The Silent Girl

can you tell, from that little piece? Couldn’t it be from a Japanese samurai sword?”
    “That’s possible, I suppose, since the Japanese learned their swordmaking techniques from the Chinese.”
    “And samurai swords are easy to find,” said Tam. “You see them for sale in specialty knife stores.”
    “Ah, but those stores don’t sell swords like this one.”
    “What’s so special about it?” asked Jane.
    “Its age. Based on carbon-fourteen dating.”
    Jane frowned. “I thought carbon-fourteen dating was only used for organic material. This is steel.”
    “Let’s go back to how ancient swords were made,” said Dr. Cherry. “The traditional technique was to melt iron sand in a forge. That iron was then combined with carbon to form steel. But where do you get the carbon? They used wood ash.”
    “And wood is organic,” said Tam.
    “Exactly. We extracted the carbon component of this specimen using sealed-tube combustion,” said Erin. “And that carbon was then analyzed.”
    “The fragment had to be destroyed?”
    “Unfortunately, yes. To date the carbon, the specimen had to be sacrificed. It was the only way we could get an accurate age.”
    “And that’s where the big surprise came in,” said Dr. Cherry, a lilt of excitement in his voice.
    “I take it this weapon wasn’t bought in some local knife store,” Jane said.
    “Not unless that store deals in very old antiques.”
    “How old are we talking about?”
    Dr. Cherry pointed to the micrograph. “That steel you see therewas crafted during the Ming dynasty. Carbon-fourteen dating narrows it down to sometime between the years 1540 and 1590.” He looked at Jane, his eyes aglow. “That just happens to be the era of General Qi’s legendary army. A saber with this degree of craftsmanship could have been wielded by one of his elite soldiers. Maybe it even cut off the heads of a few pirates.”
    Jane stared at the image on the computer. “This weapon is over five hundred years old? And it’s still usable?”
    “It’s possible to preserve such a sword for a long, long time, but it takes special care, especially if this weapon actually saw use on the battlefield. Blood corrodes steel, even if it’s assiduously wiped away. Exposure to air causes rust and pitting. The blade would need repeated cleaning and polishing over the centuries, and that alone abrades the metal, making the cutting edge brittle. That may be why this particular blade chipped off in the victim’s neck. It’s simply reached the end of its useful life as a killing tool.” He gave a wistful sigh. “What I’d give to examine it! A
dao
from General Qi’s era would be priceless, if you could just find it.” He paused and frowned at Frost, who had suddenly paled. “Is something wrong, Detective?”
    Frost said, softly: “I know where to find that sword.”

O NCE AGAIN, DETECTIVES RIZZOLI AND FROST HAVE INVADED MY studio, and this time they’ve brought along a well-dressed black gentleman whose soft-spoken diffidence indicates that he is not a policeman like them. The sudden interruption startles my class, and the dozen students stand frozen, their sparring exercises abruptly halted. Only Bella strides into action, slipping past the students to plant herself beside me. She acts as my fierce guardian, all five foot, four inches of her, including her spiky black hair. I am not surprised to see the visitors, and I cast a glance at Bella that says:
Stand down. Allow me to deal with this
.
    She gives the subtlest of nods but stubbornly remains at my side.
    Detective Rizzoli assumes command of the conversation. Of course she would; she wears her authority like a coat of armor. “We understand you’re in possession of an antique sword, Mrs. Fang,” she says. “We ask you to surrender it to us now.”
    I look at Detective Frost. It is a cold stare of accusation, and shame darkens his eyes. On the night we shared dinner, the night that a friendship warmed between us, I allowed him to hold Zheng Yi and I shared the sword’s history with him. That night, I saw kindness inhis face. Now that face tightens into a mask that closes off any hint of our earlier connection. It is clear that he is a policeman above all, which poisons any possibility of friendship between us.
    “If you choose not to hand over the weapon,” says Detective Rizzoli, “we have a search warrant.”
    “And if I give you my sword, what will you do with it?” I ask.
    “Examine