smiths stood, one a little more flushed than the other .
Lord Oda blinked, and Ito realized that he had taken too long to reply. A sword of peace, or a sword of blood? If he said “peace” he would be true to the legend about his master and his master’s own master, for had not Masamune won the contest with his sword of peace? And had not Muramasa changed his style of construction in the years following, to make his blades more careful? Yet Oda was a fearsome general and known for his martial prowess. He might be insulted to be given a peaceful weapon. Worse, though, would be to call it a blade of blood and risk insulting the lord even more, for as a Zen Buddhist, Oda was supposed not to kill anyone .
Ito took a deep breath. “It is neither, my lord. That is to say, it is either. Whatever you wish it to be, this sword will become. If you wish it to kill, it will kill. If you wish it to be just, it will be just.” Ito was a craftsman, and saw no point in lying about his skill. “It is the greatest sword I ever made.”
Oda grunted and lifted the blade, examining the whole length of gleaming steel. He hefted it and gave it a tentative spin in his hand. Then, without warning, he turned and decapitated the prisoner standing in the middle of the room. The man’s body crumpled to the ground. His head hit the floor and bounced, surprisingly loudly, to the wall. When it stopped, the eyes were facing Ito. The sword smith saw them blink several times, even with the head separated like that from the body. Blood gushed from the neck. A thin line of drool hung from the lower lip. Then the eyelids froze and the open, staring eyes fixed Ito with a look that was part shock and part acceptance .
“Sharp enough,” said Oda. “How much do you want for it?”
Ito looked around wildly, yet everywhere he looked the eyes of the severed head seemed to follow him, challenging him to come up with an acceptable reply .
This was bad .
The retainer, when he had come, had agreed on a price, of course. This was why Ito was stumped. He had thought the deal was done .
An architect in Oda’s employ, hired to rebuild a shrine on the Odaland, had been stabbed to death when he’d requested an insultingly high price. A merchant had been killed for offering Oda a silk kimono for his wife that had previously been offered to Yoshimoto’s concubine .
If Ito asked for too much, he would be considered grasping, and Oda would consider it his right to demand his life. He was no samurai, either, so could expect no second to take his head. Yet if he asked for too little, he might insult the lord by suggesting that he couldn’t afford the best, by undervaluing the perfect sword that even now was spinning in the daimyo’s hands .
What to do? There were only two choices, and both were impossible. He had to think of the exact right price, one that would match the quality of the sword but not appear greedy … and one that would please his wife. Ito had it in mind to buy her a beautiful painted fan, of the type that she had admired on their last visit to Edo .
“You’re wasting my time,” said Oda .
Ito wasn’t even aware of the sword cutting through his neck, and the first he knew that it had been severed was when he was suddenly looking up from the ground at his headless body, which fell first to its knees, then toppled forward and hit the stone floor with a soft poof sound .
There had been a third choice all along, Ito realized before everything went black. He should have answered more quickly, naming the first price that had entered his head .
CHAPTER 13
Taro watched through the twin slits as the palanquin turned onto the road for the mountains. Soon they were skirting Nagoya’s hill, the road almost seeming to turn away deferentially from the majesty of the castle, and the formidable reputation of Lord Oda.
After a short distance they crossed a stone bridge over a swift-flowing river. Next to them walked an ox, being jostled
Lord Oda blinked, and Ito realized that he had taken too long to reply. A sword of peace, or a sword of blood? If he said “peace” he would be true to the legend about his master and his master’s own master, for had not Masamune won the contest with his sword of peace? And had not Muramasa changed his style of construction in the years following, to make his blades more careful? Yet Oda was a fearsome general and known for his martial prowess. He might be insulted to be given a peaceful weapon. Worse, though, would be to call it a blade of blood and risk insulting the lord even more, for as a Zen Buddhist, Oda was supposed not to kill anyone .
Ito took a deep breath. “It is neither, my lord. That is to say, it is either. Whatever you wish it to be, this sword will become. If you wish it to kill, it will kill. If you wish it to be just, it will be just.” Ito was a craftsman, and saw no point in lying about his skill. “It is the greatest sword I ever made.”
Oda grunted and lifted the blade, examining the whole length of gleaming steel. He hefted it and gave it a tentative spin in his hand. Then, without warning, he turned and decapitated the prisoner standing in the middle of the room. The man’s body crumpled to the ground. His head hit the floor and bounced, surprisingly loudly, to the wall. When it stopped, the eyes were facing Ito. The sword smith saw them blink several times, even with the head separated like that from the body. Blood gushed from the neck. A thin line of drool hung from the lower lip. Then the eyelids froze and the open, staring eyes fixed Ito with a look that was part shock and part acceptance .
“Sharp enough,” said Oda. “How much do you want for it?”
Ito looked around wildly, yet everywhere he looked the eyes of the severed head seemed to follow him, challenging him to come up with an acceptable reply .
This was bad .
The retainer, when he had come, had agreed on a price, of course. This was why Ito was stumped. He had thought the deal was done .
An architect in Oda’s employ, hired to rebuild a shrine on the Odaland, had been stabbed to death when he’d requested an insultingly high price. A merchant had been killed for offering Oda a silk kimono for his wife that had previously been offered to Yoshimoto’s concubine .
If Ito asked for too much, he would be considered grasping, and Oda would consider it his right to demand his life. He was no samurai, either, so could expect no second to take his head. Yet if he asked for too little, he might insult the lord by suggesting that he couldn’t afford the best, by undervaluing the perfect sword that even now was spinning in the daimyo’s hands .
What to do? There were only two choices, and both were impossible. He had to think of the exact right price, one that would match the quality of the sword but not appear greedy … and one that would please his wife. Ito had it in mind to buy her a beautiful painted fan, of the type that she had admired on their last visit to Edo .
“You’re wasting my time,” said Oda .
Ito wasn’t even aware of the sword cutting through his neck, and the first he knew that it had been severed was when he was suddenly looking up from the ground at his headless body, which fell first to its knees, then toppled forward and hit the stone floor with a soft poof sound .
There had been a third choice all along, Ito realized before everything went black. He should have answered more quickly, naming the first price that had entered his head .
CHAPTER 13
Taro watched through the twin slits as the palanquin turned onto the road for the mountains. Soon they were skirting Nagoya’s hill, the road almost seeming to turn away deferentially from the majesty of the castle, and the formidable reputation of Lord Oda.
After a short distance they crossed a stone bridge over a swift-flowing river. Next to them walked an ox, being jostled