by Liz Williams
“It’s not easy, without eyes. Master is here, and will see you. Go inside.”
Inari stepped over a steaming lintel, into the heart of the forge. Within, the bone structure was even more apparent, the pitted ivory of the walls scorched and cracked. In the center of the room stood the forge itself: a massive anvil, made of something harder and heavier than iron, with a presence almost as great as the skull that surrounded it. The bellows breathed out and fire licked the walls of the forge.
“It’s alive,” Inari said.
“Oh yes. Most things are, in between.”
Inari’s eyes were adjusting to the intense brightness, but as she watched, the anvil hissed and the roar of the forge subsided to a dull red glow. Inari blinked. Someone was sitting at the back of the forge, a man as wiry and thin as a skeleton, bones and sinews clearly visible through a translucent covering of skin, blackened by fire. Sharp teeth showed in a grin. His eyes were white, as if filmed by cataracts.
“Bonerattle. You again. At least your guest is prettier.”
“Are you a demon, too?” Inari asked.
The smith laughed. “No, just very old. I’ve been here a long time. And other places. We used to get around more. You might say I’m semi-retired.”
“We’ve brought you something,” the shaman said. “A piece of your own work, if I’m not wrong.” He held out the silk-wrapped hatpin.
“Aha,” the smith said. “I was wondering when use would finally be made of that.”
“You remember it, then?” Inari said, and cursed herself for stupidity: of course he would remember, he was an artist, and she felt deep within that nothing that ever passed his anvil would be forgotten.
The smith’s grin widened. “Naturally. This is an old piece, made when I was younger and more foolish. Now—even I would think twice. This is a substance that can cut the wind: forged star-stone, in the days before metal was known to men. I made it for a demon. Her name was Ti-tao and she was a consort to both the Emperors of Heaven and Hell. She had hair that was thirty feet in length and she needed a pin with which to bind it. This was that pin and it has a twin sister.”
“You made it for Ti-tao,” the shaman said, “but now it has become a weapon.”
“Ah, it’s had a long history. Ti-tao came to a sad end, these people usually do. Her consorts both accused her of treachery and she was said to be imprisoned here in between, beneath a river of molten iron. She is almost certainly disembodied. After that, one pin was given to Heaven and the other to Hell, in remembrance.”
“So this pin must have come from either?”
“Presumably Hell,” Inari said, “if it was used to try to kill the Emperor of Heaven.”
The smith’s white eyes were expressionless as he said, “So, that is why you’re here? Do you wish to assault Heaven, little demon?”
“No!” Inari said indignantly. “The Emperor of Heaven is my friend.”
The smith’s eyebrows had been singed away long since, but his eyes widened nonetheless. “Is that so? Unusual. But then, you have a precedence in Ti-tao of the glorious hair and I’m sure you must be almost as beautiful.”
“We’re not lovers,” Inari said, blushing at the thought. “I owe him some allegiance.”
“Besides,” Bonerattle explained. “There have been many interesting things happening in the three worlds lately. Wars, invasions, goddesses gone mad.”
“I don’t get out much,” the smith remarked. “And I absented myself from the affairs of the Realms a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean that news is not welcome. Moreover, it’s always of interest to see what has become of one’s work.”
“We need to know,” Bonerattle said, “about the spells that are attached to this pin.”
The smith frowned. “I know that both pins were cursed. Ti-tao’s hair was what made so many fall in love with her, and so it was her hair that was the focus of her consorts’ anger. They had it cut off, before she was imprisoned, and I don’t know what became of it. The pins were cursed, as I have told you, and separated: they were held to be more powerful if they were together. I wove only one spell into them when I made them, and that was a spell of beauty which called upon the power of the star from which they were forged.”
“Maybe that’s it,” the shaman mused. “Something from outside the orbit of the solar system, something from the deep universe, away from the spheres of the three worlds.”
“Maybe only something like that can kill a god,” Inari suggested.
“The sister pin,” the smith said. “Do you know what became of that?”
“The assassin might still have it,” Inari said.
“If you could put these pins together,” the smith told her, “then perhaps you might have a weapon which could strike at even such a liminal being as this assassin. It’s not hard, by the way, to know who you are talking about.”
Inari was about to reply when the forge roared, so loudly that she stepped back in alarm. Then she realized that the sound had not come from the anvil or the fire, but from the building itself, the skull from which the forge was formed.
Bonerattle seized Inari by the arm. “Run.”
Inari had become used to obeying instructions like that. She did so, and the moment she stepped out of the forge, she found herself in a very different landscape. The valley was cold and dead, all fires extinguished and the coals no more than crumbling lumps of rock. A mist was swirling down from the heights, filling the valley with a wintery breath. The shaman and Inari stumbled up the slope, slipping on ash. In the sudden chill, Inari realized something: the protective warmth of the circle of blood had gone. Back in Mhara’s earthly temple, the fire must have gone out, leaving her exposed. She glanced back and saw that the forge was prudently folding itself up, the jaw hinging down, the femurs folding until a small white box stood on the smoldering ground and was then swallowed by it. Smith and dragon, making a swift exit. She could not blame them.
Just ahead of her, the mist curdled and congealed, forming a solid white cloud, and out of it stepped someone, smiling.
A woman, Inari thought at first, but then she saw that beneath the armored tunic, the shoulders were a little broad, and there was a telltale swelling in the throat. But the long black hair, swept back in a queue, and the delicacy of feature might easily have told a different story. The dark eyes held a genuine warmth, almost compassion, as the figure reached out a hand in which rested a small bow. The glittering tooth of an arrow was aimed directly at Inari. She heard a crack and a whistle as the bolt was released, looked down in horror to see it hurtling toward her, and heard herself cry out, “Chen! Help me!”—then she was kneeling on the floor of Mhara’s temple, her husband by her side, clasping her by the shoulders and saying, “Inari! It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re home.”
Inari opened her hand. The pin lay within it, wrapped in silk, as safe as she was.
32
Go felt himself grow cold, then hot, then icy. The demon reached forward and put her hand to his cheek; heat burned out of her palm, as if he had been touched by the sun.
“You’re afraid,” she said.
“Of course I’m fucking afraid!” He wasn’t even certain that he had spoken aloud.
“You smell of my sister.”
“Oh god!”
The demon frowned. “Don’t be scared. My name is Savitra. I came because my sister almost returned home. We can’t let that happen.”
“We can’t? How did you get in here?”
Savitra looked puzzled. “I followed a scent. There was a hunt last night, but then when my sisters and I returned to the Hunting Lodge, we thought that someone should come to Earth, to find her.”
“Find her and do what?”
“Why, bind her, of course. You obviously don’t want her here. We don’t want her at home.” Savitra’s beautiful face screwed itself into an expression of deep distaste. “Such a bitch.” She looked around her, and Go had the distinct impression that she was scenting the air. “Th
ere’s someone else here.”
“Well, yeah. This is a big corporation—there’s lots of people in it.”
“I don’t mean humans. I mean one of my kind. What is this place called?”
“The name of the company is Paugeng.”
Savitra’s face cleared. “Why, I know of this organization. It belongs to my cousin. To Jhai.”
“What?” Go had the feeling that you get during the course of a nightmare, when you think you’re free and suddenly it all comes boiling back again. “Your cousin? But Jhai’s human.”
Savitra gave a growling snort. “Oh no she’s not. She’s one of us. She just lives here, and passes.”
“Passes? Jhai’s a big shot.”
“Don’t use that horrible expression!”
“Sorry. Anyway, she isn’t here.” Thank God for that. Go didn’t think he could cope with two of them right now. “She’s away on a business trip.”
But by the time he said this, Go swiftly discovered, it was already history. The doors banged open as Jhai, with a face like thunder, came in at a run, surrounded by security personnel.
“Meeting wrapped early. This showed up as a security breach, just as I’d got back—Savitra, what the hell are you doing here?”
Savitra bridled. “I might ask you the same thing.”
Jhai turned to the security detail. “Okay, guys, nothing to worry about. Just my mad cousin. Probably thought she’d surprise me.”
“I seem to have succeeded,” Savitra said.
“Out.” Jhai motioned to security. Without the presence of a large quantity of men in body armor and guns, Go’s natural inhibitions vanished. He said, “Ms Tserai? Jhai? What the fuck? You didn’t tell me Lara was your fucking cousin! What was the plan? Have me over for feeding time?” He was aware that his voice was rising. “You didn’t tell me!” It was a child’s plaintive whine.
Jhai sighed. “Mr Go. Savitra. The bar is this way.” With that, she swept back through the doors of the gym.
“‘The bar is this way,’” Savitra mimicked, mincing cruelly. “Nice to see you, Savitra, been such a long time. Bitch.”
Or rather, Go thought, cat.
He felt a bit better nursing a large scotch. At least Jhai’s whisky selection was upfront and honest. And, if not ashamed (he doubted that Jhai Tserai had much acquaintance with that particular emotion), his hostess did at least seem to feel that some kind of explanation was called for.
“Look. Mr Go. I probably should have told you, but what could I say? Yeah, the demon who killed your friend and burned down your house? She’s my cousin. But don’t worry about it.”
“Who knows?” Go asked. “Here in Singapore Three, I mean.”
“Gods only know, to be honest. It used to be a very closely guarded secret, for obvious reasons. Demonkind weren’t allowed to have property or holdings on Earth.” Jhai made a face. “At least, not unless they were Chinese demons. The establishment here is riddled with corruption—I’m sure half the bloody government hail from Hell.”
“It would explain a lot,” Go said.
“But in the last couple of years, all sorts of shit has been happening, goddesses running riot through the city, great rifts between the worlds … Demons live and work here, like my fiancé, wherever he’s got to.”
“Is he missing?” Savitra said, and it was impossible for Go to mistake the note in her voice. That, Go thought, would be satisfaction.
“He’s gone AWOL, yes. I’m looking into it.” None of your business, said Jhai’s own tone. “Anyway, my point is that things are changing. At first, no one knew about me except my mum. My fiancé obviously knows about me, and so does Chen, and his wife, and his wife’s familiar.”
“His wife’s what?” Go was aware of a familiar feeling of confusion.
“Never mind, it isn’t important. All those people are as discreet as they come, but the thing is, once a handful of people know, it acts as a kind of conduit. Information is like water. Once there’s a little hole in the dam, it starts to trickle out.”
“I know what you mean,” Go said. “The film industry’s like a sodding sieve.”
“And now you know,” Jhai said. For a horrible moment, Go thought she’d intended some kind of subtext: And now we’ll have to kill you. But it seemed that no such sinister intention was present, for Jhai went on, “That’s not a problem, under the circumstances. Frankly, I felt you needed help, given that Lara’s my cousin.”
“To be fair,” Go said, “it’s my fault she’s here in the first place.” He took a reassuringly large swig of scotch and looked out across the city. It was twilight now, with the lights of shipping starring the distant curve of sea. A burning hand rested lightly on his own.
“No, no,” Savitra said. “We are really very grateful.”
“But now we’ve got to find her,” Jhai told him. “Find and bind.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Go asked. “With magic?”
“Not exactly,” Jhai said. She looked at him and he saw, not quite for the first time, the ruthlessness in her dark eyes. “With bait.”
He couldn’t believe she’d talked him into this, but on reflection, he’d had remarkably little choice, faced with two tiger demons. They seemed to be multiplying. At the time, he’d wondered at the advisability of finishing that very large glass of Laphroaig, but now, as its peaty warmth formed a barrier between himself and an unwelcome reality, he was glad that he’d been so irresponsible.
He stood in a grove of trees, in one of Singapore Three’s rather unsuccessful parks. Originally, Lotus Park had been intended, as most parks are, as both a green lung in the city’s heart and a place for respectable citizens to stroll whilst enjoying the beauties of nature. The city had grown up to incorporate patches of woodland, and some of this still remained amidst the lily-fringed pools, the ornamental bridges, the skating rink, and the rosebushes.
Not to mention the discarded syringes, the phials of the more experimental narcotics, and the small sad balloons of used condoms that littered the leaf-strewn concrete on which Go was standing. At least it was evidence of some degree of responsibility.
He felt like a tethered goat. The tethers might be invisible ones, but they still seemed as binding as shackles. Directly into his ear, a voice said softly, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Go jumped and found himself staring into Jhai’s face. She was wearing a black jumpsuit, the Dolce & Gabbana version of a ninja outfit, and the effect made the oval of her face appear disembodied among the trees. Above, a chewed moon floated in rags of cloud.
“Don’t do that!”
“Sorry. How’re you doing, Go?”
“Is there any sign of her?” Go asked nervously. In her earlier dismissal of the use of magic, Jhai had, it seemed, been not entirely open. They had deployed it already, back among the trees, taking a hypodermic of Go’s blood and scattering it into a conjured wind. The blood, black in the faint gleam of the moon, had swirled up like a string of broken beads, hurtling out into the trees and then the city. Go’s skin was still prickling; he felt unpleasantly linked to the city itself, everywhere at once, catching fragments and snatches whenever he turned his head. And Jhai … he was not unfamiliar with the powers of necromancy, but whereas his father had possessed a thin current of it, Jhai had dragged it out of the ground as though hauling an express train behind her. Once again, Go lamented his stupidity in having anything at all to do with this shit. Find a therapist. Blame his parents.
“Don’t worry,” Jhai said now. “Won’t be long.”
“Great,” Go said, weakly.
“No, seriously. This is a good thing. She’ll show up, she’ll follow your blood, assume you’ve been hurt. Lara’s never been what you might call a rocket scientist.”
“To be honest, I did have her down as a bit of a bimbo.”
“None of them are all that bright. The brains seem to have gone to my side of the family.” Jhai tried, and failed, not to look smug. “Anyway. She’ll show, she’ll
try to kill you, we’ll rescue you—there’s about twenty of my people in the trees, you just can’t see them, and they’re magically hidden—and then we’ll go back to the bar.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“It’ll work.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there, man.” She melted back among the trees, leaving Go alone in the humid darkness. The air was filled with the pungent smell of a stagnant pond, of distant cigarette smoke, of fried food and his own sweat. A group of young women strolled along the side of the pond, some way from where Go stood. They were laughing and chattering; one of them had a bag of some kind of takeout food and they were all dipping into it. He envied them. When this was all over, he was going to have a normal social life.
He looked up at the moon, swimming out from cloud. Just you and me now, moon. And then the tiger roared.
33
Back in the Shadow Pavilion, Seijin twisted a long strand of black hair between fingers that were a little cold, despite the fire. A pity the smith had evaded capture, but that could be rectified at leisure, later on. If this was the chosen path. Male self, as ever mindful of face, insisted that it should be, but Seijin was not convinced. Revenge, generally considered as a waste of time and energy, had never been a huge feature of the assassin’s psychology. Pride was all very well, but pride was frequently expensive. It was, however, important not to repress male self’s views: Seijin sometimes thought that he was the earliest, most primitive aspect of the Lord Lady Assassin, and one should not lose touch with one’s roots.
With this in mind, Seijin took one of the longbows down from the wall and accessorized it with a quiver of arrows, made of the gray wood of between and tipped with congealed moonlight. Then the Lord Lady swept a cloak of misty gauze over one shoulder and stepped lightly down the stairs of the Shadow Pavilion. At the last step, the word of cloud-conjuring was spoken and Seijin’s form was hidden by the mists that lay between and the world of men.
On Earth, the city was oppressively hot. Seijin was grateful for the cloak, providing a cloudy layer between the Lord Lady and the polluted air. Earth had been a fresh world, once, but the camps of the steppe nomads had always been filthy with discarded debris and Seijin had seen long ago that things did not change much; they merely became more complicated.
