SEVEN

 

 

 

ZAKAN TACTFULLY DIDN’T attempt to engage Jebi in conversation on the way back to the Summer Palace. Jebi wasn’t making any secret of their mood. At first they fretted that they wouldn’t be able to return before Dzuge Vei did, but they needn’t have worried. The rituals of the duel, to say nothing of the combination of mourning and celebration—a few people had in fact supported Vei, outnumbered though they were—meant that Vei was unlikely to extricate herself from the crowd anytime soon.

The rest of the day passed in a haze, as did the ones following it. Jebi wished they’d stayed out longer. It might have been nice to see the night sky again, and lose themself in the study of the winter constellations. The stars reminded them of their sister and her fascination with stories of the celestials.

Jebi longed to ask around and find out if Bongsunga missed them yet. Unfortunately, even though they went up topside again to indulge in roasted chestnuts and buns stuffed with sweet red bean paste, they had no luck shaking their watcher. Frustrated, Jebi fantasized about the things they would say to Bongsunga, even though they knew everything would end in her telling them I told you so.

By the time Vei returned to the Summer Palace, Jebi had thrown themself back into studying Issemi’s notes to double-check their work. They had a solution in mind, but not one that they dared show to Nehen. Since they wouldn’t have the usual safeguard of a second pair of eyes on the new grammar they planned on giving Arazi, they had to make absolutely certain that nothing would go wrong.

The artisans of the Summer Palace remained reluctant to discuss the Ppalgan-Namu incident with Jebi. But Jebi knew of one more witness, if they could only coax it to talk: the dragon itself. After all, who knew better what Arazi had done than Arazi itself?

Jebi remembered what Nehen had told them about contradictions and choices, and attempted to communicate with the automata that guarded the cafeteria. The human guards in their blue uniforms gave Jebi carefully neutral looks as Jebi approached. “You just missed the last of the extra desserts,” the taller one said.

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” Jebi said, although they wouldn’t have minded the flower-shaped cookies that the kitchens had been producing lately, in lopsided imitation of Hwagugin sweets. “Can I talk to the automata?”

The other guard, a squat fellow with a birthmark along the side of his face, shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to us one way or the other. They’re not exactly great conversationalists.”

“Thanks,” Jebi said, turning to face the automata. “Do you understand me?” they asked.

The automata stared blankly back at them.

“Can you nod, or sign?” Jebi tried. Some of the vendors at the market that Bongsunga frequented had been deaf, and communicated by signing. Jebi didn’t know the details, but surely the automata would have come up with the solution for themselves even if they didn’t have voices.

The automata didn’t move.

One of the servants cleaning up dishes in the cafeteria pointed at the spectacle Jebi was making of themself and grinned. Another, speaking in Hwamal, whispered back something unflattering about Rassanin and their airs. Jebi flushed, but didn’t react. They knew they looked ridiculous, and besides, they didn’t want to get the servants in trouble if the guards didn’t understand them.

“It was worth a try,” Jebi said. The grammars of standard automata hadn’t allowed for that kind of intelligence or reactivity, but they’d wanted to be sure.

But they’d studied the initial grammar Issemi had given Arazi. Not only had the grammar involved more advanced glyphs—enough, Issemi hinted, to give the dragon intelligence equivalent to a human’s—she had also used the rarest pigments, such as Phoenix Extravagant. The pigment Jebi needed the most, though, was fortunately extremely common: Chirping Cicada, which represented the desire to communicate one’s ideas—a motive shared by many artists. They thought they saw a way to modify certain glyphs so the two of them could share thoughts without speaking them aloud, a device they had seen in one of Bongsunga’s adventure novels and one that would be handy to avoid being overheard by the guards.

“Sorry it didn’t work out,” the squat guard said. “Like I told you, they’re no good for witty banter.”

“You did warn me,” Jebi agreed, and retreated to the workshop. They opened up their sketchbook, in which they’d written in deliberately terrible handwriting to reduce the chance that anyone would spy on their notes. In fact, that probably made their scribblings look more suspicious, but no one had commented on it—yet. They kept hesitating over the matter of contradiction and choice. If they forced the dragon to always tell the truth, it would just as easily reveal Jebi’s questioning to anyone who asked. If they gave it a choice, the dragon might lie to them.

I have to take the risk, Jebi thought, circling the relevant glyphs. To tell the truth and to exercise discretion, two conflicting directives. Which would, according to Nehen, mean that the dragon could choose.

 

 

ADAY AFTER her return, Vei checked in with Jebi. She knocked on the door to the workshop before entering, a peculiar quirk given that she had the key and all the artists were in the habit of leaving the door ajar. Ordinarily Jebi liked that about her, that ingrained courtesy. But now all they saw when they looked at her was that red-and-blue outfit, and their sister-in-law Jia’s face on the last day before she went off to the war.

“Is something the matter?” Vei asked as she approached Jebi’s workstation.

Jebi hastily smoothed their expression. “Just worried,” they said. They had no intention of telling Vei that they were going to question Arazi. “Any word on the investigation?”

“Issemi?” Vei shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing new from the deputy minister. He does want to know, however, if you’ll be able to restore the dragon’s function.”

“About that,” Jebi said, both grateful that Vei hadn’t pried into their unease and nervous about the current topic. “What is the timetable for this?”

Vei’s face stilled.

“I realize there are security implications,” Jebi said, picking their words with care. They glanced down, saw that their hands were tapping nervously on the work bench, made them stop. “But I can be of more use to you if I know how fast I need to work, and what to prioritize.”

“I can’t answer that question,” Vei said, to Jebi’s surprise. “But the deputy minister can. He’s been wanting to talk to you anyway. Come with me.”

“I was working on—”

“Come with me.” Because she was Vei, she rose and waited for Jebi to follow suit, rather than striding off and expecting them to catch up.

Jebi’s hopes for an aboveground excursion were dashed when Vei led them to a corridor they hadn’t explored before. They smiled at the guards, even the silent automata, out of pure nerves. The guards saluted Vei and did not challenge her right to enter.

Vei stopped in front of the only unlabeled door down this hall. “Deputy Minister,” she called out. “I’ve brought the artist.”

“Come in,” Hafanden said, and Vei did. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Jebi waited until Hafanden gestured impatiently at the seat across from his desk to sit down. They’d assumed that Vei would take it, but apparently not.

Jebi’s gaze was arrested by the immense map that covered the wall behind Hafanden, one that had not been present in his aboveground office. It took them a couple of seconds to spot Razan’s home archipelago, and then Administrative Territory Fourteen, and the immense land of Huang-Guan to the north of the Territory. But the map depicted lands beyond the three that they knew, with unfamiliar names and shapes, as well as notations for existing colonies and—most worrying of all—planned conquests.

Hafanden said, “It’s time to get a progress report directly from you. Vei, you may leave us.”

“Of course,” Vei said, and slipped out as quietly as she had come.

Danger, Jebi’s senses whispered to them, a cold hole at the pit of their stomach. “I had thought that the duelist prime was reporting on my doings,” they said, careful to speak deferentially.

“Yes,” Hafanden said, leaning forward, “she had mentioned that you’d spotted sabotage. How close are you to finding a solution?”

At least Jebi had an answer to this. “The design work is straightforward,” they said, their voice trailing off uncertainly because they didn’t know how much Hafanden wanted them to explain. But Hafanden nodded and turned his hand over, indicating that Jebi should continue. “The problem is supply.”

“Supply of what?” he asked sharply.

“Pigments,” Jebi said. “I’ve been talking to Shon about it. We are almost out of the enchanted pigment known as Phoenix Extravagant. I asked him if it was possible to obtain more, but he said that this will take time because of the rarity of suitable source artworks.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Hafanden said. “A supply will be obtained.”

“Be obtained,” Jebi thought: passive voice, with no indication of who would do the obtaining. “I’d understood that the project was urgent,” they said.

“That it is,” he said, and for the first time his face sagged into weary lines.

Jebi gathered their courage and ventured, “I hadn’t thought that the Empire anticipated any difficulty in the Administrative Territory? The dragon Arazi is an impressive achievement, but I’d been told it was intended to defeat tanks, and surely I’d have heard even here if we were under that kind of threat.”

Hafanden’s smile lacked humor. “Not here, no. I don’t expect an artist to keep track of international relations”—insulting, but in Jebi’s case, true—“but the Western powers have been circling Razan and Huang-Guan like hungry sharks. It is only a matter of time before their navies show up to annex us the way they have annexed other lands.”

“I had no idea,” Jebi said blankly. Like many of their people, they had only a vague idea of geography beyond Hwaguk’s nearest neighbors. “So Arazi is intended to be our defense against the Westerners.” They’d almost said your, but caught themself in time.

“Correct.” Hafanden folded his hands together, his face stern. “You will have guessed that the advantage of automata is that they can be manufactured in whatever quantities our resources permit. We have secured sources of metal, and we have built factories.”

Hwagugin metal, Jebi thought. They did know that one of Razan’s motivations for invading mountainous Hwaguk had been its wealth of ores and minerals. Bongsunga had always complained that they should have built more guns and swords to arm their soldiers before the war; but it was too late now.

“So you’ll secure more of the pigment?” Jebi asked, frowning.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my problem.” Hafanden straightened. “I want you to document everything about the fix, and hand it in to Vei once you’ve unriddled the notes completely. Understood?”

“Understood,” Jebi said, more certain than ever that they didn’t dare tell Hafanden—or Vei, for that matter—that they already knew how to fix the problem. The question was, did they trust the Razanei to use weapons like Arazi against foreigners, instead of Hwagugin rebels? And the answer to that was obvious.