Shadow Pavilion

by Liz Williams

  “Unpleasant,” Chen remarked, unnecessarily.

  “Indeed. And someone is coming.”

  Hastily, the badger and Chen took refuge behind a curtain. A Celestial warrior raced around the corner, visible through the thin fabric, took one look at what lay upon the floor, and did not hesitate. The sword hissed down, but Chen stepped out from behind the draperies and raised a hand. The sword was halted in midswing. The badger could see that the warrior was trying to complete the movement, but could not. His blue eyes bulged, his armor creaked. Chen stood, impassive, one hand gently upraised.

  “As you can see,” he said, “I have been given a small degree of authority and thus must ask your forgiveness for this impertinence.”

  He must have seen some change in the warrior’s face, for the Celestial stepped back as if released from a string and sheathed the sword. “It is I who must apologize. You hold the Emperor’s seal.”

  Looking up, the badger saw a faint blue glow emanating from Chen’s palm.

  “I am the Emperor’s liaison official, with a small and insignificant part of the human realm. My name is Chen. I and my associate have come here in pursuit of an assassin.”

  The Celestial puffed himself up like a cat. “One such has already been dissipated.”

  “Dissipated?”

  “The spirit of a demon girl was found in one of the passages. We neutralized it; I have sent instructions to one of our magicians to send it to final dispatch, while we track down any further invaders.”

  “Ah,” was all that Chen said. The badger could barely contain himself: he seized Chen’s trouser cuff between his teeth and tugged. Chen ignored him. “Where was this demon seen? Who was she with?”

  “She was following the Emperor,” the Celestial said. “Such creatures are weak; she was no more than a ghost. No doubt she was spying upon the Emperor in an attempt to supply information to her associates.”

  “Listen to me,” Chen said. “In fact, that ghost—demon though she may have been—is my associate. As is this being, who, as you can see, is a spirit of earth.”

  The Celestial, radiating mortification, bowed very low. “So sorry.”

  “You were not to know,” Chen told him, with what seemed to the badger to be superhuman charity. “Tell me—what did the Emperor say when you ‘neutralized’ this entity?”

  “He was pleased.”

  The badger grew still.

  “I see,” Chen said. “You have been most helpful. I must not interrupt you in your work; you will have matters to redress here.” He glanced at the bodies of the fallen guards.

  “Do you require assistance?” The warrior was clearly keen to rectify his mistake.

  “No, I need to find the Emperor,” Chen said. “If you could tell me where he is now …”

  “He was heading for the Great Hall.”

  “Then we will follow,” Chen said, and as soon as he and the badger were around the corner and out of sight, they both broke into a run.

  The next time they met someone, Inari took care to keep out of sight, hiding high upon the ceiling and riding the heat. The two they met, however, were clearly courtiers and not warriors: both were women, which meant little, given the equalities of Heaven, but they were wearing elaborate costumes that confined their bodies like a hobble. And it looked to Inari as though their feet had been bound: a practice common to certain strata in both Heaven and Hell. Ironic, Inari thought, that even in her current state, she might be more free than they, though presumably they’d had a choice.

  They greeted the Emperor with little tinkling laughs, not something that Inari had ever associated with Mhara. No wonder he spent so much time in Singapore Three. They did not appear to notice that the Emperor responded with a degree of condescension that was surely foreign to the original, unless Mhara adopted a very different persona here in Heaven, and given the reactions to his assumption of the role, Inari did not think that this was too likely. They must be very unobservant, these Celestial maidens. Miss Qi would never have been so slow.

  But perhaps not as slow as all that. “My Lord,” one of them faltered. A puzzled frown crossed her smooth brow. “We have only just left you, in the Great Hall. Were you called away? I hope all is well?”

  “Yes, my dear. I was indeed called, upon urgent business. Do not worry yourself.”

  “If we may in any way assist your august presence—”

  “I will of course ask.”

  The two courtiers tottered away, twittering like little birds. Inari had always regarded herself as a rather feeble creature, taking fright at all manner of things, but then again, maybe she was wrong. She’d stood up to Seijin, after all. But trying to alert the two courtiers would be useless: they’d probably faint. And what was the Lord Lady planning? Surely the assassin would not make an attempt on Mhara’s life in the Great Hall, which sounded like the kind of place where the Emperor would be surrounded by courtiers? Perhaps Seijin had gone completely mad, after all. She cried out—Chen Wei!—but her voice had been stripped away in her fragmenting, and nothing emerged. She thought his name, all the same.

  They came to an enormous doorway, perhaps twenty feet in height or more, covered with thick gilt and red lacquer. How Mhara must hate this! Inari thought. Seijin strode up to the guards on the door, who stood rigidly to attention.

  “Lord Emperor!”

  “I was called away,” Seijin said. “I wish to enter.”

  “Of course, Lord, of course.” The fringes of the guard’s helmet brushed the floor as he bowed. No! Inari silently screamed, but it was no use, the doors were opening and Seijin walked through.

  The next few moments were dreamlike. Inari, hovering futilely near the ceiling, heard the courtiers gasp as the second Emperor appeared, saw Mhara turn upon his throne, saw Seijin raise a blade, watched as that hand expertly flicked out, sending the blade on a spinning trajectory toward the true Emperor, and strike Mhara in the heart.

  56

  They had crept around the back of the Hunting Lodge, to what looked like stables.

  “Where are we going?” Go asked the deva, uneasily. He didn’t like being so close to this immense, sinister palace, with its over-lavish balconies and verandas, its parody of Simla. The Lodge had weird overtones of the Raj: mock-Tudor beams where they shouldn’t be, red brick facades, Victorian crenellations. Go and the deva had even made their way across a croquet lawn, though Go did not like to think what kind of beings played on it, or what they played. He tiptoed after the deva, fearing discovery at any moment, and was glad to reach the shelter of the wall. Then something kicked the door of the stables with a terrible crash and Go leaped.

  “Shhh!” the deva said, turning. “It’s only one of the horses.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a horse!” An awful shriek split the night.

  “Well, it is.”

  Another kick, and the sound of something scrabbling and scraping around. A head burst over the half-door of the stall nearest to Go and the deva.

  It was close to a horse, he supposed. A long, angular head, more bone than anything else, fire-eyed and sharp-toothed. It took a bite out of the stall door and the wood splintered.

  “People ride those things?” Go whispered. The deva looked at him as though he were mad.

  “Of course.”

  “I really am going to take you away from all this,” Go promised, more to reassure himself than anyone else.

  “Don’t worry,” the deva reassured him. “They can’t talk.”

  Go found himself at a loss for words. He hadn’t wanted to approach the Hunting Lodge at all, given what Zhu Irzh had said about it, but the deva had insisted.

  “Before, my friends took another route, but Agni closed it off as soon as he found out. I only just escaped—I had to hide for ages.”

  “Aren’t there—well, how many guards are there?”

  “I don’t know. Agni tends to go through guards rather quickly and it takes time to conjure more. You see, the main guards of the Lodg
e are Agni’s harem, and if they’re out doing other things …”

  Go was starting to build up a picture of this particular realm of Hell. Not so much a prison for lost souls, as someone’s private amusement park. Somehow, he’d expected armies and warriors, but as he had noted earlier, this was more reminiscent of those palaces high in the hills, designed for entertainment.

  “Has Agni ever been—invaded?”

  Even in the darkness, the deva looked surprised. “Why, no—who would bother? There’s nothing here to interest other folk, unless they come as guests for the hunts. Many of them do, of course.”

  “I guess that’s why I’m here,” Go mused. “As a party trick.”

  “They sometimes use human souls as bait for the dogs,” the deva explained. Go had visualized himself as forming the central attraction, but now it appeared that he was to be regarded more as a morsel. How degrading.

  The horse howled again and the deva seized Go’s hand.

  “When I squeeze—run,” she whispered into his ear. She rifled through the pouch that was, apart from her jewelry, her only clothing, and took out a lump of something ragged and oozing. It also smelled strongly of rotting meat. This explained the deva’s rather peculiar odor, at least. She tossed it into the horse’s stall with one hand and squeezed Go’s fingers with the other. They ran past as the stables filled with squeals and the sound of rending.

  “Wait a moment—” Go started to say, because they were heading for a blank stone wall, composed of massive blocks. Panicking, he was sure that his companion had gone the wrong way. Then the deva spoke a word and a small, cramped door appeared in the wall before them. She shoved it open and thrust Go inside.

  Within, it was hot and the sudden silence was shattering.

  “The gate’s upstairs,” the deva whispered. “I can’t remember where, exactly.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “But I think I can find it. I’ll do my best.”

  “Please try,” Go begged. “What does it look like?”

  “It doesn’t really look like anything. That’s the problem. You’ll be able to feel it, though. Probably.”

  “Probably?” Go echoed. The deva disappeared rapidly into the gloom and he hurried after her, afraid that she might vanish for good. After his experiences with Lara, trusting Sefira seemed like a lunatic option.

  But the deva had been correct. He could indeed sense the gate, feel the pull of his own world, surprisingly strong. He hadn’t expected it to be so vital and this told him, at a visceral level that Go had rarely experienced before, that he really was alive. Now, he could see it, not glimpsed sidelong as the other one had been, but fully visible at the end of a long corridor. It whirled, a vortex, a galaxy of color, flashing neon blue and then gold and finally green, as sharp and bright as emerald. The deva broke into a run (a remarkably pneumatic girl, Go noted, even given the circumstances) and threw herself at the vortex. Go followed, racing down a corridor that was suddenly clearly lit, torches set in wall sconces flaring into light, the bursts of illumination keeping pace with him as he fled. Go glanced over his shoulder and saw his shadow racing out behind him, thick and black, moving like oil along the floor, and now he was still running, but the galaxy whorl of the gateway ahead was not growing any closer. Go was being pulled back by his shadow, weighed down, and the torches flared brighter and brighter as he struggled to break free. He was trapped in classic nightmare, and it struck him then, horribly, that what he had actually become stuck in was a nest of dreams, an onion-layer of ghastly, never-ending events and that no resolution was possible. Ahead, just before the gateway, the deva turned and he saw her mouth drop into an “O” of dismay. Go’s shadow was like lead, it pulled him down to his knees and spread all around him, a dense tarry ooze. He saw the head of the shadow shrink to a pinprick, watched a hand fling up as he tried to grab one of the tapestries that lined the corridor, pull himself back to this one chance of safety—but it was too late. Go fell through the floor, sucked down by his own shadow.

  His descent lasted for no more than a few seconds, but it felt much, much longer. He fell through every layer of the Hunting Lodge: past hallways lined with human heads, past a great ballroom shining with candlelight where a ghostly woman waltzed alone. He fell past bedrooms and dining chambers, glimpsing a table where dinner had been served: a white man’s head rested on a platter, solar topee perched on top, apple in mouth. A demon with a black, burned face under a crimson turban sat in front of it, knife and fork poised to begin carving. The demon looked up, saw Go falling, and gave a great wide grin. Agni had house guests, it appeared.

  It was not lost on Go that he appeared to be falling up. The deva had taken him into the lowest level of the palace: she’d mentioned a cellar, but not this maze of rooms and opulent chambers. Then his rapidly formulated suspicion was confirmed: he fell out through the roof, which opened up like the petals of a lotus to release him. Go was ejected into starlight: constellations that he did not recognize, but which were dizzyingly close. Twisting, he saw the whole of the Hunting Lodge spread out beneath him: the long roofs of the palace, now with no sign that a human soul had just crashed through them; the balconies, verandas, and terraces, all lit by a streaming, smoking mass of torches; the stables through which he and the deva had so recently—and hopefully—come. Beyond stretched mile upon mile of jungle, with the glint of water showing between the gaps in mangrove and neem. On the far horizon, Go saw a curious, pyramidal structure that he took a moment to recognize as a temple; a fire was blazing at the summit of this, too. Agni’s own temple? He was a god, Go knew, albeit a minor one. But even minor gods can be dangerous, as Go also understood, and perhaps more so. Something else he was about to find out.

  Go had slowed down now, his fall halted. He spun lazily in midair, wondering what the hell was holding him up. But his father’s training, and his own experience, had lent him a little natural ability. He could taste magic on his tongue, cinnamon-scented, as strong and sour as turmeric. Its thread was connecting him to the ground and when Go looked down, between the flickering light of the torches, he saw that the beasts which had occupied the stables had now been released. They had riders, too. He thought he saw a crimson turban. At least one of the riders had twice the usual number of arms. Hounds milled around the prancing hooves, and beyond that, on the edges of the terrace, something much larger was prowling.

  A figure stood in the middle of the terrace, dressed in red and gold. To Go, still so high, it looked as though he had simply taken on the fire of the torches, for his clothing rippled like flame, with a glowing orange heart. Agni. The demigod turned and raised a hand, bringing Go down. He hurtled past the front of the Hunting Lodge, skimming past roofs and then over the edge to float down past the balconies onto the terrace. There were people on the balconies, Go noted, an audience for this evening’s hunt. If “people” was the right word.

  Go had been summoned with such speed that his descent sucked the air out of his lungs. Despite that spice of magic, he thought for a horrible moment that Agni was simply going to bring him crashing down onto the paving stones of the terrace and he tried to cry out, managing only a breathless shriek. But just before the ground could break his fall, Agni’s fiery hand flicked up, and brought him to a jerky halt. Go was abruptly turned right way up and his toes touched the ground. As they did so, his shadow—still oily, still black—seeped away between the cracks in the paving stones and was gone.

  “Ah,” Agni said, and smiled. “I see the evening’s entertainment has finally arrived.”

  Go managed to muster up enough selflessness to hope that the deva had got away, even if his feelings did include the vain hope that, if she had, she might be able to save him. But as he was shackled and dragged down the steps of the terrace by a hulking demon, Go felt hope ebb away: the deva stood at the bottom of the steps, also shackled and quite forlorn.

  Go would, at least, have liked to have told her that he was sorry, but was not given the chance to get close enough.
He tried to express it with his gaze, anyway, but the deva’s head was downcast and she did not see it.

  The demon picked up the end of the chain that was attached to Go’s ankle, and took it across to the deva, securing it to her own fetter so that she and Go were chained together, over a distance of ten yards or so. It was easy enough to see what the plan was. He and the deva would be given a short head start, stumbling over the lawn with their shared manacles, and then the tigresses would move in. He could see them now: seven women, with another two standing off to the side. One looked very pale, as though she had recently been through some terrible ordeal. Her human skin was not smooth and glowing, like that of the others: instead, she still sported patches of tiger-striped mange, and there was an ugly red line around her throat.

  The other woman was Lara, clearly sulking.

  Agni now stepped forward to address the eager crowd who thronged the upper parts of the terrace. Go saw a group of beautiful women, dressed in black and silver saris, but when he looked again there was only a flock of carrion crows, sitting on the low terrace wall. A tall, elegant man with long hands transformed fleetingly into a monkey, lips drawn back against yellow teeth in a shriek of fury. And the demon in the crimson turban was there, also, his coal-burned face glowing with greed. These were only a few of the crowd: there were many more, too many for Go’s despairing, bewildered brain to take on board.

  “The hunt will shortly start,” Agni announced. He gestured toward the tigresses. “I present you to these lovely sisters, the scourge of worlds, the hunters of legend! Take your aspects, ladies!”