“Geez,” muttered Jane. “To think all I got was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
“General Qi’s elite soldiers were renowned for their ingenious tactics,” said Dr. Cherry. “And their weapon of choice was the dao. The Chinese saber.” He pointed to the magnified image on Erin’s computer screen and said, with a note of awe: “It’s amazing to think that’s what this fragment probably came from.”
“A Chinese saber?” said Jane.
“Yes.”
“How can you tell, from that little piece? Couldn’t it be from a Japanese samurai sword?”
“That’s possible, I suppose, since the Japanese learned their swordmaking techniques from the Chinese.”
“And samurai swords are easy to find,” said Tam. “You see them for sale in specialty knife stores.”
“Ah, but those stores don’t sell swords like this one.”
“What’s so special about it?” asked Jane.
“Its age. Based on carbon-fourteen dating.”
Jane frowned. “I thought carbon-fourteen dating was only used for organic material. This is steel.”
“Let’s go back to how ancient swords were made,” said Dr. Cherry. “The traditional technique was to melt iron sand in a forge. That iron was then combined with carbon to form steel. But where do you get the carbon? They used wood ash.”
“And wood is organic,” said Tam.
“Exactly. We extracted the carbon component of this specimen using sealed-tube combustion,” said Erin. “And that carbon was then analyzed.”
“The fragment had to be destroyed?”
“Unfortunately, yes. To date the carbon, the specimen had to be sacrificed. It was the only way we could get an accurate age.”
“And that’s where the big surprise came in,” said Dr. Cherry, a lilt of excitement in his voice.
“I take it this weapon wasn’t bought in some local knife store,” Jane said.
“Not unless that store deals in very old antiques.”
“How old are we talking about?”
Dr. Cherry pointed to the micrograph. “That steel you see there was crafted during the Ming dynasty. Carbon-fourteen dating narrows it down to sometime between the years 1540 and 1590.” He looked at Jane, his eyes aglow. “That just happens to be the era of General Qi’s legendary army. A saber with this degree of craftsmanship could have been wielded by one of his elite soldiers. Maybe it even cut off the heads of a few pirates.”
Jane stared at the image on the computer. “This weapon is over five hundred years old? And it’s still usable?”
“It’s possible to preserve such a sword for a long, long time, but it takes special care, especially if this weapon actually saw use on the battlefield. Blood corrodes steel, even if it’s assiduously wiped away. Exposure to air causes rust and pitting. The blade would need repeated cleaning and polishing over the centuries, and that alone abrades the metal, making the cutting edge brittle. That may be why this particular blade chipped off in the victim’s neck. It’s simply reached the end of its useful life as a killing tool.” He gave a wistful sigh. “What I’d give to examine it! A dao from General Qi’s era would be priceless, if you could just find it.” He paused and frowned at Frost, who had suddenly paled. “Is something wrong, Detective?”
Frost said, softly: “I know where to find that sword.”
Once again, Detectives Rizzoli and Frost have invaded my studio, and this time they’ve brought along a well-dressed black gentleman whose soft-spoken diffidence indicates that he is not a policeman like them. The sudden interruption startles my class, and the dozen students stand frozen, their sparring exercises abruptly halted. Only Bella strides into action, slipping past the students to plant herself beside me. She acts as my fierce guardian, all five foot, four inches of her, including her spiky black hair. I am not surprised to see the visitors, and I cast a glance at Bella that says: Stand down. Allow me to deal with this.
She gives the subtlest of nods but stubbornly remains at my side.
Detective Rizzoli assumes command of the conversation. Of course she would; she wears her authority like a coat of armor. “We understand you’re in possession of an antique sword, Mrs. Fang,” she says. “We ask you to surrender it to us now.”
I look at Detective Frost. It is a cold stare of accusation, and shame darkens his eyes. On the night we shared dinner, the night that a friendship warmed between us, I allowed him to hold Zheng Yi and I shared the sword’s history with him. That night, I saw kindness in his face. Now that face tightens into a mask that closes off any hint of our earlier connection. It is clear that he is a policeman above all, which poisons any possibility of friendship between us.
“If you choose not to hand over the weapon,” says Detective Rizzoli, “we have a search warrant.”
“And if I give you my sword, what will you do with it?” I ask.
“Examine it.”
“Why?”
“To determine if it was used in the commission of a crime.”
“Will it be returned to me undamaged?”
“Mrs. Fang, we’re not here to negotiate. Where is the sword?”
Bella steps forward, fury radiating off her like the hum of a high-voltage wire. “You can’t just confiscate it!”
“The law says I can.”
“Zheng Yi has been in my family for generations,” I say. “It has never left my possession.”
Detective Rizzoli frowns at me. “What is Zheng Yi?”
“The name it was given when it was forged. It means ‘justice.’ ”
“The sword has a name?”
“Why are you surprised? Don’t you have a legend in Western culture, about a sword named Excalibur?”
“Madam Fang,” says the black man, his voice quietly respectful. “Believe me, I don’t want the sword damaged in any way. I understand its value, and I promise I’ll treat it with care.”
“And why should I believe you?” I ask.
“Because it’s my job to protect and preserve such weapons. I’m Dr. Calvin Cherry from the Arthur Sackler Museum, and I’ve examined many ancient swords. I know their history. I know the battles they’ve fought.” He dips his head, a gesture of regard that impresses me. “I would be honored if you’d allow me to see Zheng Yi,” he says quietly.
I look into his soft brown eyes and see a sincerity that I did not expect. This man pronounces the name with a perfect accent, so I know he speaks Mandarin. Even more important, he understands that a fine weapon is to be revered for the skill of its craftsman, and for the centuries it has survived.
“Come with me,” I say. “Bella, please take charge of the class.”
I lead the visitors into the back room and shut the door. From my pocket I take out a key and unlock the closet to reveal the silk-wrapped bundle that lies on the shelf. With both hands, I present it to Dr. Cherry.
He receives it with a bow and carefully sets it on my desk. Detectives Rizzoli and Frost watch as he peels back the layers of red silk, exposing the sheathed weapon. He pauses for a moment to examine the scabbard, which is made of lacquered wood with bronze fittings. The handle, too, is lacquered wood, but covered with stingray skin that has been stained green. When he pulls out the sword, the blade makes a musical whine that sends a thrill across my skin.
“Liuye dao,” he says softly.
I nod. “A willow leaf saber.”
“And you say this comes from your family?”
“It was my mother’s. And before that, her mother’s.”
“How many generations does it go back?”
“All the way to General Washi.”
He looks up, clearly startled. “Truly?”
“It is our family bloodline.”
Detective Rizzoli asks, “Who was he, this general?”
“You’d appreciate this bit of history, Detective,” says Dr. Cherry. “General Washi was a woman, and the most famous of the double dao masters. A warrior who fought with two swords, one in each hand. She comman
ded thousands of soldiers during the Ming dynasty, leading them in charges against those Japanese pirates I told you about.” He looks at me in wonder. “And you’re her descendant.”
Smiling back at him, I nod. “I’m pleased you know of her.”
“But this is astonishing! To think—”
“Dr. Cherry,” cuts in Detective Rizzoli. “What about the sword?”
“Oh yes. Of course.” He pulls out his glasses and slips them on his nose. Behind the lenses, his brown eyes squint in concentration. “This has the typical curve of a willow leaf dao. It’s a very old design,” he explains to the two detectives. “This one is somewhat shorter than usual, but I guess you’d expect it if this weapon was designed specifically for a woman’s hand. These blood grooves here are also typical, meant to make the blade a little lighter. Look at these etchings in the steel! I’m amazed how deep they still are! And this grip, you’d almost think it was original, if you didn’t know it has to be at least five hundred …” He pauses. Above his spectacles, I can see his frown deepen. For the next few moments he says nothing at all. He brings the dao close to his glasses, minutely studying the cutting edge of the blade. He tests the flexibility. Finally, he reaches into his pocket for a magnifier, through which he examines the etched panels.
At last he straightens, and when he looks at me, I see a strange sadness in his eyes. A look that is almost regretful. Quietly, he slides the dao back into the scabbard and holds it out to me. “Madam Fang,” he says. “Thank you for allowing me to see Zheng Yi.”
“Then you are finished with her?” I ask.
“There’s no need for us to take it after all.”
Detective Rizzoli protests, “Dr. Cherry, the crime lab needs to examine it.”
“Trust me, this is not the weapon you’re looking for.”
Rizzoli turns to Detective Frost. “Is it the same sword you saw?”
Frost looks confused. His gaze flicks up and down, between my face and the sheathed sword that I am holding. His face deepens to scarlet as he realizes he may have made a mistake.
“Well, is it?” she asks again.
Frost shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I mean, I only saw the sword for a moment.”
“Detective Frost,” I say coldly, “the next time you visit, I hope you’ll be courteous enough to tell me what it is you really want from me.”
My barb finds its mark, and he flinches as though stung.
Detective Rizzoli sighs. “Mrs. Fang, regardless of what Dr. Cherry says, we still need to take the sword for further study.” She holds out her hands, waiting for me to surrender the prize.
After a pause, I place it in her hands. “I expect it returned to me undamaged.”
As the visitors leave, I see Detective Frost cast a regretful look back, but I wear my disdain like a shield, deflecting any apology. His shoulders are drooping as he walks out the door.
“Sifu?” Bella says softly, stepping into my office.
In the next room, the students continue sparring and kicking, grunting and sweating. She closes the door so they cannot see the look of satisfaction that passes between us.
Move, countermove. The chess game continues, and the police are still one step behind us.
Jane waited until they were halfway down the block, where their cars were parked, before she confronted Dr. Cherry. “How can you be so sure this isn’t the weapon?”
“Take it to the crime lab. Let them examine it if you don’t believe me,” he said.
“We’re looking for an ancient Chinese sword, and she just happens to have one.”
“That sword you took from her isn’t the one you’re looking for. Yes, the blade’s edge has nicks and scars from use, but the etchings and blood grooves are too distinct. Also, the handle appears to be original to that weapon. A wooden handle crafted in the Ming dynasty wouldn’t have survived all these centuries in such good condition.”
“So this sword isn’t old?”
“It’s certainly well made, and it has the proper heft and balance of a Ming dynasty saber. But that sword is just a very good reproduction. At most, it’s maybe fifty, seventy-five years old.”
“Why didn’t you say any of this while we were there?”
“Because it’s clear that she believes it’s real. She believes it was passed down from her ancestors. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion her, not when it means so much to her.” He looked toward the paifang gate. It was now late afternoon, and dinnertime visitors were descending on Chinatown, roaming its narrow streets, staring at menus in windows. Dr. Cherry surveyed the crowd with a look of sadness. “At the museum where I work,” he said, “I’m often asked to evaluate family heirlooms. People bring in all sorts of junk from their attics. Vases and paintings and musical instruments. Things that come with all sorts of mythology attached to them. Almost always, my verdict is disappointing for them because what they bring aren’t treasures, but worthless reproductions. It forces people to question everything they were ever told as children. It destroys their personal mythologies, and I hate having to do it. People want to believe they’re exceptional. They want to believe their family has a unique story to tell, and for proof they point to Grandma’s antique ring, or Grandpa’s old fiddle. Why force them to hear the brutal truth, which is that most of us are utterly ordinary? And the hand-me-down relics we cherish are almost always fakes.”
“Mrs. Fang believes she’s descended from warrior women,” said Frost. “Do you think that’s just another family fantasy?”
“I think it’s something that her parents told her. And they gave her that sword to prove it.”
“So it’s not true. About General Washi.”
“Anything’s possible, Detective Frost. You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”
Jane snorted. “My family mythology was all about how much beer Uncle Lou could chug at one sitting.”
“I doubt that’s the only lore you heard,” said Dr. Cherry.
“I also heard that my great-grandma gave a whole wedding party food poisoning.”
Dr. Cherry smiled. “I’m talking about heroes. There must be at least one of those in your family. Think about it, Detective. Think about how important those heroes are to the way you view yourself.”
Jane did think about it as she drove home, but the first personalities that came to mind were the roguish and the ridiculous. The Rizzoli cousin who tried to prove Santa Claus really could make a traditional entrance, resulting in the emergency dismantling of his mother’s chimney. Or the uncle who livened up a New Year’s party with homemade fireworks and left the hospital minus three fingers.
But there were also stories of quiet dignity, told about a great-aunt who was a nun in Africa. Another great-aunt who struggled to feed eight children in Italy during the war. They could be called heroes, too, but of a quieter kind. Real women who endured, nothing like Iris Fang’s legendary ancestor who fought with two sabers and led soldiers into battle. A fable was what that sounded like, no more real than Sun Wukong the Monkey King, who protected the innocent and battled demons and river monsters. Iris was living in just such a fairy-tale world, where a lonely widow could believe herself a swordmaster with the blood of ancient warriors in her veins. And who could blame her for retreating into such a fantasy? Iris was dying of leukemia. Her husband and daughter were gone. Alone in her sad home, with that sad furniture, did she dream of battlefields and glory? Wouldn’t I?
As she braked at a stoplight, her cell phone rang. Without looking at the caller’s number she answered it, and was treated to an angry voice blasting in her ear.
“What the hell, Jane? Why didn’t you tell me?” said her brother Frankie. “We can’t let her do it.”
She sighed. “I take it this is about Mom’s e
ngagement?”
“I had to hear the news from Mike.”
“I was going to call you, but I’ve been kind of busy.”
“She can’t marry that guy. You gotta stop her.”
“You wanna tell me how I should go about that?”
“She’s still married, for Chrissakes!”
“Yeah. To a man who left her for a bimbo.”
“Don’t talk about Dad like that.”
“Well, he did.”
“That’s not gonna last. Dad’ll come home, you’ll see. He just needs to get out his ya-yas first.”
“Tell that to Mom. See what she says about it.”
“Fuck’s sake, Jane, I can’t believe you’re letting this happen. This is the Rizzoli family. Families oughta stick together. And what do we really know about this Korsak guy, anyway?”
“Come on. We both know he’s okay.”
“What does that mean, he’s okay?”
“He’s a decent human being. And he’s a good cop.” She paused, struck by the fact that she was defending the same man whom she had not particularly relished as a stepfather. But everything she’d said about Korsak was true. He was a decent human being. He was a man you could count on. A woman could do much worse.
“And it’s fine with you that he’s boinking Ma?” said Frankie.
“You have no problem with Dad boinking the Bimbo.”
“That’s different. He’s a guy.”
Now, that pissed her off. “And Mom’s not allowed to boink?” Jane shot back.
“She’s our mother.”
The light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she said, “Mom’s not dead yet, Frankie. She’s good-looking and fun and she deserves another chance at love. Instead of harassing her about this, you go talk to Dad. He’s the reason she went out with Korsak in the first place.”
“Yeah, I will talk to him. Maybe it’s time he took control of this situation.” Frankie hung up.
Control? It was Dad’s lack of control that got us here.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 267
