Arc XIII Chapter 12
XIII
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Arc XIII Chapter 12
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Together, Yuki and her party approached the central square. It was a simple yard, the ground made of tamped down earth. A bulletin board stood nearby as did a large thatched farmhouse. The latter was hardly different from the majority of village huts that they had seen so far. Equally plain, equally spartan, equally made of clay and wood, and yet the house was noticeably larger in size even among its ilk. The farmhouse stood out. Someone important must live here. Most likely the village headman.
The house was surrounded by a variety of buildings, ones which immediately elicited Yuki’s attention. Their appearance and construction differed starkly from the rest of the village. A mere glance sufficed to tell as much. Unlike the surrounding farmhouses, the buildings in question were built far sturdier. They were large and spacious, their walls thicker without a single window to be seen anywhere, their roofs tiled. They also featured heavy dual wooden doors secured by a number of iron padlocks. And they possessed even a proper stone foundation, never touching the naked ground.
Contrary to the village huts, no effort was spared when it came to their construction. They were buildings meant to last, protecting whatever precious was stored inside them against the elements, against the sun, against rain, against humidity, as well as against theft. There was no doubt, unmistakeably, these were storehouses, most likely granaries where the rice would be stored after being harvested.
By comparison, the village square was fairly modest in size, packed with a sea of people. Plenty of villagers had gathered, which made for an uncommon sight. The villagers pressed against each other, forming a tight circle. The murmurs intensified as the crowd grew increasingly uneasy. They were anxious, and fearful. What was happening?
“Excuse me~, just passing through~”, Yuki chimed in politely as she slipped between shoulders with Katsuki safely nestled amidst her arms. Mayumi and Yuji followed behind her, squeezing ahead, apologising left and right, but their efforts were rewarded. Eventually, they were able to make their way through the crowd, finally gaining a better view at the scene.
Together with Mayumi, Yuji, and Katsuki at her side, Yuki watched and observed, just as Nee-san had taught her. Her gaze fell on a portly man, taking note of his physique and attire. He had probably eaten a few too many meals in his life, with a good chunk of meat on his ribs. Even then, his appearance alone suggested that the man must be important.
The man in question was clad in fine robes, a deep indigo kimono together with a kataginu and a black eboshi. A golden crest glinted faintly beneath the sun. The soft fabric contrasted with the wretched existence of the villagers. While the man and his entourage wore the finest silk that coin could afford, the villages covered themselves in nothing but old rags.
Her assumption was further supported by the fact that the man was flanked by a sizeable retinue, a few clerks, a handful of samurai, a significant number of foot soldiers armed with spears, and even a single team of ninja among them, one, two, three, four in total. Their headbands showed three stylised blades of grass, the insignia of Kusagakure. They wore olive green flak jackets, similar in style and design to those of Konoha, which suggested that they were chunin rather than simple genin.
Whether samurai, soldier, or ninja, the men at his service surveyed the crowd. They were guarding the man, protecting him. Their mere presence sufficed to coerce the villagers into submission The implicit threat of force was understood. They were peasants, weak, rightless, unarmed. They would never dare to defy the will of their lord. And if they did ...
“...” Yuki hugged Katsuki tighter. His attire ... His demeanour ... The clerks ... The guards ... The ninja ... The man must be an official, judging by his appearance and his entourage, a high ranking one at that, one speaking in the name and on behalf of the daimyo himself.
The man unfolded the fan in his hand, waving it slowly and deliberately in front of his face with a sense of learned boredom. And yet his eyes were cold, unfeeling, devoid of empathy, his expression filled with nothing but utter contempt for whatever he saw. The man glared at the old man kneeling in front of him.
The old man bowed, his frail shoulders bent forwards, his hands placed firmly on the ground, his gaze lowered, his entire forehead pressed into the dirt. His deference was absolute, and even then, the old man was afraid to even speak, his body trembling. His aged voice wavered audibly as he pled, “Honourable Magistrate, … please, we beg your understanding.”
“...” Yuki turned her gaze to the magistrate in charge. This was confirmation that the man was an official indeed.
The old man grovelled at the magistrate’s feet, “You must understand, honourable Magistrate, ... the village can’t afford this year’s levy. The taxes, ... they’re too high ... The winter … It’s been usually harsh this year. Spring has been drier than usual. The rains have failed us. Honourable Magistrate, ... we fear that the harvest for the first planting will be poor this year ... We implore you, please lower the taxes, otherwise ...”
The magistrate closed his fan, his eyes narrowing, his voice sharp. “Mind your tongue, Headman, who gave you the permission to raise your voice? Headman, do I need to remind you of the fact that you and your ilk are only meant to speak when spoken to?”
The old man lowered his head even further, if such was even physically possible. Pearls of sweat were running down his face. The man was desperate. “My apologies, Honourable Magistrate, for my thoughtless words. I’ve spoken out of turn. Still, honourable Magistrate, please, consider our plight. If nothing is done, we’ll starve and die ...”
The magistrate silenced the old man once more, “What of it, Headman? Do you seriously think that you are the only village which has been affected by unfavourable weather? Hardly. Rest assured, Headman, you are neither the first, nor will you be the last to plead your case, not even today. I have heard this story before, more often than you can imagine. No matter where I go, everywhere, they say the same, but such is of little concern to me.”
The magistrate lifted his gaze, his stern eyes sweeping through the whole crowd. “The decision of the daimyo stands. There will be no reduction in taxes. The rice yield has been assessed. The village must pay to the daimyo what is rightfully his.” The man motioned at his retinue. One of the clerks at his service quickly approached him, carrying a ledger scroll in his hands. He presented the scroll to his superior.
The magistrate began to read aloud, “According to the latest land survey, the village is said to produce 450 koku worth of rice. Seven parts belong to the daimyo. Three parts to the people. Which means that the village is expected to deliver 315 koku. Such is the amount owed to the daimyo, and not a single koku less, Headman.” Murmurs were running through the crowd, the unease of the people apparent. They had realised the implications of the magistrate’s words. He would not budge.
Yuki hugged her beloved Katsuki, giving her comfort. 315 koku ... Such was a heavy tax burden, even by the standards of the least scrupulous daimyo ... The lords of the land were rarely known to treat their subjects with much leniency. The daimyo took what they could without regard, squeezing every last grain of rice out of them, and yet 70 % was a lot, even for them. Considering their circumstances, it would be impossible for the villages to deliver the amount owed, and yet the magistrate insisted. The man had the whole village at his mercy.
The headman understood the impending danger. His hand clapped onto the ground. “But ... But honourable Magistrate, such isn’t possible. The village can’t ... We can’t ... You’ll take everything from us. How are we supposed to plant for next year? What are we supposed to eat? Even now, we’ve got barely enough to survive. Please, honourable Magistrate, you must reconsider!” The old man did his utmost. His voice cracked under the strain. “We implore you ...”
The magistrate cut him short, his fan extended. “Enough, Headman, your useless trifle tires me. The matter has already been decided, the village will pay its due, whether you like it, or not. You will deliver 315 koku on date. Should you fault to do so and should the quota remain unmet, the consequences will be dire, Headman, not just for you personally, but for the entire village. Know that any shortfalls will be dealt with appropriately ...”
The guards standing behind the magistrate shifted ever so slightly, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords and the hafts of their spears. The ninja among them did not even need to move. It was a quiet reminder of the risks that failure carried. Should they choose not to comply, there were plenty of ways and means to make them do so.
The magistrate looked down on the old man grovelling at his feet. “Have I made myself clear, Headman? Or do I need to repeat myself once more?”
“... ... ...” The headman had fallen silent, his voice taciturn.
“I said, have I made myself clear, Headman?” The magistrate demanded to know, rubbing further salt into the wound. The man spoke in the name of the daimyo. His words were absolute, not to be questioned, not to be challenged, not to be contested, not to be defied. They were peasants. They were nothing, their lives worth less than the dirt on the ground. What were they compared to the might of a daimyo?
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