Even at Yang Gung’s loaded proposal, Jang Geon didn’t react much.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping the fingers laid on the table, and watched Yang Gung with steady, unruffled eyes. Yang Gung had started with a relaxed smile, but under that wordless stare his face gradually tightened.
At last he eased his forward lean, threw back a cup of liquor, and blew out the heat with a long exhale.
“Say you’re in or you’re out. I’m the one who brought it up and I’m the one feeling stupid here.”
Jang Geon looked at his sheepish face and asked:
“What is it?”
“Ahem. An affair with both money and justification.”
“Explain what the affair is, you con-artist.”
But Yang Gung didn’t give ground that easily.
“Once you hear it, it’s the kind of thing that’s hard to back out of. That’s why I need your answer first.”
Jang Geon smirked.
“If I back out, you can stop me?”
Yang Gung slowly shook his head.
“It’s a sizable job. Besides you, there are already three more. They’re capable enough that even you wouldn’t fight all three at once.”
“So there are already three—four including you. Why do you need me?”
Yang Gung grinned and thought: to learn the origin of that nameless method— the one even the Martial Alliance patrol treats with caution and some suspect is Imperial Army dark work. But it was also true he needed a fighter he could trust.
“I already told you. I need a trustworthy blade. I’ve only seen you draw a sword once—back in Amjugol—and the rest was all those heavy fists, but that was enough. If I can’t trust your skill, whose would I trust? Better to bring in one sure hand than scrape together three or four nobodies.”
Jang Geon watched him lay it on thick. What was this gambling swindler cooking up this time?
“Fine. Explain.”
“Oh? You’ll take it?”
“I’ll listen and do it if it sounds right.”
Grinning at how hard he was to reel in, Yang Gung refilled his cup. He tossed it back, leaned forward again, and said:
“Good. No point weighing this any longer. This isn’t talk for a crowded room. Let’s go upstairs and keep it quiet.”
Thinking he’d at least hear him out, Jang Geon followed as Yang Gung rose with the bottle. Yang Gung went first to the landlady.
“Your best room free?”
Without a word she handed over a key. Wearing the same easy smile, he took it and led the way up the stairs. In the third-floor best room, Yang Gung shrugged off his bamboo hat and black outer robe and tossed them onto the bed, then set the bottle on the table in the middle.
Dropping into a chair, he looked at Jang Geon.
“All right—where should I start?”
Jang Geon chuckled at the overdone swagger meant to hold the initiative. Either nerves were showing, or he was skilled enough to make them look like nerves.
He sat across from him.
“Start from the top.”
“The top? All of it? Then this might run a bit long.”
“Work without knowing the situation? Then forget it.”
Yang Gung snickered.
“Heh. Who said I wouldn’t? I’ll walk you through it, step by step.”
Jang Geon nodded as if to say go on, lifted the bottle from the table, took a pull, and set it down. Licking his lips, Yang Gung began:
“First, the target is a transport wagon. A wagon stuffed with gold and silver.”
Jang Geon’s eyes narrowed at once.
“A transport wagon? The Trade Guild’s transport wagon?”
“Hey, hey. Before you get mad, hear me out. I know wagon-robbing is Unorthodox-faction scum work. This one is bound for the Trade Guild in Gamsan Province, yes, but it isn’t the Guild’s wagon. Strictly speaking, it’s goods going to Son Gwang—his private property. You know Son Gwang?”
Jang Geon’s frown didn’t ease. He pressed with his eyes for more.
“Ahem. Son Gwang is one of five chairs of the Gamsan Trade Guild. They say he’s a branch line of the Son clan from the south—that part you don’t need. Point is, like a proper chair, he’s loaded. And most of that wealth sits out here. Remember what I said? Not many villages in this belt—mostly ranches and a single mine.”
He tossed the question back, then flinched at Jang Geon’s sunken gaze and hurried on.
“Almost all those ranches are his. The little gold the mine yields? Also his. He sits in Gamsan Province and works this whole district with money. I doubt he’s set foot out here in over ten years. Ridiculous, right? The one bleeding the land barely cares about the land. Ah—same as the Empire, maybe?”
Yang Gung took the bottle Jang Geon had set down, wet his throat, and continued.
“Day to day, the ranches and the mine are run by a man Son Gwang appointed—Seo Wiyang. Lately that bastard has been buying up every pasture and water right to monopolize the grass and the river. Any means necessary. A dozen commoners have already lost ranches and homes to him and his crew, and some burned alive in their houses.”
“The Martial Alliance?”
At that, Yang Gung gave a deflating puff of laughter.
“The branch chief? Seo Wiyang bought him first. And didn’t I already say Son Gwang is his backer from the Gamsan Guild? Unless someone high up moves, the Alliance won’t touch it. A patrolman who tries will get buried.”
“And you want to touch that?”
Yang Gung fell quiet for a beat. The easy smile at his lips changed—no longer leisure, but danger. Heat mixed with excitement and anger.
“Why should I care? We’ll have headcloths on; they won’t know our faces. And… the wagon Seo Wiyang sends runs once a quarter, carrying ranch revenue and gold from the mine—secret—up to Son Gwang in Gamsan Province. That gold and silver bankroll his political fights in Gamsan. What happens when that money stops?”
He raised both fists, knuckles whitening.
“In a merchant’s war, when the money dries up, it’s over. For a Trade Guild chair—the top of New Continent merchants—even more so. Half-stunned under attack from other chairs, Son Gwang won’t even think to look for us. He might even fall outright. We hole up along the lane the wagon takes, spring the trap, grab the money, and vanish.”
His tight fists loosened, hands shaping as if he held something invisible.
“Now you see what I meant by money and justification both? The escort on that wagon are all scum. They threaten ranchers who just want to live, beat them, torch their homes, throw them out after paying a quarter of fair value. You don’t spare men like that—you kill them, or you cut the sinews and channels of their limbs and leave them. And the gold and silver inside? This autumn alone, hundreds of head of cattle changed hands out here. The five of us won’t even be able to carry all the silver; we’ll have to leave some.”
Jang Geon tapped the table with a fingertip and watched Yang Gung. Yang Gung closed his mouth as if the pitch was done, arms folded, that dangerous smile still fixed as he met Jang Geon’s gaze.
“Didn’t take you for a man who fusses about ‘justification.’”
“Jang. If you want to make something big and make money, you keep to a line. At least a job like this needs the name of stripping a vicious merchant. That’s how you build a reputation. Hit anyone at random and you’re just Unorthodox scum or a bandit pack.”
Jang Geon fell into thought. He’d first met Yang Gung while lingering in a village called Amjugol. Like here, it was ranch country, small outfits all about the same size, with cowhands scrapping all the time.
When the fights worsened and hands kept getting hurt, ranchers started hiring bare-knuckle brawlers to settle trouble with a set-to. Passing through looking for work, Jang Geon had said fine and fought as a hired fist, winning thirteen fights in a row.
He’d left only after getting cleaned out at dice by this bastard Yang Gung and some cowhands, and after being forced into killing a sword for hire the opposing ranch brought in. Until then, it hadn’t been a bad town.
Yang Gung had looked like a layabout who did nothing but fondle domino tiles and drink, yet money kept turning up from somewhere. Jang Geon had figured it was dice-scam money like he’d pulled on him—he even claimed to have turned in Martial Alliance bounties. But seeing him now, he looked more dangerous than a mere swindler.
Finished thinking, Jang Geon looked at him and said:
“Where’d you get all that?”
“Heh. You going to shake down my informant now? That’s my lifeline. Sword to my throat, I can’t tell you.”
Jang Geon considered actually putting a blade there, then just smiled.
“Work that pays and hits a vicious merchant. Sounds decent. But there’s a problem.”
“A problem? What is it?”
Jang Geon stopped tapping and said quietly:
“Can I trust you?”
Yang Gung didn’t answer at once. Arms still folded, he erased the smile and let even his eyes settle before he spoke.
“Don’t.”
Seeing Jang Geon’s eyebrow tick up, he went on:
“Honestly, what’s ‘trust’ in a job like this? I won’t fully trust you or the three I already gathered. I talked about justification like some Robin Hood, but what I want is money. The money from gold and cattle. The money that props Son Gwang up as Gamsan Trade Guild chair. You don’t need money?”
“Money’s nice.”
Yang Gung grinned again.
“What you do with it is your business. Go to Shinsa Province or Celestial Port and drown yourself in pleasure for months, or play Robin Hood for real and help the commoners who lost their homes. Or just gamble it away. Lose it all and at least you’ll learn how the dice tables flow.”
Jang Geon watched his face, then let a little smile show of his own.
“If neither of us trusts the other, then no one betrays, huh?”
“Heh heh. Something like that. So—are you in?”
Jang Geon’s smile deepened.
“A Robin Hood game. Sounds fun.”
He raised the hand that had been drumming and offered it. Understanding, Yang Gung clasped it. Both men, each harboring his own designs, shook on it.
****
They left town the next day. Yang Gung took the lead. The transport wagon would roll out tomorrow; the other three were already in place along its route.
They would ride all day, reach the ambush site by evening, sleep there, and strike when the wagon passed at midday tomorrow—so Yang Gung explained. After a long stretch, when they slowed to let the horses breathe, Jang Geon spoke.
“Tell me about the other three.”
“Them? The Gong brothers and a fellow named Geom Jungchan.”
Trotting easy, Yang Gung continued:
“The Gong brothers are Gong Pyeong and Gong Rang—both decent with blades. Pyeong’s the elder, Rang the younger. And Geom Jungchan’s the one I pulled in for his bow.”
“A bow?”
“Yeah. He’s got a horn bow made from New Continent bison. When he looses from distance, it’s nothing to scoff at.”
“A horn bow like that isn’t cheap.”
Yang Gung snorted.
“Exactly. And he babies it like crazy. That bow is his whole fortune. So don’t ask to touch it or ‘try a few shots.’”
Aside from a few short rests, they kept a steady line southwest. A little past noon, they reached the spot.
It was a broad plain without big swales, broken by hulking red rock hills that jutted up here and there. Yang Gung angled toward one of the rock hills. A rough voice came down from above.
“Yang Gung? And who’s that with you!”
“Who do you think! Our last blade!”
Three heads popped up over the rock at his answer. Three men rose from prone: two big bruisers with hard faces and one fairly clean-cut man whose face looked almost blank.
One of the big men yelled:
“Goddammit, Yang Gung! I told you the three of us are enough!”
“Shut the fuck up, Gong Pyeong! I made the plan! If you don’t like it, you leave!”
“What? Yang Gung! You wanna go?”
“Damn right! I started this! If there’s a problem, you’re the one who goes!”
At that, the big man cursed to himself, vanished from the top of the rock, and reappeared a moment later—coming from the far side of the hill. Face flushed, he stomped toward Jang Geon and Yang Gung.
“Fuck this! It’s hell enough lying on hot rock in this blazing sun and now ‘leave’? Yang Gung! You die first!”
Brave as he’d been yelling from below, Yang Gung’s face stiffened at the thudding approach. He glanced quickly at Jang Geon.
“C-could you give me a hand? He really looks like he’s going to take a swing.”
But Jang Geon just rolled a shoulder and answered, playful:
“Why would I?”
Color drained from Yang Gung’s face.