The embassy of Great Qing was, as usual, travelling to the capital of conquered Joseon with great pomp. Only the timing and the composition were unusual. Normally the tribute was collected at the end of spring and sent north around the beginning of May, but this time the provincial magistrates had had to strain themselves to fill the empty carts with bolts of cloth, sacks of rice, and boxes of precious ginseng in December, right in the middle of winter. The peasants, already miserably poor, protested and cursed the king, some even fled to the mountains.

  In the capital, meanwhile, they were preparing for the ceremony of granting the royal rank to the late Virtuous Concubine Kim and for a splendid reception for the envoys. The topic of the recently concluded state examination had been devoted to establishing friendly ties between Joseon and Great Qing.

  As for the embassy itself, it differed somewhat from the usual yearly tribute expedition. For many years, the envoy had been the venerable Lord Fang, who had received this appointment shortly after the memorable victory of the Manchu banners over the king of Joseon. Lord Fang himself was a Han, whose ruling dynasty the Manchus had quite recently and definitively driven out, but thanks to his talents he had managed to advance in rank and become head of the annual embassy to Joseon.

  Over the years he had learned the language of the conquered people well, become friendly with many of their officials, could find his way south with his eyes closed, and knew exactly in which roadside tavern the best soup or meat was served. The envoy did his job excellently: he faithfully carried letters and edicts, and the tribute delivered to Beijing always matched the inventory.

  Which was why he was thoroughly enraged that this time his position and honorary title had been taken from him and handed to some upstart from among the conquerors. Supposedly, this man enjoyed the favor of Prince Regent Rui himself and therefore also that of the young Son of Heaven. And it was not yet clear whether this appointment was for one journey or forever. As for Lord Fang, he had been left with the embassy as a “special adviser to the envoy.” In other words, he still had to do all the work, while the praise for it would go to that upstart.

  The upstart was tall, broad-shouldered, sat a horse as if he were part of it, spoke loudly, laughed louder still, and was completely devoid of the diplomatic tact needed to build relations between countries. It was obvious he had won his patron’s favor not with brush and mind, but with some trick on the battlefield. In addition, for a high-ranking diplomat he was depressingly young and inexperienced. Once, over a cup of wine, the upstart mentioned that he had been born in the year of the Rat — which meant he was only thirty-seven! Lord Fang himself was about to turn forty-two, and the need to bow to a man who could almost be his younger brother infuriated him.

  “And what about the emperor?” his bodyguard snorted in reply to Lord Fang’s complaints one day. The wild Mongol had no understanding of hierarchy whatsoever. “How old is the boy, ten? Eleven?”

  “The Son of Heaven is above all of us.” Lord Fang, for safety’s sake, bowed with his hands folded respectfully before his chest. “I do not see how his age affects the situation.”

  “‘Affects’ — listen to that word,” the Mongol spat at his feet, making Lord Fang grimace. “When a rider mounts a horse, the horse doesn’t ask his age. Whoever has strength is the one on top.”

  “Other merits must be taken into account as well,” Lord Fang tried to argue. But such arguments could not pierce the Mongol.

  “By your ‘merits’ I should be bowing to your feet, Lord Special Adviser, shouldn’t I?” the man snorted, baring half his teeth in a crooked predatory smile.

  “Do not be angry, I did not mean you,” Lord Fang backed down at once.

  The thing was, the Mongol officially listed as his bodyguard was in fact more of an overseer. Many years ago, when Lord Fang had still been young, educated, and looking forward to a cloudless court career, one man had approached him…

  More precisely, at that time the young Han scholar Fang had been trying to make connections at the Manchu court in order to obtain a higher position — the examinations customary in civilized countries had been abolished, but educated officials still had to come from somewhere — and so he was getting acquainted with everyone he could, hoping to hook a fatter fish. With a heavy heart, he had shaved his forehead, braided his hair into the queue worn by the steppe people, and even learned their script, but he simply could not rise above the rank of assistant magistrate.

  His search for a path into the palace had led him into a dubious company of “golden youth.” Young Fang did not much appreciate their revels and drinking bouts with scantily clad women, but he understood the value of connections. The sons of ministers and courtiers gathered there, the men who might whisper a word or two about him to the right people.

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  Then one day some youth who was thoroughly drunk shared a piece of news with him in a brotherly fashion: an important man — let us not name him — was looking for trusted people. Very trusted. And this had only been told to the most trusted of the trusted, but you, brother, I do trust! The meeting is then and there.

  Not knowing whether this was about a coup or gathering someone’s private army, young Fang nevertheless went to the meeting.

  He should not have.

  Never again did he do anything rash without weighing all the pros and cons. But once had been enough for a lifetime.

  The invited men were gathered in a large half-darkened hall, two dozen of them: Han and Manchus all mixed together. They all looked like offspring of respectable families. Young Fang even recognized a couple of faces, and they exchanged bows.

  Then an older man came out to them, his face covered by a mask, but his speech was pleasant and courteous. He spoke of the problems the country faced, of the paths by which they must be solved, and of how important unity was in troubled times. Very correct words, in general.

  He spoke of how ethnic strife hindered the establishment of a lasting peace and how glad he was to see representatives of different peoples gathered here. They were his hope for the future of the great empire. All of them were his hope and the future pillars of his power.

  As a sign of respect, to share in his words, servants brought trays of wine, and the guests raised their cups to the promise of a new dawn, a rich state, and high positions for those who stood at its beginnings.

  The walls glowed with golden light, the voice went on speaking of future and present, and clouds of multicolored butterflies flew through the hall. They whirled and whirled in a round dance, and then the whole swarm fluttered around young Fang, preventing him from seeing, hearing, or breathing. They tried to crawl into his nose, eyes, and ears, and he flailed at them in panic, desperately trying to scrape them off his face. But they kept reaching and reaching with their sharp proboscises and pricked him with a thousand needles.

  He came to in the same hall, sitting on the floor in an undignified pose. The butterflies were gone. The other guests were just as distraught: someone was writhing and quietly moaning, someone simply stood there, eyes round, someone hopped on one leg. Young Fang realized they had all been drugged, and the man in the mask soon confirmed it.

  He said that true loyalty was sealed in blood, but it was unwise to spill the blood of one’s own allies. Therefore he had preferred to bind them with the poison Konggu. From now on, every seven days they would have to take the antidote in order to go on living. Anyone who dared refuse, or break his word, or simply forgot — would die in terrible agony.

  The frightened, disoriented guests were each given a pill case with four small pellets in each (the first was to be taken immediately), and ordered to return on the next new moon. And ever since, Lord Fang’s life had been dictated by the new moons, when he received the right to live one more month.

  That damned insolent Mongol, his “bodyguard,” was precisely the one who decided whether he would receive his next precious dose of life during their long travels. One had to assume that his position in this secret organization was far higher than Lord Fang’s — who knew why.

  The patronage of the man in the mask had borne fruit, of course. Lord Fang advanced in service, he was given expensive gifts, he made an advantageous marriage with a Manchu woman and secured his sister’s future. In the end he was appointed envoy of the annual embassy to Joseon, to collect tribute from the conquered neighbors — and he did that work admirably. Both with collecting tribute and with transporting contraband.

  The fact was that he always carried several extra carts across the border, loaded with marvelous Huan-Gu pills. Unfortunately, not the ones that granted him life, nor even the terrifying poison Konggu, but simply some narcotic toxin. Lord Fang left them in the border town of Anju, in the house of the local magistrate.

  After that, the embassy continued on to the capital, sat through all the required receptions, exchanged edicts, and returned. In Anju, at the magistrate’s house, they again stopped for a couple of days. Lord Fang collected payment for the previous year’s shipment — everything strictly according to the inventory. His bodyguard watched jealously to make sure that their list and the magistrate’s list matched.

  Only then did the embassy cross the border back into the Qing Empire. After the comparison of records, the magistrate of Anju was supposed to keep one-twentieth as payment for his work. Then the goods vanished among the carts of tribute, in another border town on the far side of the river they were collected by the right people, and Lord Fang calmly travelled on to Beijing.

  It was a tidy job; one journey a year brought him more than his entire annual salary. But the main thing was not to slip. And to receive his little box of pills.

  After taking a pill, he felt calm and light for a while; he knew his life once again had meaning. New ideas came to him, colorful dreams visited him — almost without butterflies. And for a short time Lord Fang could forget about the sword hanging over his head for a dozen years now.

  The “envoy” forced on him this time, whom his secret patron had failed to get rid of in time, threatened to disrupt the long-established order of things. This worried Lord Fang considerably, he began to eat less and even lost some weight. But what was there to be done? No one could oppose an imperial decree.

  All that remained for Lord Fang, demoted to special adviser to the envoy, was to gnaw his nails in anxiety and hope that this Manchu who had fallen on his head would not decide to count the carts and check the goods. Then again, it was quite likely that this soldier did not know how to count at all, despite playing the important official.