“I’m Dzuge Vei,” the woman said, turning to Jebi and inclining her head. “You are—?”
“Tesserao Tsennan,” Jebi said, a touch defiantly. They weren’t going to insist on using their Hwamal name in this place.
“The new artist.” Vei nodded coolly at Hafanden. Interesting: Jebi got the notion that the two did not enjoy each other’s company. “I can take it from here, Deputy Minister.”
“Thank you,” Hafanden said, just as chilly. “Inform me immediately if—”
“I can take it from here,” Vei repeated.
The dragon, perhaps losing interest, resumed its pacing.
Hafanden didn’t persist, but left. The tap-tapping of his cane reverberated oddly in the cavern, forming a counterpoint to the sound of the dragon’s chains striking the floor.
Vei studied Jebi with interest, and they wondered, suddenly self-conscious, what she saw. Her clothes were more finely tailored than that of the average bureaucrat, and—interesting. Jebi, examining Vei in turn, caught a glimpse of something that looked suspiciously like a mae-deup good-luck charm, of yellow cord, tucked beneath her collar. Jebi’s mood darkened. Good enough to collect as souvenirs, but not good enough to show off? But they wouldn’t say so out loud.
“You must have questions,” Vei said. She spoke, not informally—they’d only just met—but certainly less formally than Hafanden had. “The deputy minister is not always as forthcoming as he could be.”
Jebi was wary, but they had to start somewhere. “I’ve never seen an automaton chained up before,” they ventured. “We’re always told that they’re—safe. I assume there’s a story there.”
“Good, you have a sense of self-preservation,” Vei said. “You’ve noticed how we’re all standing outside the circle.”
“That had occurred to me, yes.”
Vei’s sudden smile flashed at them. “Well, you’ve volunteered to be one of the few people who gets to go inside, where the dragon can reach. It will be one of your duties.”
Wonderful. “You still haven’t mentioned why it’s in chains.”
“Yes, about that,” Vei said. She craned her head to look back toward the pacing dragon. “How much have you heard about what happened in Ppalgan-Namu?”
Vei’s pronunciation was perfect, with just a hint of one of the dialects common in the Virgins’ District. Jebi told themself that Vei’s extracurricular activities were none of their business, and at least they wouldn’t struggle to understand her if she needed to say something in Hwamal.
But that mention of Ppalgan-Namu... Jebi wracked their brains. They’d heard that name recently, but where? “It sounds familiar,” they said reluctantly, “but I can’t place it.” Ppalgan-Namu, Red Tree. Some village? A shrine?
“Maybe you’ve heard the rumors,” Vei said, with a hint of bitterness. “They tried to suppress all word of the massacre, and I told the deputy minister it wouldn’t work.”
Involuntarily, Jebi backed up a step. “Massacre?” they said incredulously. Looking at the dragon with its gleaming claws and brutal jaws, however, they could believe it. “Massacre how?”
No wonder Hafanden hadn’t been able to find anyone to fill this job. Especially if everyone else had already known about whatever had happened at Ppalgan-Namu. Jebi was surprised that they hadn’t heard stories of a dragon-shaped monster on the loose. It wasn’t the kind of thing that people forgot.
Vei’s smile became crooked. “I don’t blame you for your second thoughts. Arazi is an experimental war engine, more advanced even than the tanks. The Ministry has had high hopes for it. It was taken to a test site at Ppalgan-Namu, chosen because of its isolation. There used to be a Razanei garrison there.”
Used to be. “You lost control of it.”
“It’s not entirely clear what happened,” Vei said. “Issemi—the artist you’re replacing—messed up somewhere. Understand, I wasn’t present for the incident; I had duties elsewhere. The dragon killed the garrison. It took additional troops to subdue it, strip it of its mask, and bring it back to this complex, an operation complicated by the necessity of secrecy.”
Jebi laughed incredulously. “How do you keep something that size secret?”
“It wasn’t,” Vei said with a gesture that reminded Jebi of a parry that their sister-in-law had once demonstrated, “constructed in one piece. They took it apart, transported it in pieces, and reassembled it down here.”
That almost made sense. The Razanei logisticians were always transporting supplies in and out of the city. No one would have batted an eyelash at yet more parcels.
“Why did you put the mask back on?” Jebi added, glancing up at the dragon’s head.
“It’s not the same mask,” Vei said. “But we felt it would be beneficial to have it active for study until its grammar could be corrected.”
“What’s your connection to this incident?” Jebi said, worrying as they spoke that they would alienate their new supervisor. They might not like her—or more accurately, it was too early to tell, prejudices against duelists or no—but their survival depended on her goodwill. Besides, if Arazi went rogue again, it might be good to have a warrior on their side.
That crooked smile again. “You’re wondering why your supervisor is a duelist with nothing better to do than practice forms, and not an artificer or paper-pusher.”
“Something like that,” Jebi said, taken aback.
“I asked for the assignment,” Vei said. Her gaze was disturbingly direct. “Issemi was a friend of mine. Granted, I don’t think it’s meaningful to seek vengeance against an automaton. I’m told they only do what we instruct them to do. It was a horrible accident, not malice.
“At the same time, I want to make sure that we avoid another massacre. And I spent a lot of time with Issemi; I might be able to offer insights into her thought processes, things she didn’t leave in her notes.” Vei grimaced. “It’s a pity her assistant was so rattled by the whole affair that she fled. I can’t honestly blame her. There’s a price on her head now, which is regrettable—but she had access to classified information. It can’t be helped.”
Jebi frowned. “I assume there are established artificers and artists in this workshop,” they said, and Vei nodded. “Why haven’t you tasked one of them with this?”
“I suggested it to the deputy minister,” Vei said. “But each of the existing artists, besides being deeply affected by their colleague’s death, is working on their own projects, which are critical to the war effort. We were already understaffed. Bringing in someone new was inevitable.”
Jebi didn’t buy the story. It almost sounded plausible—if one didn’t think too hard about it. But why bring in a complete newcomer, one who would have to start at zero, on a project this important? Something didn’t add up.
I have to do this for Bongsunga, they reminded themself, taking a steadying breath. It didn’t matter if Hafanden and Vei were keeping secrets. After all, the two didn’t have a lot of reason to trust Jebi with security matters, either. Just do the job and worry about it later.