by Liz Williams
30
Zhu Irzh and the badger sat high in a tree, looking out across the rustle of the jungle. The badger had eaten some beetles, which had disagreed with him.
“You want to be careful, you know,” the demon told him, swinging a booted foot. “Eating things in other people’s Hells can be dodgy.”
“I needed food,” the badger said, stoically. “I will cope.” He spat out a fragment of glittering wing and they watched it float down to the ground. There had been no further sighting of the tigers, despite occasional distant growling.
“They’ve probably gone back to the palace,” Zhu Irzh said. “Can’t see them hunting too late into the night. I imagine a party is in order.” He looked at the badger. “How d’you fancy going back?”
“To the palace?” The badger thought about this. It had a certain appeal. “We could kill more things.”
“Not quite what I had in mind,” Zhu Irzh said patiently. “There are rather too many of them. I was thinking about the portal. There’s got to be some way of moving between the worlds—I don’t think I was unconscious for all that long and it seems reasonable that we were brought directly to the palace. Which way did they bring you in? Did you see?”
The badger told him.
“Same here,” the demon mused. “A corridor, with hunting trophies. Seems like a clue to me.”
“Well?” the badger asked him. “Should we go back?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t like skulking about.”
“No,” Zhu Irzh said thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Do you know the way?”
“Not really. I think if we follow the river, we’ve got a good chance of making it back to the grounds of the palace. There were a lot of streams and ornamental fountains beyond the hunting lawns and that suggests a water supply, even in a place like this.”
They were careful, following the river back, keeping eyes and ears open for anything that might be lying in wait. When they skirted the place at which Zhu Irzh had trapped the tiger, the badger saw that the water was bubbling and there was a strong smell of blood: something had dragged the tigress’ body down into the river and was still engaged in the process of tearing it apart. Alligator demons? Well, why not? Apart from this, the jungle was humming with life. Something the size of a man, with green-glowing eyes, swung down out of the branches and stared at them.
“Good evening,” Zhu Irzh said, but it hissed and was gone, back up into the canopy. “I don’t like meeting so many people,” the demon complained. “All it takes is for someone to report back …”
“Perhaps the tigers are not popular,” the badger suggested. Zhu Irzh conceded that this made sense.
After a time, the jungle began to open out, with clearings and glades that did not seem natural to the badger. Then Zhu Irzh put out a hand, trapping the badger’s nose.
“Hang on.”
“What is it?”
“There’s something there. Looks like a building.”
The badger snorted. He did not entirely approve of buildings. Keeping close to Zhu Irzh—it would be unfortunate if they became separated, as he was not convinced of the demon’s ability to manage without him—the badger inched forward. Through the roots of a dense stand of mangroves, he could see a small, domed structure.
“It is ruined.”
“Hmm,” Zhu Irzh said. “Actually, I’m not so sure.”
The badger was unconvinced. The building did not look inhabited; it was of marble, but the creepers and vines had grown up it in coiling profusion and the walls were stained with what smelled like mold, a dank, green odor that filled the clearing. In amongst the vines were carvings of humans engaged in sexual congress, a feature that passed the badger’s understanding.
“I think it’s a temple,” Zhu Irzh whispered.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen pictures of buildings like this, in magazine articles. Also, it feels like a temple.”
“Who is it dedicated to?”
“I don’t know. Think we should find out?” The demon’s teeth flashed in the darkness. Before the badger could advise caution, Zhu Irzh stepped over the mangrove roots into the clearing and strolled over to the temple. The badger followed, scenting the air.
Inside, up a small flight of steps, the temple was clearly in poor condition. Some of the vines had broken through the roof and curled down the central pillars. The floor was slippery with fallen leaves. A small green snake, like molten jade, hissed at the badger without malice as it glided by. The badger murmured a greeting in return and went in pursuit of Zhu Irzh. This was not hard, for the temple was composed of only one room. He found the demon behind a pillar, staring at a statue.
“You asked who this place was dedicated to,” Zhu Irzh said. “There’s your answer.” He gestured toward the statue. It was of a young woman, round-faced and smiling. She stood on one clawed foot, and was depicted in the act of playing a long flute, raised to her lips by taloned fingers. A tail curled around her ankles. But like the rest of the temple, the statue was spotted with mold, although it had not become corroded.
“Who is she?” the badger asked. “Do you know?”
“No idea. Some minor demon, perhaps.” Zhu Irzh glanced around. “Looks like a central theme of lust, anyway.” In a moment of whimsy that was lost on the badger, he kissed his fingertips and touched them to the woman’s smiling lips. There was a blinding flash of light, dazzling the badger and forcing a growl out of him.
“Oh dear,” Zhu Irzh said. The young woman stepped down from her pedestal, dark eyes glittering, mouth twisting with fury, and punched Zhu Irzh in the face.
“Where is he?” she shouted.
“Who?” The demon spat black blood. “I’ll say this for you, madam, being turned to stone doesn’t seem to have done you a whole lot of harm.”
“Did he send you? Has he decided that, suddenly, I’m to be brought back to court? As a little ‘entertainment,’ perhaps?”
Her naked limbs were still dappled with rot, the badger noticed, almost masking her musky odor. She smelled of amber and spice, a smell that even the badger recognized as strongly sexual.
“We’re … not local, let me put it that way.”
“Oh.” The girl stepped back and surveyed Zhu Irzh. “No, you’re not from here, are you? Did he capture you?”
“By ‘he,’ do you mean the prince?”
“Prince?” The dark gaze flashed sparks, which showered to the floor and hissed out among the fallen leaves. “He told me I would be a queen! Queen Sefira, that’s what he promised me!”
“Let me guess,” the demon said. “You’re a forest spirit. A deva? You probably started out as a tribal fertility totem and as things got a bit more sophisticated, you changed accordingly. This is your temple, in which fertility rites of various forms of intensity were carried out. The prince shows up. He says he’s a god. This is actually true. He offers you marriage, screws you for a couple of months, gets bored, tries to persuade you to go back to the sticks. You refuse, throw a scene, get turned to stone to shut you up.”
The deva stared at him. “How did you know?”
“My dear,” the demon said. “It’s the oldest of old stories. Happens all over the place. Especially to little country spirits like you.”
“What a bastard,” the deva said. “I really thought he loved me, you know? I can’t believe I was so stupid. Who’s he got up there now?”
“A coven of tiger spirits,” Zhu Irzh said.
“What? Those bitches? In my forest?”
“These are hunting grounds now. Sorry.”
The deva wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold. The badger watched Zhu Irzh’s eyes travel across the deva’s cleavage, and gave a mental sigh. Human-type people were all the same. It was not something with which he had any sympathy. He poked Zhu Irzh with a claw.
“We are looking for something. Ask her.”
“Oh!” the deva said, l
ooking down. Insultingly, it seemed she had only just realized that the badger was there. “Isn’t it sweet?”
“Fine,” the badger said, and teakettled. A muffled iron voice said, “You can carry me, then.”
31
Chen was clearly unhappy with the idea of Inari traveling to between, but it was equally unacceptable to risk Mhara.
“Besides,” Inari said resolutely, “I’m the only one who knows Bonerattle. He might not speak to anyone else.”
“I accept that,” Chen said. “It’s just the thought of you heading off into what amounts to this assassin’s lands. I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” Inari said. The prospect of returning to between made her quail, but she had not shrunk from other, equally unpleasant challenges, and she did not intend to shrink from this one, either. “But I’m still going to do it.”
Mhara said, “You shouldn’t do this. Not for me. I’ll go myself.”
“You won’t!” Inari said, and blushed. She was unused to telling Celestial Emperors what to do. But Mhara saved her face by not smiling.
“We can’t risk you,” Robin said to Mhara. “If something happens to you, who is your heir?”
“Obviously, I have no child.”
“Exactly. So if you … disappear, who would take the throne?”
“My mother.” Mhara gave a grim nod.
“Then all the worlds are at risk,” Chen pointed out. “Given what you’ve told me about your mother’s convictions, she’d waste no time in re-establishing the old order of Heaven and setting your father’s wishes in motion. Heaven severed from Earth, and Hell let loose.”
“I may be a demon,” Inari said to Mhara, “but you know what I’d think about that.”
Mhara sighed. “Then, let’s commence.”
No Ro Shi said, “We might be able to offer her some protection, at least. A ring of necromancy, for instance, written in blood.”
“I’ll gladly contribute,” Chen said.
The demon-hunter agreed. “It might be necessary. I also will give blood. Then, it should be fired. Inari’s protection will last as long as the blood is alight.”
“I should give blood also,” Mhara said. “I may not have much authority in between, but the blood of the Celestial Emperor should count for something.”
Robin gave a wry grimace. “I’d offer, but I don’t think it would do much good. Ghosts aren’t endowed with blood.”
Chen gestured in reluctant agreement. “Then let’s make a start.”
Inari knelt in the middle of the temple hall, eyes closed, hands firmly clasped around the strip of silk that contained the hatpin. Her brother might have worked in a blood emporium back in Hell, but she did not want to watch her husband and friends undergo injury on her behalf. Then it struck her that if they were prepared to give it, she should at least have the courage to watch, to take some of their pain on board. But there was no expression on Chen’s face as he held out his hand and sliced open a palm that was crisscrossed with old scars, the workings of spells and conjurations, the necessary price paid for a magical life. Red drops fell into a bronze bowl, making it sing like rain. No Ro Shi was next, and then Mhara. The blood of the Celestial Emperor was a vivid neon blue. Robin’s spectral eyebrows rose as the blood sang electricity into the bowl.
“I don’t remember it looking like that.”
Mhara said, apologetically, “It changes, on coronation. My blood is the blood of Heaven itself.”
The blue fluid struck the walls of the bowl, sizzling like lightning. Quickly, Chen seized the bowl and sprinkled its contents around Inari’s kneeling form. Then No Ro Shi spoke a word that rang throughout the rafters of the little temple, harsh and summoning. He drew his sword in a sweeping arc and touched the tip to the ring of blood. Inari saw the word run down the sword, a flickering spark, and ignite the blood around her. She heard the raised voices of Chen and No Ro Shi, with Mhara’s quieter murmur running beneath. Then everything was blotted out by a wall of red fire.
Between.
Above her, perched on a rock, Bonerattle said, “You took your time.”
He looked like an old vulture, Inari thought: the sharp, black face, the bitter-sloe eyes. The shaman was hunched in his skin and bones as if against a cold wind.
“I came as soon as I could,” Inari said.
The shaman leaned forward, all eagerness. “Have you seen him? Have you spoken?”
“Yes. Just now, at his temple on Earth. I’ve told him what you told me.”
“Ah!” The word was a caw.
“But Bonerattle, listen—” She almost spoke the name out loud, then remembered in time. She thought the shaman had heard it anyway. “The person we spoke about has already been attacked.”
Bonerattle’s head shot forward on a neck that was too long.
“Already?”
“Yes, in Heaven.”
“But the person was not successful.”
“No. This is how it happened.” And Inari told him Mhara’s tale.
“This weapon. Let me see it.” Bonerattle’s black gaze was sharp. With great care, Inari unwrapped the silk and held it out.
“This is a ru-lun,” Bonerattle said, in awe. He sat back.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“An ancient metal, forged from the heart of a star. Something that fell to Earth millions of years ago, but did not reach the planet’s surface. Fell instead into between, became a legend. The smith took pieces of it.”
“The smith?”
“Every story starts with something forged,” the shaman said. “Find the smith, you find a spell.”
“And spells can be reversed?” Inari asked.
“Exactly.”
She did not know how much time she had. She explained this to the shaman, who laughed. “The blood of the Celestial Emperor will surely burn long and long. But we should be swift, anyway. I know where the smith is to be found, if the land will let us in.”
Inari followed Bonerattle up amongst the rocks, the shaman skipping and dancing like a mad child. It seemed to her that she could feel the protective ring of blazing blood, a warmth upon her skin. But the thought of Seijin was enough to make her grow cold—the audacity of it, someone who would try to slay a god. The Lord Lady was assuming monstrous proportions in Inari’s mind; she told herself not to be so fearful. But it was a fear more for others than for herself, of what would befall them all if Seijin succeeded.
And how had the assassin entered Heaven, anyway? Had someone let Seijin in?
Inari’s thoughts soon turned to the badger and Zhu Irzh; there were more people to worry about than simply herself. Her world was quickly reduced to simple things, the necessity of watching where she was going, for they were up above the mist line now, the fog swirling about Inari’s face and filming her skin and hair, and the rocks underfoot were smooth and treacherous. It seemed to her that she could glimpse shapes and forms in the mist, gliding presences with ragged wings and eyes that were like holes into shadow. When the shaman paused, Inari touched his arm.
“What are those things?”
The shaman said, “I don’t know. Shadows of the worlds beyond, perhaps. They’re always here. They never harm.”
“Are you sure?” Inari faltered. She had met shadows in Hell, sad souls, lost to memory and almost to sentience, that creaked and croaked in the darkness of corners. These things still carried power, like a dust in their filament wings.
“I have never known them to do harm,” the shaman said, less than reassuringly. “Do not worry, demon wife. Can’t you hear the forge?”
And as soon as he spoke, Inari realized that she could indeed hear it: a distant roar, counterpointed by a harsh tap-tapping. It was coming from the rocks up ahead, the summit of the stone-strewn slope. It was growing hotter, too, and then she noticed that the mist that streamed past them was not fog after all, but smoke. There was an acrid tang on the wind, the scent of fire. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, as if someone were
beating a small drum.
Inari followed the shaman behind a rock and saw that they were standing above a small valley. It glowed: the rocks beneath were hot coals, the earth sizzling and blackened, the valley walls stained with soot. Occasionally, spires of flame gouted out from cracks in the earth. At the end of the valley stood something too bright to see, but Inari, glancing at it from the corners of her eyes, thought that it was a little building, three-walled, with a sloping roof.
The scene might have been fearsome, but Inari was used to the fires of Hell, the forests of flame that lay far beyond the city limits, and besides, after the monochrome shadow and gray of between, the valley was almost welcoming.
“Tread where I tread,” the shaman commanded, and Inari did so, placing her feet carefully upon the rocks on which Bonerattle walked. It was like a game, children following one another across an old and ritual pattern. Only once did she slip, her ankle turning slightly on a loose boulder, and the hem of her skirt touched the coals and flared briefly into light. Inari beat it out, while the shaman waited impatiently, some little distance ahead.
Now that they had drawn closer, the forge had become paradoxically easier to see. Behind the falls of fire, it was a modest structure, assembled out of what Inari at first took to be plaster and stone. But then, following Bonerattle across the final bridge of coals, she saw that the sides of the forge were made of bones: the enormous femurs of something long dead and legendary, the roof of the forge formed by the upper part of a skull. The eyeholes would easily have encompassed a man; the twin tusks reached almost to the ground and twisting horns extended back, balancing the forge against the fiery ground. Inari felt a pang of pity for it, but as they approached, the skull spoke.
“A shaman and a demon?”
“I need to speak to your master,” Bonerattle informed it. “Is he within?”
“He is. I know you. You have been here before. But the demon has not.”
“Your perceptiveness knows no bounds,” the shaman said, waspish.
