Daughter of the Sword

by Steve Bein

  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.

  16

  “Fool!” barked Ashikaga. “You killed him for that?”

  “Of course,” Saito said defensively. “He insulted you.”

  “He did nothing of the kind. Of course I ask the impossible! Ask these lazy peasants for three koku and the most you can possibly hope for is one. But if I want one koku and that is all I demand, I will never see half of it. They never do the least bit of work unless you ask the impossible. Making them strive hopelessly is the only way to meet the least of your expectations.”

  Saito’s face reddened under the barrage of Ashikaga’s words. He bowed his head, not out of deference but to hide his shame and rage. “My lord,” he stammered with all the control he could muster, “I—”

  “Silence. You only harm yourself by speaking.”

  It was all Saito could do to stay in place on the floor. Never before had he wished he were armed in the presence of his master. Now he yearned to hear the familiar song ringing in this chamber.

  “Look up,” Ashikaga’s bear-voice said. Saito swallowed his anger and looked the old warlord in the eye. “I am too harsh with you,” Ashikaga rumbled. “You are no politician; it is not your place to understand such things as taxes.”

  Saito was astonished. An apology from Ashikaga was unheard of. Still, in this case, Saito thought, it was certainly warranted. “You did well in bringing this statue to me,” Ashikaga went on. “As for the nine koku, I doubt they will produce more than two. Even then, I hope it does not kill too many of them to give it up. You do understand, dead farmers pay no taxes.”

  “No, Ashikaga-dono,” Saito muttered, bristling at the insult, “they do not.”

  “I must instruct my samurai better in the ways of politics. Or else I must send better-educated men to perform my errands.”

  This too made Saito grit his teeth. He said nothing in response.

  “I can see you wish to take your leave,” the lord’s gravelly voice intoned. “You are dismissed.”

  Saito bowed low, then stalked out of the room. Only when the door slid shut behind him did he release a growl of frustration. The audacity of that man! A samurai’s existence was truly thankless, Saito thought. Even in apology, the lord found room to ridicule. He stormed down the stairs and into the weapon steward’s chamber, where Beautiful Singer awaited him on a tall black stand against the far wall. Six other tachi were racked above her.

  “Which one is yours, sir?” asked the sword steward, a boy of about twenty.

  “Only the finest weapon in this room. How dare you place her below those others?”

  The steward started at Saito’s tone and dashed to retrieve his sword. “My apologies, sir, and please pardon me for not recognizing it as yours. It is a different blade from the one you last left with me, is it not?”

  “Certainly not,” Saito snapped, his hands hungry to hold her again. “And for one who does nothing but handle swords all day, you should remember quality of this caliber by feel alone!” He snatched back the sword like a wild dog tearing meat.

  “My apologies again,” the steward said, faltering. “I only meant that the scabbard and the tsuba, they are new, are they not? And quite beautiful, if I may say so.”

  Saito’s hackles rose. “New scabbard?” Why should this boy notice something like that? He thinks I have something to hide, Saito thought. A new sheath means a new sword, and that means he knows about Beautiful Singer. “Insolent cur! What makes you think I have something to hide?”

  The steward’s eyes went wide with bewilderment. “You wouldn’t, sir! By all gods and buddhas, I never thought anything like that!”

  Saito lunged into the room, kicking the table aside and sending the steward back on his heels. The boy tripped backward and tumbled to the ground, his head striking the sword rack.

  “Do you dare to draw a weapon on me, boy?”

  “No!”

  “Then why move for the swords?” Saito took another menacing step forward and the steward scrambled from the room on all fours. He regained his footing and dashed for the hall. Stumbling, he landed face-first against the wall outside. He turned in terror as his aggressor emerged from the room. Saito wrapped his fingers around Beautiful Singer’s grip; he could already hear her song in the air.

  “Stop!”
>
  The command rumbled like thunder. Saito’s gaze shot up the stairs and saw Ashikaga towering there, livid. His scars and his glare were more fearsome than his sword, though that too now hung at his hip. “Explain yourself, Saito!”

  “This boy insulted me,” he said angrily. “He insulted me and my sword. I would reclaim my honor.”

  “Swords do not feel insults,” the lord said, glowering, “and since you are my sword, neither should you.”

  “My lord, his impudence—”

  “Stands. At my pleasure. He is a trusted man, and there are not many so trustworthy as to guard the weapons at my very door. Takagi!”

  Takagi, the steward, was stunned to speechlessness, but he acknowledged his master’s summons with a hasty, trembling bow. “Apologize to this man,” Ashikaga growled, “for any offense you have paid him.”

  It took a moment for Takagi’s tongue to function. “Ap-apologies, sir. A thousand apologies.”

  “There,” the old warlord said. “Does that satisfy your honor?”

  It was not a question. “It will have to,” Saito replied, his voice hollow. In equally hollow words he added, “A thousand apologies to you as well, Ashikaga-san, for the disturbance.”

  17

  At last these spies are doing me some good, Hisami told herself. Her new hires were working out better than anticipated. Of course she knew her husband was at Lord Ashikaga’s stronghold; even the most incompetent of her informants could have told her that. What was new came from Seki. One of the informers she had just put on salary hailed from that region, and he was able to tell his mistress where her husband had gone on last week’s midnight ride. What business the lord had in Seki, he couldn’t say, but Hisami realized immediately what his only purpose there could have been. He’d left with his sword and come back without it; he could only have paid a visit to the sword smiths.

  But why go in the dead of night? And why ride there and back at such a furious pace? Hisami was puzzled. Surely Lord Ashikaga would not have taken offense to such a simple errand had Saito only made the request. Strange indeed, she thought. What on earth could have been so urgent in Seki?

  There was only one way to find out. She called a stable hand to prepare her favorite horse. When she told him to pack her things for an overnight stay, the servant shot her a conspiratorial look; it was untoward behavior for a woman to leave the house without her husband, and downright scandalous for her to sleep elsewhere. No matter, she thought. Saito need not learn of it. It was one day’s leisurely ride to Seki, and a hard two days’ ride to Ashikaga’s castle. Even if her husband still had a mind to run his horse into the ground, she should still be able to beat him home.

  She pushed her steed harder than usual nonetheless, in order to reach Seki before sundown. Mountain roads were more dangerous for a lone woman than they were for a man, and while she knew she could handle any brigands foolish enough to cross a samurai’s path, it was pointless to invite trouble. Her course of action was reckless enough as it was.

  The sun was just dipping below the treetops when her horse trotted through Seki’s main gate. She presumed the priests would have retired from their forges by now, so she paid for a room at the inn and had a dinner there of tofu and abalone. The next morning, she set out to find a sword smith.

  “I am Saito Hisami,” she told the black-robed youth who answered the door at the foundry. “I wish to speak to the man who met my husband.”

  The acolyte ran off and soon returned, accompanied by a surprisingly young man wearing white robes and a black hat. “Saito-sama,” the priest said nervously. “Please, come in.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said, following him to a sitting room. “I do not come to express dissatisfaction with your work.”

  “Understood, madam, but I fear what you have come to talk about is far worse.”

  “Oh?” The two of them sat, and the boy disappeared. The air was thick with the smell of steel and smoke, and noticeably hotter than it should have been. The priest was sweating, though Hisami could not tell whether it was from nervousness or the heat from the forges.

  “You are the wife of the Saito who came to have his hand guard and scabbard replaced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know your husband carries an Inazuma blade.”

  “Hardly! He could never afford—”

  She stopped herself in midthought. Inazuma’s works were priceless; not even by selling the entire Saito fief could she acquire one. Indeed, she’d only ever seen one in her life, and that one belonged to…Kanayama Osamu. The memory instantly resurfaced in her mind. The twin foxes! That was House Kanayama’s symbol, and now it was on her husband’s weapon. That was why he had come here so quickly: to have the late lord’s crest removed before she could remember where she’d seen it. The shame of it was unbearable; her husband was a thief. There could be no other explanation. Kanayama could have bequeathed the blade to Saito before his death, but that would have been a thing of honor, not something to ride off in the dead of night to conceal.

  “Thank you,” she told the priest uneasily. “I believe I understand the situation now.”

  “I’m afraid you do not,” he cautioned. “Whether or not the sword is your husband’s, you must know the truth of it. It is cursed.”

  “Cursed? Rubbish!”

  “It is true, my lady. Master Inazuma crafted that sword especially for Motoyori Hidetada, the famous warlord of Echizen. Motoyori was renowned for his swordsmanship and also for his passions. He never married, but he was known to have regular beds in pleasure houses throughout the north. One of his consorts was a geisha whose beauty was said to be unmatched. Her voice was also without equal, and it is said she used to sing him to sleep.

  “The story goes that this geisha fell in love with Motoyori and wanted to marry him. Of course a high-ranking samurai like Motoyori could never marry a woman of her profession, so instead she begged him to give up all other women but her.”

  “And did he?”

  “A man cannot deny any request from such a beautiful woman. He said he would be hers alone, but as I said, he was a man of great passions. Inevitably he became unfaithful to her, and when she learned of it, she tried to kill him. No mere geisha could best a swordsman of his caliber, of course, but she caught him unawares. Ordinarily he would have tried to restrain her, but he reacted unthinkingly to her surprise attack and killed her.

  “Motoyori was so distraught by her death that he brought the blade that killed her back to Master Inazuma. He composed a death poem for his lover such as befits the passing of a samurai, not a lowly prostitute. Inazuma inscribed the poem on the tang of the blade. I have seen it myself:

  The glorious sun,

  nigh on reaching its zenith,

  shaded by my hand.

  “She was the sun, you see, glorious in her beauty and becoming ever more so until his hand put out her light. The sword became known as the Beautiful Singer thereafter.”

  Hisami’s forehead furrowed. “A sad story, to be sure, but hardly a curse.”

  “Motoyori only shaded the sun; he did not extinguish it forever. It is said her spirit followed the weapon, and when her death poem was inscribed, she entered the blade as well. Since his passions betrayed her, she would make them become his downfall as well. The sword performed better than ever after her death, a fact only to be explained by her spirit’s strength guiding it. It is said to be lighter and faster than any other blade, and truly, madam, it is so. My own hands have held it. But her will exerts itself from within the sword. She drove Motoyori mad with rage and jealousy until finally he could no longer control himself. The urges within him took over, and he died senselessly in a duel. He drunkenly accused another man of sleeping with one of his favorite prostitutes and was cut down in the street, too blind with jealousy for his sword to find its mark.”

  Hisami let out a long breath. It was evident in the priest’s manner that he earnestly believed every word of his tale to be true. Indeed, he was so s
erious that Hisami was almost inclined to believe him.

  She shook her head, and better sense took over. “What does this have to do with my husband? He never knew this woman; she would have died hundreds of years ago.”

  “The sword remains possessed to this day, madam. All who have owned it have died. Some men fall quickly to its spell, others last longer, but every man succumbs. If I may ask, my lady, is your husband a passionate man or a temperate one?”

  “How dare you even ask? Every samurai controls his emotions when needed.” She surprised herself with her harsh tone, and immediately she wondered why she’d snapped at him like she did. After a pensive moment she understood. “My husband is…well, in certain company he can be quick to laugh. And quick to anger.”

  “Then I fear the Beautiful Singer will make short work of him. You must get the sword from him and have her spirit exorcised.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? The sword’s scarcely left his side since he brought it home.”

  “All the more evidence that it is still possessed, my lady.”

  The priest had a point, she thought. Why else would a man leave his bed, his wife, in the middle of the night for the sake of a sword? “Why didn’t you exorcise it when you had it here?”

  “We had no time,” the smith-priest pleaded earnestly. “It was all we could do just to complete the work he’d commissioned in the time he allowed. We only knew the name of the sword after we removed the handle, and by that time he was already on his way here to retrieve it.”

  “And you told him what you told me?”

  “Only that it was cursed, madam. He refused to listen to anything else.”

  Hisami considered the priest’s tale. Possession? She thought only farmers scared each other with legends like that. Still, the story went a long way to explain her husband’s behavior. He had always been “passionate,” to use the priest’s term, but never impulsive. Rashness was not a good quality in a samurai. The past five days were different, though. Riding off like that, then returning in a huff, leaving again the next morning: it wasn’t normal.