“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.”
“I insist.”
“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.”