“Something like that,” Jebi said, and grimaced. “I hate to impose—”
“Nonsense,” Hak said briskly. “What are friends for? As long as”—and she grinned—“you don’t mind helping me clean up after everyone’s gone home.”
“Of course, of course.”
“How did the examination go, by the way?”
Jebi brightened. “I did good work. You know how my sister frets about money all the time. Once I bring home the signing bonus”—and pay off my debt—“and start drawing that salary, she’ll come around.”
“She’d better,” Hak said. “I know your sister’s set in her ways, but she should appreciate that art is work too!”
Jebi laughed, uncomfortable with the old argument. Hak had never quite understood Bongsunga’s feelings about art. Bongsunga had never been anything but supportive of Jebi’s vocation, but Jebi was always itchingly aware of the sacrifices that Bongsunga made, when she must have dreams of her own.
By all rights, Bongsunga should have remarried, or at least adopted a child to carry on the family name. She was the elder, after all. Their parents had died young, of disease, leaving Bongsunga to raise Jebi. And Jebi was an artist, married, as tradition would have it, to their art. They might take lovers—had done so in the past—but marriage was out of the question. They’d only known a few artists who had attempted that path, and they’d rapidly become irrelevant. Unfair, perhaps, but not something Jebi had any power to change.
The hard truth was, finding someone willing to marry the widow of a Hwagugin soldier—and one who’d died fighting the Razanei, at that—posed a difficulty. And beyond that, children cost money. (According to an old saying, children ate money. Not a saying that Bongsunga had ever repeated in front of Jebi, who was always aware of the eight-year difference in their ages, but one Jebi thought about nonetheless.)
“It’ll blow over,” Jebi said at last. “I just need a place to stay for a few nights, until the examination results are released and my sister’s temper cools down.”
“It’s no problem.” Hak smiled. “Still, I think I should put your bag somewhere safer, in case someone mistakes it for an artifact! I’ll set it in my bedroom. Will that do?”
“Thank you,” Jebi said. “Besides, you have to talk to people, don’t you? That’s the whole reason you threw this party. Just as long as you don’t mind me availing myself of your food...” The more of this feast they enjoyed, the less of their own money they’d have to spend. A mercenary way to use a friend, but they didn’t have any better options.
“Eat, eat,” Hak said. She lifted the rucksack. “I’ll take care of this. You can find me later.”
Jebi waved her off, then returned to the common room, leaving the empty teacup behind. They slowed down just in time to avoid colliding into a knot of three Razanei, one of them in the blue-and-gold uniform of Razan’s military. The Razanei didn’t so much as glance at them, instead gesticulating at a wooden sculpture and talking in a hushed voice. Jebi gave up on trying to understand them once they switched to a thick dialect Jebi didn’t recognize. That, they could tell, was on purpose, so they might as well give the three their privacy.
It’s not my art that’s being sold to foreign collectors, Jebi thought, to ease the traitorous pang that stabbed through their heart. They’d stopped in front of a painting of two hawks circling in a way that evoked the blue-and-red taegeuk yin-yang symbol featured on Hwaguk’s old flag.
It could be worse, Jebi consoled themself, moving on to the next painting. This one wasn’t, strictly speaking, an artifact. They could almost smell the newness of the paints, in the pastel style that some modern artists preferred. Depicted were shelves and books using the Western innovation called perspective, which had become a fad among some of Jebi’s generation—introduced by Western philosophers visiting both Huang-Guan to the north and the islands of Razan. While the former government of Hwaguk had forbidden Western visitors, the influences had trickled in anyway.
The unsettling geometrical realism both fascinated Jebi and made them uneasy. Surely what mattered was an artist’s ability to capture the inner spirit of the subject, and not the minutiae of its exterior appearance? At least Hak—who had, in days past, pronounced herself charmed by the technique—wasn’t standing here to argue with them over it.
I should pay more attention to the important things in life, like food, Jebi thought, shaking their head. They slipped on their shoes and headed back out into the courtyard with its temptation of dishes.
ON THE THIRD morning of their stay with Hak, Jebi woke early enough to catch her before she left. Hak had already prepared a lunchbox, as she had the previous mornings; when did she sleep? “We’ll celebrate tonight,” Hak said, smiling as she slid the lunchbox across the table to Jebi. “My treat.”
“Oh, I can’t,” Jebi protested, “not after all your generosity.”
“Nonsense,” Hak said. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to return the favor in the days to come.” She winked, her eye gleaming fox-amber before returning to its usual brown. “Maybe we can even invite that sister of yours.”
“Maybe,” Jebi agreed, despite a twinge of resentment. They didn’t want to share their triumph with Bongsunga, even though they owed it to her just as surely as they did to Hak.
Jebi and Hak headed out together, although their paths diverged after just a couple of blocks. The autumn chill had let up today, although that was only temporary; according to the almanacs issued by the government, the first frost was right around the corner. Jebi had dressed respectably for the occasion, bringing a minimum of necessities. They doubted the Ministry would ask them to start painting on the spot. There was, they’d heard, an orientation period over the course of two weeks.
Although they’d set out early, a small crowd had gathered around the bulletin board by the time they arrived. Mostly curious onlookers, Jebi figured, since there were easily twice as many people as had taken the exam. Chest tight, Jebi elbowed their way through the crowd so they could get close enough to the bulletin board to read the results.
ACCEPTED APPLICANTS, said the first sheet, with a list of five names. Jebi read and reread the list with a growing sense of unreality, then the official signature at the bottom of the sheet certifying the results. This can’t be happening.
Five names, and theirs—Razanei or Hwagugin—wasn’t one of them.
THREE
JEBI DIDN’T REMEMBER how they’d ended up at the shabby parlor three buildings south from the One-Armed Warrior. The statue had not lost its limb during the Razanei invasion, as some claimed; rather, some vandal had taken a chisel to it ten years earlier. Jebi had a great view of it from the second floor balcony of the parlor. Its mutilation echoed Jebi’s mood. They felt as though someone had chopped off their right arm, or cut out their heart.
Blearily, they stared at the cup of rice wine, then sipped it. What they wanted to do was down the whole thing at once, but the taste was so terrible that even in this mood they couldn’t bring themself to do it. Getting drunk was difficult when one didn’t like alcohol. But if they kept at it long enough, inebriation would ensue.