Free Daughter of the Sword by Steve Bein Page B

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?”

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    Hisami disappeared out the front door almost as quickly as the serving girl disappeared through the back, leaving Saito alone to wonder what had gotten into his wife. Usually she was properly obedient, but today she was salty. No, he corrected himself. Her tongue always carried an edge. That was one of the things that attracted him to her: she wasn’t a meek little rabbit like so many other women. Still, there were times when such a tongue did not befit a woman, and it had already been a long day. The old saying held true: a samurai should allow himself to be wedded only to the sword.
    It drove Saito mad to be without his Beautiful Singer. He always felt naked without a blade at his hip, and now that feeling was especially strong. The night ride to Seki was hard and very dangerous in the dark, but with his new weapon bouncing at his side he’d felt no fear. Naturally, he rode back in daylight, and though he was safe from the many dangers of riding by starlight, the trip home left him feeling far more vulnerable. In the dark, pushing a horse to its limit had its thrills: ducking the occasional low-hanging branch, wondering when or if his horse would falter, break a leg, or throw him. Riding unarmed in broad daylight held no such excitement, only the ignominious possibility of being waylaid by bandits.
    Saito shook his head and watched Haruko, the serving maid, quietly set tea before him on a lacquered tray. Wrinkles gnarled his cheeks as hepursed his lips in a self-reprobating frown. It was no band of highwaymen that left him feeling cold this morning. It was the sword, or rather the lack of it, and he knew it. Even without his tachi , Saito wasn’t completely unarmed. In his waistband he still wore his wakizashi , a short sword that no self-respecting samurai was ever without. As fine a sword as it was, a tachi could break in battle. That was simple reality. A wakizashi was never to be used in combat except in the event that a warrior found himself without his primary weapon. But the true purpose of the wakizashi was to be an ever-present reminder of the samurai’s mortality. There were only two honorable ways for a true follower of Bushido to die: in battle, or by his own hand in the act of seppuku. Both were the highest act of sacrifice in the service of one’s lord. The wakizashi was the implement of seppuku, and since honor might demand a samurai’s death at any time, he could never be without his short sword. No bandit could face Saito and his wakizashi and live. Saito knew that. Even though it was a shorter weapon, he was more than skilled enough to turn that disadvantage against an enemy. It was not the highway thieves that worried him on his ride back from Seki; it could only have been the sword.
    What if something happened to her? The craftsmen of Seki were the best in the