The dark city street smelled of flowers.

  When the moon slipped out from behind the clouds, its light touched the curved tiled roofs and the low stone walls still hung with paper garlands left from the New Year’s celebrations. The old Year of the Horse had carried the force of yang; the Sheep was a sign of yin. And this new year, the Year of the Water Sheep, brought an element that suited the feminine nature of the sign. Fortune-tellers had promised the townspeople a prosperous year, one that would bring abundance and family harmony.

  The man hiding in the shadow of the old ginkgo knew well enough that those charlatans lied.

  Nearly an hour passed before voices sounded at the far end of the street and a flicker of light appeared. Bearers carried two sedan chairs carved almost like armchairs, servants hurried in front with long-handled paper lanterns, and somewhere behind them guards walked with swords at their sides. In Joseon, only nobles of high rank were permitted to ride in sedan chairs, lest their dignity brush against the dirty sleeve of some awkward commoner. At the moment, two high officials were shouting drunken nonsense, loud and slurred. Their evening in the gibang had clearly gone well, and now, sated with purchased beauty and plentiful drink, they were eager to return to their lawful families.

  At the crossroads, some twenty paces from the ginkgo tree, the chairs halted.

  “Good evening to you, mostest esteemed Minister,” one of them called, waving his hand for no reason and nearly tumbling out of the chair.

  “And a fine evening to you, Director,” the second replied, attempting a polite bow. His wide gat hat wobbled dangerously but did not fall, held in place by its strings. “Next time we should make her dance for us, don’t you think?”

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  “Certainly, without fail,” the Director agreed. “Carry me home, you fools.”

  The chairs turned into a side street, and soon a drunken voice drifted out, attempting to sing a popular tune. The minister watched them go, yawned, stretched, and then called sharply to his own servants not to stand idle. Fifteen paces remained to the ginkgo tree.

  The small procession included the passenger, four bearers, an elderly servant with a lantern, and four guards — only the last might cause trouble. The man in the shadows adjusted the cloth covering his face and quietly drew his sword. He intended to let the procession pass and strike from behind; that would allow him to dispatch a pair of guards before they even realized they were under attack.

  The assault was swift.

  The bearers scattered with shrieks, abandoning their precious burden. Of the guards, only one had any skill and managed to win his master a few moments before falling, clutching the wound in his abdomen. The killer cast him a brief glance to confirm he would not rise again, then ran after the terrified minister. His black clothes merged with the shadows, the moon hid behind a cloud, and no one could have seen where the attacker vanished. The lantern dropped by the servant fell onto its side and went out, hiding the scene of the slaughter from any chance passerby.

  The minister’s heart pounded, the air seared his throat. He was no longer young; he was used to walking with dignity through palace corridors or sitting on the dais in his bureau. He was not used to running through unfamiliar dark streets, stumbling and choking on fear.

  Who? Who wanted to take his life?

  A political rival?

  A creditor who had lost patience?

  A jealous relative of his new young concubine?

  “Minister Eul,” a calm voice called ahead of him. The minister did not at once understand that his pursuer had somehow passed him and was now standing before him.

  “You know who I am.” If he could not escape, he had to rely on reason. “So you know I can pay you three times… no, ten times more! Let us speak as rational people. Tell me what you dream of, and I will see to it that your dream comes true.”

  “The Chief State Councilor sends his regards to the Minister of Rites,” the pursuer replied. His unusually light eyes looked with indifference over the cloth covering his face. “Please forgive me.”