People were not yet speaking openly, but Mu-in knew something was happening in the palace. Something unusual, something that made the ministers summoned in the middle of the night one day, and the morning council canceled the next.

  He himself could not enter the palace, of course, nor would he have dared. He watched the king from afar — when he passed through Hanyang’s streets in a gilded palanquin on his way to a temple ritual, or when he traveled with servants and soldiers to the summer palace. Lately, however, such outings had become rarer, and one had even been postponed supposedly because of bad weather. That day the sky had not held a single cloud.

  When the steward gathered the maids and told them to take out the white cotton mourning clothes “just in case,” to air them and freshen them, Mu-in understood that the matter was serious. He even tried asking his mother, but she had no access to the palace, well-protected against spirits. The Confucian scholars scorned folk superstitions but still remembered to renew the talismans on every gate year after year. The only spirits ever encountered in the palace were the memories of those few who had died there.

  The confusion lasted about a month, and Mu-in became certain that the king was dying. A sense of hopelessness overtook him. The king had always been the sun that lit his life and the lives of all the kingdom’s subjects. In good times or bad, in peace, or in war, or during floods, the king was always there. Distant, unreachable, serving as the axis of the world’s order. But now an epoch was ending, and where he was supposed to go afterward, into the darkness, once the sun went out, he did not know.

  As if echoing his mood, the sky filled with clouds. It started raining. Mu-in sat on the threshold of his room, turning in his fingers a small polished piece of wood darkened with age, with faded letters and a dirty gray tassel on the knot.

  Once the tassel had been silvery, and the letters had declared that the bearer, a youth of eight, was traveling to the city on an official errand. It was almost a real tag, made for him by Magistrate Ma, his mother’s friend. He could show it to guards; they would glance at the magistrate, smirk, then nod in understanding, and he would walk proudly to the market to buy sweet taffy or dried persimmons for himself and his younger brother. Hwan loved dried persimmons, though he could hardly chew them, sucking on the sticky treat in his chubby hand for a long time.

  Now those memories felt like a dream, and sometimes Mu-in wondered whether they had happened at all.

  Had he simply invented his past life in a foolish attempt to escape the present?

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  One of the servants ran into the courtyard, shielding himself from the rain with a mat, and said the councilor wished to see him. Mu-in tucked his old tag into his sleeve and reached for his shoes. He did not enjoy killing in the rain — there was always too much mud on the clothes afterward.

  This time the task was even more serious than when he had been ordered to intimidate the Minister of War. Back then, the State Councilor had put him in charge of a band of mercenaries. They had set an ambush in the mountains and attacked a convoy carrying supplies to a fort. They had slaughtered a dozen soldiers and wounded the minister’s son-in-law. After that, the minister became far more agreeable, which had been the goal.

  Now he had to deal with a ship coming from Great Qing. It seemed the councilor had decided to take up international politics in earnest. The ship was to dock in Incheon on the second night. All the passengers, the crew, the servants, and the welcoming party were to be eliminated. The stakes must have been high, for during their short conversation the councilor mentioned Mu-in’s younger brother not once, but twice.

  “Do not forget that the well-being of another person depends on your success,” he repeated yet again. The councilor was preparing for the palace, already dressed in his dark-red court robes.

  “I always remember,” Mu-in assured him — truthfully. “May I ask whom daegam wishes to see as the next king?”

  “What business is that of yours, dog?” The councilor turned to him a shade more sharply than etiquette allowed, and Mu-in understood he had guessed correctly.

  “If I kill the prince returning from Qing, the king will have no children left.” The words felt heavy, with the metallic tang of treason. And judging by the way the councilor stepped close to him, leaned in, and lowered his voice, this was precisely what was meant to happen tomorrow night in Incheon.

  “Exactly — the king will have no children left,” he repeated whispering. “And an empty throne usually goes to the strongest. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Thank you for the lesson, daegam.” Mu-in bowed even lower, avoiding the councilor’s breath on his face, and remained kneeling until the man finally left.

  His younger brother’s life depended on his obedience. Nothing else mattered. He hated himself.

  ***

  The journey from Hanyang to Incheon took a full day.

  It could have been faster on horseback, but the mercenaries accompanying him did not have enough steeds for everyone. They left in the evening, before the city gates closed, walked through the night, and by midday reached the place where the gentle hills sloped down to a pale sandy beach. The sun was still high, the lookouts had not yet spotted the ship, and there were too many people in the fishing village.

  Mu-in ordered the horses unsaddled and allowed the men to sleep the remaining two hours before sunset. After dusk they were to slip into the port and take positions beneath the pier, hidden among the pilings and in the nearby woods. After that, patience, skill, and surprise were on their side.

  Dressed in unobtrusive black, the assassins managed to conceal themselves just before the torchlight glittered on the water and a unit of Wangwisa, the royal guard, appeared at the pier.

  Two hours later, the long-awaited ship arrived.