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warily inside and over to the central altar where a number of smaller effigies encircled a dust-ridden Buddha. ‘What are the warrior statues guarding?’
    ‘The Buddha, of course. The right statue is Agyō. He symbolizes violence. The statue on the left with the sword is Ungyō. He depicts strength,’ Akiko explained, then pointed to their faces. ‘Do you see the first one has his mouth open and the other has his closed? They form the sounds “ah” and “un”, the first and last characters of the Buddhist language. Together they encompass all knowledge.’
    ‘History lesson over,’ Yamato butted in. ‘There’s no one here. This is a complete waste of time. Now that Kunitomesan’s committed suicide, we’ve hit a dead end. We’ll never find Dragon Eye, so let’s go.’
    As Yamato turned to leave, there was a shuffling noise behind the Buddha.
    ‘The swordmaker didn’t commit suicide!’ rasped a figure in the darkness.
    They all spun round to defend themselves. An old hunched woman, dressed in a ragged cowl and robe, hobbled towards them through the shadows.
    ‘Our apologies,’ said Akiko, startled. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb your prayers.’
    ‘Prayers!’ she croaked. ‘I long since abandoned my faith in Buddha. I was sleeping until you rats scurried in.’
    ‘We were just going,’ explained Yamato, taking a step away from the foul-looking woman, her face veiled by the lice-ridden cowl.
    But Jack remained where he was. ‘What did you just say about Kunitome-san?’
    ‘You’re not from here, are you, boy?’ the hag spat. She sniffed the air, then seemed to gag on the smell. ‘You’re
gaijin
!’
    Jack ignored the insult. ‘Did you say the swordmaker did
not
commit suicide?’
    ‘No. He didn’t.’
    ‘Then what happened?’
    The old woman stretched forth a bony hand, its skin dead as a corpse. She remained silent, but the message was clear. Akiko reached inside the folds of her kimono, pulled out a small string of coins, removed one and dropped it into the woman’s waiting palm. The hag snatched her prizeaway.
    ‘He didn’t commit suicide, but he
was
killed by his own sword.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jack.
    ‘Kunitome-san had been commissioned to make a special sword for a very special client,’ she explained, letting her fingers run down the splintered edge of an effigy’s carved wooden blade. ‘The sword was called
Kuro Kumo
, Black Cloud, on account that it was finished on the night of a great storm. It was his finest sword yet, sharper and deadlier than any blade in existence. It turned out to be the last sword he ever made.’
    The hag shuffled closer to Jack.
    ‘That night the client came and demanded a cutting test to prove the quality of the blade. Kunitome-san arranged for four criminals to be bound over a sand mound. Black Cloud went through all four bodies like a ripe plum cleft in two. You should have heard their screams.’
    She extended a talon of a finger and ran it across Jack’s neck. He shuddered at her touch.
    ‘The client was so impressed he beheaded Kunitome-san there and then with his own creation.’
    ‘Why did he do that?’ asked Jack, swallowing back his revulsion.
    ‘He wanted to ensure Kunitome-san never made another blade that could defeat Black Cloud. But when Kunitomesan was murdered, a fragment of his maddened soul entered the sword. As if possessed, the storm then raged all night long, ripping the heart out of the village, ravaging all the crops, destroying the temple. Little was left standing by the morning.’
    ‘Who was the client?’ asked Akiko.
    The old woman looked up, and though Jack couldn’t see her face within the cowl, he swore she was smiling.
    ‘Dokugan Ryu, of course. The one you seek.’
    The hag leant forward and whispered into Jack’s ear, ‘You wish to know where he is?’
    ‘Yes,’ breathed Jack.
    The old woman put out her skeletal hand again. Akiko dropped another coin into the grimy palm.
    ‘Where is he?’