Magistrate Kwon was in despair.

  He had no idea how to arrange the delivery of the goods while the royal guard’s bloodhounds kept circling the magistrate’s courtyard. And all because of that unidentified corpse! The magistrate had so thoroughly settled into the role of an uninvolved observer that at times he himself forgot who the dead man really was. And if even he had forgotten, then no one else could possibly recognize the corpse either.

  “Bury him and be done with it,” the magistrate muttered, pacing along the gallery with his hands clasped behind his back.

  If only the guests would leave already. He did not like the looks that broad-shouldered Mongol, the adviser’s bodyguard, cast at his daughter. A filthy dog. And the adviser himself, usually so courteous and pleasant, had been far too pushy and nervous this time. As if he did not understand how badly their new envoy was disrupting the established order of things.

  Envoy Zhao, for that matter, had also displeased the magistrate. Perhaps he was acceptable enough in himself, but Magistrate Kwon — no longer young, burdened with a belly and beginning to go bald — looked at the fit, youthful Manchu with barely concealed envy. And with jealousy, since the magistrate’s young wife did not hesitate to bat her eyes at the visiting guest.

  “It is for your career, dear,” she assured him, but the magistrate could not shake the suspicion that the Manchu simply wanted to seduce her. And that she did not mind at all!

  Just now the insolent man had demanded that the lady of the house bring him tea. As if there were not enough maids! Or those gisaeng the princes had dragged along. The thought that in his home, where his young innocent daughter lived, these dubious women were now also spending the nights made the magistrate sigh heavily and shake his head.

  Footsteps sounded on the gallery. The steward was hurrying toward him, almost running, his face deeply troubled.

  “What is it?” the unease reached Magistrate Kwon even before the steward opened his mouth.

  “I was at the city magistracy,” the man stopped, leaning heavily on the railing and catching his breath. “They are taking down the portraits of the murdered man from the notice board.”

  “Is the case closed?” the magistrate asked hopefully, but the steward shook his head.

  “Someone wrote a letter, said he witnessed the murder and even enclosed something,” he replied. “A pendant, or something like that. The guards say the evidence has been locked in the main hall until tomorrow, and at dawn they will begin a sweep.”

  “Oh,” magistrate Kwon exhaled after a pause.

  “If we replace the trinket before morning—” the steward began thoughtfully. He was quick-witted; that was why the magistrate kept him.

  “If one of us goes there and something goes wrong…” the magistrate nervously drummed his fingers against his belt. “No. Let the one who started all this solve it. I think I should speak with Lord Fang.”

  ***

  Yi Yun decided, for now, not to let his eunuch know that he had returned. If the scoundrel had plotted against him, Yi Yun did not want to spend every moment glancing over his shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back or poison in his drink. Retribution was inevitable, but not urgent.

  At the moment Yi Yun wanted to find his dagger — his sleeve felt oddly empty without it — and drink some tea. February in the north was bitterly cold, and the prince was thoroughly chilled. He sent the traitor to heat water and began rummaging through the chest, hoping to find his comfortable sheaths. Surely the servant had not failed to pack them entirely? At least for appearances’ sake?

  The dagger turned up at the very bottom, somewhere between unnecessary textbooks and a pouch of needles, ointments, and bandages for treating wounds. Another precaution Yi Yun could not abandon. Weapons were for fighting, medicines for tending wounds afterward. His experience in both arts was written across Yi Yun’s body in numerous scars.

  “That won’t work!” a voice above Yi Yun made him jump. “The living cannot see us.”

  “Are you afraid to try?” another replied, arrogant and cold. “A brave man knows no fear.”

  With rare exceptions, Yi Yun did not like dealing with ghosts. Once they realized a living person could see them, they clung to him, bombarding him with requests for revenge, offerings, or messages for surviving relatives. They were bored, wanted to talk in the middle of the night, and interfered during the day. It was easier to pretend you did not notice them.

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  Of course, that did not apply to his mother, or to certain cases like that maid at the palace. And that murdered girl had been so distressed that not only Yi Yun had seen her back then.

  This time, however, Yi Yun had a sense he knew who had come to speak with him. And perhaps, in this situation, there was no need to hide. He straightened and looked up. Hovering an arm’s length above the floor were two ghosts: one in old-fashioned blue court robes with silver dragons on shoulders and chest, wearing a tall samogwan; the other — the slightly disheveled spirit of the very unidentified murder victim from the magistracy.

  Yi Yun bowed politely to the spirit of his ancestor.

  “Ah! He can see you?!” the murdered man exclaimed.

  “And hear you,” Yi Yun confirmed. “Much as I would like to converse with the Crown Prince, I assume you did not come for that reason?”

  “You are not offended?” the spirit of Yi Ho lingered behind the murdered man, looking somewhere aside, as if uneasy.

  “I am offended, but not at you — at those who arranged this,” Yi Yun clenched the hand hidden in his sleeve. “To you I am grateful for yielding to me. What offerings should I present to the Crown Prince?”

  “Offerings?” Yi Ho seemed surprised and sighed. “I do not know. To be alive again was exceptionally pleasant, that alone was a gift. But I fear little will please me for a long time now.”

  “Rice cakes,” the other ghost suddenly interjected. “Some buns. I am terribly hungry!”

  His features had grown sharper since he first appeared at the collapsed mine. Ghosts rarely looked healthy, but dark hollows beneath his eyes and sunken cheeks gave his face a skull-like cast. That was a bad sign. It seemed that because he had not been identified and buried in time, the murdered man’s spirit was gradually turning into a hungry ghost, dangerous to the living.

  “Of course, I will make offerings to the spirits,” Yi Yun assured him. It was far easier to feed a spirit now than to pacify a maddened hungry ghost in a few days. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “We have come to aid you, descendant,” Yi Ho’s voice took on its familiar haughty tone as he drifted closer and pointed at the other ghost. “Show the prince.”

  The murdered man fussed, searching through his sleeves. Yi Yun closed the chest, tightened the found sheath with the dagger on his left arm, and looked at the spirit with interest. He suspected the man might be connected to his old investigation, but proving it was difficult.

  “Here,” the ghost finally found what he sought and extended a round stamped token on his outstretched palm. “This was in my hand when I woke.”

  On the metal disk, five horses galloped in a row, their manes flying. Yi Yun’s heart began to pound; he reached out to grab the token, but his hand passed straight through the metal and the hand beneath it. The ghost winced.

  “Then it truly is important,” Yi Ho noted with satisfaction, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I do not think the tokens have changed much since then,” Yi Yun shot him an anxious look.

  “Well, that’s just wonderful,” the murdered spirit grumbled. “And now will someone explain what this means, oh esteemed princes?”

  “It means that Lord Baek, a secret royal inspector, was murdered during his investigation,” Yi Yun replied grimly. “And that in Anju he found what I was searching for.”

  “My name is Baek?” the ghost seemed confused. “Not Kim? And I was an inspector?”

  “What was he investigating?” Yi Ho asked with interest.

  The Crown Prince’s curiosity was understandable. Ordinary corruption or theft were minor offenses, punishable at most by demotion. The murder of a secret royal inspector bordered on treason, the culprit would be imprisoned and severely punished. A commoner or slave would face execution, a noble exile. What had the inspector learned that was worth his life?

  “Hwangu pills,” Yi Yun frowned. He had disliked those intoxicating pellets from the start, but why had they cost the inspector his life? “Some drug that briefly clouds the mind and makes people see colored dreams. We were trying to find who distributed and sold it to the populace.”

  “Some people see nightmares,” the inspector’s ghost added.

  “Do you remember something?” Yi Yun turned to him.

  “No, that was written in the notebook,” the ghost shrugged. “Perhaps I just encountered bandits? There are many robbers in the mountains.”

  “As far as I know, Secret Royal Inspector Baek Jae-sung was a skilled swordsman,” Yi Yun shook his head. “If bandits had attacked him, he would have fought back. But in your hands was not a sword, but a token. You expected the person you showed it to to help you, not to attack.”

  “How na?ve,” the ghost muttered.

  “Now that we know his name, you could set up a memorial tablet for the inspector,” Yi Ho floated a little higher. “When his memory returns, he will be able to name his killer. That would be more reliable than trying to lure some unknown person with false evidence.”

  Realization washed over Yi Yun in a wave. He felt a sudden panic seize him, widening his eyes and quickening his breath.

  “Is Captain Chong alone at the magistracy right now?” his lips were dry, making it hard to speak. “You left him there alone, and he does not know that an experienced assassin awaits him, not a mere thief?”

  Commander Yeong San would never forgive him if anything happened to Captain Chong because of him. Yi Yun would never forgive himself. Grabbing his sword from the stand and forgetting his hat, Yi Yun ran out of the room.

  “Why do you think it is an experienced assassin?” Yi Ho asked, flying effortlessly alongside the running prince, sideways, hands tucked into his sleeves, continuing polite conversation.

  Yi Yun stopped for a moment, turned, and as expected found the inspector’s ghost behind him. He stepped towards him sharply, thrust his palm under the ghost’s right ribs, then slashed across the throat, tracing the pattern of his wounds. Startled, the ghost hissed — they disliked it when the living passed through them.

  “That is the assassin’s hand,” Yi Yun said, turned again, and ran for the gates.

  Eunuch Mo, just returning with a tray of tea, noticed the prince fighting and speaking to empty air and clicked his tongue in surprise.