Heart of the Ronin by Travis Heermann Read Free Book Online Page A

trudged down the street.
    Captain Mishima then turned to the sword polisher, who stood with his eyes downcast, embarrassed and frightened. “Please accept my apologies, Masamoto. You will have no more trouble from Goemon. My master is grateful for your skilled service.”
    The sword polisher bowed. “Your master is too kind to someone with such poor skill as I have.”
    Then Captain Mishima looked at Ken’ishi and gave him an appraising glance. Ken’ishi saw the calm intelligence in his eyes and a flash of respect. He blushed at the scrutiny. “You are a brave young man,” Captain Mishima said. “Please accept my humble apologies for the behavior of my underling.” Then he offered a quick bow.
    Ken’ishi was nonplussed. No one of such rank had ever spoken to him before with such courtesy. Nevertheless, he had the presence of mind to return the honor with a low bow of his own.
    Then Captain Mishima turned, thought for a moment, and said to the sword polisher, “Masamoto, please polish this young man’s weapon. My master would consider it a favor.”
    The sword polisher almost hid his surprise, then he bowed deeply. “Of course, Mishima-sama. It would be my pleasure.”
    Then the samurai captain followed Goemon down the street.
    After he had gone, the sword polisher turned to Ken’ishi and bowed with a feeble smile. “Please,” he said, “allow me to polish your weapon.”
    Unsure of what else to say, Ken’ishi said, “Very well. Please do me this favor.” He walked toward the sword polisher, untying his scabbard, then offered it up to the artisan with both hands. The sword polisher bowed low and received it with both hands.
    “May I inspect it?” Masamoto asked.
    “Of course.”
    The sword polisher drew the blade half out of its scabbard and inspected the steel in the lamplight. He let out a long slow breath. “Exquisite! What a fantastic blade!”
    Ken’ishi’s ears flushed. “It is called Silver Crane.”
    “Did you say—? Ah, but it cannot be. It must be another sword of the same name, but . . . look at the temper line along the cutting edge! It looks like feathers! What technique!”
    Ken’ishi could not help smiling.
    The sword polisher bowed again, deeper this time. “It is my privilege to polish such a weapon! I will have it finished for you in ten days. Please return then. Until then”—he stepped into his shop with Ken’ishi’s weapon and returned with another weapon, a katana, in its scabbard—“please take this sword to carry until you return. It is hardly more than a piece of trash compared to yours, but a warrior should not be weaponless.” He bowed and offered the weapon with both hands.
    Ken’ishi bowed low and took it. “Thank you for your kindness. I will return in ten days’ time.” He tried to ignore the headless corpse lying a few paces away as he slipped the loaner katana into his sash.
    He turned to go, but the sword polisher stopped him. “Please, wait a moment. Excuse me, but, are you ronin?”
    “I have no master.”
    “When did you last eat?”
    “Earlier today,” Ken’ishi lied.
    The sword polisher nodded. He pointed down the street. “Down that way is a small temple. The chief priest there . . . well, you should speak to him. He might give you a place to stay, for a time, until the sword is finished. Tell him I sent you.”
    Ken’ishi bowed again. “Thank you, again.”
    “It is nothing,” the sword polisher said.
    As Ken’ishi walked away, Akao followed some distance behind him, busily inspecting the corner of every building and small piles of garbage or litter on the dusty street. Ken’ishi thought about Captain Mishima again. He could not remember his father, but he wished that he were like the captain. Strong, confident, honorable, noble, with the skill and conviction to back up his words.
    He had spent the next ten days waiting. Polishing a sword was a long and exacting process, just as important as the forging of the weapon. He felt both