Another long chapter, please forgive me.
There passed an instant of stunned silence during which the two young men studied Min La with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. He did not see any hostility in their expressions. Perhaps — though he might have been mistaken — there had even been a flash of fear.
The other three, the two dressed in silver and the young man from Bin Koth, did not even look up when Min La announced himself. Nevertheless, the instant of stunned silence extended just long enough to make Min La question his decision to come to this table.
At last one of them answered, “We would indeed be pleased if you joined us.” He was one of the two from the riverside earlier today, the one Min La and So Ga had seen leaving his room some minutes ago.
He was tall and broad across the shoulders, the build of a man who was accustomed to the weight of a sword. His bright face belied youth and some inexperience; expressions flowed openly and were read easily. Thin brows rose in surprise at Min La’s sudden arrival, large, pale eyes shone when he spoke. His smile was genuine, if delayed by uncertainty. It was clear from looking at him that he was more uncertain of Min La than Min La was of him. But also that he had likely never encountered a situation in which his uncertainty had been answered with danger.
His cloth was wool and fine, purple and green woven together and cut to fit him perfectly. The tie at his waist was buttoned with shining silver and the skirt of the golt went to his ankles and even pooled upon the floor. Open from the waist, like most men’s golts, he wore fine brown suede trousers underneath tucked into worn leather riding boots. Min La did not think he was a sword, but he nevertheless carried himself like a man who had been trained. He could see his weapon in its fine red sheath leaning against his leg. He expected that he was from a House that valued a martial spirit even among those members who were not warriors. A small House, but wealthy.
He had put down his coffee as he answered Min La and then motioned, with a warm smile, to the chair opposite. Min La thanked him, and sat.
Then the young man put his hand on his chest and bowed his head. “I am Hino Son of So Hoth.1 Do you know it?” His eyes shone with eagerness as he awaited Min La’s reply. He was clearly very proud of his House and eager to spread its acclaim. His was an almost childish sense of pride, like a young boy spreading boasts about his father.
Min La nodded in reply. He had not heard of So Hoth, but couldn’t bring himself to disappoint him. Moreover, pleasing him in this way might endear him to Min La. In any case, it would make him more open and put him more at ease.
Judging by the calm, unreadable expression fixed on the cool face of Hino Son’s neighbor at the table, and the way in which his eyes now and again made rapid studies of Min La, he guessed that this young man had more experience interacting with uncertain strangers than his friend. Like Hino Son, he also wore a long, fine golt, but his was in the old style. Instead of a buttoned tie at the waist, he wore a wide, embroidered sash in a style similar to that worn by the Ădol in most traditional depictions. And instead of trousers under the heavy woolen golt, he wore another, thinner golt made of fine woven silk in a pale shade of cream, embroidered all over in a pattern of small white stars. Beneath this thin golt, Min La could see the cuffed hem of thin, white linen pants. Together with the coat he wore, that made four layers of cloth. Min La suspected that this man was from the west and perhaps even had some ties to Srenléth where it was considered a matter of utmost importance to wear always four layers of cloth, in honor of the four high Ădol. This was why, despite the building warmth in the large hall and the shine of sweat on the young man’s throat, he had not removed his coat. He was perhaps from the Sălov2 princedom, on the other side of the Ŏklo Mountains. Min La remembered then that the Ŏklo House, who owned a great deal of the land around this very inn, had their main estate in Sălun, on the western slopes of the mountains.
Hino Son introduced him with a strong but friendly pat on his shoulder. “And my friend here is Nŏl,3 from the Sălov estate of Ŏklo, I’m sure you know it.”
Min La nodded again, pleased to learn that his guesses were right. And Nŏl Ŏklo, too, placed his hand on his chest and bowed in greeting, which Min La returned.
The other two men sitting there — the two whose golts were silver and, Min La could now see, dusty from the road — were less interested in the new addition to their table, and even seemed distracted by some matter that was making them anxious and somber. Their golts were short and light gray, with a simple pattern of white vines embroidered along the collar and cuffs. Fur lined the interior making the garments seem padded despite being so well-fitted. This was a martial uniform; these were Houseswords, or possibly bodyswords. They both looked tired, like they had traveled a long way with little rest, evidently in some rush, which accounted for their dirty clothes, which they had not had time to change. They had likely dismounted their horses and come directly to the hall to eat a warm meal. And would likely set off again as soon as they were done. Both carried swords in gray sheaths which they kept near their legs, within easy reach.
Hino Son motioned to them and said, “These are swords of Ăvan,” he said. “This is Tŭ Gin4 and his uncle Or Lun.5”
They nodded their greeting and Min La returned it.
“I am Min San,” he said to them all, bowing slightly, his hand on his chest. He had decided to keep his given name if only to make things easier to remember. “Of the Go Lán House.”
Hino Son blinked in surprise but recovered himself quickly, but Nŏl Ŏklo maintained his cool, unmoved face. He poured a cup of warm water from a small pot next to the large shining coffee carafe. This he gave to Min La, who accepted it with both hands, which Nŏl acknowledged with a small, gracious bow.
“And of course,” Hino Son added, almost as an afterthought, “you already know Íso Lin6 of Bin Koth.” And he pointed to the huddled young man sitting next to Min La, cradling a bowl of broth, a certain darkness shrouding his countenance.
Min La had stop himself from staring. So, the young impostor was indeed using the name of the Bin Koth Housemaster’s dead son.
The false Íso Lin glanced up at Min La from his bowl and said nothing, but his flashing eyes belied a little fear. A part of Min La pitied him. Like them, he was hiding behind a borrowed name. And though the unknown reason he was doing so did concern him a little, it didn’t seem as pressing as the host of other concerns currently weighing upon his shoulders. So he nodded his greeting at Íso Lin and said nothing.
At that moment, one of the monks came to bring Min La his meal, as he had requested when he had entered the hall. The tray was set before him steaming and fragrant and Min La had to make an effort to conceal how overwhelming he found this abundance of hot food. Despite two meals in the temple in Rensoth, the long years of starvation had worn a habit into him that would be difficult to undo.
He gestured to the tray and indicated his apologies for eating in front of them. The old ways of social courtesy taught to him by his mother seemed to return so quickly, even after all these years living Houseless on the street. It so surprised him that he barely noticed their practiced bows. You are among friends, the gesture said, please eat in peace.
The main dish of the simple fare was a stew of pork and lamb — both common in Sona Gen — with a thick broth made of crushed tomatoes and browned onions. This stew had also potatoes and white beans, a popular way for inns to make a traveler’s meal heartier.
The tray had also come laden with an assortment of small bowls. Steamed red gill, a dark leafy green that shone with oil and smelled of garlic and mint; thinly sliced cabbage cooked with tomatoes and onion; pickled mushrooms in a dish of brine; and a little bowl of steaming broth that smelled sweetly of apples and walnuts.
When the monk came with a pitcher of warm, sweet-smelling wine, Min La declined it, saying softly, “No. I will not take wine.”
“Ah,” said Hino Son with some interest, “so you are tolibin, after all. I was not sure.”
Nŏl scoffed delicately. “Please forgive my friend’s ignorance.” Then he added to Hino Son, “Tolibins do not forbid wine except in Brenigev.”
Hino Son replied with a serene expression of childlike confusion.
The young man from Ŏklo had the dignified bearing of his ancient House, together with the thin black hair and pale amber-colored eyes that were said to be a product of added Srenléthan blood. The Ŏklo House dated to the time before Láokoth had been unified and had always had strong ties with Srenléth, even when the rest of the peninsula did not. Given his bearing, and the richness of his cloth, it occurred to Min La that Nŏl Ŏklo might be an heir to a ruling Ŏklo family, or even a member of the House’s high family itself. Which, given the position Ŏklo held among the Fourteen Ancient Houses, made him all but royalty. And so Min La also found himself wondering what Nŏl Ŏklo was doing this far east. And why he seemed to have had an interest in their merchant caravan.
“It is not that I am tolibin,” Min La said with a smile. “But that I have a charge.”
“Yes, I remember,” Hino Son said. “I believe we passed each other in the hall. Where is your young charge? We had heard he was ill.” And he glanced at Íso Lin — who was not Íso Lin — who said nothing, but continued sipping his broth.
Min La bristled but maintained his composure. It was, he reminded himself sternly, a natural inquiry from a friendly, curious traveler, especially one as open as Hino Son. His refusal to speak of So Ga at all would be more suspicious than their questions about him.
“He is better, thank you. But had a great need of rest and did not have the energy for the main hall.”
“You traveled all the way to Ŏno Soth to see a physician?”
Min La sensed that he was being somehow tested, but he had expected that possibility. It was evident that these two young men were not mere casual travelers. Yet whether or not their true purpose here was of any relevance to him or to So Ga, he could not yet say.
“Yes,” he answered. “One his mother had heard of. A tolibin from Luntov who was said to have once cured the previous Queen Consort of a fainting sickness.”
It was a risk to include details. But Min La knew that details were often the only way to create a convincing lie. And he proved right this time.
Nŏl nodded once. “I’ve heard of this physician. A meeting with him is costly.”
“Not costly to a mother, I suspect.”
Nŏl nodded again, and rubbed his chin.
Min La used the thin, long, wooden spoon to take a bite of the fried cabbage, which was warm and tasted strongly of garlic and fish. It was common in parts of Láokoth near the rivers to use a fish broth when cooking vegetables. The flavor was preferred, especially in the winter when vegetables were limited and tasteless. Min La had never much cared for the taste of river fish. But the garlic flavor was powerful, and the hot food felt good in his unsettled stomach.
Hino Son asked, “Was the trip a success, then?”
Min La was finding the young man’s directness more refreshing than suspicious. He was cheerful and outgoing and seemed to be asking after So Ga’s health out of genuine concern, without much care for propriety. Nŏl seemed to think the question embarrassing, as Ăna San Sengí had done. And even leaned close to his friend to whisper something discretely.
Min La answered, “It seems that the physicians of Sona Gen are no more capable of miracles than the physicians of Hin Dan. Though I dread returning to his mother with this news. I have not even written to her except to say that we have begun the journey home.”
“I often find that these physicians are not as eager to offer cures as they are to receive payments,” Hino Son said. “I hope he did not take too much from you in exchange for this bad news.”
Nŏl made a sound and nudged him under the table. Hino Son turned his large eyes upon his friend and smiled with a poorly-concealed nod.
Min La returned to the bowl before him, stirring broth through the potatoes that had softened at the bottom of the stew into a savory mash. The tone of the question stood out from the rest of the conversation. As carefree and gregarious as the young man from So Hoth seemed to be, this question felt very calculated. He believed that he was trying to determine the size of Min La’s purse. And the way Nŏl, despite the gentle correction, also awaited the reply told him that both of them were interested in this information.
He said finally, “I believe we will still be able to make it home without much difficulty.”
“Ah, that is good.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Min La saw Íso Lin watching him closely from behind his bowl. When he saw that Min La had noticed him, he quickly looked away.
It was then that one of the silver-clad men spoke up. “You have come from the capital?” It was the older man, Or Lun, who had asked, while his nephew Tŭ Gin drew his own pipe from inside his golt and used the candle on the table to light it.
Min La took a moment to pick up his bowl of sweet broth and take a long sip, letting it warm him through as deep as his bones. During that time he considered the Ăvan sword and his sudden question. But he couldn’t divine any specific intention behind it. So he put down the bowl and nodded once.
“Recently?” Or Lun asked, eagerly.
“We had to stop for a time in Rensoth, as my charge had taken a brief turn.”
“Were you in the capital five days ago?”
The sharp almost accusatory tone with which he asked the question alarmed not just Min La, but also Nŏl and Hino Son who looked at Or Lun with surprise.
Tŭ Gin exhaled a small cloud of smoke and grimaced. “Come, uncle,” he said, with careful respect. “There is no need to interrogate everyone we meet who might’ve been in the capital that day.”
Or Lun turned to him and replied sharply, “We were not there. I would like to know what happened exactly.”
“How would he know? He isn’t anybody.” Then he looked with embarrassment at Min La. “I, of course, mean no offense, my friend.”
Min La smiled lightly. “If I may ask, what did happen five days ago?”
It was a question they all seemed interested in. And so all leaned forward a little when Or Lun answered, rather hesitantly, “There was a fire in the Palace.”
“A fire?” Min La exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise. “In the Palace?”
Or Lun bid him quiet his voice and Min La apologized, maintaining the act as well as he was able. He was not, he knew, as good at this as his brother-in-law had been. As the son of their Housemaster’s strategist, his sister’s husband had had a subtle skill for subterfuge that had always intrigued Min La, if it also unnerved him.
Or Lun took a breath and explained, “It happened five days ago, in the middle of the night. A fire began accidentally in a section of the Palace. But it spread quickly and damaged a part of the royal forest and even scalded the back wall of the Palace.”
“Which section of the Palace?” Hino Son asked breathlessly.
“I do not know.”
“Was the king harmed?” Nŏl asked.
Or Lun waved his hand — the hand with the pipe, which scattered ash across the table — and said, “No, no, the king is thankfully unharmed. We did hear one person say that she had been told that the fire started in the queen consort’s residence.”
He seemed to immediately regret mentioning this, as it brought a sudden chilled silence to the table.
Íso Lin said, the first words he spoke since Min La had sat down, “Well, there is the rumor.”
Tŭ Gin turned to him with flashing eyes. “Silence,” he all but hissed.
Min La looked back and forth between them with genuine curiosity. He had never heard of any rumors having to do with the deceased queen consort. Though, in that moment, he was glad that So Ga was not here. He wasn’t sure how well the prince would handle hearing his murdered mother spoken of so casually.
It was curious to him, however, that this moment was the one in which Íso Lin chose to enter the conversation.
“What rumor?” Min La asked, watching him carefully.
Nŏl sat back and averted his eyes. Or Lun and Tŭ Gin looked fixedly at the table before them. Hino Son seemed even more curious and confused than Min La.
Íso Lin smiled at them all and said, in a sour, arrogant tone of voice that was utterly unlike the one he had used when speaking to the Sengí couple in the carriage this morning, “They say the queen consort did not cross Ávoth’s river because her true murderer was never brought to justice.”
Tŭ Gin glanced at his uncle’s pained face and held out an imploring hand to Íso Lin. “You oughtn’t speak of such things so lightly.”
“‘Her true murderer’?” Hino Son repeated, staring at the table with his face screwed up in heavy concentration.
Nŏl leaned close and murmured, “Nŭnon.”
Hino Son said, “Oh!” And then realization struck him at last and he looked, mouth agape, at Nŏl, who nodded solemnly.
Over Nŏl’s shoulder, Min La was surprised to discover, only at the moment, that Lin Jenin — sitting with his fellow merchants in the bright amber glow of the hall stove’s fire — was looking at him. His expression was strangely thoughtful; he seemed not even to be listening to the gray-haired merchant next to him who was speaking loudly and drunkenly about the superiority of ocean fish to river fish. When Min La met his gaze, Lin Jenin quickly looked away.
Troubled, Min La found himself overcome with the need to hide. As if Lin Jenin was somehow seeing through him, through his disguise and his lies.
It seemed that Min La was not the only one studying his fellow travelers. Shuddering lightly, he tried to put the merchant out of his mind, and returned to the tense air at his own table.
Íso Lin, pleased, it seemed, by the effect his words had had, continued, “Perhaps the queen consort set the fire out of anger. Or sorrow. Perhaps the real murderer walks inside the Palace walls.”
At that even Nŏl could not conceal his shock.
Or Lun said darkly to Íso Lin, “Were it not for the status of your father, I would likely take you to task for such a thoughtless remark, young lord.”
This seemed to amuse Íso Lin. “I did not realize Ăvan was so sensitive to common gossip.”
“I have never heard such gossip. I know no one who would dare to suggest that the king had condemned Nŭnon unjustly.”
Nŏl said at last, “Really, my friends, I must protest this entire line of conversation. One ought not discuss such things so openly.”
“No?” Íso Lin asked blithely. “Such things are openly discussed all the time. Just ask him.” And he motioned at Min La.
He was referring, of course, to the coarse harshness of Lin Jenin. At that moment Min La wondered if what was in Íso Lin’s bowl was not soup but wine. The man seemed to be in danger of forgetting his mask. More and more his words and his tone suggested the kind of hostility towards Houses that was only found among the Houseless.
Min La said, “To insult a man’s House is a separate matter from insulting his king.”
“Is it?”
“Indeed it is,” Nŏl agreed. “An insult to a man’s House is greater than an insult to his king. Nevertheless, both are very poor manners. And the latter could undermine the stability of this nation. I would think the heir of Bin Koth would know that.” His eyes flashed, and Íso Lin — who was not Íso Lin — seemed at last to remember himself.
Min La found this last statement from Nŏl of particular interest. The aloof young man was mostly unreadable, but it seemed in that moment that he also doubted Íso Lin’s pretend identity.
After a moment of silence, Íso Lin said, with less enthusiasm, “Are they sure the fire was an accident?”
“Of course it was an accident,” Tŭ Gin answered sharply, before his uncle put his hand on his wrist.
It was then that Min La remembered who these two men were. These were swords of Ăvan. The Grand Steward of the Palace was a member of the Ăvan House, if things were still as they had been nine years ago.
He asked carefully, “Is that why you are going to the capital?”
Tŭ Gin had calmed himself with a puff on his pipe. “We have been sent by our Housemaster. He cannot come himself, you understand.”
Or Lun added, “The Lady Lŭ Lin might not consider herself a member of the Ăvan House, but she still is so. If Ăvan isn’t careful…”
“I did not think she had renounced her House.”
“She hasn’t,” Tŭ Gin said, glancing at his uncle.
Or Lun sighed. “But she has long placed her allegiance to the king before her allegiance to her House and her Housemaster. There are some…” he trailed off again, putting the pipe to his lips. And then, perhaps because fatigue had made him less able to control himself, he said suddenly, “One’s House comes before all.”
The rest at the table nodded, but averted their eyes. Except Íso Lin, who watched Or Lun with some interest, though he still cradled his bowl.
“A proper, righteous man puts House before King.” And Or Lun illustrated this hierarchy with a wave of his pipe.
Hino Son offered kindly, “No good king of Láokoth would ever command a man to disobey his House.”
Tŭ Gin nodded and said, “Though, if he did, a good Láokothian would defy such an order.”
“But,” Íso Lin asked with interest, “what if the House is in error? What if the Housemaster, say, gives an order that puts the rest of Láokoth in danger? Must not the Housemembers defy him?”
“The king is expected to stop any House from harming other Houses,” Hino Son answered.
“But what if that would require the king to order Housemembers to defy their Housemaster?”
“A righteous House,” Nŏl said suddenly, his face dark, “does not require the command of the king to know right from wrong.” When they stared at him, he went on, “Tolba wrote that each man is governor of his own heart. If your ruler orders you to act against what is right, you are bound to disobey. It is not a matter of obeying king over Housemaster, but right over wrong.”
Min La understood the strangeness of the Grand Steward’s choice. Lŭ Lin Ăvan was a subject of much speculation in all the Houses of Láokoth, even his own House. He remembered listening to his father and brother discuss the matter. He had not entirely understood it all back then, but seeing these Ăvan swords before him now, he believed he was beginning to see the difficulty. And the complexity.
That Lŭ Lin Ăvan had put her loyalty to her king before her loyalty to her House was unusual. But she was his Grand Steward, and this appointment had brought favor and prestige to the Ăvan House. And it was her unqualified loyalty that had allowed her to retain that position for almost two decades. The Ăvan Housemaster had never publicly begrudged her loyalty to the Sona King. He had even made several attempts, over the years, to remind the world that Lŭ Lin was Ăvan. Min La noticed, however, that he was not himself riding to Ŏno Soth. He wondered if the Ăvan Housemaster was choosing, at this time, to place the Ăvan House apart from Lŭ Lin. Perhaps, Min La thought with wonder, that had been Lŭ Lin’s intention all along. Perhaps the very reason she had distanced herself from her House was to protect it should something like this ever happen. And she really had put House before all.
“We were told,” Or Lun said in answer to some question from Hino Son that Min La had not heard, “that Lŭ Lin, as the Grand Steward, has taken responsibility for the fire.”
Hino Son looked stricken. “Will she be…?” He did not dare to finish the sentence.
Or Lun’s countenance darkened. He brought his pipe to his lips, then drew it away and stared for a time at the sparkling embers glowing within.
“We were told,” he said, “that she saved herself.”
“How?” Hino Son asked, astounded.
“The old way.”
The table quieted at that and remained so for a long time. Even Íso Lin seemed affected by this piece of news.
Min La finished his meal and a monk took the tray away. More coffee was brought and gradually the hall grew quieter and darker as it began to empty. Min La noticed, with some relief, that even Lin Jenin had departed.
Presently, Íso Lin stood, bowed with a wavering sway, and took his leave, his hand clamped over his mouth. Min La observed that the young impostor looked a little green.
“Strange young man,” Or Lun Ăvan said, watching him go. He rubbed his face and sighed. “But being a member of Bin Koth is not easy these days. It is difficult to fault a man for careless words uttered when he is under immense pressure.”
“Or when he is more than a little drunk,” Hino Son remarked, nudging Íso Lin’s abandoned bowl with the tip of his finger. A bit of clear wine sloshed in the bottom. Even Min La could smell it.
The others agreed quietly. Then the Ăvan swords stood and bowed.
“We have to start out as soon as the horses are rested,” Or Lun said, apologetically. “We should rest while we can.”
They bid the two of them farewell. And then it was just Min La, Nŏl, and Hino Son at the table. He noticed that the two seemed to immediately relax. And he wondered if it was the departure of the Ăvan swords or of Íso Lin that had produced this effect. While he poured himself a bit more coffee he watched them exchange a glance.
Hino Son said, rather abruptly, “It must be difficult for you and your charge.”
Min La was confused at first, but then Hino Son added, “Being outside Hin Dan. Being, I mean, in Sona Gen. I don’t imagine they look kindly upon you. Íso Lin implied…”
“Some don’t,” Min La said. “Many seem to care little where we’re from.”
“That’s good.”
Nŏl rubbed his chin and leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you spoken much to our friend, there?”
“The young lord from Bin Koth?”
Nŏl nodded once.
Min La shrugged. “He said very little, but that he was from Bin Koth and he was studying under a jewelry artisan in Ŏno Soth.”
“Was he?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Do you suppose that’s what that was, his strange behavior just now? Hasty words spoken when one is in his cups?”
Min La thought for a moment, rubbing his fingers. He wondered if Nŏl’s interest was incidental, if he only happened to be curious about the abrasive nature of the false Bin Koth lord and his arrogant remarks. Or if there was something about the fake Íso Lin that was of especial interest to him.
At last he answered, “He does seem like a nervous sort of man.”
“Yes he does, doesn’t he? Most strange.”
While Nŏl was speaking, Hino Son had ventured to a table nearby where he had spotted an abandoned dish of dried apples. Returning with it, he offered some to Min La, who declined, and then to Nŏl who looked upon the bowl with annoyance.
Cautiously, Min La ventured, “Strange?”
“How much do you know of the Bin Koth House?”
“I’ve not had much opportunity to cross paths with anyone from Bin Koth.”
“He’s from Hin Dan, remember,” Hino Son said, his mouth full of dried apple.
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“You might not know this,” Hino Son said to Min La, “but the House is in decline.”
“I heard mention of it earlier today.”
“Yes, well,” Hino Son added in a whisper, “did you know that their Housemaster has forbidden any Bin Koth from seeking employment or trading outside their House.”
“Seems rather foolish.”
“It is a matter of dignity,” Hino Son pointed out.
Nŏl nodded. “They are an old House. Not of the Fourteen, but old all the same. Their decline is an embarrassment. I think the House will fall before the current Housemaster seeks aid from outside. It will be a great loss.”
Min La sipped his coffee. “I hadn’t realized.” He wondered if Nŏl didn’t know about the death of the real Íso Lin, or if he was pretending not to know in order to learn what Min La knew. Why, though, would Nŏl care what Min La knew?
“But don’t you see?” Hino Son said, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially. “Why is he in Ŏno Soth learning a craft from someone outside the House?”
Min La nodded, feigning sudden realization. “That is strange.”
It seemed that this conversation was more than mere gossip, and that this mysterious young man — who was likely not from Bin Koth at all — represented a matter of greater interest to these two men from the west. He remembered that Nŏl was Ŏklo and that they were near the Ŏklo lands. But just then he couldn’t see a reason why that would be relevant. Nor why any of it would matter to someone from So Hoth.
It was possible that the conversation was meant not to reveal to him their suspicions about the young lord, but to test Min La himself. He sensed that they were trying to see what he knew, if anything. To them the presence of one man lying about his identity might suggest the presence of others.
But as the evening grew dark, the conversation began to fade. Min La sensed that he would learn nothing more from Nŏl and Hino Son without behaving suspiciously himself. He had learned what he could this evening, and now he needed to rest, and to think. From what he could see already the road was dark and full of dangers. But it also seemed that no one in this inn had even begun to suspect the truth about So Ga.
Standing, Min La remarked that he and his charge would set out early in the morning, if the weather held. They stood when he did and bowed as he left.
Hino Son said, “I hope this is not our last meeting.” And offered Min La a broad, genuine smile.
Min La bowed and repeated something his brother had said many times when parting with friends, a common saying along the northern coast, “‘No matter how far the rivers flow, they always meet again at the sea.’”
As he approached the stairs on his way from the inn’s great hall, Min La became aware of the feeling that eyes were upon him. Pausing at the foot of the stair, he looked cautiously from side to side. There, leaning in the darkened doorway to a long corridor, waited Lin Jenin.
And he was indeed waiting, Min La could see that plainly enough. He smoked his thin Sívo pipe and regarded Min La with a strange look. Something between surprise and an accusation. Not just waiting, it seemed, but waiting for Min La.
“Where is your young charge?”
“Resting,” Min La replied, indifferently. “It was a long day.”
“Indeed, indeed.” He puffed his pipe and said nothing else.
Min La had gradually come to the realization that Lin Jenin had been, over the course of their tense day’s journey, testing them all, seeking faults and pressing upon them. He wondered if this was the man’s own habit or if he had had some other purpose. His own over-alert paranoia suggested to him that Lin Jenin must be working with the mercenaries who hunted the prince and had thus questioned them all in an effort to determine if the young man who was being sought by them was among his passengers. Hence his particular interest in Min La, So Ga, and also the young man pretending to be from Bin Koth. And why, too, he seemed to spare the young Sengí couple from his inquisitive scrutiny.
The merchant had seemed to regard Min La with something like disdain. Probably because he and So Ga had presented themselves as natives of Hin Dan. Despising Hin Dan must still be in fashion, he thought. Then he put his foot upon the stair, his back to the merchant. He was tired and didn't have the energy to endure another volley of scrutiny from the abrasive man.
“You and your charge,” Lin Jenin said suddenly, forcing Min La to turn back. “You say you are from Hin Dan.”
Min La said nothing. He merely looked unblinking into the merchant’s inquisitive, piercing gaze. From where he stood a few steps up, he could look down slightly on Lin Jenin, who had to tilt his head. Something about this arrangement made Min La terribly uncomfortable. For a moment he considered ignoring Lin Jenin and turning back to the stairs without a word. But the man did own the carriage in which they had to ride for some days still.
The merchant went on, “Go Lán, you say?”
“What of it?”
“Neither of you look much like fishermen’s sons.” He stepped away from the darkened corridor. The illumination emanating from the great hall spilled over his face in a golden array while all the corridor around him was cast deep in shadow, making him appear to be floating.
“My people,” Lin Jenin said quietly, “we live near the border with yours. I’ve not had much dealings with the fellows from Go Lán, fishermen or anything else, but I’ve known other Hin Dan Houses. And from the moment I clapped eyes on you, my boy, there was something about you that was familiar, terribly familiar.”
Min La answered calmly, “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. My House abides by the sea. What use have we for the On Dŭn border? What use have we for On Dŭn Houses?”
“No I expect Go Lán would have no such need.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “You know, I once met your Housemaster, Sofen many, many years ago.”
Min La nodded, relieved that he remembered the name despite the years that had passed. “And?”
Lin Jenin smiled then, baring his teeth. “Sofen Go Lán died eight years ago.”
Min La paled.
“You are not Go Lán, are you?”
He was aware of a feeling of weightlessness, which confused him until he realized that his heart was hammering so hard in his chest that he was lightheaded.
He barely heard himself say, “And what are we, then, in your imagination?”
Lin Jenin laughed lightly. “Perhaps you are Houseless.” He puffed his pipe again.
“Houseless, indeed.” Min La tried to smile though he felt his knees weakening. With great effort he looked steadily at Lin Jenin when he said, “Do you often accuse strangers of being Houseless? Or only those of us from Hin Dan?”
It was better, he knew, that Lin Jenin assume that they were lying about being Houseless than that he had, somehow, gleaned an edge of the truth. Though he didn’t think there was any way Lin Jenin could have learned So Ga’s true identity. Nevertheless, the suspicion of the merchant filled him with tension and fear. How close did he stand to discovery? In that moment Min La was acutely aware of the singular nature of the charge he had hidden in the room upstairs. The only son of the king, a prince with a price on his head.
Lin Jenin only smiled a knowing smile. “Oh, you are from Hin Dan, surely enough. You’ve got that hardness to your tongue that they breed there especially. And I see the way your face gives you away when it is spoken of. But it is just this, is it not? You wear the stain of Hin Dan to protect your other secret”
“My other secret?” he asked without thinking.
At this, Lin Jenin’s smile became something else entirely. His lips parted, his teeth bared. Min La recognized the look immediately: disgust.
It was too late to undo his mistake. The words had left his mouth before he could understand the trap into which he had just stepped.
Lin Jenin leaned close and spoke slowly, words that Min La had not heard aloud for almost ten years. He said, “You are Nŭnon.”
OMG?!! That cliff hanger!!!😫😫 you can't leave us with it for too long ! I'm so desperate for another chapter alreadyyy😭😭
And I'll self employ myself as your typo girly😅 though there aren't many anyways so props to you♡
from the paragraph "That Lŭ Lin Ăvan had put her loyalty to her king..." fourth sentence you just repeated the word 'her' twice
Proud to say that I called it from Min La's first appearance.