Shon’s mouth compressed, then he nodded. “Don’t do that anymore,” he said. “We tried it in the early days, art made to order, living artists handsomely compensated. Never worked. And figuring out whether people are dead isn’t what this is for, you know. The point is art, not fortune telling. And Mirhai would have hated having her sketches torn up like that, good Razanei work that it was.”
It didn’t surprise Jebi that the workshop only destroyed Hwagugin artwork, when surely Razanei works would have been easier to obtain. The whole enterprise made them queasier the more they learned about it. “Still,” they pressed, “if it’s so urgent to capture Mirhai and bring her back here—”
“Can’t find out anything beyond that,” Shon said. “Dead or alive, that’s it. Not like diviner’s smoke, to lead you in a direction.”
“Thank you,” Jebi said. They were certain that they wouldn’t get the answers they wanted from him, but that didn’t mean the answers couldn’t be found.
DZUGE VEI CONTINUED overseeing Jebi, meeting with them at least once a day—sometimes more often. It was from Vei that Jebi learned the origin of the underground complex’s nickname: the Summer Palace.
Vei had brought Jebi dinner, because Jebi was mired in Issemi’s papers and had missed the call to the cafeteria where the artists dined. The kitchens were theoretically open at all hours—whoever had set the place up had a realistic notion of artists’ schedules—but while Jebi didn’t like to take breaks when they were engrossed in something, it was more hassle for the servants if they went in at odd hours, and as a fellow Hwagugin, Jebi didn’t want to make their lives harder than necessary.
“Is it that interesting?” Vei said mildly as she watched Jebi alternating mouthfuls of rice and acorn jelly with scribbling notes on the notes. “I suppose there’s not much to see in the Summer Palace.”
It wasn’t the first time Jebi had heard the term. “Why do you call it that?” they wondered. “People say it sometimes, and then look awkward. There must be some story behind it.”
Vei laughed wryly. “No one’s told you yet? It isn’t anything profound. It’s Issemi’s fault, which is why I suppose it’s an uncomfortable subject. When she took up residence, she painted a triptych during her off hours. A summer garden. Someone thought her yearning for real weather was funny, hence the name.”
Jebi could relate. Electrical lighting lacked the warmth and variety of natural lighting. They went up to the surface every few days, always accompanied by a guard, and stood in the courtyard drinking in sunlight, the smells of damp and rotted leaves, the magpies’ raucous calls.
“Where’s the triptych now?” Jebi asked. They would have liked the additional insight into Issemi’s work, however unrelated it might seem.
Vei shook her head. “I don’t know. I think it was destroyed.”
You don’t know? Jebi almost asked, then thought better of it, remembering the fact that they were a prisoner and some questions were better left locked behind their teeth. At times it was almost easy to forget that they couldn’t trust her.
Vei always treated them with courtesy, and, if Jebi was honest with themself, they loved watching her at her morning exercises, which she did in the common room, brushstroke-lithe, her slim figure perfectly balanced. They hadn’t asked for permission to sketch her—not because they thought she’d say no, but because they were afraid she’d say yes. For Vei’s part, if she’d noticed Jebi’s attraction, she was kind enough not to mention it.
After Jebi had finished dinner, Vei reached for the tray, and Jebi reached out on impulse to stop her. Their hands met; Jebi flushed and snatched their hand away. I’ve done it now, they thought miserably.
Vei caught their gaze, held it. Smiled. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” she said. “We may not be friends, but I am not your enemy either.”
“Do you say that to all your opponents?” Jebi asked. For the first time, they wished they knew something of the duelist’s art so that they could spar with Vei, meet her in the dance of blade against blade, understand the way that she tensed and flexed and flowed in her own terms rather than the academic manner of a student of the human form.
“Is that what we are?” Vei’s smile widened fractionally. “As long as you deal honorably with the Ministry’s tasks, I have no quarrel with you.”
What a peculiar way to put it, honorably; but Jebi supposed they couldn’t expect any different from a duelist, of all people. They’d never thought about art in terms of honor. The traditional schools emphasized expression of the subject’s inner nature, or the feelings it provoked in the artist. Lately, the Western schools stressed accurate depictions, so that realism mattered more than any sense of visual poetry. Neither group cared much about honor.
Perhaps sensing Jebi’s discomfort, Vei changed the subject. “What progress have you made?”
“Let’s take another look at Arazi,” Jebi said. “I want to compare the notes we did decipher”—a process involving much squinting and tea for headaches—“with the actual mask.” They gathered up the papers.
“Sounds good to me.” Vei led the way to Arazi’s cavern.
Inside, the dragon Arazi continued its pacing. The painted circle that separated it from the rest of the cavern had not changed, nor the percussive clattering music of its chains. Jebi couldn’t help but wonder if the dragon meant to wear out the metal. How much patience did an automaton have? After all, it didn’t age, in the way of flesh.
Jebi called out, in a voice that quavered more than they would have liked, “Lower your head.” They weren’t a translator, but they’d learned over the past weeks that the dragon responded to simple commands. They thanked whoever had written the current grammar to make the creature easier to work with.
The dragon halted before Jebi. Its head snaked down until it came to a stop in front of them. Jebi studied the mask, wondered how heavy it was. The ones in the workshop were deceptively light. “Wait a second,” they said slowly. They held up the copy they’d made of one of Issemi’s diagrams. “That’s not good.”
Vei inhaled sharply. “Oh?”
“I think Issemi hoodwinked everyone.”
“Speak carefully,” Vei said. “She was my friend.”
Jebi studied Vei’s face, worried by her lack of expression. They still found Vei beautiful, despite the unfashionable narrowness of her face and the pointed chin, so unlike the moon-visaged women that the Razanei favored. The ability to hide one’s inner thoughts would be an advantage in dueling.
Stop staring and start talking. They couldn’t afford to let their infatuation distract them. “There’s a difference,” they said carefully, “between the designs that she left behind, and what’s actually painted on the dragon. I never noticed it before, but now that I have them side by side—”
Now Vei’s expression did shift: narrowed eyes, a tautness around her mouth. “Explain.”
“You’re a duelist,” Jebi said after the doors had closed behind them, “so I assume you have a good eye.”