Rain in the Lower Market was not like rain in the Upper City.
In the Upper City, rain slid gently over tiled roofs and into neat gutters, perfumed with pine oil and incense smoke. In the Lower Market, it fell in heavy sheets that turned the streets into rivers of black mud, swirling with rotting cabbage leaves and unidentifiable lumps of yesterday's trash.
Jin Horyeong had learned long ago that you could tell a man's station by how he treated Lower Market rain. The rich cursed and hurried through it, one hand on their silk hems. The poor grumbled and trudged through it. And beggars… beggars learned to love it.
Because rain washed away the smell.
Horyeong tilted his face upward, letting the water run down the grime on his cheeks, and grinned through chattering teeth. His robe—if it could be called that—was patched with more colors than a festival banner and held together by stubbornness and luck. It sagged with water, smelling faintly of rice wine, which wasn't his fault. The robe had belonged to Elder Pung before him, and Elder Pung had never met a wine jar he didn't greet as a long-lost friend.
"Pup! Over here!"
The voice cut through the rain like a thrown dagger. Horyeong spotted Elder Pung himself, leaning under the warped overhang of an abandoned dumpling stall, his straw hat drooping so low it nearly touched his knees. The old man waved him over with one bony hand.
Horyeong sloshed across the street, weaving through a knot of drunken dockworkers, and ducked under the stall's shelter.
"You're late," Pung said without looking at him.
Horyeong wrung water from his sleeves and scowled. "I'm on time. I just took the long way to avoid the constables."
"That's what all thieves say."
"I'm not a thief," Horyeong said, then hesitated. "Not today."
Pung's grin showed three teeth, all crooked. "Good. Means you'll live another day. Here." He handed over a scrap of folded paper.
Horyeong opened it and frowned. "What's this?"
"Tonight's job. Delivery to the Five Gates Tavern. Second floor. Ask for Mistress Yeon."
Horyeong looked at the paper again. There was nothing written on it—just a messy ink blot shaped vaguely like a bird.
"She'll know," Pung said, tapping the blot. "And if she doesn't… run."
Horyeong stuffed the paper into his robe and started to leave, but Pung's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.
"Listen, pup. Keep your eyes open tonight. The Murim's shifting. Something ugly's in the air."
Horyeong blinked. "Since when do you care about the Murim?"
Pung's grin didn't fade, but his eyes were suddenly sharp, like flint under moss. "Since before you were born, boy. Go."
---
The Five Gates Tavern sat in the shadow of the western wall, where merchants, mercenaries, and smugglers rubbed elbows over bowls of greasy noodles. Horyeong pushed through the front door and was immediately hit with the smell of frying pork and unwashed bodies. Laughter and the clatter of dice filled the smoky air.
He slipped up the stairs, ignoring the curses of a drunk who thought he'd been cheated at dice, and found a red-lacquered door at the end of the second-floor hallway.
Mistress Yeon was not what he expected. She wasn't old, or wrinkled, or wearing gaudy paint like the brothel madams he'd seen on the streets. She was young—maybe twenty—dressed in plain traveling robes, her hair in a tight braid. Only her eyes gave her away: they were the sort that measured and weighed everything in the room before you could even blink.
"You have something for me?" she asked without preamble.
Horyeong pulled the folded scrap from his robe and held it out. She didn't touch it. Instead, she motioned for him to place it on the low table between them.
She glanced at the ink blot once, then slid the paper into her sleeve. "Sit."
Horyeong hesitated. "I just deliver things. I'm not—"
"Sit."
He sat.
"You're from the Beggar Sect," she said. It wasn't a question.
"That's not something people usually say with that much confidence," Horyeong muttered.
"You hide it well enough. No wine gourd, no lice scratching, no fake limp."
"Thanks, I think."
She poured him tea without asking if he wanted it. "Tell your elder the east is moving."
"The… east?"
Her eyes flicked toward the window. Rain blurred the street below. "The Eastern Blade Alliance is mobilizing. That means they've caught a scent. And if they're sniffing in your direction, it's only a matter of time before others join."
Horyeong sipped the tea. It was bitter, almost medicinal. "I'm just a delivery boy. Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," she said, leaning forward, "you'll be carrying more than messages soon."
Before Horyeong could reply, the door slammed open.
Three men in dark blue robes stepped in, dripping rainwater onto the floor. Their sashes bore the silver crescent of the Eastern Blade Alliance.
Mistress Yeon didn't look surprised. "You're early," she said.
The lead swordsman's hand rested on the hilt at his waist. "Our information said the Beggar Sect's keeper was here."
Yeon's smile was faint. "And here I thought you'd come for tea."
The swordsman's gaze slid past her and locked on Horyeong. "You. Stand."
Horyeong set his cup down carefully. "I think you've got the wrong beggar."
"No," the swordsman said. "We have the right one."
The second man lunged forward, grabbing for Horyeong's arm. Without thinking, Horyeong shifted his weight and let the man's momentum carry him past, then stuck out a foot. The swordsman hit the floor with a thud.
Mistress Yeon moved like water poured from a jug—one moment seated, the next disarming the first swordsman with a twist of her wrist. Steel clattered onto the table.
The third swordsman drew his blade, but Horyeong had already shoved the table into him, spilling tea and sword alike to the floor.
Yeon's voice was calm amid the chaos. "Out the window, boy."
Horyeong didn't argue. He darted to the window, unlatched it, and swung one leg over. Rain slapped him in the face, cold and blinding.
"Go!" Yeon barked.
He dropped to the street below, landing in a puddle deep enough to soak him to the waist. Pain jolted up his knees, but he ran anyway—through alleys, over crates, past startled cats—until the tavern's red lanterns were just a smear of color in the rain behind him.
---
By the time he reached the Beggar Sect's hidden den, his breath was ragged and his legs ached. The den was nothing more than a half-collapsed warehouse near the river, its entrance hidden behind stacks of moldy crates.
Inside, a handful of beggars lounged around a smoking brazier. Elder Pung sat in the corner, gnawing on a chicken bone.
"You're early," Pung said.
"They found me," Horyeong panted. "Blue robes. Eastern Blade Alliance."
The chicken bone stopped halfway to Pung's mouth. His eyes narrowed. "How many?"
"Three."
"Dead?"
Horyeong shook his head. "I ran."
Pung tossed the bone aside and stood. "Good. Dead men draw more flies than they're worth."
The old man shuffled to a locked chest in the corner. He knelt, pulled a key from somewhere in his robe, and opened it. Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, was a slim bamboo case.
"Pup," Pung said, his voice suddenly heavy, "you listen to me now."
Horyeong frowned. "What's that?"
"This," Pung said, lifting the case, "is the reason we live in rags and filth while others sit on jade thrones. This is why we let the world think we're drunkards and cowards."
He pressed the case into Horyeong's hands. It was lighter than it looked.
"Inside," Pung said, "is the Reverse Manual. You don't need to know what that means yet. You just need to keep it safe. Tonight, they'll come for me. When they do, you run, and you don't look back."
Horyeong's mouth went dry. "Why me?"
Pung grinned, but there was no humor in it. "Because you're the only one too stubborn to sell it for wine."
Before Horyeong could speak, the sound of boots splashing in the alley reached his ears.
"They're here," Pung said. "Go, pup. And remember—sometimes the only way forward… is backwards."
The old man shoved him toward the rear exit.
Horyeong clutched the bamboo case to his chest and slipped into the rain once more, the echo of Pung's words following him into the darkness.