There was little entertainment in Anju, and the regent had already watched all the gisaeng dances twice over. The next morning he ordered the horses saddled again and decided to ride out to the mine. Snow had fallen again during the night, and he enjoyed watching his horse’s hooves leave marks on the untouched white surface.

  The clumsy special adviser preferred to remain in the warmth, which surprised no one, while both princes once again volunteered to accompany him on this short outing. In some way these boys reminded him of the sons he himself did not have. One of his concubines was raising a ten-year-old daughter for him, but there were no sons in his household. Instead, he was allowed to raise the emperor, his brother’s son, and had even recently received the respectful title of “Emperor’s Uncle”.

  And, truth be told, he should not have lingered in this small town at all, but hurried back to Beijing in time to congratulate his ward on his birthday in mid-March.

  Dorgon sighed. One could rule all under Heaven, command all Eight Manchu Banners, and still lack the simple joys available to an ordinary peasant. Power had its price, and he had paid it.

  The regent adjusted his heavy fur-lined cloak and looked up at the sky. Low gray clouds drifted lazily overhead, nearly brushing the dark crowns of the trees ahead. On the way to the mine they had to pass through a small grove where local peasants gathered firewood. Surely all the wildlife had long since been scared away; there would not even be a hunt…

  But someone was in the forest after all.

  As the riders approached the first trees, a flock of crows took off ahead, cawing loudly. Dorgon frowned. He had not brought a bow, so any fight would have to be hand-to-hand. He glanced back, assessing the group riding with him: two princes, an interpreter, four guards, and a couple of servants unfit for combat. No one else seemed to have noticed anything, judging by their calm faces. Yet the elder one, Yun, shifted the reins into his left hand and sniffled the air as if he had caught a scent, then flicked a glance to the left. The same direction from which the crows had risen. Good. The two of them together would spot an ambush in time.

  Perhaps the prince had sharper eyes or keener hearing, but he was the first to raise the alarm. He snatched a spear from the nearest guard and hurled it into an unremarkable bush by the roadside. A cry followed, sounding like a curse, and then a group of filthy, ragged figures poured out onto the road.

  For a moment Dorgon nearly forgot that he was supposed to fight, staring at their matted hair and trousers resembling pleated skirts. The attackers looked utterly ridiculous, even pitiful. One had thrown a red silk robe directly over his bare body, another had wrapped himself in a bright orange blanket, a third had tied his trousers with a wolf skin.

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  Dorgon came to his senses only when this rabble rushed toward him with shouts of “Banzai!”, waving curved swords and sickles.

  “They are wako!” Prince Yun exclaimed. “Protect the envoy!”

  The guards immediately ran in front of the regent’s horse, preventing Dorgon himself from joining the fight.

  “Japanese pirates?” Xian exclaimed in surprise, riding closer. “They have come a long way inland.”

  “I do not wish to trample your men,” Dorgon drummed impatiently on his sword hilt. “Have them clear the way.”

  Yun was luckier. His horse had been at the front of the group when he threw the spear, and now the foolish guards did not impede him. It seemed to Dorgon that they were protecting not him from the bandits, but the bandits from him!

  The prince’s horse pranced and reared, threatening to crush the rabble under its hooves. Yun himself parried sword blows with ease and had already wounded a couple of attackers in the arms and shoulders. His style was pleasing to the eye, slightly ornate, but clearly effective.

  The attackers fled back into the grove, the guards pressing the remaining ones. The clash of weapons, curses, and shouts filled the snowy forest. Dorgon finally rode around his “protectors”, but he was too late. The last bandit squealed, dropped a pair of sickles under the prince’s horse hooves, and ran headlong into the forest.

  “Do not pursue!” Yun raised his hand. “Let them go.”

  “Collect the weapons and evidence and continue guarding the envoy,” Xian added. “I will determine how pirates came this far inland.”

  “They would have had to come up the Chongchon River,” Yun agreed, riding closer. “Their boats must be somewhere. Order the banks searched.”

  Xian nodded and bowed toward Dorgon.

  “I offer my apologies for this unpleasant incident.”

  “Fortunately, we have Great Prince Seojin, ready to save everyone,” Dorgon laughed deliberately loudly. He was still disappointed that he had not been able to fight.

  “I am glad that the envoy was not harmed,” the elder prince replied with impeccable politeness.

  At the time, Dorgon did not attach much importance to the attack. If one of his enemies had learned of his journey and wished to ambush the regent, they would have sent trained assassins, not this rabble. But when he returned from the ride, he found a note in his room, pinned to a small table with a red arrow. On the sheet of paper, in red ink resembling blood, a single word was written: “Run.”

  Whoever had left the message had entered his chambers armed and left without being noticed. This troubled the regent more than the foolish threat itself or the forest ambush. Could the two be connected? Who would want to frighten him, and why?

  Or was it merely a jest by someone in Joseon? That same day Dorgon carefully worked a mention of arrows and red ink into private conversations with each of the princes, but both seemed not to grasp his hint. All that remained was to wonder who the author of the message was — and to stay alert.