Commander of the Wangwisa, the royal guard, Yeong San, was exceptionally young for his post, which he had received thanks to his father.

  Or no, not quite so.

  Commander of the Wangwisa, the royal guard, Yeong San, was a regular visitor to the gibang, knew all the capital’s gisaeng, and had a reputation as an incorrigible rake.

  Or this:

  Commander of the Wangwisa, the royal guard, Yeong San, was not distinguished by political farsightedness, and so had still not chosen a proper patron in any of the court factions.

  It was probably thanks to such rumors that at thirty years of age Yeong San was still unmarried, causing no small distress to his venerable mother.

  Ever since his father, deputy to the previous commander, had fallen in the line of duty, his mother spoke of nothing but grandchildren and brides. She was probably afraid that a son who had followed in his father’s footsteps would repeat his fate and leave her alone in her old age. Yeong San, of course, had no such intention — he simply did not wish to rush his choice of a future wife.

  The fact was, the young commander of the royal guard did have a patron, and that patron was the king himself.

  At first His Majesty had valued his incorruptible and straightforward father, and then extended his favor to the orphaned son. When the former commander of the Wangwisa retired due to advanced age, the position naturally passed to Yeong San. Knowing that the monarch’s safety depended on him, he had to be exceptionally cautious in his alliances, connections, and opinions.

  For that reason, neither the charming granddaughter of the Left State Councilor, nor the niece of the Minister of Personnel with her unrivalled bird embroidery, nor any of the other relatives of high-ranking officials suited him. He could not and would not join any of the factions splitting the court. His business was to serve the king and protect the king.

  As for the gibang, in those houses of pleasure a charming young man could not only enjoy female company without far-reaching obligations, but also gather a whole bundle of rumors about other young — and not so young — officials who had visited there the night before. A very useful occupation in his line of work, though how was one to explain that to his mother?

  Lately the king had been ill.

  His strength was fading, and three days ago Seobu, the West detachment of Wangwisa, had secretly been sent to the port of Incheon to meet the heir returning from Great Qing. Yeong San had expected them back the previous night, but no one arrived, and yesterday at noon a messenger had galloped in from Incheon with a tale of a terrible slaughter on the shore.

  The city guard was still collecting and counting the bodies, but judging from the brief, frightened report of the local magistrate, the prince was not among them.

  Or else he had not yet been identified.

  The king had hurled an inkstone at the messenger, driven everyone out except for Yeong San, and for a while simply sat, his face covered with his hands. Then he looked at his guard commander and ordered:

  “Bring my son back.”

  By evening Yeong San was already at the port.

  There was not enough room for the bodies in the morgue, and the magistrate had ordered them piled directly on the deserted ship they had arrived on. On one side lay the sailors and the prince’s retinue: servants, eunuchs, ladies in voluminous silk skirts. Many had been killed by arrows. On the other side — the assassins in black, looking like seasoned mountain bandits.

  Between them lay his West Guard.

  Yeong San walked past his soldiers and back again, teeth clenched. At least most of them had not been killed by arrows, but by swords. And judging by the way the side with the black-clad corpses outweighed the other, they had sold their lives dearly. A poor consolation.

  Reaching the end of the deck, the commander frowned and turned back once more, counting the bodies. Right, the captain was missing. Yeong San began asking questions, even shook the magistrate by the collar, and thus learned that one wounded man had indeed been found and was now in the doctor’s care. Could they not have said so earlier?

  The doctor had dosed the captain with some herbs, and the man barely knew where he was, but he recognized Yeong San.

  “Commander Yeong,” he rasped, reaching out and trying to grab his sleeve.

  “I’m here,” Yeong San said, leaning closer so the wounded man would not have to raise his voice. “Where is the prince? What happened to him?”

  The future of all Joseon dynasty depended on that answer. The captain did manage to catch his hand and heaved himself up, paling before his eyes.

  “Wounded,” he whispered with barely moving lips. “Escaped. Forest.”

  The captain’s fingers slackened, his eyes rolled back, and he fell back onto the pallet. His words went on throbbing in Yeong San’s ears.

  Escaped.

  Wounded.

  Alive!

  Soldiers with torches combed the forest throughout the night, especially around the clearing where the wounded captain of Seobu had been found. From time to time they thought they had come across some trace — a broken branch, a bent blade of grass — but the night made it impossible to see details. Yeong San longed to be out there in the thickets, swinging a smoking torch alongside the soldiers, studying bent twigs and feeling he was doing something important.

  That feeling was deceptive, and he had to remind himself several times that in the magistrate’s lantern-lit room, bent over maps and listening to reports from the search parties, he was far more useful. He tried to determine where the wounded prince might have tried to flee, but soon realized that in an unfamiliar country, at night, in the dark, and pursued by assassins, the young man might have chosen any direction at all.

  After all, had he known the road, he would already have reached the outskirts of the capital.

  Yeong San kept studying the map, trying to imagine whether the prince had fled uphill or downhill, crossed the stream or searched for a ford, gone to seek help in a mountain village or avoided people.

  In the end he dozed off over the map spread on the table. He was woken in the morning, after sunrise, when his people brought him a crumpled tall horsehair hat. The samogwan could very well have belonged to the prince and indicated the direction of his escape.

  Yeong San splashed water on his face to shake off sleep, took the map, and hurried to the place where the precious find had been made. If the prince really had passed through that hollow, he might have continued along the bottom of the ravine or climbed over the mountain. One way or another, he would have had to encounter one of the three villages lying in that region. Even if he had not dared to approach people, hunters or ginseng gatherers might have seen him.

  Yeong San ordered his horse saddled and rode out to make a circuit of those villages. If he did not delay, he could manage to visit all three before nightfall, especially since two of them stood not far from the road leading to the capital.

  The commander had just ridden out of the first village (none of the inhabitants had heard anything) and descended to the road when the sky turned gray and a downpour began. The horse slipped and stumbled on the quickly softening road, shying at the thunderclaps. It became quite impossible to go on, so when Yeong San spotted an inn by the roadside just before a bridge, he decided to turn in and wait out the storm under a roof.

  A servant led the soaked horse to the stable, and Yeong San himself hurried into the darkened two-storey building. His uniform clung to his body; a trickle of water ran from the red tassel hanging from the brim of his wide jeonrip.

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  The plump hostess, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and an oily apron tied around her waist, brought him a kettle of tea and said there was hot rice soup. Feeling the helpless frustration of wasted time, Yeong San agreed.

  “We still have two free rooms, officer,” she said, jerking her head toward the stairs leading up.

  “I’m in a hurry.” He shook his head, sending droplets from his hat onto the cushions and tabletop. Feeling awkward, he loosened the ties and set the wet jeonrip beside him, leaving only the forehead band.

  The elderly hostess clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  “You should change into something dry before you catch a chill, young master,” she said.

  “Thank you for your concern.” The funny commoner somehow reminded him of the cook at home. “I travel light.”

  “Guests sometimes leave clothes behind.” The hostess leaned down confidentially to pat his wet shoulder. “Let’s find you something, and I’ll hang your fine uniform to dry by the hearth. Come, come with me, officer.”

  Thus Yeong San became the unexpected owner of a sturdy, slightly worn outfit of silvery-grey ramie. Judging by the neat trim and the quality of the cloth, its previous owner was clearly from the middle class. Yeong San was more used to silk, but the ramie felt pleasant on the skin and seemed very durable. It would surely be comfortable for pushing through forest undergrowth or spending the night out in the open. On the whole, he liked the acquisition. He paid the satisfied innkeeper four strings of coins and decided to take the clothes with him once his uniform had dried.

  The storm still thundered over the mountains.

  Yeong San took a second bowl of soup, generously seasoned with pickles and greens, and slowly enjoyed the warmth spreading through his body. The dining hall was fairly crowded; the weather had driven under a roof even those who had hardly meant to stop along the road.

  Three young noblemen sat at a table in the far corner, absorbed in a game of yutnori, laughing and shouting from time to time as they commented on the sticks they cast. Their faces were unfamiliar to the commander.

  Across from him, two sunburned merchants were speaking quietly over a bottle of rice wine. Their woven crates of goods stood beside them. Some peasant in patched rags sat in a dark corner right on the floor, leaning against the wall with his head on his arms. He seemed to be dozing. No doubt the hostess had allowed him in out of pity.

  The doors opened, sending a damp, raw draft through the tavern. Another merchant came in, greeted everyone loudly, and, spotting his companions, went over to their table. A trail of wet footprints and drops from his crate marked his path. The hostess immediately brought him a tray of food; it looked like he was a regular.

  The sniffling trader had barely managed a few spoonfuls of hot soup when the door opened again. Thunder crashed. Yeong San realized he was stuck and waved to the hostess to ask for another kettle of tea.

  This time four men entered.

  They were dressed much alike and looked like the bodyguards of some noble. Two wore swords for which, no doubt, their master had secured them permits. The swordsman with the dark-grey forehead band carried himself like their commander, his movements betrayed an experienced fighter. Just in case, Yeong San glanced down at his own sword, lying under his left hand.

  The guardsmen, however, behaved quietly for the moment, took a nearby table, and ordered food and drink. One of the young noblemen called for more wine. The wooden stairs creaked; Yeong San looked up and broke into a smile.

  Three lovely fairies were descending from the second floor, in bright dresses, with thick braids coquettishly twisted to the side and vivid red lips. He seemed to recognize some of the gisaeng.

  Their appearance in such an unexpected place immediately enlivened the room. The noble youths jumped to their feet, inviting the girls to join their game. The lads were about twenty and unlikely to have been to a gibang before, so such an apparition here, in a roadside tavern, must have seemed to them a special favor from fate. The gisaeng giggled and made light jokes; one pointed out that the table was too small for six.

  Two of the young men leapt up at once to shove the neighboring tables together, without even thinking to call the servants. Yeong San rolled his eyes and smiled.

  One of the gisaeng turned, noticed the commander of the royal guard in his unusual outfit, and raised her brows in surprise. Not knowing what his transformation meant, the clever girl did not call out to him across the hall. Instead, she came over later under some flimsy pretext.

  “Is the young master not bored all alone?” she asked coquettishly.

  “What flower has lured such a graceful butterfly into this backwater?” Yeong San joked. The gisaeng’s name was Jade Butterfly; she ought to appreciate the pun. “Will you pour me a drink?”

  “If I won’t be in the way.” Jade Butterfly gathered her full skirts and sat down opposite him. With a practiced movement she lifted the kettle and filled his cup.

  “So, will you tell me by what miracle you ended up here?” Yeong San took a sip. Even cooled, the tea seemed delicate and fragrant when poured by a gisaeng.

  Jade Butterfly was considered one of the most accomplished gisaeng in the capital.

  Not the very finest, for whose favor the richest men and ministers fought over, but one whose skills never disappointed. She danced, sang while accompanying herself on the gayageum, and knew how to sustain a pleasant conversation.

  Yet what set her apart in the eyes of the Wangwisa commander was her ability to listen. Once she had warned him that a certain minister was to be dosed with a sleeping draught on the eve of an important council meeting. Yeong San had managed to prevent that embarrassment, and on the crucial day the minister had been healthy and alert.

  Jade Butterfly whispered to him of alliances, bribes, and blackmail among the officials, and he unobtrusively corrected what needed to be corrected, striving to remain impartial so long as the king’s safety was not at stake. As for the gisaeng, her tidings most often concerned the intrigues of Chief State Councilor Choi’s faction. That, at least, was understandable.

  Though gisaeng were considered the lowest class, slaves, Jade Butterfly had been born into one of the branches of the Min noble clan. Her grandfather had served as head of the Bureau of Diplomatic Protocol in the Ministry of Rites, and her father had passed the examinations with high marks and begun a court career in one of the tax bureaus. It had seemed only natural that the daughter of such a distinguished family would have a brilliant future.

  But when she was five or six, the head of the Bureau of Diplomatic Protocol was accused of treason.

  He himself, his two sons, his aged uncle, and an adult nephew were executed, their heads struck off in the square before the palace. The women and children were turned into slaves.

  The Left State Councilor, who also bore the surname Min, declared confidently that they came from too remote a branch of that extensive clan to be considered kin, and did not lift a finger to save them.

  Jade Butterfly had been too young then to understand why it had happened, but one thing she remembered very clearly: before the soldiers took him away, her father had taken her little hands in his and said, “Remember this, Sonhwa-ya: we are innocent. Your grandfather was falsely accused. We have never plotted against the royal family. The true traitor is Councilor Choi!”

  Unfortunately, Jade Butterfly had no proof, and what could one little girl do against an all-powerful official? She was sold to a gibang, where she diligently learned every art taught to her. She learned to read the currents at court and the hidden intrigues. And at last she had found someone willing to heed the words of a traitor’s daughter.

  Commander of the Wangwisa, Yeong San, knew of her origins but did not hold them against her, so long as the information she brought was accurate and useful. One day, she hoped, he would help her restore the good name of the Min family. Or at least destroy the traitor Choi.

  “I’ve got news of my mother,” Jade Butterfly answered the commander’s question. “They let me and the girls go check. Sadly, it turned out not to be her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Yeong San said. Through his own channels he, too, had so far failed to trace where former Lady Jang had been sold twenty years ago.

  “It’s all right.” The gisaeng smiled. “It’s not the first time. It was worth checking anyway. We were just on our way back from the port when this storm began…”

  “Vile weather,” Yeong San agreed. “I’ve no time to sit here; I’m looking for someone, but you can’t see the road out there. Have you, by chance, heard anything about an injured young man?”

  “In these parts?” Jade Butterfly touched one finger to her bright lips. “No, I don’t believe so. A hunter broke his leg falling in the mountains ten days ago, but you’re not talking about him, are you?”

  “No. Mine was wounded two days ago.” Yeong San shook his head.

  “Does nari wish to finish him off?” the gisaeng asked playfully. Yeong San felt a flash of involuntary anger but checked himself — she could not know whom he was speaking about.

  “To protect him,” he narrowed his eyes. The room seemed to grow colder. “At any cost.”

  Suddenly, the gisaeng drew her thin brows together and glanced back over her shoulder, arching her back with graceful exaggeration.

  “How drafty it is in here,” she said loudly.

  Now Yeong San noticed that the front door stood ajar — so that was why it had grown cold — and on the threshold some grimy, rain-soaked boy in worn grey cotton clothes was shifting from foot to foot. A slave, perhaps, or someone’s servant.

  “Sorry, excuse me,” he muttered, staring at the floor. “May I warm myself for a while?”

  “If you let all the heat out, son, nobody will get warm,” the hostess came grumbling from the kitchen, holding a filthy rag in her hand. “Come in and close the door.”

  He did as he was told, shuffled in place a little more, and started whining again, this time trying to wheedle some food.

  “If you want to eat, you work first,” the hostess turned out to be strict. “If you don’t, then go sit over there in the corner with that one.”

  She nodded toward the peasant sleeping sitting up. Or perhaps not sleeping, for at her words he briefly raised his face, swept his gaze over the room, and dropped his head back onto his arms.

  “What do I have to do?” the servant asked eagerly.

  The room grew livelier after he appeared. Not wishing to keep going out into the rain with every trip between the kitchen and the hall, the hostess set her new helper to carry trays to the guests, and he ran briskly between the tables, constantly trying to mix up the orders and showering everyone with apologies.

  To Yeong San, the youngster seemed amusing and harmless. So he wondered why the commander of those bodyguards was watching the boy with barely concealed hostility.

  Could it be that his soup had gone cold on the way from the kitchen or something?