Free Daughter of the Sword by Steve Bein Page A

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 Saito, 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