Seven Broken Swords

The mender came to Kanoe on the last warm day of autumn, pulling a small wooden cart behind him.

He was an old man, though nobody in the town could have said exactly how old.

His hair had gone grey and was tied back without decoration, and his clothes had been repaired so many times that it was difficult to tell which part had been the original cloth.

The cart he pulled was heavier than it looked.

Its wheels cut deep lines into the dust of the road.

He stopped at the eastern edge of the market, where the ground was flat, and did not ask anyone for permission.

He set down the handles, opened the side panel of the cart, and began to unpack.

The cart was full of stones, more than twenty of them, each wrapped separately in cloth, each a different colour and size.

Some were rough and grey; some were smooth and almost blue.

He laid them out in a line on a folded blanket, in an order that only he seemed to understand, then filled a shallow wooden basin at the town well and sat down behind it with his legs crossed.

Last of all, he hung a small board on the side of the cart.

Two lines had been burned into the wood.

Broken blades mended.

No questions asked.

Mio watched all of this from the doorway of the Hollow Bell Inn, where she had been carrying water since she was nine.

She was fourteen now.

She had seen travelling craftsmen before, but she had never seen anyone arrive so quietly.

He had not called out to the market or spoken to a single person.

He had simply arrived, as though the market had been expecting him and both of them already knew it.

"Do not stare," the innkeeper said, taking the bucket out of her hands.

"He is a blade mender.

They come through sometimes, fewer than there used to be."

She looked out at the thin figure beside the cart and made a sound that was not quite disapproval.

"That one has been coming for years.

Isen, I think his name is.

He never stays."

By the middle of the afternoon, three people had brought him swords.

Mio found reasons to walk past.

What surprised her was not the work but the silence of it.

When a man handed Isen a broken blade, Isen did not ask how it had broken, or the man's name, or his trade.

He took the blade in both hands, turned it slowly in the light, and looked at it for far longer than seemed necessary.

Then he named a price, and the man paid, and that was the whole of the conversation.

The sun went down and the market emptied.

Isen was still working.

She spoke to him on the second day, and only because she had run out of ways of not speaking to him.

"How do you decide what to charge?"

Isen did not look up.

He was holding a plain broken sword across his knees, with a wooden handle that had been wrapped and rewrapped in cord until it had grown fat and uneven.

"I look at the blade," he said.

"But the price is different for everybody.

I watched you.

You charged the rice merchant four coins and the old woman one.

That is not fair."

"No," he agreed.

"It is not fair.

It is correct.

Those are not the same thing."

Mio waited.

When nothing more came, she crouched at the edge of the blanket, close enough to see.

"What is wrong with that one?"

Isen raised it so that the light ran along the edge.

"Tell me what you see."

She saw a broken sword, and she said so.

"Look again.

Not at the break.

At the edge, along here."

She leaned closer.

The edge was not smooth.

It was full of small marks, dozens of them, each a shallow bite taken out of the steel, spaced fairly evenly along the lower half of the blade.

"It is damaged," she said.

"All the way along."

"Notched," said Isen.

"And where are the notches?"

"Near the handle."

"And what does a man cut with the part of the blade nearest his hand?"

Mio had no idea, and said so, which seemed to please him more than a guess would have done.

"Wood," said Isen.

"Roots.

Rope.

Bone, sometimes."

He laid the sword down gently on the blanket.

"This blade was made for a soldier.

It has never once been used against another blade.

If it had been, the notches would sit higher, near the tip, where two edges meet.

Instead it has been cutting branches for eight or nine winters, until the steel grew tired and broke."

"So he is not a soldier."

"He may have been, once."

Isen chose a grey stone and wet it in the basin.

"But he has been a farmer far longer.

He owns one good piece of steel and no axe.

He is too poor to buy an axe and too proud to say so, and that is why he came at the end of the day, when the market was empty."

"Will you tell him that you know?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he did not ask me to know."

Isen began to work.

The sound of the stone was slow and even, like breathing.

"A man brings me a blade because he wants it mended.

If he wanted to be understood, he would bring me something else."

He charged the farmer one coin.

Mio counted it twice, to be certain.

The second sword came on the third morning, and it was the most beautiful thing Mio had ever seen.

The man who carried it was perhaps thirty, with a straight back and good boots.

He knelt in front of the cart with the care of somebody who had been taught how to kneel, and laid the sword on the blanket without a word.

Even broken, it was beautiful.

The steel had been polished so carefully that it held the whole grey sky inside it, and the handle was bound in black silk that had not worn anywhere.

There was not a single notch along the edge.

It had broken low, close to the handle, in one clean line.

Isen looked at it for a long time, longer than he had looked at anything else in five days.

"Three days," he said at last.

"I can pay more, if it can be done faster."

"Three days."

The man bowed and went away.

Mio came out from behind the cart, where she had been pretending to fold cloth.

"There is nothing wrong with it.

It is perfect.

How did it even break?"

"It was never used,"

Isen said.

"How does a sword break from not being used?"

Isen ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, near the break.

"Steel is not one thing.

A blade is soft in the middle and hard at the edge, and those two parts pull against each other for as long as the blade exists.

Every time it is drawn, every time it is warmed by a hand, the argument settles a little.

A blade that has been used has come to an agreement with itself."

He set it down.

"This one has been kept in a box for eleven years and taken out only to be polished.

It broke because nothing ever asked it to bend."

"That is sad."

"It is common."

He worked on it that evening, and the next, and the next, more slowly than on anything else, and sometimes he stopped and simply held it.

On the third evening the man came back.

Isen returned the mended sword, and the man drew it a hand's width from the sheath and looked at the join, and something in his face came apart.

"There was a fight," he said.

"Nine years ago, at the ford below Onome.

I was there."

He closed the sheath.

"I did not draw it."

Isen said nothing.

"My father carried this.

His father carried this."

The man's voice was very level, in the way that voices are level when they are being held that way on purpose.

"I have cleaned it every day since.

And I have never once been able to—"

"It is mended,"

Isen said.

The man stopped.

"That is what I was asked to do," said Isen, "and that is what I have done."

The man paid, and bowed lower than he needed to, and walked away up the north road toward Onome.

Mio watched him until he was out of sight.

"You could have said something kind to him."

"I did," said Isen.

He left Kanoe on the fifth day, which was two days later than the innkeeper had predicted.

Mio was waiting at the western gate with everything she owned in a cloth bag: two shirts, a comb, and eleven coins she had been saving since she was ten for a purpose she had never decided on.

Isen stopped the cart when he saw her.

He did not look surprised, which annoyed her.

"No," he said.

"You have not heard the question yet."

"I have heard it eleven times in thirty years.

The answer has always been no."

"Why?"

"Because the road is cold, the work is slow, and there is no money in it.

Because I sleep under the cart when there is no room at an inn, and there is very often no room at an inn."

He began to walk.

"Go back."

Mio walked beside him.

"The inn is cold," she said.

"The work is slow, and there is no money in that either.

I sleep in the kitchen, and I have no home to be taken back to.

My mother died when I was nine."

She was slightly out of breath, because he walked faster than an old man had any right to walk.

"So you can say no.

But you will have to say it for a better reason than that one."

They walked on for some time without speaking.

"What do you want?"

Isen said at last.

"To learn how to mend blades."

"No."

She stopped in the road.

"You have just this moment asked me—"

"I asked what you wanted.

That was not the true answer."

He kept walking, and she had to run three steps to catch up with him.

"Try again."

Mio thought about it for nearly a mile.

"I want to know how you do the looking," she said.

"You looked at that farmer's sword for about as long as it takes to boil water, and then you knew what his whole life had been like, and you never asked him anything at all.

I have lived in that town since the day I was born and I do not know anything about anybody in it."

Isen walked on.

After a while he moved to the left side of the cart and lifted one of the handles toward her.

"It is heavier than it looks," he said.

It was.

She took it anyway.

They went west toward Shiba, with the mountains ahead already turning white at the top.

Around midday Isen began to speak without being asked, as though continuing a conversation that had already been going on for some time.

"I have two rules," he said.

"You will keep them, or you will go home.

The first is this: never ask why a blade is broken.

If they wish to tell you, they will tell you."

"And the second?"

"Never say what you see."

Mio frowned.

"Then what is the point of seeing it?"

"That," said Isen, "is the whole of the work."

Shiba was three days west of Kanoe and half again as large, and they arrived in the rain.

Isen set up beneath the roof of the horse market, and before noon a servant in good clothes came down from the hill with a sword wrapped in silk.

"My master asks that it be repaired before the harvest festival," the servant said.

"He will pay whatever is asked."

Mio unwrapped it while Isen was finishing another piece, and she very nearly laughed.

The sheath was black lacquer with a gold vine running the length of it, and the handle was bound in white silk.

The blade, when she drew it, shone like water.

It was also completely blunt: not dull from use, but blunt from the day it had been made, the edge thick and rounded and unmarked anywhere along its length.

Only the very tip had broken off, cleanly, as though the sword had been dropped once onto stone.

She waited until the servant had gone.

"That is not a sword," she said.

"That is jewellery."

Isen took it from her without hurrying.

"Two coins," he said.

"That is what it costs to mend a tip."

"He sent word that he would pay anything at all."

"It is a two-coin piece of work."

He turned the blade in the grey light.

"Now tell me what you see."

"Nothing.

It has never been used, it has never been sharpened, and nobody has ever done anything with it except look at it."

"Good," said Isen.

"Now look at the sheath."

Mio picked the sheath up again, impatient.

It was beautiful, and it was heavy, and it was—

She stopped.

Near the top, where a thumb would rest to push the blade loose, the black lacquer had worn away.

It had worn right through to the wood underneath, in a small oval about the size of a fingerprint.

Around it the gold vine had lost its brightness in that one place and nowhere else.

"Somebody has been opening it," she said slowly.

"A great many times."

"Every day, I would think, for a very long while.

Forty years, perhaps."

Isen laid the blade down.

"This sword was made to be given, not used.

It was a gift, for a marriage, or a debt paid, or a son who did well.

Whoever received it understood exactly what it was, and has taken it out and looked at it on nearly every day of his life since."

He began to unwrap his stones.

"You said it is not a sword.

You were correct.

It is a letter.

It has been read far more often than most letters ever are."

Mio looked at the small worn place in the lacquer, and felt something turn over quietly inside her chest.

"Two coins," she said.

"Two coins,"

Isen agreed.

"And you will wrap it properly before you give it back."

They stayed in Shiba for eleven days, because the rain would not stop.

On the ninth morning a woman of about fifty came with her sleeves tied back and flour still on her hands, as though she had left something half finished in order to come.

What she carried was not broken.

It was a short blade, the kind used in a kitchen and in a field and in every other part of a life, and it had been sharpened so many times that there was almost nothing left of it.

The edge had eaten backward into the steel year after year until the blade was no wider than two fingers.

Somebody had loved it very much, and that love had very nearly used it up.

Isen held it for a long moment.

"I cannot mend this," he said.

"It is not broken."

"No.

It is finished."

The woman's hands closed on each other.

"It cuts."

"It cuts today,"

Isen said.

"If I put it on the stone, it will be a little sharper tomorrow and a little smaller.

There is not enough steel left to argue with."

And Mio, who had been watching the woman's face, and who had spent nine days feeling clever, broke the second rule without even noticing that she was doing it.

"Your mother used it," she said.

"And your grandmother before her.

You sharpen it yourself, in the autumn, before the salting, because the marks all run the same way and there are about forty of them.

Nobody else has ever touched it."

The rain went on falling on the market roof.

Everything in the woman's face closed at once, the way a door closes.

She took the blade back out of Isen's hands, wrapped it, thanked him in a voice that had gone completely flat, and walked out into the rain without waiting to be told what she owed.

Mio stood there with her ears burning.

"I was only saying what was true."

"Yes," said Isen.

He had not raised his voice, and somehow that was worse.

"Sit down."

She sat.

"That woman came here to be told what to do about a knife," he said.

"She left knowing that a stranger can look at her for the length of one breath and read forty years off her.

She did not ask for that, and she cannot give it back.

Everything I know about her, I know only because she trusted me enough to put into my hands the one object she owns that still remembers her mother."

He wet a stone and set it down.

"The rule is not politeness, Mio.

The rule is payment.

We are given something extremely private, and what we give in return is silence."

"Then what am I supposed to do with it?

All of it.

Everything I see."

"Mend the blade," said Isen.

"That is what it is for."

The woman came back at dusk, when the rain had thinned.

"What do I do with it?" she said.

"Stop sharpening it," said Isen.

"Oil it twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter.

Keep it out of the salt."

He was not looking at her; he was looking at the blade, which was the kindness.

"Give it to your daughter, and tell her that it does not need to cut anything any more."

"What does it need to do?"

"Exist," said Isen.

"It has done the other thing for eighty years."

The woman put a coin down on the corner of the blanket.

Isen pushed it back with one finger, and after a moment she picked it up and went away up the hill, and Mio did not say a single word.

They came to Onome at the beginning of the eleventh month, and it was there that the fifth sword found them.

The young man could not have been more than nineteen.

He arrived at a run, still breathing hard, and put the two halves of a sword down on the blanket with a clatter that made the stones jump.

"How fast can you do it?"

Isen picked up the longer piece.

The break was recent and rough, and the edge was bright where somebody had tried to sharpen it in a hurry, badly, with the wrong stone.

"One month," he said.

"A month?"

The young man laughed, and there was nothing in the laugh at all.

"I will pay double.

Triple."

"One month."

"Other menders do it in three days."

"Then go to them," said Isen, and went back to his work.

There were no other menders within nine days' walk, and all three of them knew it.

"Do you know what it is for?" he said.

"I have not asked."

"There is a man in this town called Toda.

In the eighth month he killed my brother over eleven coins, and everybody watched him do it, and nothing has happened to him since."

His voice cracked and he pushed it back into shape.

"So now you know.

Mend it anyway."

"I will mend it," said Isen.

"In one month."

When he had gone, Mio waited as long as she could manage, which was not long.

"That sword needs four days," she said.

"Five, with the handle.

I have watched you do worse in three."

"Yes."

"So you lied to him."

"I did not lie."

Isen was already sorting stones, quite calmly.

"It will take one month, because I have decided that it will take one month.

That is now true."

"That is the same thing."

"It is not, and you will see why, if you are patient for four weeks."

The young man came every day.

At first he came to check, watching the work go forward by a finger's width a day.

Then he came because he had nothing else to do with the hours.

By the second week he was carrying water without being asked, and by the third he had begun to talk: about his brother, who had been loud and difficult and generous and thirty-one; about their mother, who had stopped going out; about the roof of their house, which needed work before the snow came and which nobody had touched.

Isen said very little.

He mended the sword slowly, in the open, and asked no questions whatsoever.

On the last day of the month, Isen wiped the finished blade with oil and held it out.

The join could be seen only if a person knew where to look, and the edge was better than on the day the sword was made.

The young man took it in both hands and stood in the middle of the market, holding it, for a very long time.

"I do not know what to do now," he said at last.

"That," said Isen, "is a better problem than the one you arrived with."

He paid what had been asked, thanked them both, and walked north out of the market, toward the poor end of the town, where the houses with bad roofs were.

Mio watched until he had turned the corner.

"He went north," she said.

"Yes."

"Toda lives on the south side.

I asked at the well."

"I know."

"What would you have done if he had gone south?"

Isen was folding the blanket.

He did it corner to corner, the way he did everything, without hurry.

"I would have mended a sword," he said.

"That is the only thing I have ever done."

They crossed Kuro Pass in the first week of the twelfth month, ahead of the heavy snow, and the sixth sword was not brought to them at all.

Mio found it in the gravel at the edge of the stream below the road, half covered, the way a stone is half covered.

The handle had rotted away decades ago.

What was left was a length of rust with a shape still inside it, snapped two thirds of the way along.

She carried it up to the road expecting to be laughed at.

Isen set down the cart handles when he saw it, sat down on the frozen bank, and did not say anything for a while.

"There were four hundred men on this pass," he said finally, "for two days, thirty years ago.

Nobody won.

Afterwards the families came for what they could find, and the snow came for the rest."

He worked on it for four evenings, which was longer than he had spent on anything since Kanoe.

Rust takes the stone as well as the steel, and it had to come off before anything else could begin.

Mio held the lamp and watched a shape come back out of the ruin, until on the fourth night there was an edge again, clean and grey and continuous, on a broken blade that no longer belonged to anybody.

"Who is paying you for this?" she asked.

"Nobody."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because I am here," said Isen, "and it is not."

At the top of the pass there was a small stone shrine with no name on it.

In the morning Isen laid the mended blade across the stone, straightened it with two fingers until it lay square, and stood there for about ten breaths.

Then he picked up the cart handles again.

"Do you do that every time you cross?"

Mio said.

"Every time."

"How many?"

Isen started walking down the western side, into the wind.

"This one is the nineteenth," he said.

The fever took him in Fusa eight days later, and it took him properly.

He went down on the second night and did not get up again for eleven days.

The innkeeper's wife, who remembered him from other winters, put him in the small back room by the kitchen chimney, and Mio sat with him and learned how frightening it is to watch somebody who has always been in control of everything stop being in control of anything.

On the fourth day she understood that the room had to be paid for.

So she pulled the cart out into the snow at the edge of the Fusa market, laid the blanket down, set out the stones in the order she had watched him use every day for three months, hung the burned board on the side of the cart, and waited, and was extremely frightened.

Nobody trusted her with a sword.

But a woman brought a bent kitchen knife, because a bent kitchen knife is not much to lose, and Mio put an edge on it that was not good but was honest.

By the ninth day she had paid for the room twice over.

It was on the ninth day, too, that she went to the bottom of the cart looking for the coarse stone that only came out for rust, and found instead that the floor was false.

A hand's depth below it lay a long bundle wrapped in oiled cloth, tied with cord that had gone soft from being tied and untied so many times.

She knew that she should not open it.

She opened it.

It was a sword, and it was broken, and it was the worst break she had ever seen.

It had not given way cleanly, the way the black silk sword had done.

Somebody had destroyed it.

The steel was bent before it was broken, the edge was chipped in four places, and the break itself was ugly and ragged, the sort that only happens when a blade is driven against stone on purpose, by somebody strong, more than once.

Even ruined, she could see that it had been a very fine sword.

"Bring it here," said Isen from the bed.

She had not heard him wake.

She carried it over with both hands and sat down on the floor beside him, and waited to be sent home.

He did not send her home.

He took the longer half and held it up in the light of the one lamp, the way he had taught her to, turning it slowly.

"I was twenty-six," he said.

"I had a school behind me and a name in front of me and I was extremely good, which is a dangerous thing to be at twenty-six."

He turned the blade over.

"On the second day at Kuro Pass there was fog on the ground up to the waist, and everything happened at the distance of about three steps.

A boy came out of the fog.

He was perhaps sixteen.

He was not coming toward me; he was running past me, the wrong way, which is to say he was running away.

I killed him because he was there and because my hands had been trained to."

The fire moved in the kitchen chimney.

"Was he armed?"

Mio said.

"I do not know," said Isen.

"That is the thing I would tell you, if you only had time to hear one.

I have had thirty years and I still do not know.

I did not look.

There was no time, and afterwards there was nothing to look at."

He set the blade down on the blanket over his knees.

"I broke this against a rock that evening.

It took four attempts.

I remember being angry that it was so difficult, which tells you something about what I was."

"And then?"

"And then I came here, to Fusa.

A mender called Sada took me in and taught me badly, I taught myself the rest, and I have been on the road since."

Mio looked at the ruined edge, the four chips, the ugly ragged break.

"You could mend this," she said.

"You mended a sword that had been in the ground for thirty years.

You could mend this in a week."

"Yes."

"Then why have you not?"

Isen was quiet for a while.

"There is a kind of man who wants to be forgiven," he said, "and a kind who only wants to be useful.

I decided which one I was going to be, and I have kept to it for thirty years, and it has been a good life and an honest one."

He closed his eyes.

"But I am no longer certain it was a decision.

It may only have been fear, wearing better clothes."

The snow lay on Fusa until the end of the second month, and Isen did not travel again.

He got up, eventually, and ate, and walked as far as the well and back.

But his hands had changed.

They were steady enough to hold a cup and not steady enough to hold an edge, and neither of them said anything about it for three weeks.

Then one morning he came out to the market with her, sat on the box at the end of the blanket with a rug over his knees, and said, "Show me the third one from the left."

That was how they worked after that.

Mio held the blade; Isen told her what to look at; Mio said what she saw, quietly, and only to him, and then mended it and said nothing to anybody else.

She began the seventh sword in the coldest part of the year, in the evenings, in the room by the chimney, without asking permission and without hiding it either.

It took her forty-one days.

The chips came out first, then the bend, then the join, which she did four times and undid three.

She knew she was not good the entire time she was doing it.

On the last night she oiled it, wrapped it, put it beside his door, slept badly, and got up early.

Isen unwrapped it in the grey light of the window and looked at it for a long time.

"It is not good work," he said.

"No."

"The join will always show.

Here, and here along this side."

He held it toward the light so that the faint grey line came up out of the steel.

"You will see it every time you look at it, for as long as it exists."

"I know," said Mio.

"I could not make it not show.

I tried."

"No," said Isen.

"You could not."

He drew it fully out and held it level, and then did something she had not expected.

He reached over to the blanket, picked up a farmer's blade that was waiting for its edge, laid the two side by side, and sighted along them to see which was true.

"It is straight," he said, as though this were an ordinary and mildly satisfying fact.

"We will keep it here, where I can reach it.

It is easier to see what is wrong with a blade when there is a straight one lying next to it."

And that was all that was ever said about it.

He stayed in Fusa when the roads opened.

There was a room above the ropemaker's, and enough small work in a town that size to keep an old man busy without asking his hands to do what they could no longer do.

He gave her the cart, all twenty-three stones, the basin, the burned board, and a list of nine towns in an order that made sense to nobody but him.

"How will I know what to charge?" she said at the gate, because she wanted to ask something else and could not.

"You look at the blade," said Isen.

She went east, with the mountains behind her going soft and dark as the snow came off them.

The cart was heavier than it looked.

It had always been heavier than it looked.

At the crossroad below the third village she stopped and hung the little board on the side panel, where people would see it from the road.

Broken blades mended.

No questions asked.

She stood back and looked at it for a while.

She had thought all winter about burning a third line underneath, and had never been able to decide what it ought to say, and standing there in the road she understood at last that there was not supposed to be one.

Her first customer came before midday: a farmer, with a plain blade broken low, notched all along the bottom third where a man's hand would be nearest the work.

Mio turned it slowly in the light, and looked at it for far longer than seemed necessary, and named a price.

She did not say a word about the axe he did not own.