BW C31

Chapter 31

“Really?”

The very woman who had asked the question didn’t seem particularly interested in Hoeun’s answer; she just kept mixing her bibimbap with vigorous strokes. Then all at once she froze, and stabbed her spoon into the bowl.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake! There’s an egg pancake in here too. That little punk Chilbok—because the young lord is the Captain’s guide…”

At that, Hoeun’s brows lifted slightly. So there was an egg pancake in his bowl as well. He hadn’t noticed at all. Then again, Chilbok had once slipped him some jangjorim too.

“Don’t tell the other brothers. I’m sneaking it to you because you’re our Captain’s guide.”

He had said as much before. The woman cast a sidelong glance at Hoeun.

“…Want it back?”

Hoeun couldn’t help a faint smile. She must have thought he would ask to have his bowl returned for so precious an egg pancake.

“It’s fine. Please enjoy.”

“Right, then.”

Color returned to the woman’s face. Just then, an empty bowl thrust forward beneath her nose.

“Egg pancake? Split me half.”

It was the man sitting beside her. He was solidly built—though not like Taemuk—and tall, though shorter than Taemuk. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something oddly endearing about him—a face somewhere between a puppy and a wild boar. His skin was sun-darkened, and scars marked his cheeks, jaw, the backs of his hands—anywhere not covered by uniform.

…Scars?

Unnoticed, Hoeun tilted his head. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen anyone in Jeokudae with scars. Taemuk had none either…

“No way, brat.”

“Aw, why not. Give me some.”

At the refusal, the man shook his shoulders coyly. The woman grimaced—“Ugh…” Yet she scooped a full spoon of rice into his bowl, and slit the pancake to give him the larger half. The man chuckled.

Sharing the bibimbap, the two spoke to Hoeun.

“Sick or not, how can anyone have no appetite. I’ve never once lost mine.”

“Didn’t you skip supper and take a fever all night? To get better, you ought to eat.”

Hoeun shook his head.

“The ones who fought monsters all night should eat more. I, who only slept, have no right to eat.”

Their necks stretched long; they shook their heads and fluttered their hands, as if to banish such thoughts.

“Hey now, what ‘no right.’ If you’re our Captain’s guide, that’s enough.”

“Right, right. That’s enough.”

“…”

Hoeun’s mouth parted slightly. “Our Captain’s guide.” At those words, the tent flashed in his mind—Taemuk’s tent, intact through the night. Perhaps it was they who had guarded it. It could have been Taemuk, but that didn’t seem likely…

“So why does the young lord use honorifics with folks like us?”

The man scraped spinach off his spoon with his lower teeth. “Mm…” Hoeun pondered. As Taemuk’s close lieutenants, they were all of fairly high rank; Gilsang was a sergeant, after all. It made sense to speak politely. But it didn’t seem he was talking about rank. He had said “folks like us.” Did he mean their birth was lower than his?

If so, it was nonsense. What were birth and rank on a battlefield. Compared to himself, who had spent life battling mere illness, those who slew monsters and saved the people were ten thousand times more precious.

“It’s because… you seem older than I am.”

He answered quietly. Then—

“…”

“…”

The woman and the man slowly shut their mouths. The air cooled. Hoeun swallowed—had he misjudged their ages? They looked a good seven or eight years older than him…

In truth, Hoeun had no talent for guessing ages. How could he, when he’d met so few people—family, the household staff; if one stretched it, the doctor at the hospital or the old man at the pharmacy.

“Well… we are older…”

“But you’re still a young lord.”

“Right. And they say you’re the son of a very great gentleman? Goes to the palace, friends with His Majesty?”

“Gasp, His Majesty? That high?”

They asked him, then talked among themselves. As Hoeun opened his mouth to answer—

“The youngest son of Lord Choi, aren’t you.”

Gilsang, who had been eating quietly, spoke. He had met Hoeun’s father once—when he went to fetch Hoeun from the hospital, he had heard the doctor and nurses repeatedly address him as “Milord.”

The woman jutted her chin.

“Who’s that?”

“The lord who sends rations every time. You had a good meal of meat last time, didn’t you.”

“Ah! The rations!”

“Ah! The meat!”

They shouted together, sharp enough to draw stares from other soldiers. Hoeun hunched his shoulders, but the woman and man paid no mind.

“He’s that household’s young lord?”

“Wow… must be truly rich. Sending that much meat. Didn’t the whole unit almost burst from it?”

“And not just meat—salted fish, fruit—why, even these shoes. Look at this—no water or snow gets in. Witchcraft, I swear.”

The woman lifted her booted foot high, nearly toppling; the man braced her back.

“…Is that so?”

Hoeun smiled, abashed. He knew Father sent grain and money here and there, but not the details. His elder brothers who helped Father would know. He had never helped—not when “being ill” had been his lot.

If he’d known, he might have learned sooner—then shamelessly used Father’s goodwill as a bridge to befriend them faster…

Just then, Taemuk snorted.

“What’s got you so pleased. Even dogs have to be fed well to guard the house. Do you still not know nobles?”

“…”

Hoeun’s brows edged up. Dogs? Did that mean Father treated them like dogs? He wanted to answer back, but settled for biting his lip.

Had they been alone, he would have. He had shouted once before, telling Taemuk not to twist Father’s intent.

But not now. These two were Taemuk’s subordinates. For him to contradict their commander would have undercut his authority.

Whatever Taemuk said, the woman and man scooted closer, eyes full of curiosity.

“Why did such a great house’s young lord come to the battlefield? That place where the lord put us up—what was it—ho, hot, het, ho…”

“Hotel.”

“Right, putting us up at the hotel, feeding us—doesn’t seem like a son cast off from home…”

“Right, right.”

If the woman spoke, the man chimed in. Hoeun hesitated; who would sympathize with his dull life. What should he say? He opened his mouth.

“It’s the work of saving the nation, so of course one should come. And besides, Jeokudae…”

“What about it?”

“It’s cool.”

His shoulders rose and fell. How dashing those capes had been when they had marched through the rite of induction. The newspapers often carried their deeds—saving the people, the nation. Gilsang had said Jeokudae never shied from monsters. Every bit of it was cool. A unit any man would admire.

“…”

“…”

Again their mouths closed. Then their eyes crept wider—and aho-ho-ho-ho—they laughed so loud the sky seemed to shake.

“Yeah, we are a bit cool.”

“Sure, sure. Jeokudae’s reputation isn’t for nothing.”

“Well I’ll be—living to hear a noble call me cool.”

“Life’s worth it, life’s worth it.”

They pulled faces at each other, then the woman spoke to Hoeun.

“I can read people—the young lord’s a good sort. Eh?”

As Hoeun moved to thank her, the man snickered.

“Bullshit. First time I saw him—all white-faced, prim mouth—looked like a prig; I cussed him out in—”

“Shut it, mutt.”

The woman smacked his chest. With a dull grunt, he flopped backward; his upraised feet trembled. As Hoeun stared, startled, the woman smiled awkwardly.

“That’s not it—just, uh, too pretty. Thought you wouldn’t fit with us.”

“That’s true. The young lord does look very precious.”

Pale-faced, the man hauled himself up and added,

“M-me?”

Hoeun touched his cheek. What did “precious-looking” mean—praise for good looks, or insult for being a bookish innocent?

“It’s a compliment. Like fine white porcelain.”

“Porcelain…”

“No—like jade. Jade.”

“Jade…”

Still unsure about the metaphors, Hoeun glanced at Taemuk, wondering if he would understand. But Taemuk snapped his head the other way—as if he had no interest in such talk. Hoeun’s lower lip puckered, then smoothed, and the woman scooted closer.

“Then, young lord. Since we’re older than you—may we speak informally?”

Footnotes:

• “Egg pancake”: A simple fried-egg sheet cut and served; bibimbap frequently includes egg as a topping in various forms.