Rage flooded Chuluun from the inside, and the raw pain in his hands would not let him forget the humiliation. He forced his swollen, cut palms into his gloves as best he could and went to Adviser Fang. He already knew what he would do next to wriggle out of this situation, but it would be better if the cowardly adviser and the no less cowardly magistrate also understood their roles.

  Chuluun intended to kill Envoy Zhao. That would undoubtedly cause an uproar, and the frozen corpse of the inspector in the shed would simply be forgotten. There would be no one left to check the tribute carts or interfere with reloading the goods. All advantage, when you looked at it that way.

  Besides, the envoy was a Manchu.

  Chuluun had hated the Manchus since childhood, deeply and sincerely. They had stolen everything dear to him, conquered his free steppes, subjugating the proud Mongols with fire and steel. They ploughed up pastures, destroyed herds… Of course, there were tribes that chose to join the conquerors themselves. They merged into the army, received posts and ranks, and some even moved their families into cities taken from the Han, behind high stone walls.

  His tribe was not like that.

  They roamed the steppe, pitched their tents where the stars burned brightest, and considered horses their brothers. Chuluun still remembered his childhood delight when his father lifted him into the saddle and they rode together to hunt or move the herd. Light hooves barely touched the ground and it felt as if you yourself became a bird, soaring above tall grasses. He must have been four or five.

  One day the dismay came to their tribe. The elders gathered the people, men donned armor and filled quivers with arrows. His father rode off with a large detachment, and Chuluun never saw him again.

  A few days later other men burst into their encampment, with shaved foreheads and long braids. They set the tents on fire and began killing those who ran out. His mother covered Chuluun with her body. She was shot with arrows, and he was simply left to whimper over her corpse, small and helpless.

  After the army came other people, clean and well-groomed. They brought water, offered some food, and seated the survivors on carts to take them to the stone cities. Those unwilling were tied with ropes. Chuluun did not understand what was happening and did not want to leave his mother. Probably he still hoped his father would return and everything would become as before.

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  Perhaps he was lucky.

  One of those clean, polite people noticed him, lifted him into the saddle, and took him to his home. He was Han, from another people conquered by the invaders, and he too hated the Manchus. He had no family either, and he raised Chuluun as a son.

  He taught him languages, explained many subtleties. But above all he always instructed him never to forget who he was and where he came from. To remember the burned encampment. To hate the conquerors. And slowly, step by step, to undermine their rule, preparing the path for liberation from the Manchu yoke.

  As a teenager, Chuluun dreamed of bursting into the palace with sword bared and killing the khan who fancied himself an emperor.

  His mentor dissuaded him and proposed a longer, more complex, but also more reliable path. To pretend to be a faithful subject, place their own people in the right positions, gradually covering the great empire with an invisible net. Their loyalty was secured by the balance of poison and antidote, and Chuluun was one of those who ensured the system did not fail.

  There were two kinds of poison. One, known and in demand, allowed people to see vivid dreams and forget reality for a while. Many were willing to pay well for it, and in this way his mentor gathered funds for the main plan. These pills were called Huan-Gu, the "Illusionary Valley".

  The second poison, rare and hidden, turned a person into a living corpse. These pills were called Konggu, the “Controlled Valley”. Every seven days one had to take a dose of antidote, and only the monthly boxes with four pills could extend the poisoned person’s life to the next moon.

  Oh, what people were willing to do to obtain the life-saving white pellets!

  The recipes for the poisons were complex, the antidote simple, and this sometimes amused Chuluun. People groveled and humiliated themselves before him, begging for what they could have obtained themselves, had they known. Knowledge applied wisely was always a source of power, his mentor said. Chuluun bowed respectfully and took the next portion of antidote, which was to be distributed to their “friends”.

  Special Adviser Fang had been their puppet for a long time.

  He worked almost without fault and was very convenient. But the new envoy had been appointed so suddenly that the mentor had not had time to take him in hand. Besides, he was a Manchu, and those dogs he and his mentor tried to avoid whenever possible.

  Chuluun had already tried to frighten him, but Envoy Zhao proved too stupid to grasp even the most obvious hints. If his death could help their cause, so much the better.

  Chuluun enjoyed killing Manchus more than anyone else.