Takamoto turned out to be another Banqilun man, younger and thinner than Harato, and with a shorter beard. His skin was darker, though. The newcomer wore grayish clothing similar to Yipachai’s. Using a short rope, he led a single buffalo pulling a cart full of sacks of supplies—mostly rice, it seemed, but there were a couple of sacks with the leafy heads of vegetables poking out. Near the front of the cart, though, was a tall, rectangular bundle wrapped in paper. Yipachai thought he could guess what it contained.

  “Ho there, Takamoto,” Harato called, waving. “Come meet my new apprentice. This is Yipachai. Found him washed up not far from here a couple days ago.”

  Takamoto bowed to Harato, then straightened and gave Yipachai a good-natured smile. “A Hetanzou, eh? How does one like you make his way to the old master here?”

  Yipachai’s eyes widened. “Erm…I…It’s a long story.”

  The younger Banqilun nodded, seeming to sense Yipachai’s unease. “No doubt it is.”

  “So what do we have today, friend?” Harato asked. Silently, Yipachai thanked him for changing the subject.

  “Standard rations, some vegetables that you should be able to eat before they go bad—especially if you’ve got two mouths to feed—the leftover gold from your last shipment, a few books, and…” Takamoto paused and pulled a folded piece of paper from under the bundle of books. “Your next round of orders.”

  “Who do we have this time?” Harato asked, taking the paper.

  “Murishi Tankaya from the School of Heavenly Flame, Rurou Hirowa from the West Wind, and Kitoku Dachi and Nata Shiasawa, both from the School of Breaking Waves.”

  “I see Tankaya is a newly risen master? I’m surprised he hasn’t had one of the Amigawan smiths make him a blade already.”

  Yipachai tried to look past Harato’s elbow to see what was written on the paper, but with the smith holding it so close to his face, it was hard to make out the letters. It looked like just the list of names, their ranks, and a few measurements.

  Despite his initial awkwardness, Yipachai found his curiosity burning. “There are schools for swordsmanship?”

  “That there are, my boy,” Harato said. He stroked his long beard, gave the paper one last look, then folded it and tucked it into his belt. “They each claim to have invented fencing in the first place, and that their style is superior to all the others. They say learning the sword is a way to attune oneself to the mhonglun.” He gave a sideways glance to Takamoto, who nodded along. “I say they’re just a few monasteries passed down from the old tribes that wanted a spiritual excuse to keep practicing their hobby.”

  Yipachai frowned. “So you don’t like them?”

  “I might not agree with their teachings, but I don’t wish them any harm. Their way simply isn’t for me.”

  “Then why do you make swords for them, if you disagree with what they teach?”

  Harato thought for a moment. “I make swords for them because it takes both an artist and a beholder for art and beauty to really mean something. As the smith, I pour in my passion, my own interpretation of what a sword should be with each blade I make. But there must be a blade bearer to receive it, or else it remains nothing but a contemplative practice for myself. And once other people are involved, they must be given the freedom to interpret that art—the meaning of that blade, and the way it ought to be used.”

  Yipachai’s brow furrowed further. Takamoto nodded along with Harato’s words, as if he had heard them before. It was almost poetic, which meant it didn’t quite make sense to Yipachai. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Movement helped him focus and think sometimes.

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  “So if people use the swords you make in ways you disagree with, that’s acceptable?”

  Harato nodded.

  “But if it were up to you, what would people use swords for?”

  A warm smile split Harato’s face. He gave Takamoto a knowing look out of the corner of his eye before answering. “An excellent question, indeed. I haven’t the power to make this into a reality, of course, but if it were up to me, all of my swords would be used for good.” A dreamy look came into the smith’s eyes, as if he were seeing something beyond the smithy and the surrounding woods. “For art and for beauty and for justice. As the last line of defense for the innocent and pure.”

  Yipachai stared. Perhaps he should’ve known Harato might speak in such a way, but it was still surprising to hear the Banqilun speak so romantically about his work. And yet. There was something in those words that drew Yipachai in, made him long for Harato’s reality to replace their current one. If that were the way everyone everywhere used swords, then Elder Satsanan would still be alive. Yipachai would still be at the monastery, practicing the disciplines and meditating so he could join the ranks of the monkhood.

  Something else stirred in his heart. A sense of rightness. Those bandits certainly hadn’t used their swords for any good purpose, but what about Yipachai? If Harato wouldn’t teach him, he could visit one of these schools and learn the sword. He could become a master, and track down the bandit Mangsut and his henchmen. Yipachai could use the sword for the ultimate good: slaying the wicked and avenging the blood of the innocent.

  He smiled, then, for those plans he had kept to himself over the past few days had just been legitimized.

  Later that night, after Harato had chatted with Takamoto while Yipachai unloaded the cart, after the younger Banqilun had taken his leave and headed back for his village, and after Yipachai had finished washing up from the evening’s supper, he sat at the table, his mind dull from the day’s work. The light from one of Harato’s earlier Lan Banti invocations shone from the ceiling, bathing the house in a steady, even glow.

  The Banqilun knelt next to one of his bookshelves, swiping a finger across the spines as he looked for something specific. He had already finished cataloging the new additions Takamoto had brought him—apparently it was one of the only things Harato asked for besides food supplies. The rest of the money he earned from his swords and knives went to help feeding Takamoto’s village. If there was extra, it was divided between the village and Harato. The smith said it was to pay them for their help in delivering his products to his customers in Amigawa and for bringing him supplies. He himself didn’t tend to need much coin, since he rarely made trips into the villages or the city.

  “Ah, here it is,” Harato said, selecting a thin volume from the shelf. It was about as thick as one of Yipachai’s fingers. The smith stood and lumbered over to lay the book on the table in front of Yipachai.

  Yipachai quickly read the title. The Art of Fencing by Moyomo Kirahana.

  “Despite my warnings,” Harato said, “I’ve never known a young man who wasn’t itching to learn the sword if he had the chance. I figured I might as well start you off in a good direction.”

  Yipachai stared, wide-eyed, at the book. Its pages were bound between two thin pieces of wood, with the title written neatly in black ink on the front. The monastery’s library hadn’t been large, but Yipachai thought those letters had been handwritten, rather than the more common block printing he had seen on most other books.

  “This manual was written by a great swordsman,” Harato continued. “Not a well-known one—he was just a relatively unimportant member of the Amigawan city watch, but his methods are good. He treats the sword like a paint brush, with the ink being the blood of the wicked. To him, all of fencing is a dance. If that sounds like something of interest to you…” The smith gave Yipachai a knowing smile. “You can read it during your breaks and in the evenings after supper.”

  Yipachai didn’t try to disguise his excitement. “Yes! Thank you! I’ll take good care of it!”

  He immediately grabbed the book and started flipping through its pages. While there was a substantial amount of text that would take him some time to read through, most of the book was filled with sketches of various movements and techniques.

  Yipachai felt his heart quickening as he scanned through the pages without reading. He could see himself, wielding a sword even more elegant than the ones Harato called his failures. He would be a noble warrior, swift as the wind and strong as an elephant and with a name as loud as thunder. He would be Yipachai, the righteous swordsman, dispensing justice with his trusty blade that drank the blood of evil men. Men like that monster Mangsut, who had murdered Elder Satsanan and ruined that innocent monastery boy’s life.

  The first steps of his plan were already coming together.

  “Good lad,” Harato said, unaware of the visions of grandeur that flashed through Yipachai’s mind. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you a wooden practice sword for your training. Then, we’ll see just how far old Moyomo can take you.”