“Do you have any poetry?” Jebi asked, using a moderately respectful form of the verb. One thing they’d learned from Bongsunga—their heart clenched—was that speaking sweetly to shopkeepers was a great way to open a round of haggling.
“What sort are you looking for?” the book-seller asked, reciprocating the formality level.
“Whatever’s new,” Jebi said. “Rassanmal, if you have it.”
“Any poet in particular? Kiiam is very popular lately.”
“That works for me,” Jebi said, eager to get going before the sun sank below the horizon. Hak kept late hours, but best not to push their luck.
“It’s for a friend,” the book-seller said knowingly. “You’re not into poetry at all, are you? I bet you’ve never even heard of Kiiam.”
“Got it in one,” Jebi said. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”
The book-seller shrugged. “Your money’s just as good either way. I don’t care if you’re going to draw doodles all over the pages, or use them to wipe your ass. They’re just books.”
“If you say so,” Jebi said, appalled in spite of themself, and haggled over the price before handing over the money.
The sky darkened as Jebi kept walking. They paused for a moment in spite of their haste, and gazed up at the jewel-sash of glittering stars, the blade-slash of the moon. Bongsunga used to take Jebi up to the roof at night and name the constellations for them, and tell them all the old stories of celestial attendants. Hwaguk’s astrologers had observed the celestial beings directly since the invention of telescopes, although the meanings of their movements often puzzled people, and were a frequent source of gossip.
By the time they arrived at Hak’s place, a modest house located in what was euphemistically known as the Virgins’ District, it was not too far past sundown. Bongsunga had hang-ups about the Virgins’ District—so called because “everyone’s a virgin if you pay them to be”—and Jebi hadn’t figured out why until they learned that Jia had, before the marriage, dallied from time to time with the prostitutes there. But prostitutes had to make a living, too.
The first thing that told Jebi that they’d arrived at an awkward time was the fact that the gate was propped open by a weathered kimchi pot. People milled about the courtyard. Beyond the laughter and buzz of conversation, Jebi heard—was that musicians? A bamboo flute and a drum, and they bet there was also a zitherist to complete the trio, although the instrument was too quiet for a party of this sort.
I should head back, or bother someone else, Jebi thought, hesitating. But they’d come all this way, with a gift no less, and besides, they could smell the food from within. The rich aromas of barbecued meat and sauces and sliced fruits made their mouth water.
What the hell. At worst they’d be kicked out and they could try some other friend. Jebi ducked behind the wall just long enough to comb their fingers through their hair, then strode into the courtyard.
Almost everyone was speaking Razanei, which explained why Hak hadn’t invited Jebi. While Jebi was fluent and rarely had problems passing on casual contact, Hak knew Bongsunga’s opinion of the Razanei. For that matter, Bongsunga didn’t think highly of Hak, either, or foxes in general, but that didn’t matter anymore.
A few people turned at Jebi’s entrance, then dismissed them as nobody of note. The rucksack crammed full of their possessions looked out of place here, where the guests were dressed in finery. Jebi didn’t bristle at the assessment. As much as Bongsunga resented Razanei governance, hierarchy had always been a part of Hwaguk’s society. Having Razanei at the top of the pecking order wasn’t all that different from having the old government’s scholar-aristocrats in charge. But Bongsunga would never see it that way.
Jebi spent several minutes dodging through the crowd. Where was Hak? They should say hello, explain the situation to her. But there were so many people, and they didn’t spot her anywhere.
What the hell, maybe they could at least get a little food in their belly, then resume the search. Jebi inched toward the food. The tables showed a staggering spread, only half-eaten. The meat had not been as popular as Jebi had expected. They sniffed again, suspicious this time. Was that liver? Must be Hak’s idea of a joke.
“I don’t recognize you,” a sharp voice interjected just as Jebi reached for a skewer.
Jebi glanced sidelong at the woman, whose brocade silk jacket declared her wealth. Among other things, Jebi hadn’t seen fabric of such a rich indigo in this part of town in forever. “Excuse me,” they said at their most polite. “The host is a friend of mine. I didn’t catch your name?”
The rich woman raised her eyebrow as she looked Jebi up and down, gaze lingering on the ink stain. Jebi was regretting not wearing their best coat for the visit, but they hadn’t wanted to risk getting it soiled. If only they’d known about the party and its judgmental guests beforehand.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. “I’ll be going,” Jebi said, sliding the skewer back onto the tray with a longing look and turning around.
Jebi almost collided into Hak in their haste to leave. “Tsennan!” Hak said, smiling brightly.
Hak was small even for a Hwagugin, and indecently chubby at a time when the only people who were eating well were, not to put too fine a point on it, collaborators. Even her clothes were fine, although her fox-red coat was less showy than the other woman’s brocade jacket. But Hak was also generous, and Jebi figured they had a lot to learn from her adroitness in navigating recent politics.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t think to invite you,” Hak went on. “It must have slipped my mind.”
Jebi knew why they hadn’t gotten the invite; no sense in taking offense. “It looks like a lovely party,” they said. At least Hak had addressed them by their Razanei name; they appreciated her attention to detail.
“Chiaza, have you met my friend Tsennan?” Hak said, snagging the skewer that Jebi had just returned and casually handing it back to them, bless her. “They’re an artist.”
“An artist, really,” Chiaza the rich woman said, still looking skeptical. “What school of calligraphy do you subscribe to?”
“I was originally trained in Flowing Salamander,” Jebi said truthfully, wishing they’d prepared a better lie. Even they knew that Flowing Salamander was considered eccentric among the Razanei, although at least it was a recognized school. “But these days I’ve adapted to Four Friends.” And that was respectable to the point of being stodgy. It referred to four plants: bamboo, plum blossom, orchid, and chrysanthemum. But if forced to demonstrate, especially with cold-numbed fingers, it was the other style they could pull off easily.
“I suppose that’s acceptable,” Chiaza said, as if her acceptance meant anything to Jebi.
“Chiaza deals in antiquities,” Hak said, patting Jebi’s hand in warning: Don’t react. As if Jebi would do anything foolhardy in a courtyard full of Razanei. “That’s why we’re gathered here. Chiaza, don’t let me keep you, I just want to show Tsennan around.”
Jebi chomped down the meat with unseemly haste, and put down the skewer. They kept from glancing back over their shoulder at the mouth-watering food. At least Hak had fed them one skewer, which was better than none. “Antiquities?” they asked in a low voice as Hak ushered them toward the house.