Daughter of the Sword: A Novel of the Fated Blades

by Steve Bein

  Her doctor, who wore glasses and a Moe Howard haircut, looked up at her over the top of the manila folder whose contents he’d been reading. “Oh!” he said, smiling. “You’re awake. And looking much better than yesterday, I must say.”

  He was thirtyish, cultivating the beginnings of a potbelly, and because she was lying down Mariko had a hard time guessing how tall he was. “What happened to the emperor’s sword?” she asked.

  “Do you mean the one you had sticking out of you when you came into the ER? They’re still talking about you down there, you know.”

  “No,” Mariko said.

  “Oh, yes they are. You made quite an impression, Oshiro. You’re a very lucky woman. First, whoever stuck that sword in you didn’t pull it back out. Second, when you fell, you landed on your side, not on the sword. Third, your friend called backup for you just in the nick of time.”

  “Friend?”

  “Yes, the blind woman. Just in the nick of time. Did you know you arrived at the hospital DOA? That was another piece of luck for you: you got your fatal stabbing right across the street from a hospital. You were dead for almost four minutes. Uncanny, that luck of yours. By all rights you shouldn’t be here.”

  “The sword, the emperor’s sword,” Mariko said, horrified by the memory that’s she’d bled all over it. “And the other one. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know if it’s the emperor’s or not,” the doctor said with a laugh, “but your coworkers claimed the sword you had in your small intestine as evidence.”

  “Not that one. There were two others. Where are they?”

  Mariko attempted to sit up, but spikes of pain stabbed her in the gut and the back. Teeth clenched, she slumped back into her pillows.

  “Easy, now,” the doctor said. “Don’t go ripping out your stitches. There was another sword the police claimed from the ER. It used to be stuck in the fellow they brought in with you. Not so lucky, that one. He probably would have bled out from what was left of his arm, but the sword that stuck him went through both lungs and nicked his descending aorta. Never had a chance.”

  “Is Shoji-san here? The blind woman? I need to talk to her.”

  “Easy, Oshiro. You need to stay calm.”

  “Sorry.” Mariko took a deep breath. “Doctor…sorry, I don’t really remember your name.”

  “Anesthesia will do that to you. My name’s Hayakawa.”

  “Dr. Hayakawa, there was a sword—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said a familiar voice, and Mariko saw Shoji standing in the doorway and flanked by Saori and Mariko’s mother. The two of them rushed to Mariko’s side, abandoning Shoji and all but shoving Dr. Hayakawa out of the way.

  “You’re awake!” Saori said.

  “Hi,” Mariko said. She could muster little else, crushed as she was under her family’s embrace. Those spikes stabbed her in the gut again when she tried to hug them back.

  “I guess I’ll be moving along,” Hayakawa said, and after a few moments Shoji-san took his place in Mariko’s field of vision.

  “Don’t worry about the Tiger,” she said. “I’ve seen it safely home for you.”

  Mariko couldn’t bring herself to ask whether the emperor would forgive her for bloodying his family’s heirloom. That would have to wait.

  Her mother, looking as weary as if she’d just delivered a child, sat in one of the room’s padded chairs. Saori released her hug only to clasp Mariko’s hand in both of hers. It was a sensation Mariko had never felt before, and after a moment she realized why: she had no index finger on that hand, and so she felt Saori holding a stump as well as the three remaining fingers. Some instinct bade Mariko to feel embarrassed by her deformity, but Mariko had no inclination to oblige it. She was happy to be alive, nine fingers or ten, and the idea of shame seemed, for the first time in her life, a trivial concern.

  Saori’s wrists were bound in broad bandages the color of white people’s skin. The bandages were puffy, and through the haze of delirium-addled memory Mariko recalled that similar bandages circled Saori’s ankles. In straining at her bonds, Saori had pulled hard.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Miko.” Saori was on the edge of crying.

  “Don’t be,” Mariko said. “You didn’t do anything wrong to get kidnapped. That’s all on Fuchida, not on you.”

  “Not that,” said Saori. “I was an idiot. I talked myself into thinking I didn’t have a drug problem. But I do, and you knew it, and I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry.”

  Mariko opened her mouth to speak, but Saori shushed her. “Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not. But I couldn’t see that. I thought it was my problem. I didn’t know what it was like for you, or for Mom, watching me kill myself and knowing there wasn’t anything you could do to stop me. But then, when I was strapped to that chair, when I saw him kill you and there was nothing I could do…I’m sorry, Miko. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Mariko swallowed, and pursed her lips in an attempt not to cry. It failed. Saori was crying too, and they hugged as tightly as their mutual injuries would allow. “I’ll never do it again,” Saori said. “I swear to you, I’m never using again.”

  “I know,” said Mariko, and though she’d heard Saori make the same promise a hundred times before, she could tell this time was different.

  And just like that, the moment was over. They were the fabulous Oshiro sisters again, wiping their tears away and laughing out of embarrassment. “That Dr. Hayakawa,” Saori said, “he’s cute, neh?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I hadn’t really noticed.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I…?”

  Mariko laughed so hard, she nearly tore her stitches. “Saori, is that all you think about?”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m going to be getting high anymore. A girl’s got to get her kicks somewhere.”

  A blushing Shoji-san cleared her throat in a matronly way. “We’ve brought something for you,” she said, holding up a copy of the Yomiuri Shimbun in her wrinkled, ring-bedecked hand. “Obviously I haven’t read it myself, but I’m told you’re in two of the headlines.”

  “Oh, give it here,” said Saori, her hand darting out for the paper. Her lunge caused her to lean far over Mariko, the motion crushing her slightly and causing the incision in her stomach to bite back in protest. Mariko restrained a grunt of pain.

  “Yeah, this is the one,” Saori said. “It’s a few days old, now. Sorry. But listen: ‘Policewoman’s “Samurai Showdown” Ends in Two Fatalities, One Wondrous Recovery.’ And this one too: ‘Drug Ring and Kidnapping Ring Busted.’ Cool, huh?”

  Mariko felt something inside her wince. She’d always been better at taking criticism than praise. But that was in her past life; now she doubted she could find time to feel ashamed even if she were hailed as a hero.

  Saori read on. “‘Tokyo police officers and NPA agents arrested twelve men and seized about fifty-five kilos of cocaine in a midnight raid in Tokyo Harbor. It was “by far the biggest cocaine bust Japan has ever seen,” said Lt. Ko Takeo, forty-nine, of the TMPD.’”

  Mariko groaned. “Don’t say anything about that man.”

  “Yeah, we saw him on TV. Seems like kind of an asshole, neh? Anyway, blah blah blah, street value of the cocaine is five hundred million yen, bail set at blah blah blah.…Here we go: ‘The arrests took place between midnight and one forty-five a.m. in Harumi 5-chōme, aboard the Bahamian-flagged M/V South Sea Nova, a freighter out of Los Angeles. An investigation headed by Det. Sgt. Oshiro Mariko, twenty-seven, led to the discovery of the incoming cocaine shipment. Detective Oshiro was hospitalized at the time of the arrests, so command duties fell to Lieutenant Ko.’ Sorry, Miko. Let me get back to the good stuff.”

  “It’s all right. Keep reading.”

  “’kay. ‘According to authorities, the twelve men arrested were part of a ring headed by Fuchida Shūzō, who allegedly planned to finance the cocaine deal using profits from ransoming kidnap victims for Heian period antiques.’”

  It took a
moment for Mariko to register that one. The Yomiuri had it wrong; Saori’s kidnapping was a last-minute gambit, not a plan. Then again, Mariko was the only one who could correct the error, and she hadn’t been conscious long enough for anyone to interview her. As soon as that thought struck her, she was a little surprised that hordes of reporters hadn’t already forced their way into the room. She wasn’t sure why that was. Perhaps the TMPD had cordoned off the ward—or for that matter, maybe Shoji had asked Their Majesties to intervene—but whatever the explanation, Mariko was thankful to be left alone with people who loved her.

  She returned her attention to Saori, who read on excitedly. “‘NPA authorities say they are working with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation in apprehending Fuchida’s American supplier.’ No, wait, here’s the good part: ‘Fuchida was killed in a face-off with Oshiro, who is listed in critical condition as of press time. No other injuries resulted from the raid. Blah blah blah. A TMPD official said Oshiro should be “praised for her heroic actions,” adding that “her quick thinking and immediate response saved innocent lives.”’ You want me to read the other article?”

  “The one where I get killed and come back from the dead? No thanks.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m in that one.”

  “Does Ko get to take the credit for everything in that one too?”

  “So glad you asked. Let’s find out.”

  Saori read on, smiling, and Mariko marveled at her resilience. All of two days ago, she’d been a kidnap victim—and half a second away from being a murder victim to boot. Now she was back to being just a little sister.

  Mariko remembered Yamada telling her how food tasted better after a near-death experience. She’d heard similar stories about how sunsets were prettier and all that sort of thing. Mariko hadn’t seen a sunset yet—her only window faced east—and she’d be taking food intravenously until the length of intestine the surgeons sewed back together had fully healed, but she did find that simple things revealed new beauty to her. The yellow tulips on her bedside stand, their scent, the way their petals glowed like they did right now with the sun at just the right angle: such things really were special. And Saori’s capture was itself a near-death experience. Perhaps she was seeing the world in the same way.

  Mariko listened as Saori finished the article, and noted that although the reporter made mention of the sword fight and the resulting injuries, nothing was said about the fate of the swords themselves. Confined to bed rest until her doctor said otherwise, Mariko knew there was nothing she could do to pursue the matter, but still the question burned in her: where was Beautiful Singer?

  78

  Yamada’s funeral had been rearranged for Tuesday afternoon. It was first scheduled for Sunday, two days after Mariko had awoken from her long meandering in the anesthetic mists, but Dr. Hayakawa insisted that Mariko was not to leave her bed for another three days at a minimum. The risk of sepsis was gravely real; Mariko needed round-the-clock supervision.

  Hayakawa was a kind and decent man, despite his habit of referring to Mariko as “Oshiro” all the time. (She did not expect him to grasp the subtleties distinguishing sergeant from detective sergeant, but basic politeness dictated at least an Oshiro-san.) Unlike many men his age, and unlike most of the men Mariko had met in his profession, Hayakawa never made any attempt to grope her. Many physicians believed this was their prerogative, one of the perks of the job, but Hayakawa seemed to have had stricter scruples than that. Or maybe, knowing she’d come back from the dead after taking down a sword-wielding sociopath, he simply allowed wisdom to overrule lust.

  Scruples, wisdom, and libido aside, he was sincerely concerned for his patient, but Shoji-san could argue most forcefully when pressed. She bullied Hayakawa into releasing Mariko a day early, only for the morning and bound by her own promise not to attempt to leave her wheelchair. Shoji had also persuaded the funeral director to delay Yamada’s service by two days so Mariko could attend.

  Some of the flowers had already arrived on Saturday afternoon and were beginning to wilt, but the service was beautiful nonetheless. The largest, most elaborate of the floral wreaths had come from the emperor himself, the accompanying card signed by Their Imperial Highnesses and stamped with the golden chrysanthemum seal. The music was Dvořák’s Eighth Symphony, a fact Mariko learned only when Shoji-san whispered it in her ear, and one that caused Mariko to cry. She dabbed at the first tear with a bent knuckle, wondering whether this was what she was to have heard with Yamada on the night he was killed.

  Mariko was by far the youngest person in attendance. Silver-haired professors from Tōdai and shuffling veterans of the Great War all paid their respects. Mariko overheard whispers that the emperor and empress themselves might come later for a private gathering before Yamada’s urn.

  When everyone took their seats and the eulogy began, Mariko took it like a push from a rooftop. She felt as if her wheelchair had plunged through the floor and was falling down a bottomless pit. Her sensei would be buried as Kiyama Keiji, a name that filled her with pangs of regret. It wasn’t any defamation of the name Yamada that troubled her; it was only that she’d never pressed him to tell her about his past. And what a storied past it was: a lieutenant in Army Intelligence; a survivor of the first American strike against the motherland in the Great War; a combatant and later a prisoner of war in the Battle of Guadalcanal. Demoted to sergeant for reasons untold, and yet honored with the star of the Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum, something Mariko had never heard of until the eulogy. Mariko could not keep from thinking about the story the eulogist left out, the one that explained why her sensei had earned Japan’s highest honor, a medal ordinarily bestowed only on emperors and foreign royalty.

  Mariko wondered how her sensei had garnered such prestige while even his own neighbors had probably never heard of him. To them he was only the old man up the block with the beautiful garden. His academic work was so specialized that no one outside of a graduate program in Japanese history was ever likely to read it. Yet he’d been decorated by the emperor himself, and in his modest bedroom he’d kept a sword worth millions.

  But stranger things had happened, Mariko supposed. After all, the same sword was hers now, or would be once the Fuchida case was closed. She expected it would sit in a locker as seized evidence for a while, but in time Glorious Victory Unsought would come back to her. Yamada-sensei had bequeathed everything to Shoji-san, who accepted the house but had passed along the sword and the hundreds of history books. Mariko had eagerly accepted the offer of the books, even though she couldn’t imagine where she’d keep them. Glorious Victory was different, though, and she’d tried to turn it down. “Oh, shush,” Shoji had said. “I haven’t got any use for swords.”

  “But it’s worth a fortune,” Mariko had said.

  Shoji had only smiled. “I haven’t got any use for one of those either,” she’d said. “When you get to be my age, you stop worrying about such things.”

  As the eulogy came to a close, Mariko drifted out of her reverie. Her gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on the altar beside the urn. It was Yamada, perhaps in his sixties, his eyes glittering and full of kindness. He wore an understated smile in the picture, and his stubbly hair had been considerably thicker back then. Predictably, he was dressed in the traditional kimono of the old days. Mariko was able to keep a stiff upper lip until she looked at that photo and whispered to herself, “Good-bye, Sensei.” The finality of that good-bye made her cry hard and silently, hugging herself in her wheelchair and squeezing her eyes tight.

  She noticed Shoji-san did no crying of her own. “I’ve shed all my tears already, dear,” Shoji said later. “It’s harder when you can see it coming, but it’s easier on days like today.”

  “You saw his death in advance?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “So you could have stopped it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Mariko turned her chair to face Shoji’s, taking her time wheeling it about so
that more of the crowd could leave the room. Groups of twos and threes gathered here and there, wrapped up in their own conversations, but still Mariko kept her voice low. “You can see my future too?”

  “I would say I see some of your futures.”

  “Before we visited the palace, before I went in to face Fuchida, how many of these futures had me dying in them?”

  Shoji shrugged. “Death is in everyone’s future.”

  “You’re dodging the question. How many of these futures showed me dying on Fuchida’s sword?”

  “All of them.”

  Mariko nodded. “And how many of them showed me coming back?”

  “None of them. You surprised me.”

  “So you let me walk into a fight, knowing it was going to kill me?”

  “No. Destiny did. And destiny gave you a sword renowned for its ability to protect. It also gave your opponent a sword that compelled him to fight to prove his love for her, as well as a sword that punishes a wielder who seeks to prove himself in battle. There was only one way that battle could go.”

  Mariko could not hold back a rueful little laugh. “It sure didn’t feel that way at the time.”

  “Of course not, dear. How can a leaf on the wind see what propels it? It’s the same for those swept up by the forces of destiny. You, Keiji-san, that awful student of his—you’re simply carried along.”

  “Keiji-san. You mean Yamada-sensei.”

  Mariko looked at Shoji the same way she’d have studied signs of struggle at a crime scene: the evidence was there, just waiting for her to put the right story together. At last she said, “You knew him back then. Neh? You know why he was honored with that star from the emperor too, don’t you? That Supreme Chrysanthemum thing.”

  Shoji shrugged, reached into her big black Chanel purse, and produced an envelope of the faintest blue. Inside it was a folded sheet of paper as thin as onion skin. She handed it delicately to Mariko, who felt as soon as she touched it that this was something very old and very precious. Without unfolding the brittle page, she saw a spidery scrawl: