Over the years he had traveled with the embassy to Joseon, all sorts of things had happened on the road. At times bandits attacked the caravan, and then the Mongol’s help proved most useful. In battle, his bodyguard was competent, and more than once Lord Fang had been glad that the man was nearby. But this time he was ready to reconsider.

  As usual, the embassy lingered in Anju for a couple of days. They enjoyed the hospitality of a warm house and waited out the snowstorm. In the evening, while the envoy entertained himself with wine and pleasant company, adviser Fang and the magistrate went out to check on the safety of the goods and get some fresh air. The Mongol bodyguard had disappeared somewhere earlier in the day, and the adviser, to be honest, found that quite agreeable.

  The magistrate exchanged a few meaningless remarks with his steward. The solidly built, gray-haired, sun-darkened steward Pak was also aware of their affairs, and one could speak freely in his presence.

  “You are leaving the day after tomorrow?” he confirmed. “Be careful in the forest. A pack of wolves was seen there.”

  “I will warn the guards,” Adviser Fang nodded. “And you—”

  He did not finish. From around the corner someone came tumbling out, rolled across the ground, and fell right at the magistrate’s feet. A moment later the Mongol stepped out after him and stopped, brushing off his hands.

  “I caught your rat,” he declared, and kicked the fallen man with his boot.

  “Take your hands off me, wretch!” the stranger exclaimed in Chinese as he scrambled up, brushing dirty snow from his silk robes and straightening his gat hat. He was fairly young, scarcely thirty, though a small beard lent him a more serious air. “You have no idea whom you have crossed, and you will regret this.”

  “Who is this?” the magistrate frowned, clearly remembering that this was his city and his responsibility.

  “The snoop you were looking for,” the Mongol spat heavily at the ground, nearly hitting the man’s clothes. “Who sent you, dog?”

  “Do not bark at me, barbarian,” the man snapped back. “And you, Magistrate — you sold yourself so easily? Fifteen years in one province. Corruption truly was inevitable.”

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  “How dare you speak to me like that, you brat?” the magistrate bristled, though Adviser Fang noticed his hands were shaking.

  “In full accordance with ranks and offices,” the man switched to Korean, smiled broadly, then rummaged in his sleeve and thrust a round metal token with a red tassel under the magistrate’s nose. Five horse silhouettes were engraved on it. “I am a secret royal inspector. As for you, all of you are under arrest and will stand before the royal court.”

  Magistrate Kwon let out a thin, strangled sound and collapsed to his knees, straight into the evening-frozen mud. His steward, after hesitating no longer than a heartbeat, followed suit, sinking into a deep bow. Adviser Fang stood there, looking around wildly, trying to understand whether this affair concerned him as well, and how it might affect their relations with Joseon.

  “Do not think your braid will save you, Manchu,” the secret inspector turned on him. Adviser Fang felt a flash of offended indignation. He was Han, not one of those conquerors, even if he served them. “When you stand trial and your role in smuggling is exposed, your own people will destroy you. All that remains for me is to inventory what you brought across the border this time, and my report will be—”

  The inspector suddenly broke off, clutched his side, and looked at the Mongol who had stepped closer. Only then did it become clear how much taller and broader he was than the Joseon man — even the inspector’s tall hat barely reached the Mongol’s brows. The inspector’s lips moved, but instead of words a trickle of blood spilled out.

  Adviser Fang clapped a hand over his mouth in horror and froze, afraid to move.

  His Mongol bodyguard yanked the dagger from the inspector’s body and struck again, this time at the throat. The inspector grabbed his neck, eyes wide, fingers staining dark with blood.

  The magistrate lifted his head and began to whimper incoherently, trying to crawl backward. Steward Pak swore.

  The inspector swayed for an unbearably long time. Adviser Fang felt like hours passed before he finally collapsed in a twisted heap and went still. The Mongol nudged him with the toe of his boot to be sure he was dead, bent down, wiped the dagger on the man’s shoulder, and slipped it back into his belt. Then he picked up the token with the horses and tossed it to the steward.

  “Clean this up before morning,” he ordered. “Adviser and I are going back to drink with the envoy.”

  “Y-y-you k-k-killed a royal inspector!” the magistrate stammered. “They will execute us all!”

  “Why would they, if no one finds out?” the Mongol snorted, seized the stunned Adviser Fang by the elbow, and dragged him back toward the house. “Cowardly dogs.”

  That was how he became an accomplice to murder. The expression on the poor inspector’s face — his eyes, his attempt to clutch his slashed throat — haunted Adviser Fang for many nights afterward. The Mongol, meanwhile, seemed utterly untroubled.

  The next day he announced that he did not trust the cowardly magistrate and would rather oversee their affairs here in Anju himself. Then he pretended to fall gravely ill, intimidated the doctor summoned to him into confirming the diagnosis, and, with the envoy’s gracious permission, remained behind to recover and await the embassy’s return in the hospitable home of the most obliging magistrate.