The Convict's Sword Read Online Free PDF Page B

not knowing this, had kept the only sword for himself. In the subsequent battle against overwhelming odds, Haseo had fought first with a pole, and then, after unseating and killing a horseman, with his victim’s sword. It was from that moment on, when his hand had at last gripped a sword, that Haseo’s face had been filled with pure happiness. He had fought and killed, and by doing so he had saved their lives, though he had lost his own.
    The hammering in the distance had stopped, and now they heard the soft footfall of the master swordsmith Sukenari. He was a middle-aged man, not tall, but with the broad shoulders and muscular upper arms of his trade. Dressed in a dark silk robe, his graying hair tied smoothly on top of his head, he looked more like a nobleman than someone who had just hammered red-hot steel into a deadly blade.
    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