The sun had just tipped past its zenith when a man on a horse came into the village edge.
Riding slow, the man tipped his bamboo hat to glance at the weathered signboard at the gate. The faded characters for Cheongsu Village shivered there. The man—Jang Geon—turned his eyes to the dust-blown street.
“A village called Clear Water. I don’t see a single well.”
Two weeks after leaving the valley tribe, Jang had set his course west. After the last village he’d wandered three days before finding this place and hurrying in. It looked barren, but most villages out here did. Nothing special.
Jojo, plodding along, spotted the inn sign before Jang did and veered for it without needing the reins. At the door he snorted and tossed his head as if to say: Get down already.
“All right, you ox. I’m getting off. Behave.”
As he dismounted, a kid pushed aside the door curtain and came out. Maybe he’d heard Jojo snorting; he looked around, spotted Jang, and hopped over.
“Welcome. Staying the night? Eating, too? We’ve got liquor. Want me to put your horse in the stable? We’ve got small rooms and big rooms. There’s a best room. Personally I recommend a small room. Honestly, the rooms aren’t that different.”
Hands on his belt, Jang listened to the kid rattle on, then spoke only when the stream of words finally ended.
“Lodging. Small room. Food as well. What liquor?”
“Just cheap white liquor.”
At the blunt reply, Jang snorted.
“You’re honest.”
“That’s only one of my countless virtues.”
Laughing, Jang flipped him a coin and handed over Jojo’s reins. The kid bowed, took them, and led Jojo at once to the stable beside the inn.
Jang watched a moment, then lifted the curtain and went in. The place wasn’t large; three or four people sat eating or killing time with cups.
A woman behind a long table, drying bowls, looked up and called out:
“Welcome! Staying the night? Eating? Drinking? We’ve got small rooms, big rooms, and the best room. I recommend the best—it’s the quietest.”
As he stepped in, Jang knew exactly who’d taught the kid his lines. And that he was going to have to repeat himself.
“…Lodging. Small room. Food, and white liquor.”
Taking off his hat, he sat at the long table as he spoke. The woman—clearly the proprietor—didn’t head for the kitchen; she came up smiling and held out a hand.
“Payment up front.”
Jang chuckled, fished out coins, and set them on her palm. She took the money, turned, clattered about a moment, and soon set down a meal: plain steamed bread and a thick, seasoned bean broth.
The bread was cold—steamed in the morning, likely—but the broth had sat on a low flame and was nicely warm. He spooned a taste. A touch salty; a bite of steamed bread made it just right. For something that came out the moment he ordered, it was decent.
By the time she set down the white liquor and a cup, the same kid pushed in through the curtain.
“I took off the saddle and set hay. You got your room?”
“Yeah.”
“Then enjoy the meal and rest well.”
He bowed again, grabbed a rag from the end of the long table, and started wiping down the other tables. Chewing, Jang watched him, then filled his cup and spoke to the proprietress beyond the table.
“Smart son.”
Drying a bowl with a worn cloth, the woman smiled faintly.
“Not my son.”
“Then?”
“Aren’t I a bit young to have a son like that? He’s the son of a woman I knew. She and her husband both died—no one to raise him—so I’m keeping him for a while.”
“Both parents? How?”
She set the dish down, glanced around, and lowered her voice.
“…That’s not something to tell an outsider.”
Seeing she didn’t want to talk, Jang just lifted a shoulder and let it go. If someone didn’t want to speak, he wasn’t going to pry.
He swallowed what he’d been chewing and tossed back the cup. Heat rolled down the nape of his neck; the leftover scent of the white liquor filled his nose and mouth. Not bad for something the kid had called cheap.
He finished his quiet meal, went up, and took an easy nap. Like the food and drink, the small room was clean and didn’t smell. He slept well and woke in a good mood.
****
Near evening he went downstairs to eat. More people filled the inn than in the afternoon. He saw the kid darting about and the proprietress hustling; no other staff.
On the way from the stairs to his earlier seat, a corner table caught his eye—four men around it, domino tiles in hand, coins rolling over the wood.
Without meaning to, Jang stopped and watched until the looks that asked, What are you staring at? made him blink and move on. He’d sworn never to pick up domino tiles again, but that vow had already shattered—along with some silver—in the last town.
He ordered and thought. At least last time he hadn’t gambled until he lost everything. He’d stopped at a decent point; he still had plenty of silver on hand. This time he could refuse entirely. He nodded to himself, impressed by his own strict self-control.
A little later, after he finished eating, one man left that corner table—and Jang slid into the open seat. No point living that strict, he thought.
The locals who’d been dealing eyed the tall, sword-wearing stranger with some wariness. After a few hands they realized he was a total novice and relaxed.
Soon they were chatting amongst themselves.
“So what is it—I hear Old Man Won finally sold his land.”
“Knew it. Why’d he hold out if he was going to fold in the end? He should’ve taken the big money at the start.”
“Easy for you to say. He ran that ranch twenty years.”
“Who’s left now? Mister Son?”
The man with the scar under his lip dropped a tile with a tap.
“Son won’t last long. Seeing Old Man Won’s place burn must’ve spooked him.”
“Hell. When the Ho couple got killed, they had no fear—screaming murder and all.”
A thudding came from under the table. The scarred man gave the speaker a kick in the shin while flicking a glance at Jang. Jang didn’t react, but the four fell silent at once.
The scarred one paused the deal, sniffed, and took a little paper and pouch from his coat to roll a smoke. The stamped crest on the pouch looked like Trade Guild goods.
He lit from the lamp on the table, blew a long stream, leaned back, and asked Jang:
“So, where you from, friend?”
Eyes on his tiles, Jang said:
“East.”
At the curt answer, the scarred man blinked, then snorted.
“East. From here that means… you wandered a few days, huh?”
“Three.”
“Headed where?”
“West.”
He stared at Jang a moment through the stack of short answers, spat a flake of tobacco to the side, and drew again.
“Then you won’t be looking to cause trouble in our village.”
Jang dipped his chin. The only thing that mattered to him was the tiles in his hand sliding over the table.
At his easy manner, the scarred man and the others traded looks, decided he wasn’t dangerous, laughed, and set the tiles to clacking again.
Jang focused as well—ready to flip the table if anyone cheated. He was truly prepared to lose. Heat rose over the wood. Most of what was lost belonged to Jang.
They’d been at it a good while when someone in a broad bamboo hat lifted the curtain and came in. He stood at the entrance and swept the room with a glance, then took off the hat.
The face had a faintly sly, cringing cast, and yet the easy smile at his lips said his body carried leisure. He flicked his collar straight, went to the long table, and spoke with the proprietress.
They clearly knew each other; she greeted him with a smile. They chatted a bit; then she raised a hand and pointed toward Jang’s table. The man checked, passed her some coins, and strode over. He stood there with arms folded, looking down at the tiles.
The scarred man blew smoke and looked up.
“What.”
“Ah, don’t mind me—carry on. I’m just watching.”
Jang, intent on the tiles, felt that voice ring a bell. He wanted to ignore it, but the gaze kept at him; in the end he looked up.
The man—Yang Gung—grinned when their eyes met.
“Long time, Brother Jang. You been well?”
Still smiling, he lifted a hand.
“Ah! Don’t mind me. Keep going. I’ll just watch a bit.”
The thugs glanced between Jang and the newcomer, saw Jang say nothing and turn back to the tiles, and resumed. Yang Gung really did just lean against the wall and watch.
Only when Jang, stripped of his silver, pressed his fingers to his brow did Yang Gung speak.
“Brother Jang, you really need to quit gambling. You’re no different than last time.”
Jang squinted and shot him a look. Yang Gung flinched at it, looked away, and hurried on.
“Come on. I’ll at least buy you a drink.”
At the word buy, Jang let himself be led to another seat. Yang Gung sat and snagged the kid as he passed.
“Your best liquor.”
“We only have cheap white liquor.”
“…Then bring that.”
The forthright kid nodded and soon returned with a bottle and cups. Yang Gung filled Jang’s cup first, then his own, and raised it.
“May Brother Jang’s tiles stick next time!”
Jang stared at him a beat and knocked the drink back without a word. Yang Gung, grinning anyway, emptied his own and refilled—Jang’s first.
Watching the cup fill, Jang spoke out of nowhere.
“Were you looking for me?”
Yang Gung flicked a glance at Jang’s face and answered.
“There aren’t many places out here you can call a village. Mostly ranches—and a mine. Last I saw you, you went east. Keep that way and you hit the mountains. Winter’s coming; unless you mean to cross them and be gone, I figured you’d swing back west. And since we parted a bit south, I thought you’d drift a little north—so I kept circling the area. And here we are…”
He trailed off and gave a crooked smile.
“Honestly, half like praying for rain. If I didn’t find you by tomorrow or the next day, I was going to quit. Anyway, I’m glad to see you again, Brother Jang.”
Jang watched that smile with cool eyes, tossed back his drink, and set the cup down with a click.
“Is there a bounty on me? Why are you looking?”
“Not that—just that I need someone whose skill I can trust. Remember what I said when we parted last time?”
Leaning in as if to hatch a scheme, Yang Gung topped off Jang’s empty cup, smiled that oily smile, and lowered his voice.
“Let’s do a job together, Brother Jang.”