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.