Chapter 17
Who Stole the 1,000 Muskets?
Last month, a serious problem struck the Byeon family.
Byeon Hayeon’s father and brothers had traveled to Japan as official interpreters. They sold Korean cotton—which does not grow in Japan—and prized ginseng, buying in exchange rare Southern spices, buffalo horns, and ivory.
But then, the crates carrying these goods disappeared without a trace, causing enormous losses.
Yet the real crisis was not the lost cargo.
An urgent envoy from the Nabeshima lord of Nagasaki arrived at the Waegwan (the Japanese trading post in Joseon).
The envoy accused the Byeon family of secretly smuggling 1,000 Japanese matchlock muskets and the sulfur needed for ammunition into Korea. The Japanese smugglers involved had already been executed.
In other words, someone had used the Byeon family’s shipping crates to smuggle those weapons and sulfur out of Japan—and then stolen them.
Byeon’s father pleaded his innocence to the Dongnae magistrate, who had often accepted his bribes, but it was useless.
Thanks only to past favors, the family was given a one-year grace period.
Thus Byeon Hayeon had come to Songpa Market, tracking the whereabouts of the wooden boxes that hid the thousand muskets and sulfur.
The fate of his household was at stake.
A thousand muskets were, by themselves, an act of treason.
Generations of wealth and reputation, built carefully by the Byeon clan, now flickered like a candle in the wind.
Worse, the political climate of Joseon was ominous.
Anonymous leaflets slandered the crown prince’s birth. High-ranking officials in the central government were being assassinated. The authorities were desperate to seize any pretext to restore order.
I must find them at all costs, Hayeon thought, tightening his grip on the folding fan in his hand.
He first investigated the pleasure houses and taverns of Dongnae.
What he found was a gang of pyeonsseomkkun—professional thugs—who lived off bribes from Japanese and Korean traders near the Waegwan.
These men had recently been spending heavily at a local gisaeng house.
When Hayeon captured their leader and interrogated him, the man confessed: they had looted the Byeon family’s warehouse on orders from an unnamed official from Hanyang.
The gang leader also mentioned overhearing that the goods were headed toward Songpa.
Transporting them by land would take too long and face checkpoints; the river route was certain.
But every ferry dock was supervised by inspectors.
How could anyone move a thousand muskets to Songpa?
“Everyone at the Songpa gisaeng house worked together, observing every guest and missing no stray words. They deserve credit,”
said Wolha, an elegant gisaeng, tucking a beautiful trinket into her sleeve with a quiet smile.
“Good news, then?” Hayeon asked, sensing she had something.
Wolha’s playful look turned serious.
“I believe so.”
“Tell me.”
“Fifteen days ago, heavy rain pounded Songpa Market and caused chaos.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard that.”
It was the perfect moment to move large crates unnoticed.
Surely they exploited the confusion.
“That night,” Wolha continued, “the Magnolia House received a late visit from a group of five men. All wore dark-brown robes, black jackets and trousers, and each carried a changpogum.”
The changpogum was a sword with no guard and a straight scabbard, so that when sheathed it looked like a simple walking stick—a favorite weapon of professional killers.
“Anything else?”
“Two of those men returned five days later.”
The corner of Hayeon’s mouth lifted.
The goods are here in Songpa.
Muskets and sulfur could not simply sit unattended; someone had to guard them.
Their reappearance proved the crates remained nearby.
“Well now, enjoying yourself early in the day?”
A familiar female voice drifted up from below the pavilion.
Looking down, Hayeon saw a woman in a wide hat holding a dog’s leash—a sight strange enough to make a passerby think her mad.
“Lady Miyu?”
“Yes,” she said, tipping her hat back with a grin. “You all looked so cheerful as I passed.”
Pointing at the gisaengs, she added, “Sometimes you need a day like this, right?”
Feeling oddly self-conscious about socializing with courtesans in broad daylight, Hayeon could only give a sheepish laugh.
“Go on, enjoy yourself,” Miyu teased. “Life’s short. But I wonder if you have anything tasty for our Woo-yu?”
Her white dog Woo-yu wagged expectantly.
“Wait a moment,” Hayeon said.
He fetched a meaty rib and set it before the dog.
“Thank you,” Miyu replied.
“Where are you headed, Lady?”
“Just taking Woo-yu for a walk after lunch.”
“A…walk? For a dog?”
Such a concept was foreign in Joseon.
“Well, you take breaks to unwind, don’t you?” she said.
“That’s true, but…”
“Woo-yu relaxes on walks the same way.”
“I… don’t follow.”
“Hahaha, never mind,” she said, amused as Woo-yu gnawed the bone.
“It almost sounds like you’re saying this gentleman and the dog are alike,” Wolha giggled behind her sleeve.
“Are you calling me a dog?” Hayeon demanded in mock outrage.
“Is something wrong with being like Woo-yu?” Miyu replied, eyes still on her happily chewing pet.
“It feels wonderful to roam freely outside the palace,” said Choi Gang-ja, a eunuch disguised in plain clothes, glancing about as he walked.
“Anyone would think you were a prisoner there,” Yi Woon remarked.
“You don’t know! To slip away during work hours and breathe free air is pure joy.”
“Fair enough,” Woon conceded.
Strange, he thought: the same air beyond the palace walls felt infinitely fresher, while the air inside always pressed on his chest.
He noticed the large basket on Gang-ja’s back, filled with brushes and paper.
“Are you really planning to play the painter?”
“Best cover if we’re to travel together,” Gang-ja said with a sheepish grin.
“By the way, young master—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry, habit. Anyway…aren’t you hungry?”
Gang-ja’s hearty appetite was legendary.
“We’ll glance at that vegetable stall, then head to the tavern,” Woon said, pointing toward the Gongju Vegetable Shop.
“Isn’t that where the woman you mentioned works?”
“I said not to—ah, never mind.”
“And why are we watching her?”
“Reconnaissance,” Woon muttered.
“Reconnaissance…?” Gang-ja’s face hardened.
He cracked his neck and knuckles as though preparing for battle.
“What are you doing?” Woon hissed.
“You said reconnaissance, not an assault,” he scolded.
They hid near a neighboring stall and watched.
The shop was small but neatly arranged, vegetables stacked carefully on tables.
Miyu crouched, stroking Woo-yu, while an elderly woman dozed behind her.
Thank goodness there aren’t many customers, Woon thought.
A nobleman dealing in trade would invite scandal; merchants were traditionally despised, and a prince running a stall would disgrace the royal ancestral rites.
Just imagining himself selling produce made his cheeks burn.
Then a customer approached and Miyu stood.
Bathed in sunlight, she looked different—skin pale as snow, smooth as an egg’s surface, playful yet quietly serious.
She does not belong to Joseon, he thought with certainty.
Whatever her origin, she was like the sea beside the river: similar, yet entirely other.
“You look pleased,” Gang-ja whispered.
In Hanyang stood a grand tiled mansion, crowded with ox-carts hauling rice and cloth.
Rows of warehouses bustled with porters stacking goods.
Past the courtyard and the men’s quarters lay the inner residence, then a detached wing, and finally a tranquil rear garden with a shrine and a pond where carp swam and cranes waded.
At the octagonal pavilion by the pond, two men sat at a tea table.
One was a middle-aged man with hawk-like eyes and a blade-sharp face.
Opposite him lounged a handsome young scholar, high-nosed, cool-eyed, a faintly cold smile on his lips—yet he occupied the master’s seat.
“Sir, rumors spread like wildfire through the capital that the Crown Prince is not the King’s true son,” the older man reported respectfully.
“Well done,” the young scholar replied casually.
“Thank you. We will continue.”
“Keep it discreet.”
“Of course. And Park Hyuk-gwon has been eliminated.”
Park Hyuk-gwon, the Chief Royal Inspector, had recently been found assassinated in his own guest room.
“How goes the training of the Cheonin Corps?”
“They drill relentlessly for a single target and are ready to move at any time.”
“Remain cautious.”
“I will remember your words.”
“Leave.”
The older man bowed deeply and withdrew.
Then another figure climbed the steps—a middle-class man in a narrow hat, eyes darting like a weasel’s. He bowed low.
“The Japanese muskets have been secretly stored in the Songpa-naru warehouse,” he reported.
