The Ten Remaining Silver Coins Stayed by Han Seorin's Pillow All Night

The remaining ten silver coins stayed by Han Seorin's pillow all night.

She hadn't slept badly because of thieves. She'd agreed to release the money once the workshop's copied contract arrived. If it didn't come, she could keep the silver. But that meant the gate's guns and the telegraph equipment would fall further behind.

When the first bell of dawn rang, Seokbeom came in carrying three sheets of paper.

"The representatives made changes."

Seorin took the paper before the bag of silver. The wage table she'd written the day before was covered in ink marks. One line had become two, and different handwriting overlapped in the blank spaces.

Night wages. Cooling time after the fire was put out. Base pay during work stoppages. Carrying costs for taking an injured person to the doctor.

Seorin put her finger on the first line.

"When does night start?"

"After the second evening bell."

"Who confirms it?"

"The fire keeper and the apprentice representative write it down together."

"Do you get paid no matter how many times work stops?"

Seokbeom's face hardened.

"So you want us to work until we're hurt?"

"I mean someone could fake a stoppage to fill a whole day."

"You wrote yesterday that the representatives would review that."

Seorin set the paper down. The apprentice remembered the contract she'd made more precisely than she did.

Twelve workers waited in the yard. The master craftsman's representative, Seokbeom, and the transport representative stood at the front, and the fourteen year old bellows boy stood beside them instead of behind. The burn on the back of his hand was wrapped in cloth.

"Who added the night wage?" Seorin asked.

Seven hands went up.

"Why didn't you say this yesterday?"

The middle aged craftsman answered.

"Yesterday we only talked about whether our measurements would be taken away. Now that we're told to finish by tonight, a night rate became necessary."

Seorin looked at the army supply officer.

"When was the condition of finishing by tonight added?"

"After the gate repair quantity was recounted."

"You changed the delivery date after the contract and left the wage the same."

The officer held out an official document.

"This is a military order."

Seorin didn't take it.

"An order doesn't light the night. Who provides the charcoal and the people?"

This time the workers didn't laugh. They already knew the answer to that question was their own bodies.

Seorin wrote a proposal adding half the daytime rate for every two hour watch of night work. The craftsman demanded double, and the officer said he couldn't give a single coin. The bellows boy cut in with a small voice.

"We wait even after the fire's out."

"How long?"

"Until the iron cools enough to move by hand."

The wage table only accounted for time spent swinging a hammer. There was no time for putting out the fire and watching over the heated iron as it cooled. Seorin created a column for "safety cooling" after "last strike." Night wages applied from the second evening bell through the cooling confirmation.

The officer spoke.

"Then people will deliberately let it cool slowly."

Baek Mujeong brought a cold test piece and one that was still glowing red.

"Same iron, same thickness. Cooling time is fixed."

"It's different for every workshop."

"That's why we measure the first three."

Seorin had them time the first three actual cooling periods and use the middle value as a provisional standard. If it took longer, the reason had to be written down. If it took less, the wage wasn't cut.

Over the work stoppage pay, Seorin and the workers clashed harder.

"Give us the full rate from the moment the fire is put out," Seokbeom said.

"If we're stopped for three days without finding the cause, my silver won't last even one."

"If someone's hurt, the doctor's fee costs more."

"So the first two hour watch is full pay. After that, the three representatives keep choosing between stoppage and switching to other work."

The master craftsman's representative asked.

"What if there's no other work?"

"Half pay, and the army supply office, the workshop, and the trading house each write down the reason work stopped."

No one was satisfied. Seokbeom didn't cross out the full pay line, but left a mark of objection beside it. Seorin didn't tell him to erase it either. The agreed rate and the workers' demand stayed on the same page.

It was then that a messenger from the inspection office entered the yard. The folded paper had no seal, and the outside read "Not an order." It was Yun Haejun's handwriting.

The army supply officer reached out first. The messenger handed the paper to Seorin instead.

"By military order, the remaining silver belonging to Han Seorin will not be requisitioned."

That was the first line.

The second line said the contract terms should be posted outside the workshop door, and turned over to an open review where the craftsmen, apprentices, transporters, army supply office, and trading house could each revise their objection column. Haejun's own vote was not included.

The last part was a question.

"Who signs for the condition of not releasing the remaining money, and for the loss that follows?"

Seorin read the paper twice. The line about no requisition protected her own money. The open review exposed her prices and her limits to rival trading houses and other offices. Protection and exposure sat on the same page.

"That's a good intention," the officer said.

"Good intentions don't attach to an invoice."

Seorin didn't smile. Haejun had accepted her objection, but he had turned that objection into a public price. He hadn't asked beforehand. The very method meant to prove trust had once again decided her choice for her, ahead of time.

She wrote beneath the paper.

"I accept the refusal to requisition. The scope of disclosure is decided not only by those who paid, but by those whose names are on the wage table."

She added her own losses too. If she released more of the remaining ten silver coins, three dock cart wheel replacements this month would fall behind on credit. The trading house porters' payment date would be delayed by five days. Helping the workshop while hiding those numbers would mean quietly shifting away another worker's share.

Seokbeom was reading the paper when he asked.

"How much does the trading house profit?"

Seorin's hand stopped.

"That's a ledger unrelated to this contract."

"You wrote that we should disclose losses."

"I meant the money coming into and out of the workshop."

"You're delaying the dock wages, but you don't write down the money the docks earn?"

The eyes in the yard gathered on her. Seorin had proposed making the contract public, but she still held her own trading house ledger against her chest like collateral. The reason she'd disliked Haejun's method of handing things to open review was the same reason. She was afraid of someone else's hand reaching further into her ledger than her own authority to decide.

"If I open everything, the credit accounts and shipping routes of my business partners come out too."

"Our measurements are also how we make a living with our partners," the master craftsman's representative said.

The same words came back at her. Seorin wanted to offer an alternative right away. She'd thought explaining why something couldn't be disclosed, in terms of price, would settle it. But the people of the workshop were asking who would confirm that price.

She didn't hand over the trading house's original ledger. Instead, she had three pages copied out, the silver tied to this workshop, the dock cart credit, and the porters' payment date. The transport representative and Seokbeom were put in charge of checking the copies against the original, with the names of business partners blacked out but the amounts and dates left visible.

Seokbeom asked again.

"If we find an error, can we fix it?"

"Only numbers that differ from the original. You don't have the right to decide my other transactions."

"We never gave you the right to decide processes outside our own measurements either."

Instead of answering, Seorin drew one more correction column. She didn't feel any rise in trust. If anything, now that everyone had seen where the threshold of her own ledger stood, the boundary felt sharper than before.

The transport representative in the yard revised the objection column first.

"Don't delay the dock wages by five days. Only three nights of workshop overtime."

Seokbeom wrote beneath it.

"After three days, report the completed quantity and any accidents, then vote again."

The master craftsman's representative wrote that part of the process fee would be redirected to the first three nights' wages, but not lowered below half of the new tool reserve fund. The bellows boy added beside his own name, "No going home before cooling is confirmed counts as night work."

The wage table Seorin had made had become hard to read. But it was clear who had changed which price.

The army supply officer finally wrote something too.

"For three days, the gate repair requirement drops from ten to six. The full return of comparison rifles happens at the first shift after sunrise."

Mujeong shook his head.

"We won't know about six until after the test."

"Then how many?"

"Three with the first jig. Ten round trips. Then three more."

Seorin changed the completion promise from six to "up to six, pending inspection." The officer swallowed his complaint but signed.

Three copies of the workers' contract were made. One went to the workshop wall, one to the box held by the three representatives, and one to Seorin's trading house ledger chest. The first line of the accident compensation ledger recorded the bellows boy's name, the date of his burn, the treatment cost, and fifty days' wages.

The conditions were filled in.

Seorin took out the remaining ten silver coins. She didn't put all of it in the box. She counted out three nights' wages, the treatment cost, and the carrying share first and put them into separate envelopes. The rest went into the new tool reserve fund, behind three locks.

Seokbeom checked the third lock.

"Can we start now?"

Seorin pointed to the payment time in the ledger.

"Whoever receives it signs first."

The fourteen year old put his hand on the treatment envelope, then stopped. He couldn't write. When the transport representative tried to write the name for him, the boy took the ink instead and pressed his fingerprint down. It was his right hand, the one without the burn.

Only then did the fire rise in the bellows.

The first jig was an iron frame meant to hold the groove angle and screw length of the provisional standard weapon steady in the same position. Mujeong fixed the base of the jig to the workbench and tested whether the screws would twist crooked even if the apprentices applied different hand pressure.

Seokbeom clamped the first iron rod in place. He turned the handle half a turn and applied oil. Mujeong didn't touch it.

The first screw fit. Even after ten round trips, the ink line didn't shift.

A small cheer rose in the yard. Instead of cheering, Seorin wrote down the time. One piece, faster than a two hour watch. No defects. Before night.

The second one also passed. The end of the third iron rod was slightly thicker. Seokbeom tried to tighten the jig's wedge further.

"Stop," Mujeong said.

Seokbeom's hand had already applied force to the handle.

A thin crack spread across the jig's side plate. Pressure marks from the first test had been hiding under the oil. A craftsman picked up a hammer to loosen the wedge.

"Red tag!" the bellows boy shouted.

Before the hammer came down, the side plate shattered.

The iron wedge flew and pinned Seokbeom's left hand against the edge of the workbench. The sound of the bone breaking was quieter than a hammer blow. Instead of screaming, Seokbeom drew in a breath. His second finger was bent back toward the back of his hand.

Mujeong kicked the jig away.

"Kill the fire!"

The bellows boy hung the red tag. He didn't wait for anyone's permission.

Seorin opened the accident compensation ledger she'd just started. The second line was empty.

While she wrote down Seokbeom's name, the broken side plate of the first jig fell beneath the workbench.

Of the six pieces due to be finished, only two had passed.

The standardization schedule stopped right there.