by Liz Williams
“A tragic story,” Omi said.
“If you find a way to break this spell, Omi, you will not be the only one who is thankful for it,” the akashi said. She took a handful of scrolls out of a cabinet, the parchment so fragile and ancient that Omi feared they would disintegrate within the minute. The akashi unscrolled one of the documents onto the table as Omi and Raksha looked over her shoulder.
The temple complex was outlined in a series of small black boxes. There was also a hole and, spread out across the map, scratches which indicated the desert and its environs. Omi saw hills he did not know, and finally, at the bottom of the map, faint marks.
“Those are dunes,” the akashi said.
“How do you know?”
“A bird told us, on its way north.” The akashi’s face was sad. “They still come to speak to us, but there are fewer of them these days. The climate is changing, even in these lands.”
“If they are dunes,” Omi said, “they will almost certainly have altered over the years.”
“That is so. The charm is held here — ” She pointed to a small indigo dot. “But the oasis this represents has been here for hundreds of years — many people know about it. There is a chance that it still remains.”
Raksha took Omi’s arm. “You can borrow my crane, if you wish. Faster than going on foot, and safer.”
He did not want to show her how afraid this idea made him. But she was right. “Thank you,” he said, swallowing. “I will.”
FOURTEEN
At night, the villa belonging to the Khan was substantially more sinister than it was by day. This cliché annoyed Zhu Irzh, who was hoping that he could use irritation to carry him through his nerves. If there was anything “sinister” around here, he thought, it ought to be him. All the same, he hesitated at the gate, trying to work out exactly what it was that had so disturbed him about this place. It wasn’t that image of the Khan, seated, roaring over his dinner of human flesh, that had got to him, but some quality of the Khan himself — reanimate or whatever he might be — a voraciousness that Zhu Irzh had rarely encountered, even in Hell, where spirits could afford to be more laid-back. After all, once you were already dead, a certain degree of urgency was lacking, whereas the Khan clung to life…
Better get on with it. Zhu Irzh spoke the words of the concealment mantra with which Roerich had provided him.
“It’s very old,” Roerich had said, “but not as old as the Khan, so he might know a way round it. I’m hoping he doesn’t. It’s a Buddhist spell, so be careful with it, given that you’re a demon.”
His instructions had been precise and meticulous, and Zhu Irzh, mindful of consequences, followed them to the letter. When the mantra had been spoken the requisite three times, he waited for a moment. He felt no different, but the air smelled of an unfamiliar magic. This was encouraging; so once more, the demon made his way down the path. This time, the front door was closed and Zhu Irzh could find no way to open it. It was very tempting to give up the entire idea, go back and tell Roerich that he’d been unsuccessful. But the demon found, to his considerable frustration and annoyance, that he was as incapable of letting Roerich down as he was with Chen.
Damn.
It would be easier to let Jhai down. She might not forgive him, but he knew she’d understand. It was other people’s disappointment that he had such a hard time with. When he got back to Singapore Three, Zhu Irzh told himself, he was going to get the number of a good demon psychiatrist and stick to therapy, even if it meant weekly visits back to Hell.
But he could see the newspaper headline now: Emperor’s Stepson Seeks Psychiatric Treatment for Attacks of Conscience. “I try to be evil,” Seneschal Zhu Irzh, aged 372, formerly of Bone Avenue, told this reporter. “But I keep suffering from attacks of sheer decency. My life’s a living — oh, wait.”
And imaginary press persecution notwithstanding, he knew he wouldn’t do it, any more than he’d sought therapy after leaving Hell and taking up a new life as Chen’s right hand. Time to grow up?
At this depressing thought, Zhu Irzh marched around to the back of the building, looking for another means of ingress. He finally found it in the form of what appeared to be a scullery window, which was closed but yielded to force when shoved.
The demon wasn’t remotely stout, but it was a tight squeeze all the same. He landed on the scullery floor some minutes later and looked around him. Nothing unusual. Rows of pots and plates were arranged along the shelves and the place smelled of mold. Zhu Irzh opened the door and saw a long, dark hallway, similar to the main hall of the house, but narrower.
The Khan was home. The demon could feel him. But he wasn’t sure whether the Khan could sense him in return: he hoped that Roerich’s spell was working. He hadn’t liked to ask Roerich if anyone had tried the spell before — if it was that old, then they almost certainly had. And had almost certainly failed.
Walking on, the demon heard a faint sound to his left. He paused, listening. It came again: a knocking. But the pastel wooden panels of the hallway seemed unbroken. Mice? No, it was too loud. Cautiously, Zhu Irzh rapped on one of the panels and was rewarded with another knock.
“Push the rose!” a voice said in accented Mandarin.
Zhu Irzh looked. The panels were decorated with plaster flowers, and one of them could have been a rose. He poked it with his finger and the panel slid to the side.
“Thanks!” said the voice. A young man stepped out into the passage. A Westerner, obviously so, even in the dim light. He wore gaiters and a cream-colored jacket, and sported a luxuriant moustache. He was, from his complexion and the stains on his jacket, also fairly obviously dead.
“You’re welcome,” the demon said. “What are you doing here?”
“One of the Khan’s guests,” the ghost said. He grimaced. “Was given the chance to move on, actually, but thought I’d best stay and find out what the old monster was up to. Told the rest of the chappies I’d join them later.”
“Chappies?”
“My regiment. Was with the — well, I don’t suppose it matters now. Ran into the Khan’s men outside Khokand. Nasty business. Most of them died. Some of us were brought here. Wasn’t too pleasant after that, but luckily I don’t remember much. And spying was my profession, you might say — all along the northeast frontier. So I thought I’d hang on, Queen and country and all that.”
“Quite,” said Zhu Irzh, who had only the faintest idea what the ghost was talking about. “And did you find anything?”
“Well, not all that much. Khan spends some of his time here, some of it in other places — Khokand, Khotan, out in the desert. Looks for victims, mainly. I’ve seen a good few folk come through these doors and I’m afraid very few of them have made it out again. You’re not human, are you?”
“No. Demon. From Mandarin Hell.”
“Yes, I’ve met a few of you chaps before. India was more my field of ops, though. Some funny buggers out there — four arms and all that. At least you’ve got the usual complement of limbs. Don’t get me wrong. Not unduly prejudiced against Johnny Foreigner. Known some damn fine fellows, in fact.”
“My name’s Zhu Irzh,” the demon said. Sometimes you had to be careful in giving people your name, but he had an instinct that in this case, it would be all right. “What were you doing in the wall?”
“Khan found me snooping about on his last visit. Normally I keep out of the way, but he lost his temper. Had me shut up there — this place is riddled with secret passages. I’d have found my way out eventually. Appreciate your help, though.” He held out his hand and Zhu Irzh took it. “Name’s Foyle. Rodney Foyle. So, what are you doing here?”
“Same as you, more or less. Can I ask you something? You can see me, yes?”
“Clear as daylight, old boy. That’s a Buddhist spell you’re using, of course?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Spent some months in a monastery up in Lhasa. Pretty much converted. Didn’t tell the pater — he was very high
church, you know, all bells and smells — kept it to myself. But they taught me magic. Don’t know that you’d be visible to anyone else.”
“I’m hoping not. I need to find the Khan. And not be visible.”
“Well,” Foyle said. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Ten minutes later they were standing outside the door of the dining room. Sounds came from within. Foyle frowned.
“Think he’s got another live one, from the sound of it. Don’t like it when that happens. Not cricket.”
“Not what? No, never mind. This is how he renews himself, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Revolting practice. Ran into a vampire up in the Torogurt Pass once, very similar sort of thing. But of course the Khan’s survived for such a long time, he’s very powerful.”
“How does he bring them in?”
“Lures them through dreams, or has his men scout for them. Don’t know how this one came in, on account of being shut up.”
Zhu Irzh was entertaining thoughts of rescuing the current unfortunate, but it might already be too late.
“If you’re hoping to hear anything revealing,” Foyle whispered, corroborating that hypothesis. “I wouldn’t bother. The Khan doesn’t engage in light conversation — none of this explaining to victims why they’re about to be slaughtered, or how he plans to do it. Just slits their throats and devours them.”
From the noises coming from the dining room, Foyle was right.
“You stand a better chance with the war room,” Foyle added.
“War room?”
“The Khan keeps a war room on the upper story of the villa. Like a library, but I’ve seen him planning strategy up there. Trouble is, Zhu Irzh, I can’t do anything physical — can’t turn pages or unfold maps. I have to go on what I hear or see. Damned inconvenient.”
“Yes, it’s a problem, being a ghost on the earthly plane,” the demon said with sympathy. Foyle shrugged.
“Goes with the territory. Got used to it. But you — you’re incarnate. Nothing stopping you.”
“You’d better show me where this war room is,” Zhu Irzh said.
“Right-o.”
Zhu Irzh followed the ghost up a flight of stairs. The sounds continued from below, but there was no sign that anyone had heard them. Yet. He tried to be quiet, but even for a demon this was difficult: it was an old, creaky house and the floorboards had partially rotted through. The war room was situated at the end of the house, along yet another passage. With Foyle standing by, Zhu Irzh pushed the door open.
It reminded him of his father’s study in the house in Hell: lined with books and with a huge table in the center of the room. Everything was covered with dust, except the table, which bore a number of parchments on which someone had scrawled sigils and lines that looked like hand-drawn maps. The air reeked of magic.
“Interesting,” the demon murmured. He went further into the room to study a row of jars on an upper shelf. They contained what might have been fetuses, small curled ammonites in a dull orange liquid. “Foyle, do you know what these are?”
The ghost shook his head. “Not a clue, old chap. Some kind of sorcery. Tap the glass.”
“Why?” But Zhu Irzh did as instructed. The fetus moved within, a sudden squirm. “They’re alive.” He peered at the thing. It was blind, with small eyelids like shells. Its mouth opened feebly.
“Yes. They’ve been here a long time. There were two fewer when I first came here.”
“Hmm.” If he was going to steal anything from this room, the demon thought, one of these jars would be a good candidate so far. He inspected the rest of the war room, finding that the books were all devoted to the subject of magic — at least, the Chinese editions. He couldn’t speak for the many volumes in Arabic or other languages, but from the diagrams in a couple of the tomes, they, too, concerned the sorcerous arts.
“He’s been looking for something,” Zhu Irzh suggested.
“A way out. Power. A way to expand his influence. I’ve watched him, over the years.”
The demon was not quite ready to tell Foyle about the reanimated Tokarians, but it seemed probable that the Khan had acted from this particular base of operations. “Have you seen him do actual magic here?”
“Oh yes, many times. The last occasion was just a day or so ago. I could feel it, not see it, because of being in the wall. But it was a big spell — made the whole building shudder. I don’t know what its aim might have been.”
“I think I do,” Zhu Irzh replied. Foyle looked enquiring, so the demon said, “I’ll explain later.” He crossed to the table and started examining the manuscripts. Most of the papers made no sense, but then, toward the middle of the pile, he discovered something that did. It was in an unknown language, full of hooks and vertical lines, and someone had made notes in the margin. In Mandarin. Reading quickly, Zhu Irzh saw mention of “revivification.”
“I think that’s the spell,” he said, and quickly explained to Foyle what had happened.
“Armies,” the ghost said. “He’s looking for an army. Years ago, it would have been easier to recruit — the situation was far less stable then, and some of the mountain tribes, who have traditionally done his bidding, were many in number. But now everyone’s moved into the cities and the warriors are gone. The Khan needs men.”
Or women, Zhu Irzh thought, remembering the shaman. Foyle turned, sharply. “What was that?”
A footstep on the stair, a distinct creak.
“Into the wall!” Foyle commanded, pointing to a second plaster rose amid the paneling. The demon pressed it and a panel slid to one side. He squeezed within and the ghost melted through the wall beside him. Zhu Irzh slid the panel back and heard the door to the war room open.
It was almost certainly the Khan. Zhu Irzh couldn’t see out of the cramped, musty space in which he was hiding, but he could still hear and the muttering voice sounded familiar. He tried to keep as still as possible, hoping that the concealment spell would hold if the Khan took it into his head to investigate the wall. But why should he? the demon asked himself. As far as the Khan knew, Foyle was still a prisoner and the house was secure. He hoped.
Then the whispering began. It started as a murmur, so faint that Zhu Irzh wasn’t even sure if what he was hearing was real. But the sound escalated, rising into first a litany and then a roar, until it filled the house and the demon had to fight not to cover his ears.
It was the Khan: not his voice, but his magic, and that magic was desperate. It reminded Zhu Irzh of some of the souls in Hell, the ones who hadn’t yet realized how hopeless their situation was. These were the spirits who had been perpetually confined, not the human souls who would, in the fullness of non-time, be released back into the reincarnation cycle. You didn’t come across them very often. They were usually to be found in the pits and dungeons of the Ministries, away from the mansions and homes of the rest of that level of Hell. And of course, one found them more frequently in the lower reaches of Hell, the endless lands where one rarely had a reason to venture.
The Khan was one such, and he wasn’t even dead yet. It was the fear of that death that drove him; he had become pathological over the centuries. Zhu Irzh might be a demon, but he didn’t like nutters. And now he was stuck here in the wall while the Khan’s magic raved on.
Great. He didn’t want to take a chance with the concealment spell, not with his inadvertent host in this kind of state. He’d just have to stay and ride it out.
FIFTEEN
Inari stared at the lovely, malignant figure seated before her. She’d never met the former Empress of Heaven, Mhara’s mother. Although Inari had visited the Celestial Palace, the Empress had been deposed some short time before, having proved to be as mad as her late husband. Mhara would not, of course, have his mother slain, and Inari was not even sure whether this was possible — the death of the Imperial members usually meant that they were de-souled, cast from the Wheel of Existence itself.
Instead, Mhara had been faced with the necessity of h
is scheming mother’s imprisonment and rather than having her jailed in Heaven, with the possibility that she might influence someone in the vicinity, he’d sent her into exile in the middle of the Sea of Night. Inari remembered Chen talking about it, though she had never felt able to raise the subject with Miss Qi or, of course, with Mhara himself: it would simply have been too tactless.
But now, here was the Empress, sitting like a black-eyed spider in the midst of her web, peering at Inari and Miss Qi.
“Who are you?” she asked. She had a beautiful voice to match her appearance: low and husky. “A Celestial and a demon. Have you come to visit me?”
Miss Qi dropped a perfunctory curtsey. “Madam. I’m afraid we are here by accident. Our vessel was caught in the winds of Earth and whirled here.”
“Ah,” the Empress said, smiling. “How unfortunate. Well, perhaps I may be able to help you. But first, will you have some tea?”
