The sun highlighted the roof-tiles of the nearby buildings, most of them sporting the faces of dokkaebi goblins or legendary warriors. Under other circumstances, Jebi would have doodled their own versions of the familiar motifs, recognizable even from a distance. But the last thing they wanted to do right now was draw.
How could they have failed the exam? Had the examiners discovered their Hwagugin origins? Because those had been some of their finest paintings. They’d been so sure that the examiners would be impressed.
Preoccupied, they almost didn’t notice Hak and another person had slid into the seats across from them until Hak spoke.
“You have no idea how long it took to chase you down,” Hak said, cheeks pink and a little breathless. She must have been running.
Jebi blinked slowly. “What are you doing here?” Then they realized how ungracious that sounded. “I mean, I thought you were busy.”
Jebi glanced at Hak’s companion, a slender person dressed daringly in a sleek masculine beige coat, and a shockingly vivid purple scarf embroidered with nesting birds, a feminine motif. Aniline purple must be popular right now. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the stranger said in Razanei. Their voice was low and warm. “I heard from Hak what happened. So sorry.”
“I can’t figure out what I did wrong,” Jebi said dully, not caring that Hak had brought a stranger along to witness their failure. After all, the results had been posted in public. Everyone who cared would know.
Even Bongsunga would know. They were sure of it, and just as sure that they couldn’t go back to her, not without rekindling the argument that had led her to kick them out in the first place.
The moneylender too. If he hadn’t found out yet, he would soon. Jebi needed to find a source of income before the end of the month. They only had twelve more days to come up with the money.
“The examiners are mercurial,” Hak said, reaching out to pat Jebi’s hand. “You can try the next time they have openings, surely? I bet it was close.”
Hak’s sympathy only made Jebi want to lash out, but their friend deserved better. “Who knows when that will be? And in the meantime, I either have to patch things up with my sister or find alternate living arrangements.” They knew better than to assume that they could stay with Hak indefinitely.
“Yes, that’s why I brought Ren along,” Hak said, nodding at the stranger.
Ren leaned forward, flipping the ends of their scarf fetchingly over their shoulders. “Some of my friends work at the Ministry of Armor,” they said. “I wasn’t sure this would be the best time, but Hak said you might be interested in any leads, even uncertain ones.”
“Mmm,” Jebi said, not sure what this had to do with them. They already knew that they’d rather avoid designing propaganda posters for Armor. Among other things, the posters didn’t work. Nobody had ever looked at the awkward attempts to make the automata look cuddly and stopped making warding symbols, or scurrying for cover when a patrol marched by.
“They’re hiring,” Ren said, confirming Jebi’s fears. “I heard someone mention that they’re specifically looking for painters. What could it hurt to knock on their door and find out?”
I mustn’t be rude, Jebi thought. Hak was trying to help, preposterous though the job was. “Thanks for the thought,” Jebi said, “but I’ll try my luck elsewhere.” They weren’t that desperate—not yet.
Ren shrugged. “Well, keep it in mind.” They rose in one fluid motion and bowed to Hak. “I’ll see you another time.”
After Ren had slipped downstairs, Hak frowned at Jebi. “You should have heard them out.”
Jebi regarded her with surprise. “I’m not out of options yet. I just have to look harder.”
“It’s just that opportunities are thin on the ground these days,” Hak said, the closest she would come to naming the Razanei presence as an influence on the arts scene. “I wanted to help, that’s all.”
Jebi forced themself to smile. “I appreciate it, Hak.”
What they wanted to ask was, Are those slender opportunities why you’ve ingratiated yourself with the Razanei and their art collectors? But it wasn’t something they could say out loud, not if they wanted to preserve the friendship. Besides, it wasn’t any different than what they’d tried to do in applying to the Ministry of Art.
“Well,” Hak said briskly, straightening, “I’ll keep an ear to the ground in case anything else turns up. But don’t wait too long, all right? The sooner you pick yourself up and get moving, the less it will hurt. You’ll see.” And with that, she, too, departed.
OVER THE COURSE of the next week, as the twelve days trickled away, Jebi became comprehensively familiar with the number of doors that were shut to them.
They stopped by their sister’s house several times and stood in front of the gate for the better part of an hour, listening. The first two times, they heard voices from within, Bongsunga’s voice, and those of strangers. The third time, despite the unfamiliar voices, they nerved themself up and banged on the door. But Bongsunga didn’t answer, and after half an hour of knocking, they gave up and went away.
They’d worked in the past with a broker who offered folk art by anonymous artists—one of the parts that Jebi detested most about the business, although they were ashamed to have their name associated with these pieces anyway. They visited him to inquire as to whether he was interested in more work. His shop remained dismal, poorly lit and crowded with the usual stereotyped images. Jebi counted no less than eight tigers, all of them in the crude, bold style that the market currently favored, and six of them all but indistinguishable despite—probably—having been painted by completely different people.
The broker caught them looking. “No more room for tigers,” he said, almost in a grunt. “There’s talk that tigers are seditious.”
Jebi swallowed an incredulous laugh. Tigers, seditious? They’d featured in Hwagugin art for hundreds of years, if not longer, as mountain guardians and mercurial sages as well as the buffoonish subjects of folktales in which clever peasant children outwitted the beasts who had eaten their grandparents. (Why the grandparents never managed to save themselves the same way, Jebi couldn’t figure out.)
Then again, tiger-sages had also served as the patrons of warriors, and maybe the Razanei administration feared that the resistance would take inspiration from them. Never mind that tiger-sages made chancy allies at best.
“I should keep track, huh,” Jebi said, swallowing their bitterness. They had grown bored of painting cartoonish tigers, but they could do it in their sleep. Truth to tell, they were horrified at themself for resenting the sudden uselessness of a skill they hadn’t even enjoyed picking up in the first place.
“You didn’t bring anything, did you?” the broker said, still gruff.
He named a figure; the percentage had gone down.
That’s—Jebi clenched their teeth, took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to let him see their outrage.
He noticed anyway. “Nothing personal,” he said, “but the local interpreter is asking for bigger bribes. You know how it goes.”
“I see,” Jebi said with a sigh. They shouldn’t have bothered coming here anyway. The folk art had only ever been an uncertain source of income. “Thanks.”