The man didn’t even look up as Jebi made their way out of the shop.
Jebi had no better success at the other places they checked. How had they never noticed how few good jobs there were, and how many artists competed for the ones that existed? In the past, Bongsunga’s support had insulated them from the ups and downs of having to scramble for money.
They inquired with several schools of portraitists, but portraits had fallen in popularity since Hwaguk’s conquest. The few portraitists who commanded high prices had adapted to the trends that the Razanei had set—not a surprise in itself, but Jebi also gathered, from the oblique comments they heard, that bribery and connections helped in securing one’s place. One of the schools offered them a membership, which they would have considered if they’d been able to afford the fee. The school promised access to clients, although it took a cut of any commissions. But the fee—for a full year, up-front—was too high.
They also looked into the rent at communal houses, because sooner or later Hak would start hinting that they needed to move out. Jebi hated the idea of living with strangers, but they weren’t going to find a room as luxurious as the one their sister had kicked them out of, either. Maybe they could find a hostel, pay by the week, in the hopes of going back home soon.
None of this helped with the immediate problem of finding work. Jebi regretted not making more connections with printmakers or sign-painters, people with their own cliques. They’d never break in unless they made contacts, which would involve bribes, or drinks, or gifts. It all came to the same thing.
This is what I get, Jebi thought glumly as they stopped by a food cart to haggle over fish cakes in spiced sauce, for playing high-and-mighty while I studied traditional art. Some of the ministries outsourced their posters to printmakers. Jebi preferred painting, but the printmakers had jobs, and they didn’t. It was too late to change fields, anyway.
The seller only gave Jebi a scant serving of fish cakes. Jebi almost argued about it, then thought better of it. After chasing leads all day, they were too tired to quibble, and Hak had fed them well the past few days.
That evening, and the next, and the next, Jebi walked all the way to the Ministry of Armor’s complex before heading back in indecision. I’m not that desperate yet, they kept thinking. But none of the other jobs they applied for panned out, and in the meantime Jebi found it harder and harder to face Hak during their brief encounters.
I’m not that desperate yet—but they only had five days left before the moneylender came after them.
ON THE EIGHTH day after the exam results were posted, the day dawned gray and misty, smothering the entire city. Even the smells of rotting leaves and waste were muted. With Jebi’s luck, it would rain today.
In spite of themself, Jebi’s feet led them down to District One, once known as the Government District. They passed alongside the Old Palace, which the Razanei had rehabilitated for various administrative buildings, and stopped in front of the Ministry of Armor.
Why not? Jebi thought, staring dubiously at the building. It doesn’t hurt to look around. Armor occupied the western wing of the palace. In the old days, it had sported a banner with the White Tiger of the West, which was associated with autumn. Now, it simply featured a wooden sign saying ARMOR in the Razanei character.
Jebi had faint childhood memories of the Old Palace and its gardens. The Razanei had lost no time relandscaping. The pigeons, crows, and magpies that pestered people for scraps didn’t care, and some of the Razanei bureaucrats had taken to feeding the birds themselves. Jebi felt the familiar ambivalence when they looked at the imported cherry trees, so emblematic of Razan. They’d shed most of their leaves already, but they’d bloom gloriously in the spring, beautiful and alien.
Unsurprisingly, more automata patrols marched along the streets around the Old Palace. Jebi tried not to gawk too obviously as one group passed them. They’d never seen automata with masks with marks that color before, a weird shimmering... orange? Green? They couldn’t tell for sure, and that bothered them. Some new paint? That intrigued them.
The interpreter didn’t take notice of Jebi, or at any rate, not more notice than anyone else in the street. Still, Jebi clutched their bag, since it contained the precious name certificate. It wouldn’t fend off a Razanei determined to take offense, of course; they just had to keep matters from getting to that point.
Like all the ministries, Armor had a bulletin board. Say this for the Razanei: they were organized. Despite all the stereotypes about the artistic soul, Jebi appreciated this. One could always expect the Razanei to put things where people could find them.
This late in the afternoon, only a few other people lingered near the bulletin board. A functionary in white and gray was pulling down older notices. Jebi glimpsed some of them: cryptic lists of numbers and names, something about the cafeteria, a reminder not to feed the birds. A woman in crutches and a child who resembled her were feeding the birds, and no one bothered them about it.
“Do you mind if I have a look before you take the rest of those down?” Jebi asked the functionary in moderately deferential Razanei.
The functionary shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she replied. “No one’s going to notice if some of these linger for another day anyway.” With that, she strolled away.
It didn’t take Jebi long to locate the call for staff artists. Why can’t they borrow them from the Ministry of Art? they wondered.
It was only when a mild voice answered from next to them that they realized they had spoken aloud. “What’s your interest?”
Jebi bit their tongue by accident as they whirled. “I’m an artist,” they blurted out, too wrung out by their fruitless search to dissemble.
The speaker was a man in the same white and gray as the woman who’d been clearing the board, slim of stature, balding. He leaned on the oddest wooden cane Jebi had ever seen. It was topped by a rifle stock, if its barrel had been replaced with polished wood. “I haven’t seen you around the Ministry of Art,” he said, still mild.
“Oh, no,” Jebi said, heat rising to their face, “I’m independent.” A nice way to say unemployed.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your reading.” He smiled.
That was awkward, but Jebi couldn’t think of a polite way to excuse themself. And it would be a shame to have come all this way only to be driven off. Since they were here anyway, they might as well scrutinize the postings.
Jebi continued reading. When they got to the mention of starting pay, their jaw dropped. How much? And what was the catch? There had to be a catch.
“You’re wondering what the catch is,” the man said.
“You’re very good at reading minds,” Jebi observed, more bemused than resentful.
The man chuckled. “You weren’t making any effort to hide your expression.”
“Well, all right,” Jebi said, “if you work here, or even if you don’t, what is the catch?”
They hadn’t been expecting an answer, but he said, “Everyone’s jumpy because the head of the artists’ workshop died under mysterious circumstances.”
Jebi started. “I hadn’t heard.” They wracked their brains. They’d had a vague awareness that Armor, like most of the ministries, used artists in some capacity, but who had been the head of the workshop?