Nevertheless, the seed of doubt took root in Mariko’s mind.
Her father had traded his only daughter for the barest measure of influence. Not even a seat in the imperial court. And her mother had never once objected. If her father was taking more than his fair share of his people’s crops, her mother would not say anything. Her brother would not know to pay attention.
And Mariko?
I’ve been blind to so much. I’ve thought I possessed the truth so often.
When in truth I’ve possessed nothing.
“Do you not believe us?” Ranmaru said. “You look as though you do not.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s that I can’t believe a daimyō would be so careless with his own people.”
ōkami looked her way. “He is only following in the footsteps of his emperor.”
“If the thought unsettles you, why don’t you journey into the village nearby?” Ranmaru said. “And see the truth for yourself.”
“You would trust me?” Mariko asked.
“Of course not.” Ranmaru grinned. “Take someone with you.”
Without thought, her eyes lifted to ōkami’s. Her heart made the choice for her.
“Return by midnight,” the leader of the Black Clan finished. “We will raid the granaries and storehouses then.”
—
“So this is what you do.” Mariko pronounced it as a statement of fact. “This is the true work of the Black Clan. Redistributing the wealth you steal to those less fortunate, like the woman in the Iwakura ward.”
Both she and ōkami wandered through the edges of a village on the southern side of her family’s province.
He said nothing in response.
“And you truly think your actions won’t hurt the people of this province?” Mariko pressed.
“No,” ōkami said. “Just wound the pockets of Hattori Kano. And if the Dragon of Kai happens to be killed in the process, so be it.”
Anguish knifed deep within Mariko’s chest. She desperately wanted to protest. To offer some form of counterargument. They did not even know if Kenshin was truly the one responsible for Akira-san’s death!
And yet.
Her mind descended in a whirl. The most Mariko could do was stay amongst the raiding party. Perhaps then she could find a way to warn one of her family’s servants before it was too late. Before the unthinkable occurred.
And if it should occur anyway . . . Mariko had another weapon at the ready.
She studied the expanse of land before them. Though the sun had already set, many women and children were still working the fields. Cutting away any weeds and fending off the countless insects that always plagued the harvest. The golden stalks of rice were growing tall. Usually Mariko loved the harvesting time. She would wander the fields and get lost among the many reaping baskets, drawing sketches in the mud and crafting new ideas in her mind.
She focused on the best of these memories. On the people working in her periphery.
They were never smiling. And she had never truly noticed.
ōkami and Mariko stayed to the shadows along the plastered buildings, beneath the thatched roofs, listening to the sounds of the workers as their children squabbled for food and their loved ones returned home from a wearying day’s work.
ōkami paused beside a family gathering for their evening meal near a small fire just outside their tiny home. He handed Mariko a sickle and bade her to follow him into an adjoining field, as though they were workers intent on continuing their reaping. They squatted alongside the tall waves of grain, angling to one side to watch the family eat. In the distance, Mariko thought she saw the yellow eyes of a fox, lingering in the shadows, searching for scraps.
The children were dirty. They smiled even though their meal was meager.
It was clear their mother was injured. She limped as she went to scoop out tiny spoonfuls of millet.
“Okaa,” the eldest girl said when her mother gave her a bowl of food, “you eat. I’m not hungry.” Her eyes drifted to the fields of golden wheat a mere stone’s throw from where they sat, stretching as far as the eye could see.
“No, my dearest. I’ve already had my meal.” The woman glanced at her husband, willing him to stay silent.
When the mother sat back down beside him, Mariko watched him quietly give her half his share.
Thankfully, most of the other children did not notice. They smiled and carried on, oblivious to their parents’ plight. But the eldest girl knew better. She pushed her bowl beside her parents’ and quietly began scooping some of her food into theirs.
The sight startled Mariko. Cut at something beneath her heart. For so many years she had prided herself on being the girl who saw things no one else saw. Who noticed the world not as it was, but as it should be. Her gaze drifted to the smiling faces of the other, younger children present.
At the face of the eldest girl, and the tiniest grooves that now gathered above her brow.
Mariko had countless fond memories of her childhood.
And not a single one of them recalled anything but contentment at mealtime.
Perhaps my mind saw only what it wished to see.
A cold hand of awareness took hold of her throat. In none of those memories could she remember seeing that same contentment in any of her father’s workers. When Mariko had wandered past the gates of her family’s home, into the fields and paddies beyond, workers had often come to usher her away. The smiles they’d given her had been wan. Aged. As a child she’d often asked why they looked sad. Why they didn’t smile more.
Her mother had told her they were merely tired. And then her nursemaid had urged her back inside. This was the way of it. A daimyō owned the land his people worked. In exchange for their lord’s protection and care, the people working the lands offered the daimyō tribute.
Was it possible Hattori Kano took more than his fair share?
Mariko recalled her father once saying how ungrateful his workers were. How he provided them with food and shelter and a place to work. And still they were unsatisfied.
The Black Clan intended to redistribute her family’s wealth. Back into the hands of those who worked the fields. Tilled the soil. Reaped the harvest.
All so Mariko could wear fine clothes and attract the attention of the emperor’s son. A part of her fought against the rightness of the sentiment. The rightness of seeing these people being granted their fair share. These were her family’s people, her family’s lands.
But when had Mariko ever once planted a seed or worked in the dirt when it was not out of personal interest? Not until she’d come to the Black Clan’s encampment had she even learned the basics of how to live on her own. Indeed this was the first time in her life she had ever held a sickle. And even now it was for the purpose of subterfuge.