It’s not my art that’s being sold to foreign collectors, Jebi thought, to ease the traitorous pang that stabbed through their heart. They’d stopped in front of a painting of two hawks circling in a way that evoked the blue-and-red taegeuk yin-yang symbol featured on Hwaguk’s old flag.

  It could be worse, Jebi consoled themself, moving on to the next painting. This one wasn’t, strictly speaking, an artifact. They could almost smell the newness of the paints, in the pastel style that some modern artists preferred. Depicted were shelves and books using the Western innovation called perspective, which had become a fad among some of Jebi’s generation—introduced by Western philosophers visiting both Huang-Guan to the north and the islands of Razan. While the former government of Hwaguk had forbidden Western visitors, the influences had trickled in anyway.

  The unsettling geometrical realism both fascinated Jebi and made them uneasy. Surely what mattered was an artist’s ability to capture the inner spirit of the subject, and not the minutiae of its exterior appearance? At least Hak—who had, in days past, pronounced herself charmed by the technique—wasn’t standing here to argue with them over it.

  I should pay more attention to the important things in life, like food, Jebi thought, shaking their head. They slipped on their shoes and headed back out into the courtyard with its temptation of dishes.

  ON THE THIRD morning of their stay with Hak, Jebi woke early enough to catch her before she left. Hak had already prepared a lunchbox, as she had the previous mornings; when did she sleep? “We’ll celebrate tonight,” Hak said, smiling as she slid the lunchbox across the table to Jebi. “My treat.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” Jebi protested, “not after all your generosity.”

  “Nonsense,” Hak said. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to return the favor in the days to come.” She winked, her eye gleaming fox-amber before returning to its usual brown. “Maybe we can even invite that sister of yours.”

  “Maybe,” Jebi agreed, despite a twinge of resentment. They didn’t want to share their triumph with Bongsunga, even though they owed it to her just as surely as they did to Hak.

  Jebi and Hak headed out together, although their paths diverged after just a couple of blocks. The autumn chill had let up today, although that was only temporary; according to the almanacs issued by the government, the first frost was right around the corner. Jebi had dressed respectably for the occasion, bringing a minimum of necessities. They doubted the Ministry would ask them to start painting on the spot. There was, they’d heard, an orientation period over the course of two weeks.

  Although they’d set out early, a small crowd had gathered around the bulletin board by the time they arrived. Mostly curious onlookers, Jebi figured, since there were easily twice as many people as had taken the exam. Chest tight, Jebi elbowed their way through the crowd so they could get close enough to the bulletin board to read the results.

  ACCEPTED APPLICANTS, said the first sheet, with a list of five names. Jebi read and reread the list with a growing sense of unreality, then the official signature at the bottom of the sheet certifying the results. This can’t be happening.

  Five names, and theirs—Razanei or Hwagugin—wasn’t one of them.

  THREE

  JEBI DIDN’T REMEMBER how they’d ended up at the shabby parlor three buildings south from the One-Armed Warrior. The statue had not lost its limb during the Razanei invasion, as some claimed; rather, some vandal had taken a chisel to it ten years earlier. Jebi had a great view of it from the second floor balcony of the parlor. Its mutilation echoed Jebi’s mood. They felt as though someone had chopped off their right arm, or cut out their heart.

  Blearily, they stared at the cup of rice wine, then sipped it. What they wanted to do was down the whole thing at once, but the taste was so terrible that even in this mood they couldn’t bring themself to do it. Getting drunk was difficult when one didn’t like alcohol. But if they kept at it long enough, inebriation would ensue.

  The sun highlighted the roof-tiles of the nearby buildings, most of them sporting the faces of dokkaebi goblins or legendary warriors. Under other circumstances, Jebi would have doodled their own versions of the familiar motifs, recognizable even from a distance. But the last thing they wanted to do right now was draw.

  How could they have failed the exam? Had the examiners discovered their Hwagugin origins? Because those had been some of their finest paintings. They’d been so sure that the examiners would be impressed.

  Preoccupied, they almost didn’t notice Hak and another person had slid into the seats across from them until Hak spoke.

  “You have no idea how long it took to chase you down,” Hak said, cheeks pink and a little breathless. She must have been running.

  Jebi blinked slowly. “What are you doing here?” Then they realized how ungracious that sounded. “I mean, I thought you were busy.”

  Jebi glanced at Hak’s companion, a slender person dressed daringly in a sleek masculine beige coat, and a shockingly vivid purple scarf embroidered with nesting birds, a feminine motif. Aniline purple must be popular right now. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the stranger said in Razanei. Their voice was low and warm. “I heard from Hak what happened. So sorry.”

  “I can’t figure out what I did wrong,” Jebi said dully, not caring that Hak had brought a stranger along to witness their failure. After all, the results had been posted in public. Everyone who cared would know.

  Even Bongsunga would know. They were sure of it, and just as sure that they couldn’t go back to her, not without rekindling the argument that had led her to kick them out in the first place.

  The moneylender too. If he hadn’t found out yet, he would soon. Jebi needed to find a source of income before the end of the month. They only had twelve more days to come up with the money.

  “The examiners are mercurial,” Hak said, reaching out to pat Jebi’s hand. “You can try the next time they have openings, surely? I bet it was close.”

  Hak’s sympathy only made Jebi want to lash out, but their friend deserved better. “Who knows when that will be? And in the meantime, I either have to patch things up with my sister or find alternate living arrangements.” They knew better than to assume that they could stay with Hak indefinitely.

  “Yes, that’s why I brought Ren along,” Hak said, nodding at the stranger.

  Ren leaned forward, flipping the ends of their scarf fetchingly over their shoulders. “Some of my friends work at the Ministry of Armor,” they said. “I wasn’t sure this would be the best time, but Hak said you might be interested in any leads, even uncertain ones.”

  “Mmm,” Jebi said, not sure what this had to do with them. They already knew that they’d rather avoid designing propaganda posters for Armor. Among other things, the posters didn’t work. Nobody had ever looked at the awkward attempts to make the automata look cuddly and stopped making warding symbols, or scurrying for cover when a patrol marched by.

  “They’re hiring,” Ren said, confirming Jebi’s fears. “I heard someone mention that they’re specifically looking for painters. What could it hurt to knock on their door and find out?”

  I mustn’t be rude, Jebi thought. Hak was trying to help, preposterous though the job was. “Thanks for the thought,” Jebi said, “but I’ll try my luck elsewhere.” They weren’t that desperate—not yet.

  Ren shrugged. “Well, keep it in mind.” They rose in one fluid motion and bowed to Hak. “I’ll see you another time.”

  After Ren had slipped downstairs, Hak frowned at Jebi. “You should have heard them out.”

  Jebi regarded her with surprise. “I’m not out of options yet. I just have to look harder.”

  “It’s just that opportunities are thin on the ground these days,” Hak said, the closest she would come to naming the Razanei presence as an influence on the arts scene. “I wanted to help, that’s all.”

  Jebi forced themself to smile. “I appreciate it, Hak.”

  What they wanted to ask was, Are those slender opportunities why you’ve ingratiated yourself with the Razanei and their art collectors? But it wasn’t something they could say out loud, not if they wanted to preserve the friendship. Besides, it wasn’t any different than what they’d tried to do in applying to the Ministry of Art.

  “Well,” Hak said briskly, straightening, “I’ll keep an ear to the ground in case anything else turns up. But don’t wait too long, all right? The sooner you pick yourself up and get moving, the less it will hurt. You’ll see.” And with that, she, too, departed.

  OVER THE COURSE of the next week, as the twelve days trickled away, Jebi became comprehensively familiar with the number of doors that were shut to them.

  They stopped by their sister’s house several times and stood in front of the gate for the better part of an hour, listening. The first two times, they heard voices from within, Bongsunga’s voice, and those of strangers. The third time, despite the unfamiliar voices, they nerved themself up and banged on the door. But Bongsunga didn’t answer, and after half an hour of knocking, they gave up and went away.

  They’d worked in the past with a broker who offered folk art by anonymous artists—one of the parts that Jebi detested most about the business, although they were ashamed to have their name associated with these pieces anyway. They visited him to inquire as to whether he was interested in more work. His shop remained dismal, poorly lit and crowded with the usual stereotyped images. Jebi counted no less than eight tigers, all of them in the crude, bold style that the market currently favored, and six of them all but indistinguishable despite—probably—having been painted by completely different people.

  The broker caught them looking. “No more room for tigers,” he said, almost in a grunt. “There’s talk that tigers are seditious.”

  Jebi swallowed an incredulous laugh. Tigers, seditious? They’d featured in Hwagugin art for hundreds of years, if not longer, as mountain guardians and mercurial sages as well as the buffoonish subjects of folktales in which clever peasant children outwitted the beasts who had eaten their grandparents. (Why the grandparents never managed to save themselves the same way, Jebi couldn’t figure out.)

  Then again, tiger-sages had also served as the patrons of warriors, and maybe the Razanei administration feared that the resistance would take inspiration from them. Never mind that tiger-sages made chancy allies at best.

  “I should keep track, huh,” Jebi said, swallowing their bitterness. They had grown bored of painting cartoonish tigers, but they could do it in their sleep. Truth to tell, they were horrified at themself for resenting the sudden uselessness of a skill they hadn’t even enjoyed picking up in the first place.

  “You didn’t bring anything, did you?” the broker said, still gruff.

  He named a figure; the percentage had gone down.

  That’s—Jebi clenched their teeth, took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to let him see their outrage.

  He noticed anyway. “Nothing personal,” he said, “but the local interpreter is asking for bigger bribes. You know how it goes.”

  “I see,” Jebi said with a sigh. They shouldn’t have bothered coming here anyway. The folk art had only ever been an uncertain source of income. “Thanks.”

  The man didn’t even look up as Jebi made their way out of the shop.

  Jebi had no better success at the other places they checked. How had they never noticed how few good jobs there were, and how many artists competed for the ones that existed? In the past, Bongsunga’s support had insulated them from the ups and downs of having to scramble for money.

  They inquired with several schools of portraitists, but portraits had fallen in popularity since Hwaguk’s conquest. The few portraitists who commanded high prices had adapted to the trends that the Razanei had set—not a surprise in itself, but Jebi also gathered, from the oblique comments they heard, that bribery and connections helped in securing one’s place. One of the schools offered them a membership, which they would have considered if they’d been able to afford the fee. The school promised access to clients, although it took a cut of any commissions. But the fee—for a full year, up-front—was too high.

  They also looked into the rent at communal houses, because sooner or later Hak would start hinting that they needed to move out. Jebi hated the idea of living with strangers, but they weren’t going to find a room as luxurious as the one their sister had kicked them out of, either. Maybe they could find a hostel, pay by the week, in the hopes of going back home soon.

  None of this helped with the immediate problem of finding work. Jebi regretted not making more connections with printmakers or sign-painters, people with their own cliques. They’d never break in unless they made contacts, which would involve bribes, or drinks, or gifts. It all came to the same thing.

  This is what I get, Jebi thought glumly as they stopped by a food cart to haggle over fish cakes in spiced sauce, for playing high-and-mighty while I studied traditional art. Some of the ministries outsourced their posters to printmakers. Jebi preferred painting, but the printmakers had jobs, and they didn’t. It was too late to change fields, anyway.

  The seller only gave Jebi a scant serving of fish cakes. Jebi almost argued about it, then thought better of it. After chasing leads all day, they were too tired to quibble, and Hak had fed them well the past few days.

  That evening, and the next, and the next, Jebi walked all the way to the Ministry of Armor’s complex before heading back in indecision. I’m not that desperate yet, they kept thinking. But none of the other jobs they applied for panned out, and in the meantime Jebi found it harder and harder to face Hak during their brief encounters.

  I’m not that desperate yet—but they only had five days left before the moneylender came after them.

  ON THE EIGHTH day after the exam results were posted, the day dawned gray and misty, smothering the entire city. Even the smells of rotting leaves and waste were muted. With Jebi’s luck, it would rain today.

  In spite of themself, Jebi’s feet led them down to District One, once known as the Government District. They passed alongside the Old Palace, which the Razanei had rehabilitated for various administrative buildings, and stopped in front of the Ministry of Armor.

  Why not? Jebi thought, staring dubiously at the building. It doesn’t hurt to look around. Armor occupied the western wing of the palace. In the old days, it had sported a banner with the White Tiger of the West, which was associated with autumn. Now, it simply featured a wooden sign saying ARMOR in the Razanei character.

  Jebi had faint childhood memories of the Old Palace and its gardens. The Razanei had lost no time relandscaping. The pigeons, crows, and magpies that pestered people for scraps didn’t care, and some of the Razanei bureaucrats had taken to feeding the birds themselves. Jebi felt the familiar ambivalence when they looked at the imported cherry trees, so emblematic of Razan. They’d shed most of their leaves already, but they’d bloom gloriously in the spring, beautiful and alien.

  Unsurprisingly, more automata patrols marched along the streets around the Old Palace. Jebi tried not to gawk too obviously as one group passed them. They’d never seen automata with masks with marks that color before, a weird shimmering... orange? Green? They couldn’t tell for sure, and that bothered them. Some new paint? That intrigued them.

  The interpreter didn’t take notice of Jebi, or at any rate, not more notice than anyone else in the street. Still, Jebi clutched their bag, since it contained the precious name certificate. It wouldn’t fend off a Razanei determined to take offense, of course; they just had to keep matters from getting to that point.

  Like all the ministries, Armor had a bulletin board. Say this for the Razanei: they were organized. Despite all the stereotypes about the artistic soul, Jebi appreciated this. One could always expect the Razanei to put things where people could find them.

  This late in the afternoon, only a few other people lingered near the bulletin board. A functionary in white and gray was pulling down older notices. Jebi glimpsed some of them: cryptic lists of numbers and names, something about the cafeteria, a reminder not to feed the birds. A woman in crutches and a child who resembled her were feeding the birds, and no one bothered them about it.

  “Do you mind if I have a look before you take the rest of those down?” Jebi asked the functionary in moderately deferential Razanei.

  The functionary shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she replied. “No one’s going to notice if some of these linger for another day anyway.” With that, she strolled away.

  It didn’t take Jebi long to locate the call for staff artists. Why can’t they borrow them from the Ministry of Art? they wondered.

  It was only when a mild voice answered from next to them that they realized they had spoken aloud. “What’s your interest?”

  Jebi bit their tongue by accident as they whirled. “I’m an artist,” they blurted out, too wrung out by their fruitless search to dissemble.

  The speaker was a man in the same white and gray as the woman who’d been clearing the board, slim of stature, balding. He leaned on the oddest wooden cane Jebi had ever seen. It was topped by a rifle stock, if its barrel had been replaced with polished wood. “I haven’t seen you around the Ministry of Art,” he said, still mild.

  “Oh, no,” Jebi said, heat rising to their face, “I’m independent.” A nice way to say unemployed.

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your reading.” He smiled.

  That was awkward, but Jebi couldn’t think of a polite way to excuse themself. And it would be a shame to have come all this way only to be driven off. Since they were here anyway, they might as well scrutinize the postings.

  Jebi continued reading. When they got to the mention of starting pay, their jaw dropped. How much? And what was the catch? There had to be a catch.

  “You’re wondering what the catch is,” the man said.

  “You’re very good at reading minds,” Jebi observed, more bemused than resentful.

 

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