A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park

be bound for Ch'ulp'o and then the district of Kangjin, a pottery region farther to the south.
    Ch'ulp'o and Kangjin! The two destinations could mean only one thing: The royal emissary was on a tour to assign pottery commissions for the palace!
    The men drank and the boys milled about, all speculating as to how many commissions would be assigned. Nervous, fearful, impassive, serene—whatever the individual's nature, hope shouted from the face of every man, though not one spoke of his desire.
    Tree-ear saw Kang in a corner of the wine shop, sitting with his legs outstretched and his hands behind his head. Listening, saying little, his eyes half-closed and a half-smile on his face, Kang looked like nothing so much as a man with a secret.
    ***
    That night Tree-ear tossed about, restlessly awake. He and Crane-man were living under the bridge again. He stared at the underside of the bridge, rolled onto his stomach, then onto his side.
    Finally, Crane-man poked him. "What demon scratches under your skin tonight?" he asked crossly. "It seems intent on keeping us both from slumber."
    Tree-ear sat up, pulled his knees close, and wrapped his arms around them for warmth. "A question-demon," he said.
    Crane-man sat up, too. "Well, let us hear it, then. Perhaps if the question is asked and answered, the demon will leave you in peace—and I will be able to sleep."
    Tree-ear spoke slowly. "It is a question about stealing." He paused, started to speak, stopped again. Finally, "Is it stealing to take from another something that cannot be held in your hands?"
    "Ah! Not a mere question but a riddle-question, at that. What is this thing that cannot be held?"
    "A—an idea. A way of doing something."
    "A better way than others now use."
    "Yes. A new way, one that could lead to great honor."
    Crane-man lay back down again. He was silent for so long that Tree-ear thought he had fallen asleep. Tree-ear sighed and lay down himself, thinking, thinking.
    Min's work was far superior to Kang's. Everyone in Ch'ulp'o knew this, and Tree-ear had seen it for himself. Kang's work was skillful enough, his vessels well-shaped and his glaze a fine color. But he lacked patience.
    Firing—the final step in the process that determined the color of the celadon—was handled well by no man. Try as the potters might, the wood in the kiln never burned the same way twice. The length of time a vessel was fired, its position in the kiln, the number of other pieces fired with it, even the way the wind blew that day—a thousand factors could affect the final color of the glaze.
    So when Min made a special piece, he prepared not one but several, sometimes as many as ten. Identical when they entered the kiln, they would emerge in slightly different colors. If all went well, one or two might glow with the desired translucent green; others would be duller or less clear. Worst of all, some of the pieces often had brown spots here and there, or even an overall tinge of brown, spoiling the purity of the glaze. No one knew why this happened, so making several identical pieces was the best safeguard to ensure that at least one would fire to an un-flawed celadon green.
    Not only was his work slow to begin with, but Min made more replicas than any other potter. Kang's pieces lacked Min's attention to detail in the making as well as his caution in the firing. The untrained eye might see little difference between the work of the two men—but in Ch'ulp'o, every eye was trained.
    And, Tree-ear was sure, the emissary's eye would be equally sharp. The palace would send only an expert—a true connoisseur—to handle the task of commissioning work. This idea of Kang's, the use of the red and white slip ... could it be of such newness and beauty that it would mean a commission? If that were indeed the case, Tree-ear had no doubt that Min could use the process to far better effect.
    But Min did not know about it. And therein lived the question-demon: If Tree-ear