The journey to Joseon was drawing to a close, yet Dorgon still could not decide on a crown prince for the conquered country. Leaving the matter without resolution was unacceptable — Joseon was already unstable, and without an heir, with a king visibly weakening, it risked sliding into clan warfare altogether. Properly speaking, a crown prince ought to be appointed. And of course, the obvious choice was Li Xian, who had been raised for that role for the past two decades.

  Yet the Prince Regent had risen so high precisely because he treated obvious solutions with caution and carefully considered other possibilities, whether at the negotiating table or on the battlefield. The simplest path did not always prove the most successful, though sometimes it did.

  Li Xian was familiar and comprehensible to him. The boy would undoubtedly obey his orders and avoid armed conflict. Perhaps later, when the Emperor grew older and Dorgon himself aged, something might change, but for the coming ten years Xian would serve as a guarantee of peaceful and stable relations with Joseon.

  His elder brother, Li Yun, was a dark horse.

  Dorgon had tried to observe him in Hanyang, but Yun seemed to avoid his attention, and when they did find themselves near one another, he behaved rather provocatively. Too provocatively to be taken at face value. Yun was the eldest of the princes, his mother had just been proclaimed queen, and his grandfather was the Chief State Councilor. His support at court was obvious. His rule would rest on a strong and numerous faction. The guards Dorgon had seen him with during the hunt also appeared to like the Great Prince, behaving with him freely and without stiffness. That was a sign of a good commander, and something Dorgon himself valued in men aspiring to high office.

  At the same time, the king seemed to favor Xian and to dislike his eldest son. This was never stated outright, but was Yun perhaps fulfilling his father’s unspoken wish by avoiding the regent and the struggle for the throne?

  If matters truly stood thus, Dorgon was inclined to heed the wishes of the Joseon court and enter Xian’s name into the patent. He likely would have done so, just before reaching the border — had the elder prince not overtaken their unhurried procession and, almost from the threshold, declared his intention to compete for the title. It was unexpected and intriguing, and Dorgon decided to wait a little longer before making a final decision.

  What had caused Li Yun to change his behavior so abruptly?

  And what did this mean for the possible future of Joseon and Great Qing?

  Just then, a convenient pretext to remain in Anju for several days quite literally fell into the regent’s hands. Or rather, at his feet.

  “Daegam! Daegam! You are a great official, right?” A young, grimy Joseon man ran across the courtyard toward him and fell at his feet before Dorgon could even reach for his dagger. “Please, restore justice!”

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  Dorgon understood Korean and even spoke it a little, but usually preferred to do so through an interpreter. He glanced around in search of someone who might help him with this awkward situation and saw Xian. The prince was just coming out from behind the corner of the building, the magistrate’s daughter hanging on his arm. The boy was certainly not wasting time! Dorgon smirked and rubbed his chin.

  “Your Highness,” he called to the prince. “What is this servant saying?”

  Xian approached. The young woman detached herself and stood a step behind him in proper fashion; they bowed in unison. The prince’s navy robes and the young lady’s pink-and-blue hanbok stood out like bright flowers against the snow that had covered the courtyard overnight.

  “What do you want?” Xian asked the petitioner in a kindly voice. He had a gift for putting people at ease, that much could not be denied.

  “I thought this was a great official, but he doesn’t speak our language?” the petitioner said, confused. “Forgive me, I was mistaken.”

  “The envoy is indeed a great official, but not in Joseon,” Xian replied with a gentle smile, directed more toward the regent than the man — a joke only the two of them would understand. “I, however, am Great Prince Dojun. You may tell me of your troubles.”

  “A real prince?” The servant stared at him with round eyes, then hastily bowed his head. “Then you are certainly above the magistrate. Please help restore justice!”

  “Who has wronged you?” Xian asked, his voice flowing like golden honey. Dorgon felt a trace of envy for his patience. He himself would already have kicked the man or hauled him up by the chest to make him speak faster about this trouble of his.

  “My elder brother died. I wish to bury him properly,” the servant said heavily, his shoulders trembling. He looked very young.

  “You lack the money for the burial?” the prince asked with compassion.

  Was there truly no one else here to deal with such a trifle? Dorgon snorted inwardly. Joseon truly lacked a firm hand.

  “He was crushed in the mine,” the boy replied dully. “All of them were crushed, eight men. The magistrate will not allow the collapse to be cleared or the dead to be buried. He says nothing happened, forget it. And anyone who argues is beaten with sticks. Help, restore justice!”

  “Crushed in a mine?” Xian repeated, frowning, and turned to his companion. “Is this true?”

  She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. The prince nodded in understanding.

  “When did this happen?” he asked the servant.

  “A month ago,” the boy counted on his fingers. “Just before the northern embassy passed through. Ah, how will we recognize them now? There are only bones left by now.”

  “It was cold. You will recognize them,” Xian assured him and drew a deep breath.

  “It seems this collapse ought to be cleared,” Dorgon remarked in Manchu, ensuring the young woman would not understand. “Why did the magistrate choose to conceal it?”

  “I apologize that this has troubled you,” Xian replied in the same language. “I will order the mine to be cleared first thing on our way back.”

  “No,” Dorgon said, narrowing his eyes at the morning sun appearing over the roof and reckoning his time. He could spare a few more days. “You have piqued my curiosity. Do it now. I will remain a little longer. Our host feeds us very well.”

  “As you wish,” the prince nodded, then continued in Korean. “You will lead us to the mine. We shall inspect the site, and if possible, I will order the collapse to be cleared.”

  “Thousand years of life to the Great Prince!” the servant cried joyfully, prostrating himself. “Thousand years!”

  No one noticed the Mongol watching the entire exchange from behind the corner of the gallery.