Chapter 15
The Riddle at the Border
Under clouds tinted crimson by the setting sun, the earth quietly slipped toward night. Titmice flew back to their nests, white smoke curled from warm chimneys, and merchants wore the languid expressions of a day’s end.
It was a beautiful, peaceful scene.
Miyu left the vegetable pancake stall, dropped off some milk at the merchants’ guild annex, and headed to the Nose-Chief Tavern.
Inside the tavern’s back room, Lee Un, Byun Hayeon, and Hwang Hee were already gathered.
The life of the party was Hayeon, who raised a glass high.
“Tonight, I’ll start the toast. Imjeon-muteo—never retreat in battle! Meaning, we never back down before a drink.”
“Do you always give a toast like that?” Miyu asked.
“That’s how our ‘So-Maek Club’ begins,” Hayeon replied.
Their little ritual, it seemed.
“Im! Jeon! Mu! Teo!”
“Imjeon-muteo!”
The four clinked cups and the merry So-Maek gathering began.
“By the way, have you heard? The Minister of Personnel and the Chief Inspector—palace must be in an uproar,” Hayeon said, bringing up the sensational murder cases everyone was talking about.
“How can there be murders one after another? Troubling,” Lee Un said.
“Must be busy times for you,” Miyu added to Hwang Hee.
“It’s not under the police bureau’s jurisdiction, but of course it’s concerning,” he replied, sipping beer through a bamboo straw.
“Last night someone even posted a slanderous note about the Crown Prince. The rice-cake alley was buzzing,” Miyu said, glancing at Lee Un.
“What did it say?”
“No need to know—nonsense,” Lee Un deflected.
“They’re claiming the Crown Prince isn’t of royal blood,” Hayeon supplied.
“Wow… bold,” Miyu murmured, startled.
If the prince wasn’t the king’s own blood, everything would change—his succession depended entirely on lineage.
“Then whose blood do they say he has?”
“The king’s,” Lee Un cut in coldly.
“I mean, according to the rumor mongers, not as fact,” Miyu clarified.
“Details are vague, but there’s gossip the queen had affairs before entering the palace,” Hayeon said, tapping the table with his folding fan.
“Enough,” Lee Un frowned.
“Just rumors,” Hayeon placated.
“But dangerous ones. Even lies repeated often enough are believed,” Hwang Hee said gravely.
“Indeed—rumors run faster than feet can follow,” Hayeon added.
“Especially here in Songpa Market and at Nuwon Post. Clearly organized.”
“Why those places?” Miyu asked.
“They’re as lively as any capital market, and they’re gateways south and north,” Hwang Hee explained.
“So it’s perfect for spreading word nationwide,” Miyu realized.
“Exactly. Songpa draws wholesalers from Chungcheong, Gyeongsang, and Jeolla. From there rumors ride merchants and travelers to every remote village. Once loose, a rumor is like water—you can’t scoop it back.”
“Are there other princes?” Miyu asked.
The three men exchanged wary looks.
“Are you really Joseon-born?”
“Even look a bit different,” Hayeon teased.
Lee Un stayed silent, his eyes sharp.
‘Not knowing what even a child knows?’
“Not every Joseon person follows palace gossip. And what’s different about me? My parents are Joseon,” Miyu protested.
“Well… if local women are like clay pebbles, you’re like a clean river stone. You don’t even seem to wear makeup,” Hayeon mused.
Perhaps because only rich women or courtesans tended their skin, while in Miyu’s own future era, science and lifestyle had evolved human features a bit. Not a chimp-to-human leap, but noticeable: longer neck and limbs, smaller head, brighter skin.
“Don’t you think?”
“Somewhat different,” Hwang Hee agreed.
“What about you, Lee Un?”
“Doesn’t seem Joseon-born,” he said coolly.
“You’re impossible!” Miyu huffed.
“Our king has four princes and two princesses,” Hwang Hee explained:
The late first queen bore Prince Hyean; the current queen bore Crown Prince Gunho; Lady Gyeongbin bore Prince Wolsan and Princess Jaseon; Lady Hyebin bore Prince Chungdeok and Princess Jeonghye.
“So what does that matter—”
“The motive for slandering the Crown Prince is obvious: to seat another prince,” Miyu said.
The men stared, taken aback.
“Loose-tongued,” Lee Un muttered.
“Indeed. Dangerous talk,” Hwang Hee added.
“Not wrong, though. Gyeongbin and Hyebin surely dream of their sons becoming king, and Hyean once thought the throne his,” Hayeon said.
“Perhaps,” Lee Un conceded, then quickly drank, realizing he’d spoken too boldly for a court painter.
“Shall we start the next drinking game?” Hwang Hee suggested to lighten the mood.
“Of course,” Hayeon agreed.
Miyu lowered her glass, eyes bright with anticipation.
This was her chance—she had a goal.
I must win this bet to get a hold over them.
“This time I’ll pose the riddle,” Lee Un said, dipping a rice-cake stick into honey.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I’m curious already,” the others chimed in.
“In Hamgyeong Province,” Lee Un began, “there were farmers who daily loaded farm tools on horses and crossed the border to work their fields. Border guards let them pass since nothing seemed amiss.”
“Reasonable—if their land lay across the line,” Hayeon nodded.
Hwang Hee agreed.
“But one guard was uneasy about a particular farmer—something felt off. He was sure the man was smuggling, though he had no proof.”
“Such instincts are usually right,” Hwang Hee said.
“Yet every inspection found only lunch boxes and farm tools. Strange.”
“Enough to drive one mad,” Hayeon said with interest.
“The guard watched for months, grinding his teeth, but never caught him. Finally, desperate, he begged the farmer: ‘I won’t punish you. Just tell me what you’re smuggling before curiosity kills me.’”
Lee Un drained his cup and surveyed them.
“That’s my riddle. Guess it.”
“The guard wasn’t mistaken?” Hayeon asked.
“No. Smuggling for sure,” Lee Un smiled.
“Then it must be something tiny,” Hwang Hee mused.
“They searched his body?”
“Every crossing.”
As the men pondered, Miyu asked, “And if we win the bet? It’s not just free drinks, right?”
“You may ask anything—except something immoral, harmful, or taking more than half a day,” Lee Un said.
“Good. Don’t worry,” Miyu smiled.
Selling vegetables certainly wasn’t immoral or harmful, and she could work with the time limit.
Her grin unsettled the men—what strange request might she make?
“If no one solves it, Lee Un wins,” Hayeon declared.
“One guess each, before the night ends. Think carefully.”
Hwang Hee lifted his cup uneasily; his mind was already tired from the “ox-tongue case.” Another puzzle felt exhausting.
“First, a toast,” Miyu said, but she herself held off drinking.
Alcohol would only slow her mind.
Closing her eyes, she stepped into her mental room.
If nothing was hidden on his body, how could he smuggle unnoticed?
He didn’t hide it.
The guard watched for months—he’d have seen.
So the contraband was in plain sight.
Something visible yet unseen.
In her mind’s eye she recreated the lonely border path:
the farmer in short hemp pants and a worn quilted jacket, straw sandals, leading a horse carrying farm tools and lunch.
Could the goods be in the empty lunch bowls? In the tools?
Too obvious.
Look at the forest, not the trees. What was she missing?
Miyu floated higher in her imagination, looking down at the farmer—
and suddenly her eyes flew open, a victorious smile curling her lips.
