“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.