by Liz Williams
This, too, was plastered white, and the shrine itself bore no image, only a lamp and a niche for a candle. Robin knelt in front of it with her back to him, solid enough in this soft light, although sometimes her form flickered a little, as if seen through clear water.
“Hello,” Robin said, without looking round. “How did it go?”
Mhara sighed. “Tedious. I wish you could have been there.”
“Well, I could have,” she agreed. She had decided against attending the coronation. I’m not one for big state occasions, and anyway, I don’t want to cramp your style. She’d felt it might be embarrassing for the new Emperor, having his dead human girlfriend showing up on the big day. “I’m sure your mother thought I’d have made a scene. Would you like some tea?” She motioned to a battered iron kettle that set on a table near the door. “I just made some oolong.”
Mhara laughed, but he did not feel able to contradict her. “Thanks, I will.” He went to the table and poured steaming green liquid into a bowl. “And Mother made a bit of a scene herself. Wanted me to wear the big state robes, and I thought—not my style. She’s going to have to get used to that and she’s going to have to get used to you, Robin. I’ve already explained to her that you’re here to stay.”
“I thought,” Robin said, without turning her head, “that you might be up for some sort of political marriage.”
“Robin—this isn’t the Heaven of thousands of years ago, not anymore.”
“Does Heaven know that?”
Mhara sipped tea. “I don’t know. It will have to take it on board at some point. I’m up against a tradition like a juggernaut and I’m not going to be the one that gives in.”
“No,” Robin agreed. “I don’t suppose you will.” For the first time, she turned her head and looked at him. Robin thought, Mhara knew, that she had a very ordinary face: typical of the region, rather thin, with straight black brows, a long mouth. Mhara did not agree; it was not that he considered her beautiful, as that he did not really care. In Heaven, one was surrounded by the exquisite, a continual parade of glorious beauty that, after a while, became rather boring. He found Robin’s neither-plain-nor-pretty features restful, after all that extraordinariness. Moreover death, and a more settled situation, had smoothed out the habitual lines and frowns of worry that she had worn when Mhara first encountered her, down in the laboratories of Jhai Tserai’s corporation, and had lent a serenity to her face that made it more restful yet. Mhara enjoyed looking at her and did so now.
“The question of a political marriage will come up,” Mhara said. “My mother will make sure of it—I’m certain she has half a dozen candidates in mind from various other Heavens. Angelic powers, devas, houris. It doesn’t matter, Robin. Things have changed. Heaven is as subject to the march of time as anywhere else, we’re a quarter of the way through the twenty-first century now, and I’m not subject to my mother’s rule. This is a terrible thing to say but I don’t even have much respect for her—she saw what my father was becoming and she didn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” Robin said. “It won’t do much good for me to talk to your mother, but I suppose I can try if I have to.”
“There is,” Mhara remarked, “absolutely no point in winding her up.”
Robin patted him on the shoulder. “Sometimes, going out with you is really surprisingly normal. You don’t even look very Emperor-esque, if that’s any comfort.”
“Unfortunately, I am starting to feel some of its burdens.” Mhara put the tea bowl down. Talk of his coronation had just reminded him of something. “Have you heard from Chen or Inari lately?”
“I saw them at the weekend. They brought those—” Robin pointed toward a spray of elegant white orchids in a vase “—I forgot to tell you. Coronation present.”
“Was Inari’s badger with them?”
Robin frowned, remembering. “I think so. Yes, it was. It went for a root in the flowerbed while we were having tea. I know it’s sentient but I can’t help thinking of it as a sort of dog. Or a teakettle, obviously.”
“But you haven’t seen or spoken to them since then?”
“No. Why?”
“I think,” said Mhara, opening the door, “I’d better have a quick word with the detective inspector.”
It was, he discovered, a beautiful evening. For once, the air above the sprawl of Singapore Three was clear, fading down into an intensity of sunset green. There was a brief flash of gold from the horizon, along the line of the sea, and Mhara felt the benediction of the sun as it slipped out of sight. He had a sudden, dizzying vision of it as a distant star, the little zip and flicker of the world as it orbited. Then it was gone and the lights of the city lay before him, peaceful in this liminal time of twilight in spite of the faint roar of traffic.
The temple, until so recently no more than a ruined shell, stood on a slight rise in an outlying suburb, backed by the wall of hills that rose in the north of the city. The view was pleasant from here; there were trees, and occasionally a rainy breath of mountain air. This, more than Heaven, had become home. Mhara was pleased to be back.
There were several ways of contacting Chen, but when on Earth, the new Emperor preferred to work with traditional methods. He clicked open the shell of his cellphone and dialed Chen’s number. No reply. Mhara tried the houseboat and got an answerphone message. Well, it was a pleasant evening, not late, and if he recalled correctly, it was a Friday. Maybe Chen and Inari had gone out, and he would not blame them if they had. He left messages on both phones, just in case. The image of a badger’s paw, disappearing, was still fresh in his mind, and more than any of the multitudinous horrors of the world glimpsed during his coronation, it filled him with an unaccountable unease.
13
Seijin came back to Earth on a golden day in October, stepping out of the still airs of between into a brisk, leaf-whipping wind. A temple stood before him—not Seijin’s own, for no one builds temples to half-breeds, or assassins, no matter how elevated their origins might be. This place—a rambling, ornate structure covered with gold leaf and red lacquer—had been erected several hundred years ago to the Emperor of Heaven. Former Emperor, female self reminded Seijin reproachfully: it would not do to forget the very purpose of returning here. Seijin considered the temple to be somewhat vulgar and overdone; female self thought that they had always been ahead of their time when it came to internal décor. But that was irrelevant. There was business here.
Seijin skirted the carp pool that lay in front of the temple, mirroring it to perfection when the wind died and the ripples across the water stilled. There were glimpses of the reflected curls of the temple roof in between the sodden yellow leaves—before the Emperor’s downfall, these would have been assiduously raked out of the pool every hour by the temple servants, but now that the Emperor was gone, the leaves formed a glossy carpet across the water, with the bright shapes of goldfish and carp flickering beneath them. Seijin raised the hem of the robe and stepped out onto a leaf. Visibility from the temple precinct was good: the staff would by now be aware that they were about to have a visitor. Seijin walked lightly across the path of leaves that covered the pool, scattering shoals of fish. You’d think they’d be used to magic, Seijin thought, but then, the short-term memory of fish is nothing to write home about.
Nor, sometimes, is the memory of gods.
By the time Seijin stepped onto the once glassy surface of the marble steps at the far end of the pool, the temple servants were waiting. Their normally bland faces wore, Seijin was not displeased to see, the same expression as that adopted by the Gatekeeper of the Shadow Pavilion: an agitation overlying fear.
“Honorable Lord Lady Seijin!”
“I need,” Seijin said, bending down to the ear of one of the servants, “just to check the date.” The genteel dilapidation of the temple might betray its former master’s absence, but one never knew: problems had arisen before when moving from between and the worlds: betrayal
s, traps. One must always remain vigilant.
The servant confirmed the date and Seijin gave a gentle smile. “That’s good. Thank you. Now. I understand someone is waiting to see me.”
Preceded by much bowing and scraping, which Seijin ignored (always such a fuss with these people), the way to the temple’s current occupant was shown. The interior of the temple had been cared for rather better than its grounds; Seijin walked past glittering tapestries, on marble floors inlaid with golden flowers, beneath a host of floating candles, to the inner sanctum, a windowless room redolent of jasmine.
Seijin did make a bow, but only a very little one.
“Madam. You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” There was no bow in return, of course. She was seated on a throne at the far end of the room, beneath a gleaming canopy. Sky-blue robes, embroidered with clouds, pooled around her feet. She held a peacock feather fan, half-concealing her beautiful face. “I am glad that you came so promptly.”
“The gladness is mine,” Seijin replied. “Between is sometimes … tricky.”
“I’m sure. You experienced no difficulties? You were not followed?”
“No.” This said with a degree of some confidence: Seijin had experience of many tricks. “Might I confirm that you have not discussed our arrangement with anyone else, however?”
“No one. Not even my most trusted advisers. I find that my son has become inexplicably popular. My husband was on the throne for over a thousand years, you see. Spirits are like children, they crave novelty, and now they have it.”
Seijin gave a thin smile. “A honeymoon period, I am sure.”
The silence behind him was suddenly very noticeable, with even the hushed and reverent sounds of the temple abruptly cut off. Seijin knew, without needing to look, that turning around would not reveal the door; the chamber had been entirely sealed.
“Indeed. Thank you, Seijin, for your tact.” The Dowager Empress’ smile was equally thin. “But then again, if you perform correctly the task for which you have been contracted, the honeymoon will not be followed by a marriage.”
“Well,” Seijin remarked philosophically, “certainly not a happy one.”
“When we last spoke, it was of necessity a brief meeting. My son had not yet been crowned, and I was not sure—I felt that this regrettable procedure might be necessary, but I had to make certain.” The Dowager Empress spoke earnestly and Seijin granted her the weight of full attention. Difficult not to, in any case: Seijin might be beyond most of the rules which governed the three worlds, but this was, after all, Heaven’s own Empress and she commanded a degree of concentration. It was hard to look anywhere other than her lovely face: no wonder she had held so much power for so long, even with an Imperial husband and the sheeplike nature of the inhabitants of Heaven.
“I understand,” Seijin murmured. The Empress rose in a rustle of sky-blue and cloud—not simply the color, Seijin saw, but actual fragments of sky and wisps of mist—and came down the steps of the throne to stand beside her latest employee. She put a hand on Seijin’s arm and the coolness of her fingers penetrated the armor.
“I have heard a great deal about you, Lord Lady Seijin. A child of Heaven and Hell, born on Earth. Male and female, in one body. Light and darkness. Some people call you an abomination.”
“Some people,” Seijin said, smiling, “are not wrong.”
“They tell me you began your—career—in the Khan’s armies. That you were trained by one of the monks he had captured. That you were responsible for massacres at Samarkand.”
Seijin said, deprecatingly, “This, too, is true. All except the massacre, although I was involved. But I prefer subtlety. One on one, as they say nowadays.”
“They say you have not had a commission for some years. Perhaps, for half a century.” The coolness of her hand was deepening into frost; Seijin had to struggle not to pull the arm away.
“Ah,” Seijin said. “But did they also tell you that this is because I turned many offers down?”
“No,” the Dowager Empress said, considering. “They did not tell me that.”
“I had proposals from kings and dictators and presidents. From Führers and gangsters. Nothing interested me sufficiently to accept it. Some foolish folk attempted to coerce me, and were taught the nature of their error. Some attempted to bribe, which is a little more intelligent. But my current place of residence is between, you see, and there I have no need of wealth.”
“You are sometimes called the Lord Lady of Shadow Pavilion,” the Dowager Empress said.
“I have all I need in the Twilight Lands. But that is not to say that I have retired.” Here, female self made a small, mute protest, which Seijin ignored. “Your proposition was most interesting. I did not hesitate to sign your contract. To kill the Emperor, your own son?”
The touch on Seijin’s arm burned like ice. “Do you judge me, Lord Lady Assassin?”
Seijin turned to her full-on, and said, “I don’t judge. I just kill.”
14
Badger clawed, fought, struggled, kicked, and bit, but the thick hessian surface of the bag would not give way. Recognizing a temporary defeat, badger lay still, uncomfortably bundled. Doubtless it might be easier to undertake this journey in teakettle form, but in this aspect, the badger’s sense of smell was somewhat impaired, although he was still able to see and hear. So he remained in his animal being and let himself be bumped and carried through wherever it was that he was being taken.
He thought it was probably Hell. It smelled like Hell: there was a reeking undercurrent of stale iron that was extremely familiar. Which part of Hell, though?—that was the question. Had they come straight to the upper levels, or were they moving through one of the lower? If the latter case, then badger might himself start changing, although this was by no means inevitable. Into what, remained to be seen.
He could get little sense of who, or what, had snatched him. The person did not seem to smell of anything apart from a faint scent of magic, which to the badger’s mind was suspicious. Humans smelled of human, whatever cultural factors might come into play (Westerners had that odd dairy stink, for instance); Heavenkind always had that unwholesome note of peach, and demons smelled of—well, anything and everything, usually noxious. But this person—impossible to tell. That meant that someone had gone to some lengths to disguise their natural odor and probably their appearance as well. Badger gave a growl, just to see what the response would be. None whatsoever. That meant that his captor was not afraid of him.
Annoying.
The journey continued for a while longer. Badger occupied the time by trying to get a sense of his surroundings, and also in attempting to contact Mistress. He thought he could sense her, but only occasionally, and she was very, very far away. Back on Earth, in other words. If he were being carried deep into Hell, then he would soon lose all trace of her. Badger growled again and this time the bag was given a sharp hard thump. Badger subsided. But wait! He had stopped moving, and there were voices.
His captor was speaking, but badger did not understand the language. It wasn’t Mandarin or Cantonese, or any of the tongues of Hell. He did not think it was English, although that gabbled lisping language was not one with which he was particularly familiar. He’d heard it on Mistress’ television, however, and this just did not sound the same.
Someone was having a bit of an argument, though, unless badger was greatly mistaken. Then the bag was pulled abruptly open and badger’s world was flooded with scent.
Cumin. Ginger. Fire. Jasmine. Shit. Frangipani.
The badger blinked, dazzled by the onrush of color that accompanied these odors. Crimson and yellow and gold and a deep rich blue; emerald and purple and ivory. Never mind the lightshow. Badger bit the nearest thing to hand and was rewarded with the taste of blood. Someone yelled and badger received a blow to the head that made the new world ring. Badger was not particularly bothered by this. He snarled. A loop was thrown around his neck and pulled tight.
&
nbsp; “We can kill you, little demon,” said a voice. “No trouble at all.”
Wait, badger counseled himself. Wait. He knew there would be an opportunity. There always was. It was easier to see now. He was in a high, red room: crimson walls, brighter than blood, and veined with sequins. A silk hanging covered half the door and on it played multicolored embroidered birds. Somewhere, there was an eldritch parrot screech and the hanging fluttered, as if a wind had passed through the room. Outside, between open columns, the badger saw a sky the color of roses.
“Where is this place?” the badger said.
“Why …” the voice replied. A woman materialized out of the air: oiled hair, yellow eyes. Gold and citrine carried a drenching light. She raised a hand, mailed in metal lace. “You are in Hell, little demon.”
The badger stared at her, coldly. “This is not the Hell that I know.”
“Who said it was yours?”
She put him on a collar and leash, keeping nimble fingers well out of the way, and the indignity pained him more than anything else. Then, with the silken skirts of her sari whipping around her heels like gilded mist, she led him down indigo corridors and ivory, past a room in which a naked woman and two naked boys lay entwined, past another in which a woman wept alone. The woman had feathers instead of hair, vivid as a parakeet, and her arms were mottled with blood. The badger filed all this away for later: he had seen much before.
Then they were heading down a long hallway, and here badger saw that the wall was decorated with many wooden and metal plaques. Attached to each of these was a head: some human, with eyes like boiled sweets. Several were white-skinned, wearing curious round hats. Some were clearly demonic, but of forms unknown to the badger. None, however, were animal and of this, the badger approved. At the end of the hall, in front of a lacquered ornamental table, lay the skin of something that had been twice the size of a man, black-skinned, with tufts along its spine and a tusked head. It was slightly askew; badger’s captor pushed it back into place with her foot.
