“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

GHOSTS

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.

A crowd had gathered to listen to her. She stood above them, small and very slender in her plain white cotton gown. Her long hair was twisted into a knot low on her neck. This very modest appearance, along with the fact that she was neither young nor pretty—her face was badly scarred—astonished Akitada profoundly. What could Tora possibly see in her?

Female street singers, as a rule, were vagrants who eked out their poor daytime earnings by selling their bodies at night. Akitada considered them a public nuisance because they kept stubbornly outside the law. But as this woman was blind, he was willing to make some concessions. Besides, she had a pleasant voice.

She looked detached from her surroundings as she sang, her sightless eyes turned into the distance and a fixed expression of unhappiness on her scarred face. Her remarkably elegant hands worked the strings of a lute. The instrument was a nice one, made of sandalwood. Street singers usually accompanied themselves on small hand drums that required little musical talent.

So Akitada granted her a modicum of respect. She played her lute well, her voice was full and warm, and she told a good story about two unhappy lovers who died in war. Akitada knew it. A young woman had followed her lover into battle disguised as a common soldier. When he found her fatally wounded on the battlefield, they bade each other a touching farewell, and he ended her suffering by striking off her head and then plunged the sword into his own belly. It was a story of love and death, designed to please a simple crowd and romantic enough to be performed by a woman.