American fighting knife, devised centuries ago by Rezin Bowie and

made famous by his brother, James. Some had traditional grips,

others were of ivory, horn, micarta, and beautiful laminated and

exotic woods. There were elegant Fairburn-Sykes British

commando knives, Gurkhas, Filipino butterfly knives, Italian

stilettos, Scottish dirks, and a dazzling variety of folding blades, all

handcrafted with unique perfection. And the walls behind the

cabinets were hung with swords of every description.

The swordsmiths of the House of Nihonto prided themselves on

being masters not only of the traditional Japanese sword, though

they were, of course, most famous for that, but of every type of

sword that had ever been in existence, from the Roman gladius to

medieval broadswords to Florentine blades and Saracen scimitars.

They catered to some of. the wealthiest collectors in the world and

regarded no task as too great or too small, providing they could

bring to it their usual high standards of quality. But most expensive

and highly prized were the Japanese swords, such as those in the

central display case—gleaming blades with graceful curves and

painstakingly wrapped hilts, they were lovingly polished and honed

to such a razor sharpness that if a silk scarf were dropped upon the

blade, it would be sliced in two.

There were only two customers in the shop, young people,

Americans or Europeans, by the look of them. One was a girl of

about twenty or so, dressed in tight maroon lycras, high boots, and

a leather and chain-mail jacket of the sort favored by

style-conscious youths. The other was a young boy, in his early

teens, scruffy-looking, with bloused, multipocketed military

trousers and paratroopers boots, and a fringed and zippered leather

coat that looked as if it had been sewn together from remnants. He

had an outrageous hairstyle, short on the sides and thick and full in

the center, a crest rather like a horse’s mane, cascading down to

the middle of his back. One of those punks, thought Shiro, with

distaste. Tourists, undoubtedly. There was no question of them

being able to afford anything in the shop except, perhaps, one of the

small sharpening stones that were sold in special little wooden

boxes labeled with the shop’s name as inexpensive souvenirs.

Nonetheless, the boy was eagerly examining some knives, asking