City of Swords

by Alex Archer

  Annja surfed the internet while she ate, washing everything down with a large chilled bottle of Perrier. She started with the theft reports from the cloister here in town. Nothing new since she’d looked yesterday and nothing that Brother Maynard hadn’t revealed, except for attesting to the sword’s authenticity.

  Durendal had been taken after her fight at the train station in Paris, but before the Romany pair had come after her and Rembert under the Avignon bridge. Were the incidents related? Was the same gang involved? Annja didn’t believe in coincidences. Avignon, Rocamadour and Paris…the targeted swords were the common factor. But Brother Maynard hadn’t remembered seeing any Romany tourists the day Roland’s sword was stolen.

  On a whim, she checked eBay. There was an assortment of old swords listed for sale, but nothing matching Durendal’s description. Definitely old stuff, though, some of the swords pretty valuable. A few offered proof of authenticity. She was familiar with other internet sites that dealt with antiquities whose origins were murky. Some of the relics stolen from the Egyptian museum in Cairo in recent years were sold this way. A few of the items were recovered in bidding wars, but the thieves were never apprehended. Tonight nothing caught her eye. Durendal—or anything that looked like it—was not for sale online. The oldest authentic piece was a saber from the Civil War.

  The hours melted away as Annja lost herself in historical tidbits in the various electronic nooks and crannies of the World Wide Web. One link led to another and another, tugging her along.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Noth—”

  Something. Here was a news report, an entry just posted, several minutes ago, about a theft of an old sword from the Wallace Memorial near Stirling, Scotland. It included a picture of the Wallace Sword, a massive claymore meant to be wielded two-handed, once owned by the Scottish martyr.

  Durendal.

  The Wallace Sword.

  And the attempt on her sword.

  “A collector,” the Romany youth had said when she’d pressed him up against the wall in Avignon.

  No coincidence. The incidents were indeed all related. Someone was collecting historical weapons. Had there been more thefts?

  It was midnight. She’d intended to turn in early so she could return to Paris first thing, to find leads there. Instead, she ordered another plate of giant prawns from room service and kept at it.

  Durendal.

  The Wallace Sword.

  She posted questions on some of the chat sites frequented by archaeologists and treasure hunters. Had anyone heard of ancient weapons gone missing? Stolen? Sold?

  She was about ready to give up when she got a nibble from a Ph.D. student in Sendai, Japan. The university there was back in session. He was an American studying for his doctorate in astronomy, but all things Japanese intrigued him, and he’d come across a recent report of a historical katana that had been sold for a ridiculously low price. He referred her to a story covered in the English edition of a local paper.

  Annja emailed him her thanks and clicked open the link.

  Honjo Masamune was the name of a sword sold to a French college professor visiting Tokyo last month. She clicked one link after the next, pulling up file after file, settling on one at a Japanese museum’s website that seemed to have the most complete account. She searched until she found an English translation. Masamune had been a celebrated swordsmith, considered Japan’s best weapons maker. He’d fashioned many blades, ones in collections throughout the world worth small fortunes. One sword in particular was famous—the Honjo Masamune, passed down throughout the shogunate period.

  Records claim that Masamune had lived in the mid-1200s to early 1300s. He’d been trained by Masters Saburo Kunimune and Awataguchi Kunitsuna—names that meant nothing to Annja—and was known for making exceptional blades at a time when steel was usually riddled with imperfections. Some of his swords, called tachi in Japanese, were laced with a pearly substance that made them shimmer. They were noted for having gray shadows on the front of the blade and clear lines on the leading edge. Annja’s own sword had similar lines and shadows. The Masamune Prize was presented at Japanese sword-making competitions to this day.

  The Honjo Masamune was considered his greatest creation, possibly the finest sword ever made in all of Japan. It was likely named for General Honjo Shigenaga, who’d acquired it during a battle. Annja dug deeper, finding the history fascinating. Shigenaga had been attacked with the blade, which split his helmet. Though injured, he survived and claimed the sword as a prize. After that, it passed from one hand to the next, sometimes sold, sometimes inherited. It was declared a national treasure in the 1930s. The last Japanese owner was a Tokugawa Iemasa, who gave it to the Mejiro police station in December 1945. A month later that sword and fourteen others were given to Coldy Bimore, a sergeant in the U.S. 7th Cavalry.

  From there the sword was sold to various foreign collectors, first in the United States, then Europe, returning to Japan, where it was sold again, just a month ago. Its owner had lost practically everything in the 2011 tsunami. Japanese museum officials were horrified that it only went for a million dollars. It was worth far more, but the museums were in no position to outbid the collector.

  The name of the buyer, a college professor, was Archard Gihon. The academic world wasn’t known for exorbitant salaries, so Annja figured he likely came from money, to be able to afford something like this. And he was French. She started searching for information about him and came up with frustratingly little. A professor of religious studies born in Nice, currently on sabbatical, married once and divorced. The only name listed for his ex-wife was Beatrice. He’d written a doctoral thesis on comparative religions in modern European society and published several related articles. Nothing here indicated he’d have the money to buy an expensive sword, let alone afford a lengthy trip to Japan. No mention of inheritance, no address listed. She was intending to return to Paris tomorrow—later today, she amended, when she saw that her laptop read 3:12 a.m.—and a visit to the university to discover more about Archard Gihon was in order.

  She bookmarked a few sites, then set her laptop up to recharge. Crawling into bed, she fell asleep quickly…and slipped into a dream.

  In it, Annja walked barefoot down a street paved with bricks. Her breath puffed out in little clouds. She saw goose bumps on her arms and frost on the roof of a house, but she wasn’t cold. The buildings were old, like the ones in Avignon, but not as large. The windows were shuttered, but soft light spilled out from cracks in some of them. She tipped her head back, seeing a great display of stars.

  Annja continued walking. The place looked familiar, comfortable, and yet she couldn’t name it. Roux would know. He was here at her side. But she didn’t want to break the silence.

  A signpost loomed into view, but she couldn’t read it. The stars provided enough light, but the letters were a jumble, shifting in and out of focus and rearranging themselves as she stared. Annja looked away and spied a face peering at her from the lone open window. It was a young woman, her hair pulled back severely. A plain woman, but the more Annja looked, the more she realized it was a singular face, beautiful in its simplicity and purity. Roux saw the woman, too, and nodded as if he knew her.

  Who is she? Annja asked. She felt she should know her. But the question was in her head; no sound came out to break the perfect silence.

  Who is she? And who am I?

  Her hands looked different to her. And she wore a silver ring on one finger and a twine bracelet on her wrist. There was a scar on the back of her right hand that she couldn’t recall.

  In her dream there wasn’t a single car in sight. Only hitching posts and a water trough. The air was fresh, as it had been on the Avignon cliff outside the cloister where Roland’s sword had been stolen. She suddenly realized she had a sword, too. It materialized in her hands.

  Joan of Arc’s sword.

  Annja swallowed hard, her throat constricting and a rock forming in her stomach. She’d had dreams like this before—nightm
ares. This time she was Joan. Roux took the sword from her grasp, kissed her cheek and melted into the bricks. Men sprang up where blades of grass had poked through the cracks near her feet, some in armor, some looking determined and angry. There was pity on the faces of others.

  Shutters were thrown open, and more faces appeared, all of them young and unlined, women with their hair pulled back tightly. All staring at her with unreadable expressions. All the same women. All Joan.

  Annja didn’t need the men prodding her; she knew where she was going. It was falling into place now. Rouen, May 1431. She—Joan—had been tried for heresy, condemned and sentenced to die. Annja quickened her pace, leaving the men behind as she headed toward the center of town, toward the pillar. Time to end this nightmare. She climbed up and stood against the tall wooden post, accepting a cross made of twigs that someone thrust into her hands. Usually in the dreams she was bound there, but not this time.

  Annja hadn’t felt the cold, but she felt the heat as flames started crackling all around her. The clean air was fouled by the burning wood and the stench from her flesh as it was charred. One of the soldiers raised his sword, and through the smoke she saw the blade transform into hers—Joan’s. Other hands were raised, swords appearing in them, too. One soldier held a great two-handed claymore…the Wallace Sword. Another sword had a broken tip…Durendal. It was a veritable city of swords, so many she couldn’t count them. One blade was a katana…the Honjo Masamune?

  The closest sword was familiar, too, but the flames were growing wilder and it was hard to see the details. That sword was held by Geoffroy Therage, Joan’s executioner. “I greatly fear I will be damned,” she heard him say. Then Geoffroy took the familiar blade and thrust it through the flames at her, piercing her heart.

  Annja awoke sweating profusely, the damp sheets tangled around her.

  That was a variation of the dream she’d never had before.

  Her laptop chirped to announce an incoming email. One of her contacts had sent her a notice about an historic sword going up for auction tomorrow. In Spain.

  Annja was quick to book a flight out of France.

  Chapter 15

  The place had been a boutique at one time, one of those pricey little consignment shops filled with designer clothes and painted a mix of pastels. The original name could be seen faintly in bleached green paint: Seconde Fois—“second time.” But over that in eggshell-white was its new name in block letters, TOMES TRANQUILLES.

  Tranquil Tomes was a bookstore of sorts, three doors down from Les Nymphéas Review, where they’d eaten dinner, a restaurant that borrowed the name of one of Monet’s most famous paintings. Sarah had hardly touched her wild-duckling Rouennaise; she was anxious and didn’t want a heavy meal to dull her senses.

  This was all on her.

  She’d found Tranquil Tomes after a lot of research. Lawton had been pleased with her find. Her mission to be in charge of. This was a real chance to prove herself.

  And it was smack-dab in the middle of Rouen, Dr. Lawton’s city of choice.

  He’d sent two men with her, twins—Luc and Gaetan Neveu. Of his associates, they were the closest to Sarah in age. Though black, they had been adopted as infants by a rich white couple north of Paris, friends of Dr. Lawton’s. Sarah was glad to have the two with her. Their company was a nice break from Archard’s. If he’d been along, he would have taken charge.

  This was her mission.

  The bookstore posted evening hours, and the three of them went in shortly after eight. It smelled of something she couldn’t place, some musky scent that hung heavy in the air, so sweet she almost gagged. Probably an incense stick…. Ah, there it was, smoldering in the cupped hands of a ceramic Buddha. Sarah hated incense. She noticed Luc wrinkling his nose, and was pleased it wasn’t just her.

  The books, displayed on two walls, were sparse compared to most bookstores. Sarah took the shelves to her right, the brothers the ones to the left, their long raincoats swishing around their calves. She watched them pick up one thin book after another, reading the titles. Luc started to page through one, as if he was actually interested.

  Sarah nodded to the salesclerk at the back and picked up one of the thicker books. She watched the black-haired shopkeeper out of the corner of her eye, trying to decide if it was a man or woman hunched over the counter, staring at an iPad. The clothing could have passed for pajamas.

  Creating Values was the title of the volume in Sarah’s hands. Half the books appeared to be in English. She glanced at the table of contents and the foreword, which mentioned Nichiren Shōshū, a Japanese Buddhist denomination dating back to the 1200s. “‘Sōka Gakkai means the “society for creating values,” founded in 1937 by Tsunesaburo Makiguchi and Josei Toda.’” She struggled with the pronunciations as she read aloud. “‘Derived from Nichiren Shōshū, it has recently spread into Europe and the United States.’”

  Sarah’s research had revealed that in the past five decades, the sect members had been aggressively proselytizing, using a strategy called shakubuku, or “break and subdue.”

  “Happiness is the primary goal of life, eh?” Gaetan flapped a thin book in his right hand. He had a small ceramic Buddha in his left, a price tag plastered on its bulbous stomach. “I can get into happiness, but this place gives me the creeps.” He placed the book on a shelf.

  Sirens blared and lights flashed as an ambulance and two fire trucks sped past the shop window. The sounds receded and she heard chanting. It was coming from the back room behind the shopkeeper.

  “So, these claim,” Gaetan continued, “that happiness is gained through goodness, prosperity and beauty. Well, the guy back at the counter is no beauty. Says, too, that it relies on the teaching of the Lotus Sutra. Wonder if that’s anything like the Kama Sutra.”

  Sarah’s face colored. She knew Gaetan was just trying to get a rise out of her.

  “They’re getting stronger in France,” she said. “These Buddhists.” She was talking a little too loudly and drew the attention of the shopkeeper, who finally looked up. A man. He had a soul patch growing beneath his lower lip. “They’re in other places in Europe, but mostly in France, from what I gathered.”

  “So, happiness can include material success, like cars, big houses,” Gaetan said. “That guy doesn’t look like he’s got money, though.”

  “Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “Just looking,” Gaetan replied.

  “You can help me,” his twin called from the other side of the shop.

  “Of course.”

  “How many members do you have?” Luc asked.

  “This bookstore—”

  “No, no. I don’t mean branches of this bookstore. You have all these books on Buddhism.”

  “Buddhism is the largest religion.”

  “But you’re part of a particular kind of Buddhist sect, right? I mean, all this material…the books, pamphlets, that poster advertising meetings. One tonight. You’re…?”

  “Members?” The shopkeeper stroked his soul patch. “In this city?”

  “All over,” Sarah said.

  “Six million in the world. We are new to Rouen.”

  “I see,” Luc said.

  “And you are interested in Sōka Gakkai? You want to join? Study?”

  “This book…” Luc pointed to one in French with a red cover. “This book mentions a political party, Clean Government.”

  “Yes, formed in the 1960s. Kōmeitō. Third largest political party in Japan.”

  “You’re from Japan?” Sarah asked.

  “My grandparents and my father. My mother is French. I was born here.”

  Luc walked up to the counter and propped his long fingers together. “So, you belong to a Buddhist branch? Like an offshoot? You hold meetings here?”

  The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. “A branch of Mahayana Buddhism.”

  “And you accept anyone? Color doesn’t matter?”

  “Yes, although we ourselves were not always accepted.” />
  “What do you mean by that?” Gaetan had joined them. Sarah stayed near the shelves.

  “In the 1940s, I was told, my grandparents were arrested as ‘thought criminals.’ Our branch had fewer than three thousand families then.”

  “And now you have six million?”

  “In the world, yes.” He indicated the beaded curtain behind him. “They meet here on Mondays. You can join them and observe, if you’re quiet.”

  “And what do they do back there?” Luc asked.

  “We discuss, we study, we evolve. We practice personal fulfillment, which leads to a better society…. How did you learn of us?”

  Sarah craned her neck so she could see the shopkeeper. “I got one of your pamphlets. That’s why we came.”

  The man appeared even more pleased.

  A bell tinkled, the door opened and a woman came in, tugging a young boy. She went straight to a shelf with incense burners. “Which one should we get Aunt Vicki for her birthday?”

  Her son didn’t answer; he was watching Gaetan and Luc.

  “You discuss what?” Gaetan asked.

  “The Lotus Sutra. An important passage stresses that every one of us has a latent Buddha nature. All of us can attain Buddhahood.”

  The chanting grew louder, and Sarah could pick out the words—nam-myoho-renge-kyo.