Daughter of the Sword by Steve Bein

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