The assassins found lodgings through a broker in a newly built three-story building.
The building had three floors, over thirty rooms, and rented for five yuan a day—an ounce and a half of silver a month. It made the leader's heart ache to part with the money.
But once they moved in and saw the clean, gleaming floors and those remarkable glass windows that let the light pour through, the leader found himself thoroughly satisfied with the accommodations.
Worth every coin.
Even His Majesty the Ming Emperor, still holding court in the capital, might never have lived in rooms this bright.
"For a place to be this good, this prosperous—it's no wonder the court managed to limp along for another year, and now seems to be making something of a comeback. This place must have everything to do with it."
"Before we set out, the higher-ups passed along some information. Apparently the man behind all this is someone called Lord Zhao."
"This Lord Zhao seems to be a formidable figure, but no matter how formidable he is, he will die at our hands."
"Scatter everyone to gather intelligence. If we want this to succeed, we must plan carefully first."
"We're not only here to assassinate this Lord Zhao—I intend to lead everyone out of here safely afterward."
"Go." The leader waved his hand. The men withdrew. He turned to the window and gazed out at the scene below, moved despite himself.
What a fine place this is. Everything is thriving and full of life. A pity that it all ends here, at my hands.
Ha ha ha!
The assassins filed out the door. One of them, a broad-shouldered, powerfully built man, walked along the street trying to work out how best to gather information about Lord Zhao.
Suddenly someone grabbed him by the arm. His heart lurched—had they been exposed already?
He was just reaching for the dagger tucked inside his coat when he heard a voice say, "Brother, just arrived in Longcheng, have you? Found any work yet?"
He let out a slow breath. A false alarm.
The assassin put on a simple, guileless expression. "Yeah, I'm from out of town, just got here. Work can wait—I'm still getting my bearings."
"How can it wait? Money's lying all over the ground here—now that you've come, you'd better start picking it up!"
"What's that saying again? Right—time waits for no man!"
"Tell you what, brother, you've got a solid build on you. How does two-twenty a day sound? Paid daily—work done, money in hand!"
Two-twenty? Going by what they'd explained at the city gate, that was twenty-two wen.
Which meant over six hundred wen a month—more than half a tael of silver.
And over a year? Seven or eight taels?
The assassin hesitated.
"Heh, caught your eye, didn't it? That's Longcheng for you! Stop dithering—come on, let's go, time to earn it!"
And just like that, the assassin was hauled off by the employer and spent the entire day hauling loads.
His body was hard and strong; none of it wore him out. He got through the day with ease.
He'd expected that wages this high would mean brutal work. It turned out not to be difficult at all.
The employer was decent as well—if anyone grew tired, they had only to say so, and a rest was never begrudged.
And they were knocking off already? The sun hadn't even set.
If he could find another job for the evening hours, that would be something else entirely.
"Brother, what a frame on you—you moved more than anyone today. I underestimated you. Come back tomorrow and I'll give you two-fifty a day!"
Two-fifty. What would that come to in a month? In a year?
Before the assassin could finish calculating, a coarse-grain flatbread appeared right in front of him. Traitorously, he swallowed.
"I had someone bring supper over. Nothing fancy, but it'll fill your belly. Come on everyone, don't stand on ceremony."
Amid a chorus of "Thank you, boss," the assassin joined the others and ate.
Heaven and earth are great, but a meal is greater still—and when the food is free, who turns it down?
Besides, was this really the boss being modest? He called this nothing fancy?
Coarse-grain flatbread with no wild greens mixed in, paired with salted vegetables—that was perfectly decent.
By the going prices: a jin of coarse grain cost three fen. The boss's wife had made the food herself; with the salted vegetables, it came to maybe just over one fen per person.
He was already paying more than two yuan a day in wages. Throwing in another fen or so wasn't much at all—and these men, having eaten his food, would work their hearts out for him without a second thought.
The boss was cleaning up.
Perhaps you all think you've come out ahead, but the boss never loses.
The assassin savored the lingering taste of the flatbread on his way back to their lodgings. Most of the others had already returned.
He had barely stepped inside when a scream rang out from upstairs. He jumped, and quickly asked one of the junior leaders what had happened.
"Bah—two blockheads went out today and spent the whole time working instead of gathering intelligence. Came back without a scrap of information. The leader's furious."
The assassin shuddered. Bad. He couldn't let anyone find out he'd spent the day working too, or the leader might very well beat him to death.
"Speaking of which—what did you turn up today?"
"I did, I did. Well, wages here are very high. The better-paid ones can earn twenty or thirty wen a day. Bribing people with money probably won't be easy."
"Right, matches what I found. It's not hard for a common laborer to clear twenty wen a day. The ones fitting those glass windows have it especially good—light work, thirty wen at minimum, and even when they're still in training they get— ahem. Anything else?"
As they talked, two of the remaining three stragglers finally came in, faces flushed with excitement, shouting about how high the wages here were, how much money they'd made today—
And then they looked up and met the leader's death stare as he descended the stairs.
The last man did not return until very late that night.
Whether he had simply gotten lost, or lost himself in Longcheng's magnificent wages, no one could say.
The next day, the leader sent everyone out to gather intelligence again—there was nothing else for it; they couldn't simply stay indoors.
This was, of course, excluding the few who remained behind nursing their injuries.
The assassin walked along and, without quite meaning to, found himself back at yesterday's spot.
"Brother, you came! Hurry over—there's porridge. Anyone who shows up at this hour gets some."
"Ah, don't be shy now—here, drink up."
The assassin was pressed into taking a bowl. He lifted it and drank.
My. This porridge was thick. And fragrant.
The boss had said two-fifty a day. Now what did that work out to over a year?