It was possible Mariko had finally stumbled on the truth. Did the Black Clan have designs on restoring Takeda Ranmaru—a rōnin—to the seat of power in Yedo?
And—if so—how did a band of brigands intend to bring that about?
“I told you Sanada Takeo would be useful to us one day, Ōkami,” Ranmaru said, his smile tight. Almost menacing.
At that, Ōkami stormed past Mariko, back into the night.
A PROVINCE OF PAIN
Kenshin dismounted from his horse outside the servants’ gate.
He was home. Weary. Wretched.
His dreams plagued him. Ever since the day Mariko had disappeared, they’d kept him from having a restful night’s sleep. They’d only worsened after he’d lost time beside the watering hole.
Nightmares of an elderly man crying for help. Nightmares of a boy and girl, thrashing through a sea of tall grass, blood spurting from their bodies in crimson founts.
Kenshin banished the thoughts with a shake of his head. He passed through the rear gate of his family’s home, his head bowed.
He did not wish to speak to anyone. To see anyone. To allow anyone to see him. It wasn’t the shame of his family knowing. His father would not reproach him on this particular score. After all, it wasn’t a public failing. At most, Hattori Kano would offer the families of the victims some form of restitution. And Kenshin’s mother? Taira Hime would likely frown at her son for losing his temper. Then offer him food before letting the unpleasant incident fade from memory.
The darkness covered him. Torchlight flickered from all corners of the compound. Kenshin’s feet carried him automatically to a smaller building, recently reroofed in clean, sweet-smelling straw.
Without pausing to think, Kenshin sat beneath a window on the far right. Leaned his back against the rough white plaster. Hoping the nearness would comfort him.
Even the whisper of a sliding door opening did not disrupt him from seeking solace. Kenshin did not look up when the shadow of a familiar figure fell upon him.
Amaya said nothing. She merely sat beside him.
After a time, Kenshin let his head fall to her shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
He did not reply.
“Kenshin.”
“Your shoulder is uncomfortable.” He picked up his head. Before he could move away, Amaya caught him by the chin.
“What is it?” she repeated.
“Your shoulder is too bony. You should eat more.”
She smiled. “As should you.”
He pressed his head to her shoulder again.
“I thought you said it was uncomfortable,” Amaya teased. She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “It’s uncomfortable because you’re resting your head. Rest your heart, instead.”
Kenshin swallowed. Leaned into her warmth. Let his worries fade, if only for an instant.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he whispered.
—
The Black Clan rode to a halt on the edges of the Hattori province.
Twilight had fallen. The drone of cicadas cut through the air, the smell of barley and grain suffusing the night sky.
Mariko’s heart thundered in her chest. She needed to warn her family. To warn Kenshin what was about to happen.
She glanced sidelong at Ōkami. “Why are we here to raid and ransack these people?” Mariko asked in an even tone. “They have not done anything to you.”
“We are not here to raid and ransack them,” he said. “We are here to . . .” His head tilted to one side. “Redistribute.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hattori Kano has been robbing the people who live and work on his land for years.”
“What?” Mariko exclaimed, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rising. “I’ve never heard—”
“He lives well beyond his means. And he was recently robbed of his daughter’s dowry. A dowry he stole from his people in order to buy his way into influence.”
A lie!
Mariko opened her mouth to refute his words. To defend her family’s honor. But a creeping uncertainty began to slither across her body. The tiniest seed of doubt.
Hattori Kano was not a bad man.
Even if he had sold his only daughter to further his own prominence. It was not unusual for a man in her father’s position to do such a thing. It was true Hattori Kano had always wished for Mariko to be different. Wished for her to forswear her childish wishes and be more than what she was. Those had been his last words to her. But he had not been a bad father. He’d cared for Mariko. Provided her guidance and attention.
A man like this wouldn’t rob his own people blind. Not simply for the sake of gaining a foothold in Heian Castle.
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 M
ariko 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.
As Ōkami had first pronounced that day Mariko had been tasked with carrying firewood, she’d been useless.
It was the truth of it all that had grated her nerves so thoroughly. How wrong it was that Mariko would fight so vehemently against accusations rooted in truth. Had Ōkami accused her of being lazy or slovenly or stupid, she would have laughed.
But when he’d accused her of being useless, it had stung.
Mariko wouldn’t be useless now. She saw the truth.
She could make her father see it, too.
Even if they were wrong, they were still her family.
No matter what it cost Mariko, she would warn her brother.
Somehow.
THE RAID
They plan to raid the storehouses in the dead of night.
That was all the servant had said to him. Kenshin had chased after the old man. When they’d rounded the corner, he’d grabbed him by his threadbare kosode, whirling him around.
The old man’s eyes were milky white. He was blind or very nearly so.
Kenshin had cursed to himself. “Do you know who told you this?”
“No, my lord,” the old man stammered. “I was told to convey that message, then given a coin for it. That is all I know.” He spread his fingers wide as if to prove that was all he had in his possession.
“And there was nothing further? Nothing about who intends to raid the storehouses?”
“No, my lord,” the old man said. “It was said quickly, as I was passing by. As though the messenger did not have time to say anything more.”
Kenshin removed his grip on the old man’s kosode.
Someone intended to rob his family. To steal from the stores that fed and clothed the people of his province. That supported the Hattori clan’s rise to greatness.
Without a second thought, he turned toward his family’s garrison.
Whoever they were, these thieves would not leave this valley alive.
—
Mariko’s hands shook as she waited beneath the straw awning. Ōkami leaned into the fall of shadows, watching for the signal.
“You don’t have to fight,” he said softly.
She turned toward him. “You don’t expect me to fight?”
“I have no expectations of you or anyone else. I’m simply saying you don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to do.”
Though Ōkami’s words held meaning, the cold precision with which he said them stung. Mariko did not wish to fight against any member of her family or any of the samurai who bore them allegiance. She did not wish to partake in any of this destruction.
But she could not ignore the chance to save lives.
And strangely a small part of her felt responsible for what might happen to Ranmaru. To Yoshi. Even to Ren. And to Ōkami. The weapon she’d brought with her had the potential to cause damage beyond her wildest imagination. She’d never had an opportunity to test it, and thus had no idea what to expect.
If something happened to Ōkami because of it . . .
She banished the thought.
He was a member of the Black Clan. Likely one of the mercenaries who had been sent to kill her. Even if recent events had brought that truth into question, Mariko would never choose the Wolf over her family. Not if she lived a thousand years.
The call of a nightingale echoed through the darkness.
The call that all was clear.
Using his hands to form a cradle, Ōkami helped propel Haruki and Ren onto the straw rooftop above. He motioned for Mariko to follow. At the last second, he pulled her to him, chest to chest.
“Don’t be a hero. You’ll make my life harder if you try,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper, his eyes two flashing stones of onyx.
Her breath caught. For a mad instant, Mariko thought to kiss him. “Do your job, Tsuneoki-sama. And I will do mine.” She vaulted onto the roof, trying her best to keep her steps as light as those of Ren. Her heart pounded in her chest as she flattened against the straw, attempting to remain out of sight.
Yoshi and Ranmaru moved like ghosts in the night toward the storehouse. Toward the same granaries Marik
o had played in as a child.
There was no sign of anyone around.
All was eerily silent.
As Ranmaru fiddled with the latch of the storehouse, Ren grasped the edge of the roof, taking tight hold of the wooden frame before catapulting to the ground below.
An arrow sailed from the darkness, striking Ren in the side.
Mariko stifled a cry when she saw him fall. She thought to say something—to point out that they were under attack—but the words remained lodged in her throat.
These were her enemies. Her family’s enemies.
Set to rob the Hattori clan.
Even as she warred with herself, it soon became clear that Mariko did not need to say anything. Motion converged in the darkness. As soon as Ranmaru saw Ren fall, he and Yoshi folded into the shadows against the granary.
Torches burst to life across the way.
And the haunted, almost feral face of Hattori Kenshin glowed from the darkness.
—
Fury roared through his body.
One of Kenshin’s men had loosed an arrow too soon. The men endeavoring to rob his family had been warned.
There was nothing to be done for it.
“Show yourselves!” he demanded.
The shadows remained still across the way. Kenshin unsheathed his katana, directing his men with a nod. Two foot soldiers whipped across the path, their backs hunched, their arrows nocked as they grabbed the fallen thief by the arms and hauled him before Kenshin.
“Show yourselves, you cowards!” Kenshin shouted.
The young man at his feet was no more than twenty. He’d been shot in the side, the shaft of the arrow protruding from the folds of his black kosode. When no further signs of movement or sound emitted from the darkness, Kenshin pressed the tip of his foot to the young thief’s ribs, just above his wound.
The boy groaned. Shuddered. Then spat in the dirt beside Kenshin’s sandal. “You miserable whoreson.” He coughed.