Sukenari’s manners and speech were as impeccable as his appearance. Introductions out of the way, he presented his visitors with wine and made polite small talk about the season, the recent Kamo festival, and the deep honor of their presence in his humble house. Akitada responded with compliments on the wine, comments on the unseasonably hot weather, and an anecdote about an incident during another Kamo celebration. Tora was silent, shifting in his seat. His eyes kept moving to the sword on its stand until he could not restrain himself any longer. “Did you make that?” he asked.
Sukenari smiled and shook his head. “You flatter me, young man. That sword was made by my namesake, Sanjo Munechika. I strive to learn from its perfection.”
“Could I see it?”
The smith rose immediately and took the sword from its stand. He presented it to Tora with both hands and a small bow. “Your interest honors me.”
Tora grunted and slid the blade from the scabbard. “Moves as easily as floating on air,” he commented. The blade gleamed blue in the soft light coming through the shoji screens. Its slender shape was incredibly graceful, thirty inches of narrow, curved steel so finely honed that it could split a man in half as smoothly as if he were a melon. “Sharp,” muttered Tora, touching the edge, “and straight,” extending it and looking down its length. Then, before Akitada could stop him, he had jumped up, taking the swordfighter’s stance. The air hissed as he performed a series of slashes with the weapon. When he sat back down, his eyes shone. “A man would be unbeatable with such a sword.”
“Tora!”
“Oh. Sorry, sir. Here you are.” Tora passed the sword to Akitada. “Just look at that blade! I believe it’s lighter than yours.”
Akitada received the sword and turned to Sukenari. “Please forgive my friend. He’s very enthusiastic and forgets his manners when his heart is moved.”
“I understand. Mine is moved in the same way. The gods dwell in that blade.”
Akitada noted the beauty of the temper lines that ran along the sharp edge like waves. Tora asked, “Do you think Haseo’s sword would have been as fine as that?”
To their surprise, Sukenari leaned forward, his face intent. “Haseo?”
Akitada reinserted the blade in its scabbard and, holding the sword in both hands, returned it with a bow of thanks. “I had a friend who loved swords and was a fine fighter. His family name was Utsunomiya. We came to ask if you had heard of him, thinking that perhaps he had once, years ago, had a sword made for him.”
Sukenari’s face fell. “No,” he said regretfully. “No, that is not the same man. I did make a sword once for a young man named Haseo, a very common name to be sure, but his family name was Tomonari. I don’t suppose you can describe this sword?”
“I’ve never seen it. In fact, there may not be such a sword at all. It was a foolish idea.”
“Not at all. Sometimes a fine sword will become known in the trade.” The smith made a face. “Sometimes, sadly, our best work ends up in the wrong hands. I had hoped to locate a particular sword and purchase it back.”
Akitada said, “Please accept my apologies for taking up your valuable time. Perhaps you may hear something about a young swordsman called Utsunomiya, while we may hear of the sword you seek. Can you tell us about it?”
Sukenari nodded. “Thank you. That is very kind of you, Lord Sugawara.” He picked up the Sanjo sword. “Mine was the same length as this. I follow the great master in most details. But the scabbard of mine was made from magnolia wood and covered in white sharkskin. Very plain. The sword guard was of iron and showed a gilded pine tree and a shrine on the upper side, and flying geese on the bottom. The hilt was wrapped in green silk in a diamond pattern, and the pommel was gold. The blade,” Sukenari removed the Sanjo blade from its scabbard and pointed, “had an inscription inside the hilt. My name and the year it was made. The third year of Kannin.” He sighed and slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “It is not as perfect as this, but flawed as it is, I was particularly fond of that sword… and of the young man I made it for.” He rose to return the Sanjo sword to its stand. Akitada and Tora got to their feet.
“A very fine man,” reflected Akitada as they walked away. “Have you ever thought that some men are a greater gift to humanity than others? This one is not only a pleasant, courteous person, but one who has perfected an art that will make our soldiers invincible.”
“I don’t see how a common soldier will be able to afford a sword like that. The ones we had in Sadoshima were poor stuff. My sword broke right away, remember? It’s still going to be the rich guy killing the poor fellow. And besides, what good was Haseo’s fine blade to him in the end? They took it away from him, and sent him to a place where he was tortured and killed.”
This was so unlike Tora that Akitada stopped and looked at his companion. “You haven’t talked like this since we first met. What’s wrong?”
Tora glowered and said, “Forget it. I’m just in a bad mood all of a sudden. Where to next?”
Akitada sighed. “I am the one who should be discouraged. We’re no closer to the solution of the mystery.” They’d reached the corner of Suzaku Avenue and Rokujo, and glanced up at the afternoon sun. “I’m absent from the ministry without permission.”
“I figured it was either that or you’d been dismissed.”
Akitada raised his brows. “Don’t you care?”
Tora shook his head. “No. You’re not happy there. Maybe you’ll be happier not working.”
“And how am I to feed all of you?”
Tora’s good humor returned. Slapping his master’s shoulder, he cried, “Don’t you worry about that. I can get work anytime and earn enough for our rice. Genba can do the cooking and keep the roof mended. And Seimei will take care of the light housework. Your lady, being a great gardener, will grow vegetables, and as you won’t have anything to do, you can teach Yori how to be a gentleman.” He laughed out loud and a passing official, whose retinue of servants kept a proper distance behind him, shot disapproving glances their way.
Tora still forgot his manners all too often in public, but how was one to discipline a servant who had just expressed his willingness to support his master and his master’s family? In private their relationship was, in any case, much closer than that of some brothers. But human bonds also brought responsibilities. Akitada suppressed a sigh and said, “Thank you. It is good to know that I can count on you. Let’s stop by the market for something to eat and to hear your street singer before going to that last training school.”
CHAPTER THREE
The market thronged with people. Maidservants and housewives shopped and chattered as they filled their baskets with fish and vegetables for the evening rice. Young gallants strolled about, ogling pretty prostitutes who tripped by in their colorful finery and peered at them over their painted fans. Solicitation was illegal here, but the law turned a blind eye unless quarrels broke out.
Akitada liked markets. They were noisy, smelly, and full of excitement. Vendors cried their wares, and porters passed through the crowd with their heavy baskets suspended from the ends of long poles, shouting, “Watch out! Watch out!” Musicians played, jugglers juggled, live birds in cages sang, cooks fried, boiled, and stewed snacks on small portable stoves, singing out their specialties, and stray dogs searched the garbage that lay about in corners.
Each of the city’s two gated markets covered several city blocks with its shops and stands. The market office provided constables, controlled the many shopkeepers and vendors, and maintained the drum tower, which rose four stories into the air and overlooked the market and part of the city. On its top floor was a large drum that gave warning of fires, while the middle levels allowed constables to keep an eye out for pickpockets, quarrelsome drunks, and thieves in the crowds below. The lowest level was used by popular performers, and here was Tora’s latest conquest.