“You should always run your grammars by Nehen,” Shon told Jebi once. “They’ve got the most expertise, and you don’t want to accidentally program an automaton to attack you or something.”
Jebi shuddered. “Thanks for the warning.” After that, they spent the rest of their time constructing potential grammars based on the elliptical instructional manuals.
“You’ve got a knack for this, especially for a Fourteener,” Nehen said the fifth time Jebi came to them. The two of them had just gone over Jebi’s latest proposed correction to Arazi’s grammar, the first time they’d incorporated combat instructions.
Jebi stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Nehen’s hand flew to their mouth. “Oh, sorry, that just slipped out. Your accent’s so good, I almost wasn’t sure at first. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you,” Jebi said, dubious. In all honesty, they were surprised no one had figured it out earlier. The servants probably had, by observing Jebi’s preferences in food. The cafeteria served a mixture of what was apparently Razanei food and more familiar Hwagugin fare, and Jebi wasn’t strong enough to resist the latter.
“Let’s get back to the grammar,” Nehen said hastily. “You have a contradiction between the instruction to defend the base and defer to authority right here.” They pointed with their pencil to the columns of glyphs. “If there’s a contradiction, it gets a choice. You see? So we do our best not to incorporate any paradoxes, so we can completely predict the automaton’s actions.”
“So we’re eliminating the possibility of choice wherever we can,” Jebi said, thinking not just of the automaton’s constricted existence, but the choices that had been taken away from them, and their people in general.
Nehen beamed at Jebi. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
At other times, Jebi visited the artificers, who were willing to answer any questions Jebi had about the inner workings of automata. Unfortunately, they had no explanation for why a dragon automaton had gone rogue while human automata built using the same techniques remained obedient. Nehen confirmed that the grammar given to Arazi, while unusually complex, had been tested on smaller, more easily subdued automata first.
Based on their studies and those of Issemi’s papers they’d deciphered, Jebi had one of the artificers start manufacturing more masks to fit Arazi. The artificer obliged them with nary a word of complaint. Jebi dreaded having to paint and use the masks according to their proposed grammars, but they’d worry about that later.
A couple weeks in, Jebi started spending more time in the studio despite their distaste. The pigment-grinder Shon continued to warm to them, discussing how he selected artwork and how to determine the properties of the paints he made from them. Swallowing their revulsion, Jebi allowed him to tutor them in the methods. Paintings weren’t the only items to be vandalized. Shon had them practice on a damaged wooden cosmetics box, frail with age.
“We prefer originals in good condition,” Shon remarked, “but for your first attempt we should use something expendable.”
Jebi bit the inside of their mouth so they wouldn’t say something regrettable. “Surely some artifacts are easier to reduce”—Shon’s term—“than others,” Jebi ventured as Shon gestured for them to sit by him.
“Special tools blessed by the priests of old,” Shon said in his usual rough manner. He pointed to his mortars and pestles. “Sometimes blunt reduction is required first.”
A fancy way of saying that one smashed the art, or ripped it into pieces, whatever was necessary to render it into particles. Jebi wondered if the mortars and pestles had had some other purpose at first. They couldn’t imagine that even Razanei priests had invented some ritual expressly to get rid of art, even art they didn’t like. “Show me,” Jebi said faintly.
Shon chose one of the mortars and slid it toward them, along with the pestle. “Break off a piece,” he said. “You might want gloves.” He offered a pair of those as well, although they were comically too large for Jebi’s hands; Shon was not a small man.
Jebi demurred, thinking, It’s supposed to hurt. Destroying something ought to make you bleed, even if it was a damaged piece, and not especially rare. Even Razanei collectors, as Hak had told them ages ago, had standards—however confusing—as to how much wear and tear was “charming,” and how much devalued an object.
Some long-ago crafter had labored over this box. Someone had owned it, or received it as a gift. Someone might have prettied themself up using the cosmetics within, some of which remained as a faint residue. Someone might have danced afterward, or written poems, or met a lover.
This box might be the repository of any number of stories. Jebi thought about that as they tensed their hands, then broke off a splinter. It took less effort than they’d braced for, but the splinter pierced their hand. Blood welled up.
“You should have taken the gloves,” Shon said. “Bandage?”
“Does the blood make a difference?” Jebi asked: more morbid curiosity.
“Not that I’ve ever noticed.”
So you’ve experimented. Which made sense, although it repulsed them. They’d heard that the Razanei cared more about purity than Hwagugin, or anyway they cared differently. But if people beneath the Old Palace bothered with cleansing rituals, they did so in private, where Jebi couldn’t observe them.
Under Shon’s watchful eye, Jebi ground down the splinter. The faint gray glow returned. They disliked being involved with Razanei magic, although they couldn’t deny its efficacy. Even rickety old wood shouldn’t have gone to powder that easily. And the splinter produced far more powder than it should have.
“There’s the pigment,” Shon said, satisfied. “This one should prove out as Allure. Not one that we have much call for, in our line of work. We don’t make automata to be pretty.”
“You’re not always sure what pigment will be the result?”
“Just like ordinary pigments, there’s some variation in effect,” he said. “It’s why securing adequate supplies is—a matter of some concern.”
I just bet. “And the rest of the process is as I saw before?”
“Indeed. Refining, mixing the paint, the usual.”
He’s hiding something. But what? And more importantly, would they get in trouble for inquiring further?
Jebi said, with pretended diffidence, “I suppose painting on wood and painting on silk aren’t so different after all.”
That was calculated to inspire a lecture. Every artist Jebi had ever known was happy to rant about the ineluctable differences between media. But Shon merely nodded, tight-lipped.
Something occurred to Jebi. “Do you ever reduce—living artists’ work?” That might be the source of the others’ distaste for Shon.
“Oh, no, no,” Shon said, shaking his head for emphasis. “No point in that.”
“Why not?”
“Ineffectual, so no point in it.”
He hadn’t said that the artist might object. Jebi doubted such considerations occurred to him. So the process depended on the artist being dead. “So you can tell that Issemi’s apprentice isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere?” After all, if Mirhai had left any artwork behind, Shon could have reduced it and seen if it turned into working pigment or not, settling the question of whether she was alive or dead.