“Oh, yes,” Hak said, “it’s the latest rage among collectors back in Razan.”
I hadn’t heard, Jebi almost said; but best to keep quiet about their ignorance.
Hak’s next smile was less forced. “Very profitable, if you know the right people. Granted, my business isn’t direct. I introduce people to each other, in exchange for a consideration. One has to take care of oneself when the pickings are lean, you know.”
“I do,” Jebi said. Outdated attitudes still lingered even in Administrative City Fourteen. In the old days, while a professional painter or calligrapher could make a respectable living, people reserved their respect for amateurs—usually aristocrats or poets or courtesans who practiced the arts on the side. The Hwagugin aesthetic preferred honesty and spontaneity over strict technical proficiency. Jebi had mixed feelings about this, but they kept their opinions to themself. No sense in offending one’s clients, after all, or other artists of whatever stripe.
Once inside, both Hak and Jebi slipped off their shoes and left them on the low shelf reserved for that purpose. The common room had been transformed, aglow with paper lanterns in what Jebi identified, cynically, as a compromise design that could be interpreted as either Hwagugin or Razanei: round, ribbed, decorated inoffensively with the symbol for long life in black calligraphy.
Tables and artfully placed screens turned the common room into a miniature labyrinth displaying the artifacts that Hak had mentioned. The first to catch Jebi’s eyes was—it had to be a counterfeit. But it looked real, gleaming in the flickering glow of the lanterns: an antler-crown of one of Hwaguk’s old dynasties, its delicate prongs covered in gilt and dangling comma-shaped jade beads. Or anyway, if it wasn’t real jade, it looked damn close.
“That’s right,” Hak said, noticing Jebi’s hesitation. “That’s genuine, according to the scholars I consulted. Priceless, and wasted in the shrine where it was moldering away.”
Jebi scarcely heard her. They drifted among the tables, marveling at the treasures showcased. Brittle greened daggers of bronze with the peculiar mandoline-shaped blades that sometimes turned up in the junk markets. Vases, some pure white, others of the blue-gray celadon that was so prized even today, still others painted with elaborate scenes of cloud and crane. Lacquered boxes for cosmetics, decorated with abalone inlay. Silk scrolls from which bodhisattvas of ages past stared, serene to the point of stiffness, skin depicted in gold and robes in red.
“This is remarkable,” Jebi said, because they had to say something. They’d grown up with art like this, to the extent that everyone did. The riches of ages past, brought here for the delectation of foreigners.
These foreigners rule us, Jebi thought, determined to recognize the reality of their situation—everyone’s situation, no matter what people like their sister might think.
Hak chattered brightly about the provenance of various items, pointing at a golden incense-holder here, a carved wooden duck there. Apparently the Razanei had sent expeditions to the tombs, the temples, the ancestral halls. Why should items of such charming and primitive beauty be left where no one could appreciate them, after all?
Except ‘no one’ meant the people who had made this art, and left it where they wanted it, for reasons of their own—reasons which had almost certainly not included pillage by Razanei.
Jebi breathed in and out, reminding themself to stay calm. It wasn’t any of their business, and it wasn’t their problem to solve, either. So what if Hak wanted to broker some deals? She had a right to make a living.
They became aware of other people circulating in the common room. Some of them weren’t even paying attention to the priceless artifacts in front of them. Snatches of conversation drifted toward Jebi:
“...need a sterner hand, is what,” a baritone was saying. “There’s no way the Governor-General would have ordered such extreme actions unless there was a full-scale insurrection.”
Insurrection? Jebi wondered, heart beating more rapidly. Sure, they’d heard of rebels, people who put up crude posters only to have them taken down by the patrols of automata, or else hid in the mountains and carried out ineffectual raids.
Someone with a higher voice answered the first: “But in an out-of-the-way place like Parugan-Namu? Barugan-Namu? I swear, I keep practicing, but those complicated Hwamal”—they almost said the word correctly—“consonants keep defeating me. I’ll get it right one of these days.”
Thank you, Jebi thought ironically. Nice to know someone was trying. By the sound of it, the speaker was referring to some place called Ppalgan-Namu, which meant Red Tree; they were used to teasing out Hwamal words from Razanei mutilation. Jebi had never heard of the place, but that didn’t mean anything. Hwaguk was full of settlements, from as small as three or four households clinging to hard-fought terraces of rice to whole sprawling towns. Most of them had descriptive names like Red Tree or Big Boulder, if you dug through the etymology.
Hak was still talking, and the people discussing the massacre had moved away. Jebi put it out of their mind. If it affected ordinary citizens here in the capital, which they doubted, they’d be able to scrape up the news elsewhere.
“...to the moon,” someone else was saying. “If celestials can live up there, then so can ordinary human beings. It’s just a matter of arranging transport.”
“Even the Ministry of Technology hasn’t figured out how to invent a flying machine,” a bored voice responded. “And who cares about a bunch of louche celestials and their pets? There’s nothing interesting in the sky unless you want to catch moon rabbits.”
“...want some tea?” Hak gestured at the rucksack’s straps, and Jebi gave up on the intriguing astrological conversation. “I can find you a safe place to put that down. Your back must ache.”
“Yes, of course,” Jebi said, smiling their gratitude. Besides, they hadn’t had anything to drink all day, and dehydration was giving them a headache.
The two of them drifted into the kitchen, which was absurdly small considering the bounty of food outside. “If you ever need a caterer, I can absolutely recommend the Kim family that lives next to the statue of Nongae,” Hak said with a wry smile as she poured for both of them. She was still speaking in Razanei. “They’re used to, shall we say, accommodating odd tastes.”
“Really,” Jebi said, eyes crinkling. “That looked like ordinary food.” They weren’t going to mention the livers if Hak wasn’t going to. At a nod from Hak, Jebi eased the rucksack off their shoulders and leaned it against a counter. Then they took the proffered teacup and drained it in one gulp, too thirsty to be decorous.
Hak lowered their voice confidentially. “Nothing’s as spicy as it usually is! They used the absolute weakest pepper paste they could get away with, for appearances’ sake. I didn’t want anyone to go away with their mouth on fire.”
Jebi grinned. “You’re always the thoughtful host. Speaking of which—I realize this is not the best time, but could I trouble you for a spot to sleep for the next week or so?”
“Oh,” Hak said, her face screwing up in sympathy. “Let me guess. Things with your honored sister finally came to a head?” She nodded wisely at the rucksack. “At least you come prepared.”