by Liz Williams
“Those sharks,” Inari said. “Are they the souls of men? In my home, I’ve seen fish that were the souls of businessmen.”
Banquo smiled. “Reduced to fighting for crumbs? The Chinese always were a subtle people. Here, things are more obvious. You are right, of course. This was a Hell for marauders at sea, for slave traders. For human sharks, one might say. But they’re not just confined to the ocean. The islands are overrun with them, too.”
“What, with sharks?”
“On land, they take the form of men. Well, more or less. They still retain … certain aspects.”
Inari did not think she wanted to find out what aspects those might be. Miss Qi stirred, restlessly.
“When is this bird likely to return? Do you know how long it will take to deliver a message to the Emperor?”
“I do not. We have not dealt extensively with your world.” Banquo stood, bowing. “We must hope that it will not be long.”
Back in their assigned cabin, Miss Qi paced the boards while Inari sat on one of the cots, hugging her knees. “This is frustrating. It’s not even as though we’ve been properly kidnapped. Just pushed onto someone else because the Empress couldn’t cough up.”
“Yet she went to all that trouble,” Inari said. “Why would she do such a thing and then not pay?”
“Maybe she was prevented from doing so,” Miss Qi said hopefully. “Maybe the Emperor has found out what she’s been up to.”
“It’s possible,” Inari said.
Then, her voice changing, Miss Qi said, “We’re very close to that island.”
“Are we?” Inari got up to look out of the porthole. The cabin was considerably better appointed than the chamber in which they had originally been dumped; Banquo was evidently confident that they wouldn’t try to escape. But Miss Qi was right. The island, which until now had been nothing more than a blot on the horizon, loomed above the ship. They were perhaps a quarter of a mile from shore, close enough to see the dense forest that ran down to a half-moon of sand. High on the summit of the island ran a ridge of rock, and Inari could see birds wheeling above the treeline.
“They’re enormous,” she said.
“I don’t like the look of those. They’re shaped like vultures.”
“Vultures and sharks,” Inari murmured. “Whoever constructed this Hell didn’t waste time.”
The island was drawing closer. “I think I’d like to know why we’re heading there,” Miss Qi announced.
They made their way back to Banquo’s chamber, but the captain was nowhere to be found. Nor was there any sign of the crew.
“Remember Kuan Yin’s boat?” Inari whispered. “Everyone frozen? If the Empress is here—”
A sudden slithering noise made her break off her speculations. “What was that?” Miss Qi whispered into Inari’s ear. The badger hastened forward to peer around the corner of the cabin and just as quickly shuffled back.
They still retain … certain aspects, Banquo had said and now Inari could see exactly what he meant. The thing that stood before them was tall, sinuous, gray-skinned. Its long face grinned, rimmed with triangular teeth, but its legs were human enough, though ending in flipper-like feet. It wore a loin cloth and carried a short, serrated spear.
“I’ve come to find you,” the shark-demon said, and grinned wider.
Miss Qi smacked the wall with the flat of her hand, a gesture that Inari did not associate with the calm Celestial. However, she knew how Miss Qi felt. Without actual confirmation they could not say for certain, but both were sure that the shark-demons were in the Empress’ employ.
“Even if Banquo’s still—well, not alive, as such, but able to operate, he’s unlikely to come looking for us,” Miss Qi said. “It’s just easier for him to go out and get new hostages.”
“I agree. Ones who are less trouble.”
“I’m tired of being taken prisoner,” was Miss Qi’s next comment. “It’s such a waste of time.”
“Well,” Inari said, “in that case, we need to escape.”
They had already made a thorough search of the room. At least, Inari thought, they had a reasonable idea of where they were being held: the shark-demons had taken them at spear-point off Banquo’s ship, rowed them in a small craft to shore, and then marched them up a narrow track between the trees. The look and the sounds of the forest were unfamiliar: strange red-fronded ferns, fleshy fat plants which oozed a glistening fluid, and a smell of lushness and rot. Finally they had been shown into a rickety wooden building at the summit of a pinnacle of rock, reached by a swaying plank and rope bridge.
Getting out of it was, however, something of a problem. The stone escarpment below them was almost sheer, ending in a ragged ravine, and the only obvious way out lay across the bridge. To reach it, they would have to break free of the room.
The badger had been rooting and snuffling at the bare boards. He scraped with an experimental claw.
“This is old wood.”
“Do you think you can break through it?” Inari asked.
“They’ll hear him,” Miss Qi pointed out.
“If anyone’s listening.”
“The Empress has gone to some trouble to seize us a second time. I doubt she’ll be as careless as she has been.”
Inari was inclined to agree, but she did not want to discourage the badger. “Do you think you can dig quietly?” she asked him.
“I can try.” The badger began to claw at the boards.
“Banquo said that this was a Hell for many people,” Inari said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Banquo and his crew clearly aren’t in league with the Empress as such. They’re just for hire. The same probably goes for the shark-demons. They’ve got no natural link with the Empress, have they?”
Miss Qi gave a delicate shudder. “Hardly.”
“Then if the pirates and the shark-demons are their own entities, what about those birds?”
Miss Qi looked at her. Then they went to the window and looked up. The huge fringed wings were still circling the peak of the island, floating lazily on the thermals. There was no way that Inari and Miss Qi could be seen from below, unless someone was hiding in the ravine.
Inari tore the single sheet from the bed and they bundled it out of the window. It was much too short to make a rope, but could, perhaps, be waved. They did so.
“Pity we can’t call out,” Inari said as they flapped the sheet.
“They’ll probably just think it’s someone doing the washing,” Miss Qi said.
“I doubt whether shark-demons do laundry, somehow.”
They waved the sheet until their arms grew tired, while the badger continued to scratch at the rotting boards. But the great birds continued their endless procession around the summit, gliding like distant clockwork toys. Eventually Inari and Miss Qi gave up and sank back on the bed, clutching the sheet. The badger roused himself from the floorboards and shook his head like a dog. He had made a small hole.
“Mahogany,” he said. “Old, but still tough.”
“Maybe we could have another go at bribing the shark-demons,” Inari suggested. They had already attempted this once, during the climb up the hill, but the demons had only grinned wider and shaken their arching heads.
“One could almost feel sorry for them,” Miss Qi said with disdain. “I doubt the Empress will be able to recompense them any more than she could pay Banquo.”
“Perhaps they’ll find that out and let us go,” Inari said, but she was not hopeful. Something about the way in which the shark-demons had looked at them, a cold glimmer in their unnatural eyes, had suggested that something more like dinner might be on the menu. Inari might not be able to die as such in this particular Hell, but she did not like the thought of being eaten.
A shadow fell over the window, abruptly cutting out the sunlight. Miss Qi was on her feet and Inari looked up to see a long, bald head peering in. Its feathers were bronze and black and green, so hard and sharp that they might h
ave been real metal. And its eyes were human, too, like those of the shark-demons: set in wrinkled folds of goose-pimpled flesh.
“Aha,” it said, in a man’s voice. “So this is what all that flapping was about.”
29
After the appearance of the city of Agarta, Zhu Irzh found that the dynamic between the members of their little team had changed somewhat. Roerich, though the instigator, had previously taken a back seat, allowing Omi to become de facto leader. And the young warrior had risen to the challenge, scouting ahead amongst the dunes and suggesting possible directions in which to travel. But since the city had risen out of the desert air, Omi had become distracted and preoccupied. Twice, Roerich had to repeat a question and eventually Zhu Irzh saw him give a little nod, as if a suspicion had become confirmed. That night, when they again made camp, Roerich drew the demon aside.
“You mentioned folk who became obsessed by this place,” Zhu Irzh said. He looked to where Omi was gazing into the fire. “Is this what’s happening to him?”
“I’m afraid it’s the only conclusion I can draw,” Roerich said. “I hope I’m wrong. But Agarta—it’s a cursed place as well as a blessed one. Only the Enlightened are allowed within its precincts and yet it calls to the best among us, as though its purpose is a magnet of goodness.”
“I suppose that makes me safe,” the demon said.
“I told you. Don’t be so sure. Agarta sees things in us that we do not necessarily know are there. But in the case of Omi—”
“Do people ever—just get over it?”
“Not really. I’m worried about his performance. Longing can sap the will.”
“I can see how that could happen,” Zhu Irzh said. “Is there anything we can do to snap him out of it? Given the ifrits and all that, we need him at peak capacity.”
Roerich sighed. “I don’t think we can just ‘snap him out of it.’ It may be that he’ll come through it on his own. He is experienced in meditative disciplines.”
“But you’re not hopeful,” Zhu Irzh said.
“No, I’m not.”
“If this city is appearing to us,” the demon said, “what does that mean?”
“It means Agarta is on the move,” Roerich said. “That doesn’t happen without good reason. You must understand, Zhu Irzh, that the city is itself an entity, just like those who live in it. The city council includes the city as a member and it has its own agenda.”
The demon was growing used to inanimate objects that weren’t. He merely nodded. That night, however, he was not surprised to find himself being shaken awake by Roerich.
“Omi’s gone.”
“Oh great. To look for his city, no doubt.”
“He’s had at least two hours head start,” Roerich said, “assuming that he took off at the start of his watch. I’ve only just woken.”
“We can’t have this, Nicholas. What if we’d been attacked when Omi was supposed to have been keeping watch?”
“I know.” Roerich said nothing more.
The good thing about sand, even the gritty, stony soil of the Taklamakan, was that it still carried the traces of footprints. Omi had set off in a northeasterly direction, toward the heart of the desert, and he had moved with certainty. There was nothing faltering about the footsteps, which appeared with swift precision over the soft dunes. Roerich and Zhu Irzh, saying little, followed them, but there was no sight of the young warrior in the expanse of the desert ahead. Small hares danced in the moonlight, and whenever the demon glanced up he saw the moon itself, with the rabbit inside it, mocking him like an eye.
Omi had taken the scroll with him. Without that, the demon knew, all of their journey would be useless.
“If we can’t find him—” he began.
“We will,” Roerich said, and then, as if trying to reassure himself, echoed, “we will.”
They had been walking for perhaps an hour when the demon first noticed it: tiny balls of sand scuttling beneath his feet. He stood still and listened. The distant boom of the dunes had been joined by a new sound, faint at first, then growing louder. It was a susurrus, a murmuring like the sea. Zhu Irzh’s hair was stirred by a breath of wind and his coat ruffled in the sudden breeze. Then, with a cold clutch of fear that was an unfamiliar sensation to him, he knew what was happening.
“Roerich! Sand!”
“We’ve got to find shelter,” Roerich said. The demon could see it now, a glaze over the dark distance of the desert. Sandstorm, and coming fast. He could taste grit on the wind.
He might not be able to die, but the prospect of being buried beneath a thousand tons of sand was horrifying. With Roerich, he bolted down the side of the dune, but he knew it was useless. There was nothing here apart from the roll of the dunes themselves; no canyons, not even a boulder behind which to cower. And the sand was roaring on, the wind whipping at the hem of Zhu Irzh’s coat and filling his mouth with dust. As he had done before, he flung his sleeve in front of his face, trying to keep the sand out of his eyes, but the fringes of the storm were upon them now. He remembered what the policeman had told him back in Urumchi, about sandstorms so vicious that they were able to blast holes in parked cars. He had no problems believing it. For a moment, he glimpsed Roerich’s hunched form against a swirling backdrop of particles, then it was blotted out.
“Nicholas!” he cried, and again, “Nicholas!”
The first time, the name was swallowed by the howl of the wind. On the second occasion, it rang out into a sudden silence.
“Roerich?” Zhu Irzh said aloud. He lowered his arm. The sand had gone. Only a faint shower of dust from the sleeve of his coat pattered to the floor. Zhu Irzh looked up at a towering marble wall. He stood on flagstones, so tightly joined together that you could not have slipped a hair between them. The air smelled of roses, and somewhere, like the sound of a fountain, someone was playing a lute.
He had found his way into Agarta. Or, more likely, Agarta had rescued him. Zhu Irzh breathed a sigh of uneasy relief. But what about Roerich, and Omi? There were signs of life, anyway, and even if he’d somehow been saved from the sand by accident, he’d still been saved. This was a city of the Enlightened: Would they know what to do with a demon in their midst? Feeling out of place, Zhu Irzh started walking in the direction of the lute.
After perhaps ten minutes’ walk, he could see why the city had exerted such a hold over Omi. It was far beyond the merely pretty. Everything seemed perfectly proportioned. There were no awkward angles, no out-of-place vistas. The eye was led harmoniously from one splendor to the other and yet it was never dull. Roses were everywhere, cascading down the sides of the marble turrets. As Zhu Irzh walked, a nightingale began to sing, tremulous at first, and then with more confidence. Above, the sky had started to lighten. The demon made his way into a courtyard, reached through a round moon-gate under a fall of blossoming jasmine. The sound of the lute was growing clearer and then he saw the lute player: a middle-aged woman in a blue robe that fell like water around her feet. She did not look up as the demon approached, though his feet rang out on the flagstones. She finished her piece with a calm flourish, then said, “Seneschal Zhu Irzh.”
The demon blinked. “You know who I am?”
“Why, of course,” the woman said. It was hard to place her. Her hair was a steely gray, bound in a long braid, and her flat, calm face and folded eyes could have been Chinese, or something entirely different, Siberian, perhaps, or Native American. “The city told me you were here.”
“There was a sandstorm,” Zhu Irzh explained. “I was with someone—a man. Nicholas Roerich?”
“I know him.”
“We were separated. I’m worried about him.”
“The city will have collected him,” the woman said. “The desert is riven with storms—some natural, some not.”
“What makes the unnatural ones?”
“The ifrits conjure the sand.”
“But someone conjures the ifrits, am I right?”
“You are not wrong.”
“If Roerich’s here,” Zhu Irzh said, “I’d really like to speak to him. And there was someone else with us—he went missing.” Perhaps not tactful to mention that he’d done so because he’d become besotted by the city itself. “A young warrior, named Omi.”
The woman gave a slight frown. “If he is here, the city has not told me.”
That defused the demon’s suspicion that this person might be the city, an avatar, but maybe she was dissembling. “I need to find him,” Zhu Irzh said.
“Why?”
“He has something that’s important to me.” Zhu Irzh didn’t want to tell this woman any more than he had to—from what Roerich had said, the city was clearly on the side of light, but that didn’t mean they shared an agenda. It felt weird to be here at all; it didn’t make him as uncomfortable as being in Heaven had done, but it was certainly similar.
“I will try to find him for you,” the woman said. “But for now, come inside.” She rose in a watery swirl of robes and led the demon into a small pavilion. In it was a table, set with a number of plates and a large metal jug.
“Tea?”
Tea. In a supernatural, timeless city in the middle of the night. What the hell. “Shall I pour?” asked Zhu Irzh.
It occurred to him that it might not be wise to eat or drink anything. Mythologies of all the lands cautioned against doing so, and the fear that one might be trapped in such a world, anchored by physical desires. But Zhu Irzh had not heard of demons being so snared, and anyway, he was thirsty after all that sand. He sipped his tea, which was perfumed with jasmine, and waited while the woman went off on some unknown errand. Though she knew his name, she had not given him her own. Perhaps she did not have one.
Then someone walked quickly through the hangings of the pavilion and the demon looked up to see Roerich.
“Nicholas!” It surprised him a little to realize how pleased he was to see the man: it was like having Chen around, the feeling that somehow, everything would be all right.
“We seem to have been taken on board,” Roerich said. “Omi is here.”
“Is that a good thing? I mean,” the demon said hastily, “obviously I’m glad he’s okay. But isn’t it a bit like giving someone a drug to which they’re addicted?”
