The way back should not have taken him long. Mu-in wiped the blood from the blade, tucked the mask inside his robe, and twice turned into the wrong alley. If anyone had seen him, he could not risk leading them to his master’s doorstep.

  A night patrol passed along the street. Mu-in crouched, hiding in the shadow of a stone wall, and waited until the guards, half-blinded by their own lanterns, marched past. Once he was certain no one followed, he went at last to an unremarkable door set into the wall. The councilor’s servants sometimes used it to take out a cart of rubbish or throw scraps for the poor and for stray dogs. At night the door was shut, so Mu-in jumped, braced a palm against the cold stone, and swung over the wall in a single, light movement.

  There was still a lamp burning in the main house. Mu-in approached the steward who stood idly on the gallery — the man started, having heard no steps at all.

  “Tell the master I have returned,” Mu-in said, leaning against a wooden pillar.

  The steward, an elderly man with a sparse beard and a large belly, gave a displeased snort and went inside. While he and the young assassin held no fondness for one another, the master’s business was far more important than their personal feelings.

  “The master wishes to see you,” announced the steward when he returned.

  Mu-in pushed away from the column and walked in with soundless steps. He despised the fat, arrogant steward. His master, the Chief State Councilor Choi, he hated with all his soul.

  The many-tiered pointed hat of the venerable councilor cast a strange shadow on the screen behind him, like a kind of predatory flower. At the beginning of February, in honor of the coming spring, the servants had set up in his quarters a folding screen painted with small children running and playing ball beneath blossoming trees. The councilor had no sons of his own, but he had not lost hope. A new, frightened concubine with wide eyes had recently appeared in the house; she was scarcely fifteen. Such girls usually lasted two, perhaps three years, and then vanished, never managing to fulfill their contract and bear an heir. But that did not concern Mu-in. He slid the paper door aside, entered, and fell to one knee. His sword, gripped in his left hand, still carried the faintest scent of blood. His nostrils flared in a futile longing for another victim.

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  “Ah, it’s you.” The councilor held a small cup of rice wine and was smiling. “All went smoothly?”

  “The servants scattered. They have likely raised the alarm by now,” Mu-in reported, carefully lowering his gaze to the floor. “Minister Eul and his guards are dead.”

  “Good, good,” the councilor praised him. “It pleases me that I can rely on you.”

  Mu-in clenched his teeth and gave a short nod. He did not wish to raise his eyes and see the councilor’s pleased face, but the mockery in the man’s voice slipped along the thin walls and filled the room like poison. They both knew what lay beneath it.

  “You have done well,” the councilor added and took a neat sip. “Tomorrow you may rest and visit the Pak estate.”

  “Thank you, daegam.” Mu-in rose, bowed, and left.

  In truth, he had been wrong to think he hated Councilor Choi more than anyone in the world. No — more than anyone in the world he hated himself.

  The room where he slept was bare and stifling. Before lying down on the thin, cold mattress, Mu-in stripped to the waist and went to rinse himself at the well. The water refreshed his body and cleared his thoughts. He wondered whether he would see the spirits of the people he had killed today. Sometimes they returned and wandered behind him for several days, silent witnesses to each of his steps. But if he ignored them, they eventually faded. Mu-in drew another bucket and, closing his eyes, plunged his face into the icy water. When he straightened, a translucent female figure stood beside him. Mu-in wiped the droplets from his face and bowed.

  “Mother.”

  In her presence, he did not have to pretend he could not see spirits. She said it was in his blood. The strange gift had been passed through her family for several generations, along with their unusual grey eyes, ever since one of their ancestors had taken a shaman as a concubine. The talent tended to awaken in daughters more often than in sons, yet the sons sometimes inherited the shifting ability to see — or to hear — spirits. Naturally, educated nobles preferred not to speak of such deviations, which contradicted the teachings of Confucius.

  “Yun-ah.” His mother extended a transparent hand as if to stroke his cheek. “My poor boy.”

  “Do not worry, Mother,” he answered. Standing before her half-naked made him uncomfortable. “I will be at Hwan’s tomorrow. Does he need anything?”

  “I am troubled by the rumor of a tiger in the mountains,” his mother said after a moment’s thought.

  “All right,” he nodded. “I will take a bow.”

  “Take care,” his mother whispered and dissolved into tatters of night mist.

  Mu-in remained standing for a little while, staring blankly into the darkness. Then he turned and went to sleep.