Candle to the Devil Chapter 11

The Joseon court had often been divided around political issues and ruling power. These sides changed as new competitors came and went, but the No-rons and So-rons, respectively, were known as the two largest contenders for control of the court.

With the introduction of the Western parliamentary system these two great powers shifted. While once they had been held in the grip of China and one side curried favor while the other demanded separation and independence, these views simply changed “China” with “the West”--which translated most often to Great Britain.

            

One side, the So-rons, supported the Emperor and were often staunch defenders of Korean independence from Great Britain. They called for a Joseon run and funded railway system and more autonomy for the Emperor over international affairs. More radical members wanted a complete break from the West and called for the severe isolationism that Japan had adopted early on in the Afflicted Era. Some took it further still and wished to purge Joseon of all Western influences.

           

The No-rons supported Western governmental influence within Joseon. They treated the Emperor as a figurehead of the country and symbolic more than judicial. The No-ron side had the support of the notorious Baggerby and Green Railway Company, which gave them a larger presence in court. They embraced the parliamentary system that took power away from the Emperor.

--excerpt from Bungdang: Political Factions in Joseon by Kim Eun Hwang

           

Chapter 11

The Blue Crane, somewhere on the East Sea

Saturday, 11:26am, April 30^th , 1858

The boat swayed and Jongdae moved with it—as did his stomach. He let out a weak curse and bent over his bucket.

Minseok wrinkled his nose in disgust and tried to focus on the book he was reading. It was hard to drown out the sound and smell of Jongdae’s sea sickness.

The captain would come down and complain about the smell, he was certain. The crew had already begun whining about the extra passenger. Somehow Jongdae had spoken to the captain and that had been the end of it. Minseok suspected bribery because the tailcoat that Jongdae had fawned over on their first meeting last night had disappeared.

Minseok was still trying to figure out why he hadn’t gutted the other man like a fish.

“Listen nari, I don’t mean to intrude but I can’t feel my legs.”

Minseok’s eyes narrowed and he dug his knee harder into the other man’s stomach.

Jongdae let out a gasp of pain. “That. That I can feel.” He looked around the room, then back to Minseok, “I really didn’t mean to barge in. It’s just that your room was the closest to the porthole I shimmied into and I don’t want to be found out until after we’ve set sail. The crew here seems less likely to through me into the coean than they are to give me to the brutish masses waiting for me out there.”

“Who are you?” It was obvious from the way the man talked that he was educated. His western clothing looked tailored. Ostentatious. New money? Or a merchant? He’d probably cheated the wrong people out of some money or had fallen back on some debts. Minseok had no time to deal with someone like that.

“You don’t seem to understand how hard it is to climb the underside of a gangplank, do you?”

“Who are you?”Minseok repeated, hoping that the dagger he now held at the other man’s throat would be a sign that he didn’t have time for jokes.

Jongdae swallowed, and the cool blade pressed against his adam’s apple. This wasn’t exactly how he’d planned this evening going, or his great escape panning out. And really, he’d worked so hard. He’d almost torn his waistcoat three different times climbing across the ship’s hull to the porthole he’d slipped through.

And now he was lying on the ground with another man’s knee in his stomach and a knife at his throat. “I don’t believe any answer I give you is going to keep you from putting that knife in me.”

“Try me.” Well, that wasn’t entirely a lie. Most likely this man was a spy from the palace. Or one of Lord Oh’s hired men. And so whatever he told him, Minseok was unlikely to take it as anything but a farce.

“I am Kim Jongdae of the Haeju Weekly Press.” Jongdae held up a jade talisman, “And it seems like you’re from the palace, am I right?”

Minseok reached into his hanbok and his hand came out empty. “How did you…?’ He grabbed for the seal. Jongdae handed it over to him readily.

“If you are who you say you are then it will be easy to confirm.” Minseok stood, but kept his blade out. “I can have a runner sent to this Haeju Weekly Press to discover the truth or falsity of your words.”

“You could. But at the moment a large group of people on shore are waiting for me so that they can fillet me alive and it seems to me that the boat will be leaving shortly. And you look like you’re in a hurry, General Inspector.”

Minseok’s eyes narrowed. So this man had not only grabbed the official seal given to him by the emperor but he’d read it in that moment as well? He had to be a spy.

“You will be getting off this boat. And you will not tell anyone you saw me.”

“If I get off this boat I will die.” Jongdae replied readily, and his smile had become considerably less warm. “So staying right here is looking like a better option.”

“I could always kill you and dump your body overboard once we get out to sea.” Minseok answered back.

“I guess that’s always an option.” Jongdae nodded, looking around the room slowly. “But there is half a room between us and by the time you cross it I can announce to everyone on board this smuggler’s vessel that there is a General Inspector from the palace here.”

He was an intelligent, manipulative ass, Minseok would give him that. Minseok took Jongdae’s sea sickness as a small victory.

 “…how…on earth…are you able to eat?” Jongdae groaned, staring at the orange that Minseok was peeling.

Minseok huffed, but didn’t elaborate as he took a bite. He didn’t agree with Jongdae’s presence and he wouldn’t suffer it any more than he had to. Once they arrived in Hong Kong he’d be free of him anyway.

“You don’t look like a palace guard.”

Minseok blinked and glanced at the other man. Jongdae had propped himself up against the side of the wall with the bucket in his lap and was watching him intently, head cocked to the side.

“And what exactly is a General Inspector doing on a boat heading to China?”

“If you say that aloud one more time I will kill you, deal or no.” Minseok grumbled.

Jongdae cracked a wry smile. “Well? It can’t be that you’re working for a corrupt individual in smuggling goods to China. You were too terrified when I threatened to expose you. If this had been your crew it wouldn’t have mattered. Which means you’re going undercover. And undercover agents heading to China could only mean one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“The emperor wants to know why there’s such a large influx of Chinese immigrants.” Jongdae assessed, and watched Minseok stiffen slightly.

“And he wouldn’t let just anyone take on this task. Though why he sent a eunuch is beyond me.”

“A—what?” Minseok sputtered, cheeks flushing, “I am not a eunuch!”
            “Really? I thought, well, with your face and all…” Jongdae shrugged, then his smile twisted into a grimace and he bent back of his bucket. He resurfaced a minute later, breathing heavily. “I might get a story out of this fiasco yet.”

The Silver Fox, Hanseong

Saturday, 1:45pm, April 30^th , 1858

“I expected you wanted a house for your wife and children—or at least a mistress. Not friends.” Jongin sighed. “You are boring, doctor Do.”

Kyungsoo scoffed. “And what about you? You seem to have an awful lot of free time to be spending with me.”

Jongin gave a half smile. “Wives and mistresses are expensive, doctor. My accounts couldn’t take the strain.”

Kyungsoo leaned forward, “I am quite convinced all of your money goes to new coats and your incorrigible tea addiction.”

Jongin held up his cup with a smirk. They drank in comfortable silence for a few moments before their food arrived. Kyungsoo was a bit wary when Jongin had insisted on the steak tartare. He didn’t quite trust Korean chefs to pull off the dish. But it looked fine enough. “Thank you.”

“This kind of meal deserves wine.” Jongin announced.

“And who is paying for that?” Kyungsoo asked cautiously, though he was fairly certain he already knew the answer.

“This is a celebration of you finding a home, and all thanks to me. Of course you’re paying.” He turned to the waiter. “One bottle of Chateau Margaux.”

“I have a lecture in a few hours.” Kyungsoo sighed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll drink enough for both of us.”

“I’m sure you will.” Kyungsoo muttered. He took a bite of his food and paused, “This is actually quite good.”

Jongin leaned back in his chair and watched Kyungsoo through heavy-lidded eyes. “What kind of friends are they?”

To call all of them friends would be a lie. Chanyeol was his only friend among the group. Zitao and Yixing, the Chinese brothers, were his employees. And Baekhyun? Well, he was simply an outlier. One of Jongdae’s. But it seemed too absurd to explain and not the kind of thing one explained in the first place.

“Reliable ones.” He settled on, leaning back in his chair. “The kind of friends one needs in this city.”

“I’m hurt, do you mean I’m unreliable?”

“I don’t even know how to contact you. You appear whenever you please.” Kyungsoo pointed out with a laugh. “You are the epitome of unreliability.”

“I take high offense to that.”

“I take high offense to your use of my bank accounts.” Though Kyungsoo didn’t really mean it. It was refreshing. Chanyeol, as cheerful and easygoing as he was, had a very strict set of rules for the two and one of them involved not allowing Kyungsoo to buy him things. Maybe it was his pride of maybe it was part of his inbred behavior from their class difference.

Jongin, it seemed, had no pride. Or he didn’t see mooching off of Kyungsoo as a blow to it.

“If I didn’t spend your money no one would.” Jongin offered, taking the bottle of wine that the waiter handed them and pouring himself a generous glass. “You seem like the type that hordes it all away.”

“You never know when you might need it.” Kyungsoo countered. “And I spent quite a hefty sum on that home and furnishings.” And the equipment for the basement. But the less people that knew what he’d procured the better. It wasn’t exactly the equipment needed for an independent medical practice, and tongues would wag and people would question. He didn’t need anyone asking questions.

“I always need it. So that I can buy things.” Jongin threw his arms out wide, gesturing to the restaurant. “What is the point in saving up and letting it rot? Live a little, Doctor Do. I assure you, it’s exhilarating.”

Kyungsoo didn’t think debtor’s prison sounded very exhilarating, but he’d keep his opinions to himself. And Jongin, despite his apparent penchant for spending, did not seem in dire need of the necessities in life. He was well fed, well dressed, and well-learned. That was more than half of Hanseong could say for themselves.

“Here’s to Doctor Do,” Jongin tipped his empty glass in mock toast. “May your coffers be ever full so that I may benefit.”

“Your cup is empty.” Kyungsoo muttered.

“So it is.” Jongin smiled, his eyes never leaving Kyungsoo’s face, “I should remedy that."

Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong

Saturday, 3:12pm, April 30^th , 1858

            The house was quite barren, though that was to be expected. No one had lived here for quite a while. Doctor Do had made sure the beds were clean and the pantry was stocked for their convenience. Their current job was to clean until Doctor Do’s new furniture arrived.

            Before they’d come to Joseon, Yixing and Zitao had never done hard labor, let alone housework. Zitao was a little bewildered but Yixing had gone to work with a stout resoluteness. He’d always been that way. He’d never complained about anything. Zitao couldn’t remember a time when Yixing argued or complained about his lot in life.

            Zitao had always been the one to complain—to the wet nurse, to the maids, even once to Yixing—but he’d felt ashamed at watching his brother accept everything so easily. He didn’t like being seen as childish.

            But he also wasn’t sure why they were accepting all of this so easily.

            The first rooms they’d worked on had been their own. With so little furniture there wasn’t much to move. They’d scrubbed the walls and floors by noon. At around two, while they worked on the main entryway, Chanyeol came by to check on them. Baekhyun was nowhere to be seen. With their limited Korean Yixing could not find the words to ask why. He and Zitao knew full well that Baekhyun held little love for them. Saving his life hadn’t changed much.

            It irritated Zitao, though his brother did not seem to mind.

            The entirety of the day had been spent in silence, a tension building as Yixing hummed to himself and Zitao threw dirty rags into buckets of water with more force than was needed. The house was too big and too quiet and Yixing’s humming buzzed in his ears.

            “We should leave.” He finally spoke, staring down at the murky water he’d been carrying around all day. “We can leave.”

            “We could leave.” Yixing nodded, “But we wouldn’t survive, not here. They don’t want us here. Did you see the people in the streets Zitao?”

            Zitao swallowed. “I don’t care.” He was whining again, and he imagined the strained look on his brother’s face even as he looked down at his own reflected back at him. He had killed monsters to survive, he could kill the ones in human skins as well. He didn’t want to. He was afraid of killing and death. But he was more afraid of losing his brother.

            And losing who they had been.

            He had never been happy as a child but he had known who he was. It had been a solid thing. Zhang Zitao of Zhang Manor, unwanted second son of Zhang Jiang. But what was he here? A faceless Chinese refugee fighting for survival. No one here identified him by his name. It was his nationality they saw—the only thing they saw—and it filled them with hate.

            That made him angry. Angrier than it made him scared.

            He hated how Yixing just let it all go. Even when they had left Uncle Zhou, he’d acted the same way. He’d accepted everything without question. He hadn’t cried after their father had died. He’d held Zitao’s hand tightly and watching with solemn eyes as Uncle Zhou explained that they would be living with him now.

            He hated how Yixing accepted their lot in life. This wasn’t some predestined fate. This was injustice and Zitao wouldn’t stand for it. His pride wouldn’t stand for it.

            “What do you want to do then?” Yixing asked softly. “You want to leave? Where would we go? We would betray Do Kyungsoo, who gave us shelter. He kept us alive.”

            “I kept us alive!” Zitao snapped back. “In the Deadlands that was me, not him.”

            “Are you going to walk down the streets of Hanseong crushing skulls with a sledgehammer? That won’t help us here.”

            “Then what do we do? It’s all I know how to do. It’s what Uncle Zhou taught us. Why do you hate it so much?” Zitao glared at the water and finally couldn’t stand his own reflection anymore. He kicked the bucket and it tipped over, rolling to the far side of the room and emptying its contents in a murky brown wave.

            There was a moment of silence, punctuated by water dripping off the bucket handle to the puddle beneath it.

            “There’s been so much death already.” Yixing murmured softly, “Why are you so eager for more?”

            “I just want to be useful.”

            “You are.” Yixing reached over and grabbed his hand. It was wet and soapy and their fingers slid against each other and their palms squelched. “To me. You are.” He was the only thing that kept Yixing alive, some days. Not because he protected him, but because he gave him a purpose. And he reminded him—always reminded him—that Yixing had once been filled with so much hate he had almost let his little brother die. And even if he despised that memory, it was needed.

            Because this world was full of people that sacrificed others out of hate and fear and jealousy.

            Yixing just wanted to prove that not everyone was the same. There were good people too. Like Doctor Do and Park Chanyeol. They existed.

            They had to exist. Because of they didn’t, what was the point in living in this world to begin with?

Sunkyungkwan University, Hanseong

Saturday, 4:45pm, April 30^th , 1858

            “There is no one set voltage that works with all biomechanical limbs. Different metals possess different conductivities and therefore, different voltages are needed for the same affect. Not only are metals important, but the insulators that keep the electrical current fluid within the wires and away from the rest of the body are also taken into account before any voltage is then given to the new limb.Our last lecture was on the conductivity of a certain set of metals. I hope all of you took extensive notes because tomorrow there will be a quiz.”

            There was a collective groan from the students and Kyungsoo smiled to himself. “Flesh conductivity is a very difficult premise to grasp and I know it was not a topic with which many of you found interest. The Flesh Conductivity Theory is always used hand in hand with the Metal Conductivity formula and Brahmer’s Laws of Insulation and Nerve Conduction.”
           He pulled out a piece of chalk and began writing. “The resistance of a given conductor depends on the material it is made of, and on its dimensions. For a given material, the resistance is inversely proportional to the cross-sectional area.” He glanced back to see if the class was paying attention, and most of them looked entirely confused at the formula he was presenting. Only some of them were writing it down and fewer still seemed interested.
           “for example, a thick copper wire has lower resistance than an otherwise-identical thin copper wire. Also, for a given material, the resistance is proportional to the length; for example, a long copper wire has higher resistance than an otherwise-identical short copper wire. The resistance R and conductance G of a conductor of uniform cross section, therefore, can be computed as
                                                                 

 where is the length of the conductor, measured in metres, A is the cross-section area of the conductor measured in square metres, sigma is the electrical conductivity measured in siemens per meter, and rho is the electrical resistivity of the material, measured in ohm-metres. The resistivity and conductivity are proportionality constants, and therefore depend only on the material the wire is made of, not the geometry of the wire.  Resistivity and conductivity are reciprocals: Resistivity is a measure of the material's ability to oppose electric current.” He placed the chalk down and turned back to the students.   
            “Now, This formula is not exact: It assumes the current density is totally uniform in the conductor, which is not always true in practical situations. However, this formula still provides a good approximation for long thin conductors such as wires. Another situation for which this formula is not exact is with alternating current because the skin effect inhibits current flow near the center of the conductor. We won’t be going into detail with alternating currents because that topic is still under much debate within the scientific community.”
            “Professor.”

Kyungsoo nodded at the hand raised in the back. It was a second-year student—not from the medical department. He had long ago learned which students in the course were there for their own interests. “Yes?”

“This course is supposed to be an introductory level medical lecture. Isn’t this a bit much?” There were murmurs from the other students, a few exchanging looks and nods.

“This is introductory material. Any practitioner of medicine in this day and age memorizes these formulas and theories in their first course. In fact, many of your friends practicing medicine would tell you that they are given entire courses on the conductivity of the nervous system and muscles tissue within the human body. I am giving you a brief outline of what is needed to properly conduct biomechanical surgery.” 

He looked around, “You are all students of Sunkyungkwan, I suspect you have the ability to process this minimal amount of information. I am not asking you to apply this information in a real situation as medical students would be expected to do. You only need to recognize these formulas and understand their purpose.” He gave a small sigh as the class gave another round of protests and held up his hands. “We will end here for today. Your papers are on the end table. Please take them as you leave. Anyone who received less than 50 marks should see me during my office hours.”

The class began to file out, grabbing their papers as they went. Kyungsoo turned his attention to the board and his briefcase. He heard the students leaving, mixed grumbles and excited whispers as their shoes pounding against wood. It didn’t take long for the pounding to cease, and Kyungsoo clicked his briefcase shut with a slow exhale. In two days he’d move into his new home and begin his work. There was much to prepare.

“Professor,” Luhan stepped up as the last student. “My father recently sent me several books of the early Chinese attempts at biomechanical engineering. Would you like to read them?”

            “Professor.”

            Kyungsoo glanced at the young Oh Sehun standing a few feet away.

            Luhan gave a mocking smile. “I believe professor said that those that received low marks were to see him in his office.”

            Sehun’s lips twitched and his eyes narrowed, before he handed a letter to Kyungsoo. “My father wanted to express his thanks for attending our dinner. He wishes you to visit again in two weeks time.”

            “Thank you.” Kyungsoo nodded and took the letter, though he knew it lacked sincerity. He watched Sehun leave the room before he turned back to Luhan, “He isn’t the type of person you should antagonize.”

            “I’m not afraid of him or his father.” Luhan scoffed, “And you shouldn’t be either, Professor. Nothing good comes from fearing shadows.”

            “Perhaps.” Kyungsoo nodded, “But remember, something must cast those shadows, Luhan. Now if you will excuse me, I believe there is a line forming outside my office. If you have a chance I would love to see the books you mentioned.” He gave a tired smile and left the room, briefcase in hand.

            Luhan watched him go with a blank face, eyes hard.

Streets of Hanseong, Hanseong

Saturday, 8:22pm, April 30^th , 1858

            His leg hurt. Every step sent small shocks of pain up his thigh but he gritted his teeth and continued hobbling down the street. Baekhyun reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper that Chanyeol had given him. It was a list of supplies that Jongdae had asked for, though Baekhyun couldn’t read it. He had a feeling that neither could Chanyeol, and that made it a bit easier.

            He’d barely managed to convince Chanyeol that he could do this on his own. He needed to do this. To prove to himself that he could and to try and be useful. His debt hung around his neck like a fishing knoch, pulling him deeper and deeper down until he felt as if he were drowning.

            Downtown Hanseong was bustling with people, the streets cast an eerie shade of orange by the oil lamps that lined them. No one paid him much attention and he liked that. A few noticed his limp but their interest lasted no longer than a blink before they were on their way.

            People wore hanbok here, and Western clothing, in such a gregarious display that his eyes stung.

            “…come on, the show will begin soon!”

            Someone knocked into his shoulder and he almost lost his footing. He managed to steady himself, looking from the woman that had brushed past him to the building at the far end of the street. It was large, well-lit, and a crowd thronged its entrance. He did not need to read the sign above it to know that this was Hanseong’s Opera House.

            When he was younger he’d entertained the idea of joining a theatre troupe. But troupes weren’t paid well, and members were often mistreated. But perhaps Hanseong’s Opera House would pay well…perhaps they had a job for him, one that he could do. He wouldn’t need to rely on Kyungsoo’s pity and Jongdae’s sly smile and Chanyeol’s irritating friendliness.

            But no…

            He swallowed, jaw clenched, and turned to leave. Perhaps he was too much of a coward to leave the life he had now, however dismal it may seem.

            “Excuse me.”

            He blinked, turning to the man in hanbok to his right. His arms were full of red sheets of paper, and he handed one to Baekhyun. Baekhyun pressed it back into his hand and shook his head, “I can’t read.”

            The man grinned, “It’s for the Holang-i.”

            “…Holang-i?”

            The man’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, before his eyes lit with the fervor of a man intent on his passion. “The Holang-i are a group of like-minded men who wish to return Joseon to its former glory. To its rightful place.”

            “What do you mean?” Baekhyun looked around and noticed people positioned all around the street, all handing out red papers and calling out to the crowd.

            “Joseon should belong to Koreans.” The man continued. “If you feel the same, come to the Opera House tomorrow at six.” He motioned toward the large, lit building. “Come and listen, and decide then.”

            Baekhyun found himself forced back into the surging crowd and floundered, lost in the shouts of the Holang-I supporters and the merchants calling their wares. He looked back to the list of supplies in his hand.

            He needed to get back soon.

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[A/N: This chapter took forever, and I'm sorry for that. Though I am more sorry for my readers of my story Bluff because that hasn't been update for even longer. So it is next on the list. Hopefully I can find time to write between work and applying to graduate programs in the UK.]