Leave of Absence Notice

Chapter 17: The Beggar Horseman

The street of weapon shops was not very long. After all, situated by the Eastern Sea, it seemed distant from war—at least, this was not a center of conflict. The wealthy here preferred to spend lavishly on fine collectibles for the sake of elegance, while common folk were more inclined to purchase a few pieces for the sake of security in their everyday lives. Few actually bought weapons, so there were not many shops selling them.

Yan was unlike Wei. In Wei, military training began in early childhood, with a belief instilled that the Wei were a superior people. Their passion for arms and fine horses was unmatched by any other land.

At the end of this street was an open space where idlers usually gathered to chat and boast. Beneath the shade of several towering trees, groups often sat together, and small vendors who could not afford a storefront would squat here, selling their wares. Usually, the yamen officers left them alone, knowing there was little profit to be wrung from these humble traders.

When Han Qing led Han Mo there, they saw a crowd already gathered under a large tree. Three or four people had formed a large circle, from within which came the piercing cry of a steed—powerful and resonant. Han Mo could tell just from the sound that it was a fine horse.

The onlookers occasionally burst out in praise, their admiration spontaneous and genuine. This puzzled Han Mo, who wondered what spectacle awaited within.

Relying on his robust frame, honed over more than a decade, Han Qing easily cleared a path for Han Mo. As Han Mo squeezed inside, he saw a man performing equestrian feats in the center of the crowd.

The steed’s mane was thick, its coat glossy black, its body tall and muscular. Leaping nimbly about its back was a slight, wiry youth of twenty-three or four, his skin dark and rough—clearly from a poor family. His tattered clothes were the sort only beggars would wear in Donghai City—filthy and in shreds.

Yet this scruffy beggar's horsemanship was astonishing. Under his command, the steed executed all manner of difficult maneuvers, some almost unimaginable. At one point, he hung upside-down from the horse’s neck, staring it in the eye, causing the crowd to erupt in laughter and applause.

Han Mo rarely felt admiration for others; only those with true skill in a particular craft could win his respect. But this beggar with his extraordinary equestrian skills moved Han Mo to join the applause.

Just as the crowd gasped at another dazzling feat, the beggar suddenly reined in the horse and, with a graceful flip, landed on the ground. He cupped his hands to the onlookers in thanks.

Han Mo now got a clear view of the beggar’s face—a sharp, angular visage devoid of expression, as cold and unyielding as stone. Even the deep black eyes betrayed no emotion, giving an almost chilling impression.

Han Mo expected the beggar to deliver a speech seeking donations, but instead, the man seemed awkward with words. With a silent bow, he picked up a battered bamboo hat and went around the crowd, his manner stiff yet faintly hopeful, wishing for a few coins as reward.

People loved a spectacle, but when it came time to part with their money, they scattered. Scarcely had the beggar lifted his hat when many melted away. By the time he extended his hat for alms, the crowd’s earlier excitement had faded; after all, the people of Donghai were far from wealthy, loath to spend even on themselves, let alone reward street performers.

After making a round, the beggar collected only a handful of copper coins.

“A horse trainer, how much for your horse?” a well-dressed young man called out. “Name your price—I'll buy it.”

The beggar’s face remained impassive as he shook his head, then continued his silent round until he stood before Han Mo, holding out his hat.

His skin was not only dark but tinged with sallow, his frame thin and undernourished, his forehead slightly protruding—a plain face, the kind that would go unnoticed in a crowd.

Han Mo smiled and asked, “You’re a grown man with real skills—don’t you feel it shames your dignity to beg for coins by performing in the street?”

The beggar glanced at Han Mo, his voice cold as ice. “I earn my pay with honest work. There’s no shame in that.”

“Well said!” Han Mo grinned. “Interesting, very interesting.” He reached for his money but remembered he had just given all his silver to Manager Han. Turning to Han Qing, he said, “How much silver do you have? Give it all to him.”

Han Qing was taken aback, but quickly produced a small piece of silver. “Young master, this is all I have,” he said, dropping it in the beggar’s hat.

The beggar said nothing more, but his gaze lingered a moment on the staff in Han Mo’s hand, an eyebrow twitching slightly, before he turned and walked away.

“Young master, why give him so much?” Han Qing whispered.

Han Mo stroked his chin. “The man has backbone. To have fallen so low, he must have met with misfortune. A tael of silver may help him. Besides…” He was already considering whether to bring this beggar back to the estate. Such a master horseman was rare indeed—having him teach riding and horsemanship would be an excellent idea.

He was about to invite the beggar to a tavern when someone shouted behind him, “Captain Huang is coming!”

The crowd scattered at once. The throng that had been packed tight was now reduced to a few stragglers.

A cold smile curled Han Mo’s lips. Captain Huang was a chief constable of the Donghai Prefecture, a trusted confidant of Magistrate Xiao Muzan, brought here from the capital when Xiao took office.

Han Mo tugged Han Qing’s sleeve and they stepped behind a tree, peering out into the distance. There, Captain Huang approached in his black uniform, flanked by three or four constables wielding cudgels.

A kindly soul in the crowd whispered to the beggar, “Horse trainer, best ride away quickly. Soon it’ll be too late to escape.”

The beggar was gathering his belongings. Hearing the warning, he turned and gave the man a rare, gentle smile, softening his usual icy countenance.

As the beggar finished packing, Captain Huang and his men arrived and immediately surrounded him, grinning slyly.

Captain Huang, knife at his belt, swaggered forward, eyes fixed greedily on the fine steed. He was no stranger to quality—one glance told him this horse was a purebred Wei stallion, among the finest, swift and strong. Even sold cheaply at market, it would fetch two or three hundred taels of silver—a true treasure.

“Where are you from?” Captain Huang asked, eyeing the beggar.

The beggar replied, his face stony as ever, “Wei.”

“I knew it!” Captain Huang sneered. “Only Wei folk wear boots like those.”

The beggar’s boots were indeed tattered, but unlike those worn in Yan—higher and deeper, the most distinctive feature was the curved crescent at the heel, beautiful in its way.

Captain Huang looked the beggar up and down. “What brings you to Donghai Prefecture?”

“To make a living.”

“To make a living?” Captain Huang sneered. “Can’t survive in Wei anymore?”

The beggar lifted his head, brow furrowing slightly. “Sir, have I broken any law of Yan?”

Captain Huang gripped his knife hilt, voice turning cold. “A Wei man, dressed in rags yet owning a fine horse—what are you doing in Donghai? Perhaps you’re a Wei spy? I’ve heard of a Wei agency called the Black Banner. Their agents are everywhere, gathering intelligence, sowing disorder. I think you’re one of them.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, but that’s not for you to say.” Captain Huang reached for the horse’s reins. “Come with us to the yamen. If you’re innocent, you can explain to the magistrate.”

He had not yet touched the reins when the horse snorted and reared, forehooves lashing out at him.

Startled, Captain Huang rolled aside—luckily, he was quick, or the steed’s hooves might have killed him. But the ground was muddy after the rain, and his clothes were soon caked in filth, leaving him utterly disgraced.

“Damn you!” Captain Huang roared. “Men, beat this Wei dog!”

The constables answered at once, rushing the beggar with raised cudgels. Yet the beggar stood motionless, like a stone, making no move to defend himself as blow after blow rained down. After a few strikes, blood was already streaming from his forehead.

“Young master!” Han Qing clenched his fists, about to intervene, but Han Mo caught his arm. “Wait a moment,” he murmured. “I want to see just how much endurance this fellow has.”