Phoenix Extravagant, page 5
The man chuckled. “You weren’t making any effort to hide your expression.”
“Well, all right,” Jebi said, “if you work here, or even if you don’t, what is the catch?”
They hadn’t been expecting an answer, but he said, “Everyone’s jumpy because the head of the artists’ workshop died under mysterious circumstances.”
Jebi started. “I hadn’t heard.” They wracked their brains. They’d had a vague awareness that Armor, like most of the ministries, used artists in some capacity, but who had been the head of the workshop?
To Jebi’s dismay, a cold skittering rain began to fall. While a freestanding roof protected the bulletin board, the wind picked up as well, causing the notices to flutter like trapped birds. At this rate, they were going to get drenched on the way home. Well, ‘home.’
“That tiny umbrella isn’t going to do you much good,” the man said, craning his head back to study the sky critically. “Tell you what, I’ve got an office—I can tell you more about the job there.”
He’s not going to do anything to me, Jebi told their thumping heart. They wavered.
“At the least,” the man added, “you can wait out the squall and head back to wherever you were going after it’s passed. I can tell you from experience that this roof isn’t going to offer much protection.”
“Thank you,” Jebi said in surrender.
The man led the way to Armor’s main building. He walked with a subtle limp, but at a decent clip. Jebi imagined he didn’t want to stay out here to get wet, either.
Two human sentries and two automata in blue-painted masks guarded the entrance. They let the man and Jebi pass with only nods of acknowledgment on the parts of the former and that inhuman stillness from the latter. Not for the first time, Jebi wondered what the world looked like to an automaton. If they worked for Armor, maybe they’d find out.
If the Ministry of Art didn’t want you, Jebi chided themself, what makes you think Armor would? Worse, would they want to be the kind of person who worked for Armor? Despite their falling out with Bongsunga, Jebi felt it was one thing to paint harmless commemorative portraits or landscapes, and another to work with a branch of the military.
Inside, functionaries and servants bustled through the halls. The interior of the building looked disconcertingly mundane, with ceiling beams painted in the five cardinal colors—red, yellow, blue, black, and white—and portraits hanging on the walls. The depicted figures wore old-fashioned Razanei lamellar armor, not the robes of Hwaguk’s aristocrat-scholars of old, and all the signs were in Razan’s script. Jebi tried to imagine the halls as they might have looked during Hwaguk’s last dynasty, the reign of the Azalea Throne; but Razan’s living presence overwhelmed their attempts to repaint the halls in their head.
When they headed up the stairs to the second story, Jebi almost made a comment about how the man should ask his boss for a first floor office, then thought better of it. After all, the limp didn’t impede his progress any.
They arrived at a door with no sign and a plain door. Automata stood at either end of the hall, taking no notice of either of them. The man slid the door open and preceded Jebi into the office.
“Forgive the Western furniture,” the man said with a hint of irony that Jebi didn’t understand. “It’s easier on my hip, you see.”
He took a seat behind an ornate desk whose rococo ornamentation sported several dents, in a chair just as elaborate. Uneasily, Jebi sat on the other side. An awful realization was dawning on them.
“You’re not just another bureaucrat,” Jebi said slowly. They’d switched to a very formal mode of speech, and a very polite you.
“I didn’t mean to deceive you,” the man said. “I thought you already knew, until it became clear you didn’t. But yes, you’re correct. I’m Girai Hafanden, Deputy Minister of Armor.”
Jebi resisted the urge to close their eyes and reach for the mae-deup charms they’d bought last week. “I can’t imagine,” they said, “that it’s usual for someone of your stature to speak with random passersby.”
“‘Random’ is a matter of opinion,” Hafanden returned. “You’ve been lingering around the Ministry; the patrols noticed. So naturally I took an interest. That sort of thing is my job now.”
“Why,” Jebi couldn’t resist asking, “what did you do before?”
“I was a sniper once,” he said. That explained the peculiar rifle-shaped cane. “It was a long time ago. In any case—” And, sounding a little apologetic, he proceeded to list the times when his people had observed Jebi approaching Armor.
A cold lump settled at the pit of Jebi’s stomach. That couldn’t be the whole story. After all, if the deputy minister considered them a threat, he’d simply have had them arrested and flung into some dank prison cell, and then Bongsunga would never hear from them again. No; he wanted something from them, and Jebi had the feeling that the murdered artist had something to do with it.
“Yes,” Hafanden said in response to whatever expression he saw on their face, “I am in need of artists, as the notice said. You happen to be ideal for my purposes, even if the Ministry of Art didn’t find a use for you.”
Jebi winced, then regretted it. But hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have them cornered already. “What kind of use?” they asked warily. What if Hafanden had kept them from the coveted position, all so he could force them to take this job? But given what he was paying, why weren’t people lining up to apply? Something smelled off.
“We have,” Hafanden said delicately, “something of a difficulty retaining artists. People don’t like working with the automata, which is exactly what we require. The violent death of the former person we had on one particular project, Issemi, has made it all the more difficult to recruit. All of our current hires are—occupied with projects of their own. To be blunt, we need fresh blood.”
This sounded like a terrible job. “It’s very kind of you to think of me,” Jebi said, “but—”
“I know you’re looking both for housing and a source of income,” Hafanden continued, “and that you owe a certain moneylender a considerable sum. We could arrange to pay that off for you, as part of the deal.”
This wasn’t casual interest. He’d had Jebi followed, or set spies on them. Jebi thought back to their meeting with Hak’s friend Ren. Had Ren ratted them out to Hafanden?
“I should get going,” Jebi said, more desperately. From the drumming on the roof, the rain was pouring down worse than ever. But they didn’t like the prospect of being trapped here any longer, and they’d survive a little damp.
“You’ll want to hear me out,” Hafanden said, still polite, but with a hint of steel in their voice. Jebi was reminded of the difference between their stations. “I took a look at the paintings you did for your examination, and the fact that you have a name certificate… expedites certain other matters. You’re quite suitable for my purpose.”
Jebi stood, shaking.
“Sit down, please,” Hafanden said. He tapped the surface of the desk. “Your sister, Gyen Bongsunga. She has revolutionary connections, you know.”
Jebi went cold all over. Was it true—? But it didn’t matter. The accusation alone, made by a Razanei official, and a high-ranking one at that, could ruin Bongsunga. And even among their own people, there were informers happy to turn in suspected rebels.
Besides, anyone who knew Bongsunga would find the allegation believable. Hell, Jebi believed it themself. They thought of all the hours they’d spent painting while Bongsunga went out to run errands, or her unnamed visitors. Jebi had never asked her to account for herself, and why should they have? She was the elder, and the head of the household. But that meant she could have tangled herself up with any number of things, including revolutionaries or radicals.
“Please tell me clearly,” Jebi said, still deferential, “what exactly you are proposing. So that we are honest with each other about what this is.”
“I’m so glad you’re being reasonable about this, Tsennan,” Hafanden said. Naturally he used their registered Razanei name.
Jebi did not feel reasonable, either about the situation or about the damned name certificate, but they knew better than to interrupt.
“We offer a signing bonus and an extremely competitive monthly salary, in addition to dealing with the moneylender,” Hafanden said. He named the figures; Jebi’s eyes widened. “You will be required to live onsite, with some restrictions to your movements, but rest assured that you’ll be able to leave from time to time, with guards. You won’t be a prisoner. You’ll work with a project requiring a security clearance. In exchange, we won’t arrest your sister. She will stand surety for your good behavior.”
For a second Jebi thought about turning their back and walking out. After all, they still hadn’t patched things up with their sister. A monstrous petty part of them wanted to punish her for evicting them.
But the choice was no choice.
Jebi hadn’t said any of these thoughts aloud, but Hafanden nodded. “It’s settled, then.”
Miserably, Jebi sat back down, defeated.
FOUR
AFTER SIGNING A small infinity of papers, none of which they bothered to read, Jebi followed Hafanden out of the office. “I cleared my morning,” he said in response to Jebi’s bewildered look. “I’ll get you settled in.” This did not inspire confidence.
Jebi found the courage to ask about their art supplies, which they’d left at Hak’s. “I should fetch them, if you want me to—”
“I had a servant retrieve them from your friend’s residence,” Hafanden said. “Your belongings will await you in your new workshop.”
Once, the prospect of a workshop of their own would have excited them. Under the circumstances, however, Jebi could only work up a kind of pale resignation. “I imagine this is dangerous work, if people die doing it,” Jebi said. Since they were stuck with the job, they might as well gather what information they could.
They admitted to a certain morbid curiosity as to how their predecessor—Issemi—had perished. People didn’t ordinarily think of art as a dangerous profession, but artists died of toxins in paints, or inhaling too many particulates. And that was before factoring in automata.
“We know what precautions to take,” Hafanden said, also not confidence-inspiring. “Vei will talk you through that.”
“Vei?” Jebi asked, careful to attach a suitable honorific to the name.
“Dzuge Vei. She’s the Ministry’s duelist prime. She’ll be your supervisor.”
Jebi puzzled over that. How did dueling relate to art? But then, they’d never understood the intricacies of Razanei administration, including the fact that every ministry had a duelist prime to defend its honor. Hwagugin didn’t practice the barbaric art of dueling, given the choice. Of course, sometimes an offended Razanei duelist didn’t give a Hwagugin that choice.
“You will have figured this out,” Jebi said as they headed back down the stairs, since it wouldn’t do to take Hafanden for a fool, “but I’m a painter, not a sculptor or a smith. I don’t know anything about metallurgy.”
“That won’t be part of your duty,” Hafanden said. The tap-tapping of his cane made a distracting counterpoint to his words, although if Jebi was honest with themself, the whole situation was already distracting in its own right and the noise didn’t make that much difference. “Your job will be dealing with masks.”
I’m not a mask-maker either, Jebi almost retorted. But then they thought of the automata and the bizarre colored marks on their masks. “It’s something to do with those painted symbols, isn’t it? That’s how you bring them to life.”
“That’s not a state secret,” Hafanden said dryly. “It’s not difficult to figure out.”
“Then—?”
“I’ll have Shon give you a demonstration.”
I’m sure, Jebi thought.
They reached the ground floor and cut across the building to another staircase behind a contingent of human and automaton guards. This one, however, led down.
At this point, Jebi balked. “How old is this section?” they demanded. The shakes returned. Granted, it wasn’t as though they’d ever entered this building before, but they’d never heard of anything underground. And the air—the air that wafted up from the stairwell had an ominous smell of metal and fire.
“You’re quite correct,” Hafanden said, pausing on the first step. “This is a newer addition. We needed additional space for certain experiments. Since we couldn’t go up, and the other ministries had already claimed the other buildings, we went down.”
Jebi had never thought of themself as possessing much in the way of phobias, but they discovered that they didn’t enjoy the sensation of walls closing in on them. From time to time people dug up or traded the bones of ancient animals, preserved in the earth. They’d never before known that the ground beneath the Old Palace contained so many of them, exposed in the passages’ walls. They tried to imagine what the creatures had looked like in life, and couldn’t quite get there.
They hurried after Hafanden, not wanting to be left behind. At least the stairs were well lit, and electrical lights at that, at what must be considerable expense. Jebi had only the haziest idea of how electricity worked, but they did know that artificial lighting didn’t come for free.
Besides that, the electrical light had a chilly aspect, without the warmth of sunlight. And it didn’t bring any significant heat with it. The air here was uncomfortably cold, although not as bad as the outdoors, and dry in comparison with today’s damp. Like a cave, probably, if Jebi had known anything about caves but what they’d heard in stories about bandits’ hideouts and tiger-sages’ lairs.
“There’s an elevator,” Hafanden added, as though the stairs inconvenienced Jebi more than himself, “but it’s used for freight, and the security precautions are a hassle. Besides, I wanted to mention a few things to you before we meet Vei and Arazi.”
Arazi, Jebi thought, mentally translating the name: storm. An inauspicious name by Hwagugin standards. But who could say how a Razanei thought of it?
“You may be having qualms about helping your conquerors,” Hafanden said. “I wish to assure you that your work will be an act of the highest patriotism.”
Besides the fact that this was an uncomfortable topic even among friends, Jebi had to suppress an incredulous laugh. Patriotism? For Razan, presumably, since they couldn’t see how this benefited Hwaguk. Especially if they were going to be helping create more automata for the patrols in the streets.
“I can’t see your expression,” Hafanden said with a half-sigh—he was still in the front—“but I can imagine you’re skeptical. Let me put it this way, then. Disorder does no one any favors, Hwagugin or Razanei.”
Jebi made an involuntary noise, and Hafanden slowed, turning back toward them.
“I prefer not to use the term ‘Fourteener,’” he said. “Your people have an identity of their own, one that is valuable in its own right. You have your doubts, and you’re not entirely wrong, but—look at it this way. You’ve seen the encroachment of Western arts, Western books, Western ideas.”
Jebi shrugged.
“We can only stand against that encroachment,” Hafanden said, with a fervor that surprised them, “if we stand together. The means may be regrettable, but the cause justifies it.”
“I’m not political,” Jebi said, trying to devise a tactful way out of this topic. For all they cared, Hwaguk had been doing just fine by forbidding Western traders and diplomats and philosophers from entering the country. They couldn’t deny, however, that it hadn’t taken long for their people to adopt Western technologies and comforts, like electrical lighting and automobiles. Those who could afford them, anyway.
“Forgive me,” Hafanden said, inclining his head. “The truth is, you don’t need to be, not for your role. But I always feel that my people work better if they understand the Ministry’s mission.”
Jebi shuddered inwardly at the matter-of-fact possessiveness of my people. Maybe they should have read more carefully before they signed all those papers. Not that it would have made any difference. They’d still be here, and Bongsunga was still a hostage for their good behavior.
They arrived at last several levels down. Jebi had lost track of the number of stairs, and they cursed themself for not keeping count. They passed more guards, again in the common pattern for the Ministry: two humans accompanied by two automata.
I should keep track of the patterns on the automata’s masks, Jebi thought halfway down the hallway, after they’d left the automata behind. Rattled as they were, they couldn’t bring the image to mind. They’d have to do better in the future. Of course, they might soon know more about the masks than they wanted to.
Next came a hallway that meandered at uncomfortable angles for which Jebi could see no logic, and which gave them a nagging headache when they tried to examine them too closely. Doors opened off the hallway to either side, not the sliding doors that were common to Hwagugin and Razanei wooden buildings, but hinged, with numbered metal plaques, no names or words.
The end of the hallway led to double doors of metal, and more guards. Jebi had the inane desire to strike up a conversation with one of the humans, ask them about their favorite novel or what they ate for lunch, anything to ease the dungeon-like atmosphere of the underground complex. But they knew better than to do so in front of Hafanden.
The guards parted for Hafanden, giving Jebi a clear view of the snaking symbols etched into the doors. A colored enamel of some sort filled the symbols. Jebi thought at first that it was purple or brown, but it more closely resembled the murky colors of a new bruise. Trying to memorize the shapes only worsened their headache.
Hafanden pressed his hand directly against a bare section of the left door, then the right. The doors opened silently, and he passed the threshold. After a worried pause, Jebi hurried after him.
They both emerged into an immense cavern, its planes and hard angles betraying its artificial origins. The sight of all that space was so disorienting that Jebi tripped over their own feet. Hafanden reached out just long enough to steady them, and Jebi blurted out a mortified thank-you. As much as they disliked the liberty, they didn’t want to fall flat on their face, either.
