By Lian Hearn
In his black-walled citadel at Inuyama, the warlord Iida Sadamu surveys his recognized nightingale ground. built with beautiful ability, it sings on the tread of every human foot. No murderer can pass it unheard.
The adolescence Takeo has been pointed out in a distant mountain village one of the Hidden, a reclusive and religious those who have taught him in simple terms the methods of peace. yet unbeknownst to him, his father used to be a celebrated murderer and a member of the Tribe, an historic community of households with impressive, preternatural talents. whilst Takeo's village is pillaged, he's rescued and followed by way of the mysterious Lord Otori Shigeru. less than the tutelage of Shigeru, he learns that he too possesses the talents of the Tribe. And, with this data, he embarks on a trip that might lead him around the famed nightingale floor—and to his personal incredible destiny...
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Extra info for Across the Nightingale Floor (Tales of the Otori, Book 1)
He had fallen in love with it during long watches on the bridge, when he was sailing as third officer aboard the Fedallah, a fruit carrier of the Zoe line whose first officer, a Galician they called Gallego Neira, had the five tapes of the Smithsonian Collection of Classic Jazz. They included musicians from Scott Joplin and Bix Beiderbecke to Thelonious Monk and Ornette Coleman, passing through Armstrong, Ellington, Art Tatum, Billie Holiday, Charlie Parker, and others. Hours and hours of jazz with a cup of coffee in his hands, nights beneath the stars huddled on the flying bridge, staring at the sea.
The Palestine was a bad luck ship, one of those where the men turn hostile and hate each other and lines get tangled. The chief engineer grumbled deliriously in a corner—they'd hidden the key to the bar but on the sly he was drinking methyl alcohol from the infirmary mixed with orange soda—and the first officer wouldn't speak to the captain, not even if the ship was about to run aground. Coy had had more than enough time to read those novels, and many more, on his floating prison during those interminable days when the scorching air that filtered in through the portholes made him gasp like a fish out of water, and every time he got out of his bunk he left the sweat-imprinted silhouette of his naked body on the dirty, wrinkled sheet.
He couldn't actually think of anything else to do, and if he spoke he was going to lose what small advantage he had. He knew from experience that a man who keeps his mouth shut is more intimidating than one who doesn't, because it's difficult to guess what he has in mind. Maybe ponytail was of the same opinion, because he was looking at Coy thoughtfully. Finally Coy thought he saw a glimmer of uncertainty in the eyes of the Dalmatian. "Well, well," ponytail said. "Look what we have here. " Coy kept staring, not uttering a word.
Across the Nightingale Floor (Tales of the Otori, Book 1) by Lian Hearn