NINETEEN

 

 

 

IN THE DAYS that followed, Bongsunga conferred every hour with her scouts. She did not drill with her troops, which surprised Jebi at first. They’d had some notion that revolutionary types respected strength above anything else, or arm-wrestled for leadership positions, like bandits did in the stories (real bandits, Jebi had no clue). On the other hand, Bongsunga allowed them to watch her playing baduk against some of the other rebels. Jebi followed the game well enough to tell that she always won.

Bongsunga had shifted the crates of artwork to a tent, where she confined Jebi during most of their day. Jebi poured all their frustration with the situation into the cataloging that they’d agreed to do, this time recording everything on the water-stained paper that she’d provided. A single guard paced around the tent. Jebi’s two attempts to talk to him had revealed that either he was deaf or he had orders not to respond to a word they said; either way, no help there. Even when they had to use the latrine—located, to Jebi’s relief, a sanitary distance away from the rest of the camp—the guard accompanied them and watched.

Jebi, not being entirely naive, had refrained from telling Bongsunga about Arazi’s ability to speak mind to mind with them. Arazi entertained them during their work by telling stories about the rebels and their pastimes. {I want to gamble too,} it added, to Jebi’s alarm, {but I don’t have any money.}

{Given your luck, you probably shouldn’t,} Jebi said.

Its attention had moved on to other matters. {Everyone has such different hair!} And it was off burbling about its latest enthusiasm.

On the third day, Jebi satisfied themself that they couldn’t simply sneak past the guard, or at least, they didn’t want to risk having him pound them into the dirt unless they had no other option. Jebi studied his bulky physique, muscles all the way down, and concluded that they couldn’t be guaranteed that the biceps were for show. Vei would have been able to tell; but they couldn’t confer with her in anything resembling privacy, either.

{Arazi,} Jebi said as they used an old, shitty brush someone had scrounged up to remove caked mud from one of the vases. A nice piece, slightly asymmetrical in what Hak would have touted as “peculiarly Fourteener charm.” Thinking about their dead friend brought the grief back, but they couldn’t afford to mourn. {Arazi, are you busy right now?}

The dragon didn’t answer.

{Arazi?}

The dragon continued not to answer.

Jebi buried their face in their hands and moaned. The guard kicked the side of the tent in warning—not the side with the stacked crates, thankfully, although how would he know they hadn’t moved them out of spite—and Jebi chewed on their lower lip. They didn’t know how to concentrate on art cataloging when they needed to escape an entirely new prison. What if Arazi, seduced by the charms of revolutionaries and their hairstyles, threw in with Bongsunga after all?

Jebi set the brush down and stared sightlessly at the vase. It was snowy white with a fine pattern of combed lines zigzagging down one side, not a design motif that they’d seen elsewhere. But then, pottery wasn’t their area of expertise. They resented that Bongsunga seemed to consider all forms of art faintly interchangeable. Were swords and spears interchangeable? They bet not.

Why did it matter so much to them? Arazi could make up its mind for itself. In particular, why did the idea of the dragon taking up with their sister bother them so much? After all, Bongsunga’s distrust of the Razanei regime had proven wise. Jebi could no longer claim that life under the Razanei was no different from life under Hwagugin rule.

That night, as Jebi slept on a pallet in the tent with the precious artifacts, they thought they heard Arazi calling their name. But they were tired, so tired, and they fell asleep even as they mumbled, “Later.”

They woke shivering in the middle of the night. The brazier had gone out. They ventured out, only to almost get kicked in the shin by a different guard.

“Latrine?” the guard asked brusquely.

Jebi started to say no, then realized that was a yes. “Also my brazier went out,” they added, hoping the guard would think that letting them die of hypothermia wouldn’t endear her to Bongsunga.

The guard grunted. After the trip to the latrine, she grudgingly relit the brazier.

“Thank you,” Jebi said, which received another grunt.

They were wide awake now, thanks to the cold. {Arazi?}

This time the dragon’s sinuous voice responded. {I’m here,} it said penitently. {I have been much occupied.}

Jebi’s trepidations only grew. {Occupied doing what?}

{Drills with the soldiers,} Arazi said. {Including flying drills to figure out who’s afraid of heights, and who’s likely to vomit during ascents, descents, and turbulence. There has been much vomiting! I am told it is very smelly.}

{Like at sea?} Jebi asked, distracted by the image of green-faced rebels clutching the dragon’s harness, then realized neither they nor Arazi knew anything about nautical endeavors except from stories. {I suppose the weather’s unpredictable.} They’d had some awareness of the wind whistling through the camp, but hadn’t paid much attention to it other than to wish that they had extra braziers, and never mind the fire hazard.

{I suppose?} Arazi said, dubious in turn. {I’ve never seen the sea. But you didn’t call to me because you wanted to talk about the sea.}

{Not exactly,} Jebi said. {I was—I was going to ask for your help escaping. Although I realize that it’s up to you, and I don’t know how to get Vei out.}

For the first time, Jebi had an uncomfortable insight into the mindset of people like Hafanden, or, for that matter, the unnamed Razanei who had come up with the concept of an army of automata in the first place. It must be so convenient to have soldiers who would obey your every command, unlike fallible, or lazy, or malicious human beings who had minds of their own.

Except Arazi had a mind of its own, too, when allowed to express its thoughts.

Luckily for Jebi, Arazi’s pause was only momentary, or they would have held their breath in an agony of suspense. {I am no expert in the ways of siblings,} it said, gently ironic, {but I take it that you and your sister have disagreements over the proper way things should be done.}

{That’s putting it mildly,} Jebi said. Miserably, they wondered when their family affairs had become so complicated. {You can do what you want—I mean, not that you need my permission. I just want to paint. But sometimes I wonder if Bongsunga isn’t right, and fighting for Hwaguk’s freedom is more important.}

{Your sister wants you to make another earthquake?}

{She hasn’t come out and said it,} Jebi said, {but I know she’s thinking it. Even if we’re almost out of Phoenix Extravagant and the other pigments I need.} They’d considered using an earthquake to escape, but they couldn’t think of a way to do it that wouldn’t destroy the camp, and they weren’t that desperate yet.

{You should talk about it.}

{I should,} Jebi agreed. Maybe tomorrow.

 

 

IN THE MORNING, Jebi reinventoried all the crates. Some of the rebels had gotten into a brawl next to the tent. Everyone had heard Bongsunga upbraiding them, even Jebi.

Most of the contents hadn’t shifted too badly, and the few metal or stone pieces—a scratched-up bronze mirror, a handful of the ubiquitous comma-shaped jades, a jewelry box depicting two pheasants—had survived intact. But several of the paintings had new rips in them, which Jebi recorded in their most sarcastic handwriting, and no less than three of the ceramics were broken, one of them beyond repair.

The sounds of shouting and—a riot?—interrupted Jebi’s concentration after lunch. At first they dismissed it as a fancy, or perhaps some inexplicable drill involving lots of cadence. Jia had explained to them about cadence once. It had sounded like so much nonsense. In retrospect, it was a miracle that Jia hadn’t retaliated by mocking Jebi’s expertise in painting.

The shouting grew louder. Jebi thought they heard a familiar voice bellowing to be heard, in Razanei-accented Hwamal. Could it be—?

Jebi timidly ventured out of the tent, only to be greeted by the guard’s frown. “Are we in danger?” they asked.

“Get back in there,” he said, “it’s none of your affair.”

“If it’s something I can help with—” Shit. Had Bongsunga mentioned their ability to call earthquakes? And if so, would it antagonize the guard further to tell him of it? Assuming he believed them in the first place.

Fuming, Jebi allowed the guard to herd them back into the tent, where they listened to the commotion. They were about to try sneaking out, even knowing it was a terrible idea, when Bongsunga appeared, her face flushed. She’d been running, Jebi guessed, recognizing the dangerous spark in her eyes.

“What is—” Jebi began to say.

Bongsunga shook her head impatiently. “Come with me,” she said, and didn’t wait for an acknowledgment.

The guard prodded Jebi into following, although they didn’t need the encouragement. Surely the camp hadn’t come under attack, or Bongsunga wouldn’t be wasting time fetching them?

In the center of the camp, a circle of rebels surrounded—two? three?—figures. Jebi couldn’t see over their heads or, more importantly, their spears, bows, and rifles, leveled at the newcomers. Toward the entrance of the camp, Jebi saw two horses—no, three. The third had collapsed nearby. Jebi didn’t know much about horses other than what they’d picked up from Jia, who’d served in the cavalry, but they recognized a dying horse when they saw one. It had an elaborate saddle of a type Jebi had never seen before.

“They claimed to know you,” Bongsunga said without preamble, “and Vei. Since Vei is in no condition to come out and verify their identities, and I’m certainly not taking strangers to the invalids’ tent, it has to be you.”

“Thanks?” Jebi said dubiously.

The guard shoved them forward, and the circle of rebels parted to let Jebi through. They’d been right the second time: three people. Three people, each of whom they’d met before, however briefly. Vei’s parents.

“I know them,” Jebi said, resisting the urge to sag with relief. Not least because they had no guarantee that Bongsunga wouldn’t order Vei’s parents killed. They pointed to each in turn as they named the newcomers: “Captain Dzuge Keizhi. Hyeja, a physician. You always find those useful, don’t you?” they added, unable to resist needling Bongsunga. “And Namgyu, a calligrapher and translator.”

Bongsunga eyed the three without fear, which made Jebi worry all over again. Vei’s father had surrendered his sword, not that Jebi thought they considered him a real threat; the rebels had allowed him to keep his crutches. Jebi couldn’t imagine why they were here, or how they had found Bongsunga’s camp.

“Explain,” Bongsunga said, “why you are here.”

“You think your experiments in dragon-borne troop transport haven’t been noticed?” Captain Dzuge said grimly. “Even after we went underground—a narrow escape—all I had to do was triangulate the reports to locate your base. I still have some friends in the service.”

Jebi flashed back to the image of Vei’s parents’ house, burning, and the blues closing in.

“It won’t matter,” Bongsunga said. “We’re ready. And you haven’t answered the question.”

“I haven’t indeed.” His Razanei accent thickened, although no one remarked on it. “I came to warn you that the Deputy Minister of Armor is working with Ornithology and the military. They’re planning a raid to recapture your dragon. I assume it’s still here.”

Arazi’s head snaked out of nowhere to peer over the circle of rebels and down at Captain Dzuge. “I will not permit it,” it said. “I will not work for the deputy minister.”

“He believes otherwise,” Captain Dzuge said grimly. “That’s the warning. We rode several horses to death bringing word. I hope you can do something with it.”

“You’re a deserter, then,” Bongsunga said, as if that was the most important point.

Captain Dzuge’s mouth crooked. “I think my loyalties burned down with my house. There are limits to what I’m willing to tolerate.”

“You’re a captain,” Bongsunga said. “That’s not a trivial rank to give up so easily.”

“Even a Razanei captain,” he said, “may have principles. Let’s be clear. I’m not here for you. I’m here because my daughter came this way, and because she’s made certain choices. That’s all it is.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Bongsunga said. “How many are coming this way, and how soon?”

“Three days at best, more likely two,” the captain said. “I would either reinforce your defenses—which, sorry, aren’t going to stand up to the new tanks they’ve been testing—or I would evacuate the hell out of here. Your choice.”

“And these people?” Bongsunga asked, gesturing at Hyeja and Namgyu, who were huddled together. Jebi was relieved to see that Hyeja had ditched the extremely conspicuous Westerner dress, with its lace and ruffles, in favor of something one could actually sit a horse on.

Captain Dzuge kissed first Namgyu’s hand, then Hyeja’s, courtly as a figure out of legend. “Family,” he said simply. “They’re of your people. Do with me what you will; but keep them out of harm’s way, if you can.”

An ugly mutter of collaborators went around the circle. Bongsunga raised her hand, and everyone stilled. “They will have my protection,” she said, “in thanks. But you should have left them hidden elsewhere if you wanted safety.”