by Steve Bein
Ashikaga’s black eyes turned down to the lacquered box at the foot of his dais. In the box was a heavy cloth bag, and in the bag was the severed head. “No, Saito-san,” he said, brooding. “You will continue your story. Perhaps he truly was insane. Tell me the rest.”
Saito related the end of the tale, from the deathblow to the funeral pyre, describing every detail except the swords. He had no fear that Ashikaga would recognize the difference in his tachi’s new tsuba, for no one entered the lord’s audience chamber armed, save the bodyguards and Lord Ashikaga himself. The steward downstairs who had taken Saito’s weapon was not of a position to recognize the difference in swords, and so for the present Saito’s secret would remain so. But it was with strong reluctance that he surrendered the blade at the door. Even as he thought of it now, the singing whistle he had heard in the forest echoed in the audience chamber, the tip of the sword crying out like a swooping steel falcon. How could the steward not know this was a blade above all others? Just the feel of it was divine, even still in its scabbard. Saito eased his tension in the knowledge that he would be rejoined with his sidearm soon enough.
Ashikaga’s rumbling tones brought Saito’s attention back to the audience chamber. “You have been honest with me, Saito-san, even at the cost of your lord’s honor and your own. You were correct to have burned the traitor’s body; had you returned him here, I would not have allowed it. Your judgment is good, and both you and Nakadai-san have demonstrated your loyalty. You will not go as rōnin.”
Those words released the last uneasiness Saito had been holding, heavy in his gut since he arrived here. A samurai’s life consisted of devotion to his master, and without a master that life became purposeless. It was Lord Ashikaga’s prerogative to dismiss all of Kanayama’s samurai and let them go as rōnin, masterless warriors, to further dishonor the Kanayama name. Death would have been preferable; that much was obvious. Now Saito would not have to face such a fate, for Ashikaga had chosen to commandeer Kanayama’s samurai and transfer their loyalty to him. The change would be an easy one for Saito; he already revered the old daimyo more than he could express. It had only been a matter of whether Ashikaga would accept such fealty, and now that worry had been swept away.
“Thank you, Ashikaga-dono,” Saito said, bowing. “My life and my sword are yours.”
“I am sending my third son to Kanayama’s castle tomorrow. He will be the new lord there. You will accompany him and introduce him to his new home.”
“Yes, lord.”
“How large is your current fief?”
“Five hundred koku, my lord.”
“Now it is a thousand. When you arrive at Gifu with my son, he will select six of Kanayama’s finest horses for you to take with you.” Ashikaga noted Saito’s puzzled look and added, “If you had returned my corpse to my enemy, my spirit would have haunted you for the rest of your life and slit your soul’s throat when you died. You chose wisely, Saito-san.”
Saito wondered what Nakadai had said when Ashikaga had summoned him to this room, whether he too had received such rewards. Maybe it was my suggestion to build the pyre, Saito thought. No matter. The lord will increase or decrease my holdings as he sees fit, and a good vassal should pay it no mind one way or the other.
But his new lord’s approval assuaged any lingering guilt he felt about taking Kanayama’s sword. Ashikaga might have hung Kanayama’s body from his doorpost, or fed it to his dogs, or ordered Beautiful Singer to be melted down, reforged into a chamber pot. There was no telling with him. Better to cremate Kanayama as they had, and to rescue Beautiful Singer as he did. It was not as if he’d stolen the sword for profit. A good vassal paid such things no mind.
All the same, when Saito returned home four days later with six new horses and a wide smile, his wife was pleased. Hisami was a beautiful woman, statuesque, not tiny and frail like the courtesans so many women tried to imitate. Of course Saito was long-boned himself, and so Hisami stood only to his shoulder. Among the other ladies, however, she held herself proud and tall like a hunting falcon on the wrist, sleek neck and gleaming eyes, knowing no fear. Today her kimono was pale orange with her underrobe showing the purest white. Her hair was, as ever, immaculate, wide set with two long pins retaining her bun. Saito knew for a fact what anyone else might have guessed: that the pins were actually knives. For Hisami was samurai like her husband, and equally prepared to take up arms and spill her life’s blood at her master’s command.
She was delighted to see the horses—the late lord’s stables were excellent—and even happier at the expanded fief. One koku was the amount of rice it took to feed one person for a year, and five hundred additional koku would extend the Saito fief to annex the next town as part of its estate. It still wasn’t much, comparatively. Kanayama had been collecting taxes from some twelve thousand koku before he died, and Ashikaga’s domain was at least thirty times that, but a true samurai did not measure his wealth that way. Farmers and filthy merchants had to trouble themselves with such matters; monetary affairs were beneath Saito’s notice. He would certainly make use of that wealth in equipping new retainers with swords and armor, but the details would be left to his housemaid. Finances were a concern for moneylenders and women.
As such, Hisami was delighted. “The lord must be very happy with you,” she chirped, beaming as he handed over the horses and accompanied her to the tea room. “Doubling your fief, and having you escort his son as well. As a bodyguard, no doubt. I’m sure that’s why he sent you.”
A mouse-faced maid entered noiselessly, set down a tray with tea and cups, and vanished just as inaudibly as she had come in. “No,” Saito said. “Lord Ashikaga needed someone who knew Kanayama’s castle. That’s why he sent me.”
“That may be. But didn’t Nakadai-san spend as much time there as you did? And yet you were chosen. Nakadai did not kill Lord Kanayama. Oh, don’t look so surprised. The stories got here days ago. Lord Kanayama made a mistake, and it is a shame he had to die without face, but all the same, he was Kanayama Osamu. Ashikaga-dono sent over a dozen to kill him, yet you did it alone.”
“I did it with Nakadai. And with regret.” He sipped his tea. “Still, there is something to what you say.”
Hisami bowed; better to thank her husband for being gracious enough to acknowledge her than to appear the insistent wife. “Our new master is very happy with you indeed. Why, he could have left us to rot as rōnin! After all, that…Where is your sword?”
Saito’s spine bristled with tiny nails of ice. “What?”
“Your tachi,” she said. “This one is different. The hilt and the tsuba have foxes on them.”
“Ah. Yes.” His stomach twisted; a dull pain shot down into his testicles. Somehow he suppressed any change in his face or voice. “My tachi was broken in the battle. I decided to leave it with the master’s body when we put him on the pyre.” Despite the nausea, the lie came smoothly enough. “It was an excellent blade. Even in dying, Kanayama exacts his price.”
Hisami was silent for a pregnant moment, and Saito wondered whether his voice had been as even to her ears as it was to his. Finally she said, “Yes, that is a shame. It was a fine weapon, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose this one will do. Lord Ashikaga gave it to me along with the rest.”
“Hm. I hadn’t heard that part of the story. Surely there is no shame in losing a blade to Kanayama, as good as he was. Strange to omit that part, neh? Hm.”
Saito forced himself not to swallow. “You know how rumors are. By the time a story gets to the next village, it is hardly recognizable. Surely the details were simply forgotten in the telling, somewhere along the way?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But have I seen those foxes before?”
The throbbing in his abdomen redoubled. This is what had worried him ever since he’d left the funeral pyre. Several years before, Lord Kanayama had visited Saito’s home. It happened only once, just after he and Hisami were married. Saito and the lord sat together and Hisami poured tea. But it
was the mark of a samurai to notice at all times the weapons carried by anyone around him—or her. A good wife had to have an eye for detail as well, in order to appropriately praise guests and to direct conversation when a lull or an unwelcome topic emerged. Hisami was both a good wife and a good samurai. She would surely have noticed the finely worked foxes resting at Kanayama’s hip, and now everything depended on whether her memory had kept what her eye had caught. Saito cut off a curse and waited for the worst.
But today the gods were smiling on him. “I would swear I’ve seen them before,” she said finally, “but I haven’t got a clue where. Perhaps it was in another life. No matter. I suppose I’ve seen a thousand different swords coming through our village; why shouldn’t this one look familiar, neh?”
Saito nodded, wanting to exhale all the stress in his chest but afraid to do it as long as she sat before him. “You can put these foxes out of your mind. Tomorrow I’m going to have the sword remounted with a new tsuba. I think the crest of the house of Saito.” He nodded, looking back at the foxes. “Yes, I think my father’s crest would be excellent there.”
“It certainly will. I’ll send someone to the sword smith immediately to make the arrangements.”
9
Hisami couldn’t let her eyes rest on the new tachi without rage welling up in her. How could those fools be so useless? Her husband had trekked across forty ri to get home, and over all that distance those ignorant, lowborn, misbegotten sons of peasants still couldn’t manage to forewarn her about the sword. Why on earth did she hire spies in the first place, if not to give her information? They’d told her about the money, and the expanded fief; even the number of horses was correct. But the sword—a sword he would have ridden to the castle without, and which would have been gifted to him before he ever received the horses—how could they have failed to notice it?
She was astonished that her husband remained as calm as he’d been, though for every minute their conversation lingered on the weapon he’d looked as if he were going to burst. He had a right to be upset; she should have had the alcove and sword stand already prepared before he ever entered the village. Now she was going to have to sneak a priest in here and have the alcove and stand blessed without her husband’s noticing. No, she decided. Better yet, she would do it when he got the new crossguard fitted, and tell him the blessing was for the sword now that it was truly his own. Yes, the family crest would be perfect for that. Certainly he would not be angry then.
In the meantime she was going to have to set some of those newly acquired koku aside for hiring more spies, and more competent ones at that. How was she to be a proper hostess if she didn’t know who her unannounced guests would be well before they arrived? Drooling ill-bred mongrels! How she had gotten by this long with such incompetents in her employ was beyond her understanding.
She was so mad at them, she almost didn’t notice her husband’s tension. Riding usually took that out of him; he was so natural in the saddle. Today, though, he was decidedly on edge. Was it her failure with the sword stand? Somehow his unease didn’t seem to be directed at her. Unless…yes, of course that was it. It was almost two weeks ago that he’d left, and before he departed, she’d had her monthly bleeding and they hadn’t been able to…Yes, it was clear to her now. It had simply been too long for him.
An easy problem to solve, she thought, touching her hair. She’d fix it tonight.
10
The singing of cicadas woke Saito from his sleep. A sheen of sweat cooled his chest as a breeze blew through the tiny gap in the sliding paper doors. Hisami lay next to him, naked, her nipples lavender in the blue moonlight. She was still sound asleep—but then, she could not hear the haunting sound.
Somehow the melody of the cicadas echoed the whistle of the Inazuma blade slicing through the air. It was as if the two sung in harmony, his memory of the sword’s song a soprano to the alto of the chirping cicadas outside. He could not ignore their harmonizing. It seemed impossible, but as he recalled it, the sword’s hum through the air was an uncanny match to the chirping in the garden. After a minute or two he found he could repress neither the cicadas’ song nor the intrusion of his memories, so he got out of bed. His feet padded silently to the door. Sliding it aside, he stepped through to the next room and closed the door behind him. Hisami stirred slightly as the breeze swelled through the widened gap, but rolled back into her pillow as soon as he pushed the door back home.
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 Sa
ito, 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?”
