'You are a sword maker,' came the booming voice. 'Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.'
'If only it were,' Domingo replied. 'But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.'
Inigo crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Inigo could not tell the country.
'I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.'
'I hope your wishes are granted,' Domingo said. 'And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and —'
'I do not give you permission to move. You stay right exactly where you are or risk my wrath, which, I must tell you in advance, is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?'
'I was saying that it will be hours before it is ready; I have nothing to do and would not dream of budging.'
'There are rumors,' the nobleman said, 'that deep in the hills behind Toledo lives a genius. The greatest sword maker in all the world.'
'He visits here sometimes—that must be your mistake. But his name is Yeste and he lives in Madrid.'
'I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires,' said the big-shouldered noble.
'That is more money than all the men in all this village will earn in all their lives,' said Domingo. 'Truly, I would love to accept your offer. But I am not the man you seek.'
'These rumors lead me to believe that Domingo Montoya would solve my problem.'
'What is your problem?'
'I am a great swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I am deprived of reaching my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match my peculiarities, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.'
'What are these peculiarities you speak of?'
The noble held up his right hand.
Domingo began to grow excited.
The man had six fingers.
'You see?' the noble began.
'Of course,' Domingo interrupted, 'the balance of the sword is wrong for you because every balance has been conceived of for five. The grip of every handle cramps you, because it has been built for five. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would have eventual discomfort. And the greatest swordsman in the world must always be at ease. The grip of his weapon must be as natural as the blink of his eye, and cause him no more thought.'
'Clearly, you understand the difficulties—' the nobleman began again.
But Domingo had traveled where others' words could never reach him. Inigo had never seen his father so frenzied. 'The measurements ... of course .. . each finger and the circumference of the wrist, and the distance from the sixth nail to the index pad ... so many measurements ... and your preferences ... Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you prefer the right-to-left movement or perhaps the parallel? ... When you cut, do you enjoy an upward thrust, and how much power do you wish to come from the shoulder, how much from the wrist? ... and do you wish your point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing the opponent's wince? ... So much to be done, so much to be done ...' and on and on he went until the noble dismounted and had to almost take him by the shoulders to quiet him.
'You are the man of the rumors.'
Domingo nodded.
'And you will make me the greatest sword since Excalibur.'
'I will beat my body into ruins for you. Perhaps I will fail. But no one will try harder.'
'And payment?'
'When you get the sword, then payment. Now let me get to work measuring. Inigo—my instruments.'
Inigo scurried into the darkest corner of the hut.
'I insist on leaving something on account.'
'It is not necessary; I may fail.'
'
'All right. One goldpiece. Leave that. But do not bother me with money when there is work that needs beginning.'
The noble took out one piece of gold.
Domingo put it in a drawer and left it, without even a glance. 'Feel your fingers now,' he commanded. 'Rub your hands hard, shake your fingers—you will be excited when you duel and this handle must match your hand in that excitement; if I measured when you were relaxed, there would be a difference, as much as a thousandth of an inch and that would rob us of perfection. And that is what I seek. Perfection. I will not rest for less.'
The nobleman had to smile. 'And how long will it take to reach it?'
'Come back in a year,' Domingo said, and with that he set to work.
Such a year.
Domingo slept only when he dropped from exhaustion. He ate only when Inigo would force him to. He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Inigo would wake to find him weeping: 'What is it, Father?' 'It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?' 'Go to sleep, Father.' 'No, I don't need sleep. Failures don't need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.' 'Please, Father, a little nap.' 'All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.'
Some nights Inigo would awake to see him dancing. 'What is it, Father?' 'It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my mis-judgments.' 'Then it will be done soon, Father?' 'It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.' 'You are wonderful, Father.' 'I'm more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.'
But the next night, more tears. 'What is it now, Father?' 'The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.' 'But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.' 'I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn't mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.' 'But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.' 'You don't really love me; you're only speaking pity.' 'Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?' 'Thank you, Inigo.' 'You're welcome, Father.' 'I love you back, Inigo.' 'Sleep, Father.' 'Yes. Sleep.'
A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right, but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Domingo's health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Domingo was battling legend, and it was destroying him.
Such a year.
One night Inigo woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Inigo followed the stare.
The six-fingered sword was done.
Even in the hut's darkness, it glistened.
'At last,' Domingo whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. 'After a lifetime. Inigo. Inigo. I am an artist.'
The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. 'Not worth waiting for,' he said.
Inigo stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.
'You are disappointed?' Domingo could scarcely get the words spoken.
'I'm not saying it's trash, you understand,' the nobleman went on. 'But it's certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I'll give you ten; it's probably worth that.'
'Wrong!' Domingo cried. 'It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here.' And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. 'The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing.' He took
