me,” Saito barked. “Lord Ashikaga protects you even through typhoons and earthquakes! If the elements cannot stop him, why should you allow them to stop you?”

Ojiya trembled where he stood. Those around the two could not pull themselves away. “My lord, if we pay even a bowlful of rice more, some of us will starve.”

“I did not come for one bowlful. I came for thirty
koku
.”

“We cannot do it,” the headman stuttered. “Lord Ashikaga asks the impossible.”

“The impossible?” Saito bellowed. “Do you call the lord an imbecile?”

“No!” Ojiya protested. “No, not at all!”

“But everyone knows the impossible cannot be done.”

“Yes, but—”

“So only a true imbecile would demand something no one could possibly satisfy?”

“My lord, I only—”

“Then choose your crime, headman! Have you called the lord a fool, or have you slandered him by telling me of an order he never gave?”

“My lord—”

It was too late. The Inazuma blade hung in the sky just long enough to catch the gleam of the sun, then fell like a diving hawk. The old man’s head bounced next to his feet. A moment later, his body dropped next to it.

Saito whirled the sword in a fast silvery arc that whipped most of the gore from the blade. Bringing it back around, he cleaned the remaining blood between his thumb and forefinger and resheathed the blade without ever looking down to find the scabbard.

“Now, then,” he said grimly to the crowd. “Who is your headman after Ojiya?”

That night Saito lowered himself into a steaming cauldron of water, the bath heated by a volcanic vent. Minerals from deep in the earth scented the spring with flavors of copper and jasmine. Hot water turned his skin red, and fragrant steam misted on the mirrored edge of Beautiful Singer. The steam would permeate the wood of her scabbard and warp it, so he brought her here naked, like himself. How beautiful she was, he thought. Even now she hummed to him.

How enchanting her voice was, never louder than when she sang through the headman’s neck on the town square. It was as perfect a cut as Saito had ever delivered. Ordinarily an
iaidō
sword was not used to behead; such a thin blade was likely to lose its edge on hard bone. Better to slice the front half of the throat, cutting only the soft tissues. That was how Saito had intended to take Ojiya, but at the last moment some impulse made him extend his strike a hand’s breadth further. It was almost as if Beautiful Singer wanted to prove herself to him—or perhaps he wanted to prove himself to her. In either case they were a worthy pair. His draw was flawless, his cut precise, and the Inazuma blade severed the spinal cord without so much as a nick.

He could still feel her song resonating through his hand as he tilted her steel to catch the dim light. He let his shoulders relax against the stone rim of the bath and sunk deeper into the water. The relaxation was well deserved; he’d made a fine showing today. After Ojiya’s execution, the villagers were prompt to produce a large golden Buddha worth almost a
koku
by itself. They promised another nine
koku
by the end of the harvest, thereby doubling the tax they’d already paid. Saito said he would accept the statue and would take their offer before the lord to determine their fate. Every last one of them scattered afterward, save the owner of the inn in which Saito now bathed. The innkeeper was so anxious to avoid the samurai’s wrath that he charged nothing for the room, and proffered a meal such as no one in this village had seen in years.

A heavy meal and a hot bath normally made a man tired, but Saito was feeling energized now that Beautiful Singer was back at his side. His mind was on the future, on the arrangements he would complete here tomorrow, on what would come to pass after that. Success here might warrant further rewards from Lord Ashikaga. He decided not to go home and report to the lord by messenger or pigeon. He would ride to the castle himself.