Descendant of the Crane(69)

“So she unsheathed at the last possible moment and cut your gown in the same stroke. A quick draw.”

“If you’re going to talk about swords,” the director interjected, “then I have just the witness for you.”

A maid brought forward another gilded tray, draped with a sword belt fashioned from black brocade.

“This was found on the floor outside the king’s study,” said the director. He summoned a middle-aged woman wearing a brown hanfu cinched by an iron girdle. With a start, Hesina recognized her as the imperial blacksmith.

“Did you fashion this for the swordswoman?” asked the director, waving the tray over to the blacksmith.

The blacksmith ran her hands over the proffered sword belt. “Yes, I did. I carved these markings myself.”

Hesina’s heart plummeted.

“Then it’s settled. The evidence undeniably—”

“Wait.” Akira gestured for the sword belt. He gave it one glance and said to the blacksmith, “A traditional belt has the scabbard sling on the left, but this one is on the right.”

“The traditional design is meant for a right-handed swordsman or woman.”

“So the suspect wasn’t right-handed,” said Akira.

“Correct,” said the blacksmith. “She was left-handed.”

“And that’s why the sling is on right.”

“Correct.”

“And can you confirm that the left-handed wielder reaches to the right side when unsheathing into a quick draw?”

“Yes, that is the correct method.”

Akira thanked the blacksmith and turned back to the maid. “You claimed she grabbed your shoulder.”

“Y…No.”

“Right. Because you then claimed she didn’t grab your shoulder but instead cut you with her sword.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” asked Akira.

“I-it all happened too quickly.”

“Why do you think a member of the imperial militia decided to slash you? To poison the king’s cup? But why would she do so if that meant killing you on the spot and then disposing of your body? When it would be easier to poison the cup in the kitchens? Forgive me, I’m getting carried away. Ah, where were we? Yes, she slashed you. Are you still not sure?”

The maid wet her lips and glanced toward the ministers. Without looking, Hesina could guess which one. “I’m sure now.”

“Then let’s have a demonstration.” Akira gestured for a page.

“I never expected you to take me seriously,” said the same marquis who’d invoked the imperial troupe.

Akira scratched his head. “Would you prefer to be taken as a joke next time?”

The man went red.

“Stand in front of me,” Akira directed the page. “Yes, like that. Now start walking.” Akira grabbed at his right side with his left hand and unsheathed. The imaginary blade flashed upward in a distinct bottom-right to upper-left movement.

“An excellent draw,” appraised Sanjing. Then he stiffened. His mouth parted. Comprehension lanced Hesina a second later, and voices gusted through the court as Akira displayed the tear. Half the nobles, all trained in swordsmanship, nodded in affirmation.

The tear spanned from bottom left to upper right. It was the undeniable cut of a right-handed wielder.

But Mei was left-handed.

Hesina sagged like a flameless lantern. It was over. It was finally over. Everyone else seemed to think so too. All throughout the ranks, people were rising, muttering. Another case, debunked by Akira. But then:

“Enough!” boomed the director. “We’ve been strung along by this jester for far too long! Guards!”

Startled, Hesina rose as members of the imperial guard streamed through the doors and down the walk. They seized Mei by the arms, and the unit leader at their head approached with a dagger.

In a flash, Sanjing launched himself over the imperial box. He tucked and rolled as he hit the floor, then shoved to a sprint. Hesina performed the maneuver less gracefully and ran after her brother. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but there shouldn’t have been this many guards, or a dagger, a dagger that sliced into Mei’s arm just as Sanjing reached the dais.

A roar of rage, a swish of a blade, a piggish squeal—the last sound that registered for Hesina before shouts overtook the court. The clamor of the ranks only faded to the background when Hesina reached the dais herself—in time to see Akira seize some noble’s ivory cane. He raised it not a heartbeat too soon; Sanjing’s liuyedao clanged off the ivory.

Sanjing. Akira. Fighting.

Why?

“Stand aside,” Sanjing snarled. Belatedly, Hesina noticed the director cowering behind Akira’s legs. He squealed as Sanjing broke away and bore down again. “Don’t think I’ll spare him…or you.”

Akira met the blow, and the next. “You might regret this.”

“I’ve never regretted anything less.”

“If you kill him, he’ll have won.”

The word kill revitalized the director. He clutched at Akira’s ankle. “Guards!”

Sanjing let out a cruel, low laugh. “I don’t think that’s his idea of winning.”

Then he slid into the deadly quick-draw stance he was known for.