Free The Harsh Cry of the Heron by Lian Hearn

results in the capital.
    When it was fully
light, he bathed and had a barber pluck and trim his hair and beard. He ate
some rice and soup and then dressed in formal clothes for the meeting with
Fujiwara’s son, finding little pleasure in the soft feel of the silk and the
restrained elegance of the patterns: the pale mauve wisteria blossom on the
deep purple background of the under robe and the more abstract weave of the
outer.
    The servant placed a
small black hat on his head, and Takeo took the sword, Jato, from the elaborate
carved stand where it had rested all night and hung it from his sash, thinking
of all the disguises he had seen it in, starting with the shabby black shark
skin that had wrapped its hilt when, in Shigeru’s hand, it had saved his life.
Now both hilt and scabbard were richly decorated and Jato had not tasted blood
for many years. He wondered if he would ever unsheathe the blade again in
battle, and how he would manage with his damaged right hand.
    He crossed the garden
from the east wing to the main hall of the mansion. The rain had stopped but
the garden was drenched and the wisteria flowers hung heavy with moisture,
their fragrance mingling with that of the wet grass, the tang of salt from the
port and all the rich smells of the town. Beyond the walls he could hear the
thud of shutters as the town awoke, and the distant cries of the morning street
sellers.
    Servants glided
noiselessly before him, sliding open the doors, their feet soft on the gleaming
floors. Minoru, who had gone to eat his own breakfast and dress, joined him
silently, bowing deeply and then following a few  paces behind him. A servant
at his side carried the lacquered writing desk, paper, brushes, inkstone and
water.
    Zenko was already in
the main hall, dressed formally like Takeo but more richly, gold thread
gleaming at collar and sash. Takeo nodded to him, acknowledging his bow, and
handed Jato to Minoru, who placed the sword carefully in an even more ornately
carved stand to the side. Zenko’s sword already rested in a similar stand.
Takeo then sat at the head of the room, glancing round at the decorations, the
screens, wondering how it would look to Kono after the Emperor’s court. The
residence was not as large or as imposing as those in Hagi or Inuyama, and he
regretted he was not receiving the nobleman there. He will get the wrong
impression of us: he will think we are unrefined and unsophisticated. Is it
best that he should think so?
    Zenko spoke briefly
about the previous night. Takeo expressed his approval of the boys and praised
them. Minoru prepared the ink at the small writing table and then sat back on
his heels, eyes cast down as if he were meditating. Rain began to fall softly.

    A short time later
they heard the sounds that heralded a visitor, the barking of dogs and the
heavy tread of palanquin bearers. Zenko rose and went to the veranda. Takeo
heard him greet their guest, and then Kono stepped into the room.
    There was the
slightest moment of awkwardness when it was apparent neither of them considered
they should be the first to bow; Kono raised his eyebrows in a minute movement
and then bowed, but with a kind of mannered affectation that drained the
gesture of any respect. Takeo waited for the space of a breath, and then
returned the greeting.
    ‘Lord Kono,’ he said
quietly. ‘You do me a great honour.’
    As Kono sat up, Takeo
studied his face. He had never seen the man’s father, but that had not
prevented Fujiwara from haunting his dreams. Now he gave his old enemy his son’s
face, the high forehead, the sculpted mouth, not knowing that Kono did indeed
resemble his father in some ways, though by no means in all.
    ‘Lord Otori does me
the honour,’ Kono replied, and though the words were gracious Takeo knew that
the intention was not. He saw at once that there was little chance of frank
discussions. The meeting would be difficult and tense, and he would need to be
astute, skilful and forceful. He