The fortnight passed quickly.
After Songjin’s arrangements secured them lodging at a small inn on the eastern side of the walled city, Pung circulated his energy with Hyeonheo in the back courtyard before the sun rose, and spent his days walking the streets with A-yeong. Makdong went back and forth along the Beggars’ Sect network, gathering word of Heuksubang, but no urgent report came that the two warehouses had been emptied, and no message that the captives had been moved.
The longer the waiting stretched on, the more heavily the ledgers they had brought from Nohachon weighed on Pung’s mind. The two ledgers, the wooden token with the black wolf emblem, and the vial of poison had been hidden separately in secret places Songjin had prepared — but evidence being safe did not mean the truth was safe. As long as they did not know who within the Martial Alliance was shielding Dokgo, the moment word of the ledgers fell into the wrong hands, the surviving witnesses would be the first in danger.
What was more, the words Makdong had overheard at Heuksubang matched a single coded line in the ledger exactly.
‘Sixth day, three carts of Heuksu. Past the north gate, handed over to White Crane.’
In the ledger, White Crane was a notation that might be a person’s name or might mean a sect — there was no telling. Only, Makdong said that whenever the men of Heuksubang handed people over, they spoke of ‘the day the crane comes down.’ The dates and even the numbers were far too exact for the same expression to have overlapped by chance.
“The originals stay with Songjin.”
On the night three days before the tournament, Hyeonheo spoke as he folded the copied ledger he had spread beneath the lamp.
“We go into the Alliance with only this portion. We must see who reacts to the words ‘White Crane.’”
Pung took the thin sheet of paper. It held only the dates the people of Nohachon had vanished, the records of shipments north, and the cipher that matched the words of Heuksubang. It was no more than a single sheet, yet at the thought that a person could die because of it, his fingertips prickled.
“Can’t we show it to someone trustworthy right away?”
“And how would you know whether the one you deem trustworthy is truly trustworthy?”
Hyeonheo’s answer was short, and Pung could ask nothing further. If even Hyeonheo, once an elder of the Martial Alliance, had to choose carefully whom to trust, then he himself must not judge anyone by their manner of speech or their clothes alone.
“That must be why the tournament is necessary.”
A-yeong said it as she tucked the copied ledger inside the collar of Pung’s inner garment and sealed it with fine thread; each time the needle passed through the cloth, the paper vanished without a trace.
“They say participants can come and go from the training ground and part of the inner court, and that if you do well, the elders sometimes summon you themselves. We’ll be able to see who looks at us, and who goes out of their way to spread word.”
“Just so. Making a name is not the goal. A name is only the key that opens the door.”
Hyeonheo gazed steadily at Pung.
“But do not stride in simply because a door has opened. When you do not know whether what waits inside is a welcome or a blade, you examine the threshold first.”
Pung pressed his palm against the paper hidden beneath his collar. The golden ring and the silver ring had shown no reaction at all these past fifteen days. It was as if they had fallen into a deep sleep after swallowing the characters in the stone chamber — but Pung rather liked that silence. This time he had to find the way with his own eyes and his own judgment, not with a ring.
The walled city grew visibly more crowded as the tournament drew near. Carriages flying sect banners filled the main avenue, every inn ran out of empty rooms, and in front of the weapon shops young martial artists raised their voices as they picked out new swords and sabers. It was a splendor beyond any comparison with the frontier markets, yet Pung no longer gawked at it as he had in his first days. What he saw first now was the breathing hidden beneath the silk robes, the hands that moved naturally to cover a hilt when people brushed past one another, the eyes that jockeyed for place even among members of the same sect.
Makdong ran his mouth without pause at Pung’s side.
“That plum blossom emblem is the Huashan Sect. They say a truly formidable one among the Plum Blossom Swordsmen has come this time. Those white robes over there are the Namgung Family, and the young lady with the fan is Jegal Soso of the Jegal Family. From the Sichuan Tang Family, they say three rising talents versed in poison and hidden weapons have come.”
“How do you know all that?”
“What good is a disciple of the Beggars’ Sect who can starve for food but not for rumors?”
Makdong wiped under his nose and laughed. But in the next moment he lowered his voice and jerked his chin toward the teahouse across the avenue. By the window sat two warriors of the Martial Alliance, watching the participants pass by.
“It’s not just that lot doing the watching. Which inn a would-be entrant stays at, who he meets — it all gets reported back inside the Alliance. You registered on Elder Songjin’s recommendation, brother, so you’ll stand out all the more.”
Pung moved on without meeting the warriors’ eyes. What troubled him was not the fact of being watched, but that there was no knowing who received those reports. If Dokgo was alive, word that Pung’s party had set out for the Martial Alliance might already have reached him.
“So should we just hide in the inn?”
When A-yeong asked, Makdong shook his head.
“Hiding looks suspicious in its own way. The most natural thing is for a man entering the tournament to watch the tournament, browse the weapon shops, and eat some noodles.”
“The noodles are what you want.”
“If a man’s to gather information, shouldn’t his belly be full first?”
A-yeong snorted a laugh, and Pung’s mouth loosened as well. Since leaving Nohachon there had not been many moments when he could laugh with an easy heart, so such a brief squabble was welcome. Only, the feel of the paper inside his collar was never forgotten for an instant.
On the morning before the tournament, Pung stepped into the outer court of the Martial Alliance to receive his participant’s token, and for the first time faced the grandeur of the headquarters up close. Beyond the high walls, layer upon layer of pavilions rose; above the black roof tiles the banners of the orthodox sects caught the wind and snapped. From the central training ground, the clack of wooden swords and shouted cries rolled in like waves.
Dozens already stood in the registration line. Those holding letters of recommendation from their sects went in quickly, but the young men from frontier martial halls and nameless schools had the origins of their martial arts and their identities confirmed over and over. When Pung’s turn came, the steward behind the table unfolded Songjin’s letter of recommendation and studied the seal for a long while.
“Danpung. Your school?”
“I am Hyeonheo’s disciple.”
The noise around them seemed to thin for a moment. The tip of the steward’s brush halted in midair, and the Martial Alliance warrior seated beside him looked Pung over anew.
“Hyeonheo, you say…”
The steward swallowed the rest. From that reaction alone, Pung could tell what weight the name of an elder who had left the Martial Alliance carried in this place.
“So your sponsor is Elder Songjin. But you have no sect token proving you are Hyeonheo’s disciple?”
“I do not.”
“Then you must undergo a preliminary examination. Once we have confirmed the purity of your inner energy and your basic forms, we will issue your token.”
Pung nodded. It was not unexpected. The problem was how much of his martial skill to show. He had to conceal both the eye that saw meridians and the power of the golden ring, and if he unfolded the profound arts he had learned from Hyeonheo exactly as they were, it could amount to announcing his identity to Hyeonheo’s enemies.
Just then a clear voice came from the back of the line.
“Will a preliminary examination be enough?”
As people stepped aside to either hand, a young man in pure white martial robes walked forward, a long sword with silver ornament at his waist, and behind him came warriors bearing the mark of the Namgung Family. It was Namgung Hwi, young lord of the Namgung Family, whom Makdong had pointed out from a distance.
Namgung Hwi looked at the letter on the table before he looked at Pung.
“Elder Songjin’s seal appears genuine. But a seal does not vouch for who the recommended man is. And if he has invoked Elder Hyeonheo’s name lightly, that is a matter touching the Martial Alliance’s own dignity.”
His manner of speech was courteous, but it left no room to retreat, and the steward could not brush the words aside. The Namgung Family was one of the principal houses of the Martial Alliance, and Namgung Hwi seemed to be both a rising talent entered in this tournament and one granted the standing to observe the registration process in attendance on his family’s representative.
“There is reason in young master Namgung’s words. But how, then, should we confirm it?”
At the steward’s question, Namgung Hwi’s gaze turned to Pung’s travel pack.
“If he has no token to prove his identity, then his belongings must be checked. There are rumors these days that the Heterodox Alliance’s people have seeped even into the walled city, so we ought to look for anything of suspicious origin as well.”
Pung’s heart gave one hard beat. There was no evidence in his pack — but the copied ledger was in his collar. If it went as far as a body search, he would have to use force to protect the paper, and the moment such a commotion broke out, the names of Songjin and Hyeonheo would come to light as well.
“Are all participants checked in the same way?”
A-yeong stepped forward half a pace ahead of Pung. Her voice was calm, but her gaze did not waver.
Namgung Hwi turned to look at her.
“There is no need for that. Those with proper sect tokens have clear identities.”
“Then you’re screening by origin, not by identity. It means a man who stole a great house’s token doesn’t open his pack, while someone taught by a nameless master gets searched like a criminal.”
A low murmur rose among the martial artists in line. Displeasure surfaced on the faces of those whose schools were not great ones, and the steward stroked his beard, at a loss.
Namgung Hwi’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained undisturbed.
“You twist words cleverly. I said only that this one be examined. Elder Hyeonheo’s name is not so light that anyone may borrow it.”
“All the more reason it should be confirmed by the Martial Alliance’s established procedure — not for young master Namgung, a participant himself, to demand a man hand over his belongings.”
A-yeong did not yield an inch. Watching the side of her face, Pung slowly steadied his breath. If he stopped this by force here, it would only feed Namgung Hwi’s suspicion; if he meekly submitted to a search, the evidence could be exposed.
Both had to be avoided.
“I will take the preliminary examination.”
Pung said.
“But if I pass, give me the participant’s token according to the established rules. And if my belongings must be examined, apply the same rule not only to me but to everyone who registered under the same conditions — and tell me first what it is you are looking for.”
The steward looked at Pung. Namgung Hwi, too, shifted his gaze without a word.
“If this is the Martial Alliance’s tournament, then I believe the rules will not change depending on the person.”
Pung’s voice was not loud, yet it cut through the murmuring around them and carried clearly. The steward considered a moment, then drew a wooden tally from beneath the table.
“Rightly said. A search not provided for in the registration rules cannot be carried out here. The preliminary examination is held at the testing ground behind. If you can make the examiner step back within three moves, I will count it a pass.”
Namgung Hwi spoke up.
“I will serve as examiner.”
The steward’s face hardened.
“Young master Namgung is a participant. I cannot entrust him with another participant’s examination.”
“Then I shall merely observe. If he is truly Elder Hyeonheo’s disciple, three moves could hardly be insufficient.”
Namgung Hwi tilted his head shallowly toward Pung. His gaze was far too composed to be dismissed as simple arrogance. Pung felt that the man was not merely looking down on him, but digging at why Hyeonheo’s name and Songjin’s recommendation had appeared together.
The testing ground had been laid out beneath the outer wall. Pung’s opponent was a middle-aged warrior with thick arms who held an iron staff. When the warrior raised his momentum, solid inner force ran from his two legs into his waist and shoulders. Pung took in only the blurred movement of that energy, without opening his meridian sight fully.
The first move came. The iron staff burst the air as it sought his shoulder.
Pung slid half a step aside and pushed the flat of the staff with his palm. Rather than meeting the force head-on he only turned its direction, and the tip of the staff scraped the dirt. The middle-aged warrior at once twisted his waist and swung the staff crosswise; the second attack was faster and lower than the first.
He could have evaded it. But evading alone would not make his opponent step back.
Pivoting on his left foot, Pung lowered his body and bored in beneath the staff. The golden ring tightened faintly around his index finger, but he pressed it down by will. Instead he set his fingertips against the wrist of the hand gripping the staff and let the colliding force flow off toward the elbow. The middle-aged warrior’s stance shook, but his feet did not leave the ground.
Two moves had passed.
Pung steadied his breathing. The examiner’s fundamentals were sturdier than he had expected, and if he concealed his strength clumsily before Namgung Hwi’s watching eyes, he could be eliminated. Without using the ring, and without fully revealing Hyeonheo’s profound arts, he had to make the man give a single step.
The middle-aged warrior thrust the iron staff a third time. This time it feigned a straight extension, hiding a change that twisted its path at the very end. After an instant’s hesitation Pung did not dodge it. He pressed the staff’s tip with his right hand as though brushing it, braced his left hand beneath, and sent the incoming force back in a circle.
The iron staff spun around. The middle-aged warrior’s upper body was dragged forward by his own strength, and when Pung pushed lightly at his shoulder, he stepped back one pace.
The testing ground fell quiet.
The middle-aged warrior righted his iron staff and looked at Pung for a while, then nodded.
“You pass.”
Pung let out the breath he had been holding. It had been only three moves, yet his palms stung. Receiving an opponent’s changes without seeing their meridians clearly was harder than he had thought.
The steward handed over the participant’s token, and while Pung tied it at his waist, Namgung Hwi looked back and forth between the examiner’s footprints and Pung’s hands.
“You did not make him step back by strength.”
“The rules did not specify a method.”
“Just so. Which makes it the more interesting.”
Namgung Hwi did not sneer. If anything, he faced Pung with a look of deeper wariness than before.
“If we meet in the tournament, I will confirm for myself whether your school is genuine. You will not be able to hide behind three moves and be done with it then, either.”
“If we meet, I will not avoid it.”
Their gazes clashed briefly, and up close Pung could feel that Namgung Hwi’s sword was no ornament. The energy confined within the scabbard was even and sharp as a rolling wave, and his eyes had missed nothing at all of the movements in the test just now. Before actually facing him, the outcome was hard to guess.
Namgung Hwi said nothing more and turned away. A few steps on, he suddenly stopped and spoke to the steward.
“From today, keep separate records of all who enter the outer court. If there are spies of the Heterodox Alliance, the registration process is where we ought to begin looking.”
Hearing that, Pung fought the urge to touch his collar. There was no evidence that Namgung Hwi was connected to Dokgo. Perhaps he sincerely feared for the Martial Alliance’s safety; perhaps he had merely reacted sharply to Hyeonheo’s name. Either way, he was not an opponent to be ignored and passed by.
A-yeong came to his side and asked in a low voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. The paper’s still there.”
“I don’t like that man.”
“I don’t know yet whether he’s a bad one.”
Pung watched the white figure receding.
“But he’s certainly watching us.”
On the day of the tournament, the Martial Alliance’s training ground seethed with the heat of the crowd from dawn. Young martial artists wearing participants’ tokens filled the ground around four platforms, and in the high stands sat the seniors of each sect and the elders of the Martial Alliance. Pung’s eyes swept those faces before they swept the splendid banners. He watched for who met Songjin’s eyes, what expression crossed their faces at the sight of Hyeonheo’s empty seat, whether there was any clue that might connect to the cipher ‘White Crane’ — but nothing could be confirmed yet.
Hyeonheo, A-yeong, and Makdong sat off to one side of the general stands. Hyeonheo wore an inconspicuous ash-gray robe, and even Makdong kept his voice down, today of all days. When A-yeong spotted Pung and raised a fist to him, Pung smiled faintly and nodded.
An Elder who had climbed onto the dais announced the simple rules. Pairs would be decided by lot; a bout ended when one person surrendered or left the platform; killing techniques and lethal poisons were forbidden. Before the explanation could run long, the first lot box was opened, and the participants’ eyes turned as one to the dais.
The names were called one by one. The Plum Blossom Swordsman of the Huashan Sect, a young warrior of the Sichuan Tang Family, Jegal Soso, Namgung Hwi. Amid alternating cheers and groans, Pung waited for his own name.
And as he waited, he quietly drew energy up into his eyes.
Hundreds of strands of meridians rippled above the training ground. There were flows that rose clear and straight; there were energies honed thin as a blade’s edge; and there were channels placid on the surface whose depth was hard to fathom. He could not read them all at once. He had to judge first whom to look at, what to hide, and what to learn.
The tournament was not a place for winning a name.
To Pung, this place was the road that led to the rotten root.
Then, at last, his name was called from the dais.
“Next participant, Danpung.”
Pung called to mind once more the scrap of ledger hidden inside his collar, then looked to the platform.
And from the lot box, the name tally of his opponent was slowly drawn out.
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