by Liz Williams
Robin did not belong here, and she knew it. She had visited parties once or twice, with Deveth, and had made herself unpopular. These were the spoiled children of the wealthy, Deveth’s friends, the ones who didn’t need to work, who could afford to play out their fantasies of Paris or Vienna. Robin had worked since she was fifteen, down in the mining labs in Bharulay and then scoring, making it into Paugeng. She could never afford to live here. Deveth, sardonic, had watched her make a fool of herself arguing with a neosocialist at the last party they had attended together.
“It’s all very well for your friends,” Robin had said later, in frustration. “They’re living in a—a cushion.”
“This isn’t an affluent neighborhood, Robin. None of them are very rich.”
Deveth lit a cigarette as she spoke and the brief light flared up around her face, the harsh cheekbones and hawk nose illuminated and then gone, back into the dim, comfortable light of her apartment. She sounded loftily understanding, as though Robin couldn’t really be expected to comprehend these sophisticated ideas.
“Don’t be stupid,” Robin said with contempt, forgetting now how eager she had been to impress this glamorous woman. “Your families are.”
She saw the expression on Deveth’s face change from languid amusement to wariness: mustn’t wind the peasant up too far. Robin had never criticized her before. Until that night, she had behaved as though Deveth were quite perfect.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she’d told Robin, neutrally. “Maybe, it isn’t meant. Maybe we should end it here.” And then off-course, Robin, stricken, had stammered apologies while Deveth, sad-eyed, watched.
And now, Robin thought, in a fury, she’s probably just dumped me in favor of some little sweetheart whose dad lives in Meriden, no doubt, who stays up all night and talks about her art. She stormed along, realizing suddenly that she had gone past Deveth’s house. She retraced her steps and made her way into the entrance hallway. Deveth had given her the code to the main door, but not the apartment itself: not the key to her heart.
The hall opened out into a wide atrium, once the fashionable home of palms and a carp pool, but now full of old divans arranged in a rough square. The air was musty, stained with old incense and the breath of dampness. The pool had been drained, and now featured as a sort of conversation pit, studded with candle ends. Robin eyed it with distaste. They had held the party here. Ghosts of the young and pretty stared at her from the rotting divans, mocking, smiling at Deveth Sardai’s bit of rough.
“Are you looking for something?” An uncertain voice came out of the gloom.
Robin jumped.
“I’m a friend of Deveth Sardai’s … I came to see if she was in.”
“Oh, it’s you,” the voice said, without enthusiasm. She came further into the wan light from the street and Robin recognized her: Tarai Alba, who lived on the floor above Deveth. She had been at the party, too; Robin remembered her in a steely sheath gown, blonde hair on a lattice of struts and pins. Every time she met Robin’s eyes, she had given her a thin, little smile. She had once, Robin knew, been Deveth’s lover, and probably still was. Robin said, “Is Dev here?”
“I don’t know,” Alba replied. She looked smaller and thinner than Robin remembered her. The sheath had been replaced by a ripped silk dressing gown; she was barefoot.
“I’m sorry,” Robin said automatically. “Did I wake you up?”
“It doesn’t matter. Deveth’s not here. The last time I saw her was several days ago, I can’t remember exactly. I don’t know where she’s gone. And her phone keeps going and going—I can hear it.”
Her small voice was lost.
“Have you been in her apartment?”
“No, she wouldn’t—she didn’t give me the code.” You, too, thought Robin with a breath of satisfaction. She led the way up the stairs to Deveth’s apartment. The door was firmly shut. Even out here, it felt empty.
“She might be in there.” Alba whispered. There was no way they could force the door. Reinforced steel does not give way easily to a kick.
“What about the windows?” But the side of the building was sheer, and the double windows wouldn’t open from the outside. They went out with a torch to have a look, but there was no sign of a forced entry. The lights were off.
“There must be some way in,” Robin said. “What about the waste disposal?” She and Alba, shivering, went down to the basement and investigated. The base of the disposal unit was a narrow, snaking pipe that entered the main collection unit. With difficulty, they detached it.
“I’m not going up there,” Alba said firmly.
It was not pleasant. The pipe stank, and its serpentine sides were slimed with refuse. Like going into someone’s intestines, Robin thought. She could climb by gripping the latches; fortunately, the house was too old for a modern chemical valve system. She counted as she climbed. At the second floor, a voice, echoing loud and sharp in her ear, said, “What’s that?”
Light seeped around the edges of the disposal hatch.
“Rat, or something.”
“That’s revolting. You mean they live in the system?”
“You’re never less than twelve feet away from one, they say,” the voice floated away as Robin climbed on. When she reached the third floor, she located the back of the hatch in Deveth’s kitchen, praying that she’d got the right apartment. She did not find the idea of tumbling, covered in filth, onto the floor of some sneering neobohemian’s kitchen, an appealing one. She had to force the hatch. An unpleasant ten minutes ensued. She couldn’t dislodge the hatch, and she could feel the struts beneath her heels starting to give; they were never meant to bear so much weight. Robin pushed and tugged, certain that at any moment the struts would give way and she’d fall down the pipe, only to get stuck fifteen feet down where it narrowed. Then, the hatch gave way with a crack and she fell headfirst into the kitchen.
It was Deveth’s. There was a terrible smell of rotten meat and old cigarette smoke. Robin retched over the sink. Clutching a washcloth, now dried and stiff, to her face, she made a quick tour of the apartment. She knew what she’d find: Deveth’s murdered body, cold and rotting, flung against the wall. But the apartment was dark and quiet. The dreadful smell lessened as she entered the bedroom. Deveth was not at home, alive or dead. Robin found the main switch and turned all the lights on, discovering the culprit in the kitchen: a large and ancient steak sitting on the worktop. Robin picked it up with a fork and flung it down the waste disposal, unfortunately forgetting that they had disconnected it at the bottom. Someone hammered at the front door. Robin opened it to see Tarai Alba’s white face floating like a balloon in the dim hallway.
“Is she—”
“No, no,” Robin said, to stave off what might turn into hysteria. “She’s not here.”
“What’s that smell?”
“She left a steak out in the kitchen. It rotted, what with the heat. Or,” Robin said suddenly, “it might be me.” Her vest top and canvas jeans were covered in the mold from the pipe. Filth nested in her hair. Alba regarded her with horror.
“Look,” Robin said patiently, “I’m going to find something else to wear.”
She went back into the bedroom. Deveth was several inches taller, but Robin found a pair of clean trousers that she could roll up at the cuffs, and a baggy shirt. Inside the wardrobe, she found a whole collection of little packets of pills and herbs. She recognized none of the herbs: strands of crimson and black, as though the contents of the packet had rotted and then dried; a musty yellow substance that smelled of old fish. The herbs were somehow sinister. Going back into the kitchen, Robin stuffed the dirty clothes in the washing machine and padded into the bathroom in her underwear.
“What are you doing?” Alba called.
“Having a shower!” At least the water was on. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror as she dressed, a short, pale-faced person under a wet bob of dark hair, wearing huge clothes. Where are you, Deveth?
Alba was hunched
on the sofa, smoking sourly. Deprived of her audience, Robin thought.
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, I don’t know.” She wondered if Paugeng security, Tserai’s private troops, could be roped in. An ice-cold thought made her shiver: What if Deveth was dead? What if the Sardai family thought she’d killed Deveth? She wasn’t the same class … you didn’t know how these people might behave. Robin had been brought up to consider that the rich were all mad.
“Could you call her parents?” Tarai said, doubtful.
“I don’t think they’d trust me,” Robin replied. She didn’t want to talk about the earlier visit. “I’m not good enough for Deveth.”
Underneath the posturing, Alba had a kind-enough heart. She protested. “I’m sure they wouldn’t think that! I mean—Dev and I were never real lovers, we had a thing sometimes but it wasn’t—we were friends.”
She stubbed the cigarette out, and Robin, relieved to be leaving this sad, empty place, followed her down the stairs.
MING I:
THE DARKENING OF THE LIGHT
9
In the fashionably muted atrium of Paugeng, Zhu Irzh found that Jhai Tserai was unavailable. The young man behind the reception desk seemed entirely unfazed by the demon’s presence. He smiled warmly at Zhu Irzh. The subtext said: We’re so happy to see you. What a welcome visitor you are. It made Zhu Irzh smile. They all got it from Jhai Tserai, who was apparently picky about details, especially those regarding quality management. Top down.
The young receptionist told Zhu Irzh that he was most welcome to stay and wait. Perhaps he would like to wait in the guest suite? There was a pool (green, cool, a length of water submerged between the fronds of ferns; you could swim with the soothing carp in the pond). The demon’s mouth watered at the thought, a surprising physiological reaction, but some perversity made him decline.
“No thanks. I think I’ll go and explore the port.”
The receptionist managed to convey to Zhu Irzh that this was absolutely fine. If the demon had announced his intention to immolate himself on the front steps he would, he presumed, have evoked a similar response. He smiled and left.
Outside, a wall of sticky heat hit him. At the edge of the port, a battered tin sign announced the presence of a café. The demon hesitated for a moment, then went down some steps and was disorientingly out in the open again, in a small and dusty side street. Two boys were cooking something in a large, flat pan over an open fire. Both of them looked up and wary recognition flickered across their faces. They could see him, then. That betokened some evidence of magical training—Paugeng and the police precinct could afford expensive wards to bring visibility to supernatural intruders; out here in the slums, you were on your own. But there was a vacancy to the boys’ faces that suggested they were simple. Under a corrugated iron awning, an old woman dozed, her seamed, beige face nodding above a stiff, black collar.
“It’s all right,” the demon said. “I’m not here to hurt you.” The boys grinned up at him. He estimated they had about six teeth between them.
“Tschai?” a boy said without preamble. After a moment, this made sense.
“Thanks. I’d love some tea.” The demon squatted on his heels beside them, fastidiously flicking the skirts of his silk coat out of the dust with his tail. The older child pottered to the back of the shop and produced a vast iron kettle, from which a thick, chocolate-colored liquid emerged. He handed the warm glass to Zhu Irzh, who thought of ice: ice and mint and pale green drinks. Actually, the tea was refreshing, although there was a peculiar aftertaste which he couldn’t quite get hold of. He smiled and nodded at the boys; they smiled and nodded back; the grandmother woke up and everyone smiled and nodded at everyone else. It was all very friendly. He sipped the tea and consulted his watch. One of the boys came to with a start. He spoke to the old woman. The grandmother retreated into the depths of the shop and staggered out again with a large box. The demon watched curiously. She set the box in a niche, where some of the plaster had been gouged out of the wall, gave a bouncing bow and opened the hinged doors of the box. Inside, a portrait gazed out at Zhu Irzh: dark, upturned eyes beneath elegant brows, an aquiline nose, a smiling mouth. The earlobes were stained red. Grandmother picked up the stub of a scarlet candle and lit it. Fake flowers surrounded the icon, along with a greeting card featuring violets, a chocolate bar and a small blue bottle. The grandmother noticed Zhu Irzh’s transfixed stare.
“Yes!” she croaked at him. “You know her! Everyone does.” She pointed to the Paugeng tower, the home of the object of her reverence. Imperial Majesty! thought the demon. The corporate executive as religious icon. He must remember not to underestimate Jhai Tserai.
On returning to Paugeng, he was told that Jhai was now available, and would see him shortly. Zhu Irzh was whisked into the upper reaches of the tower in a mirrored lift, which gave him the opportunity to correct any minor details of his person that failed to pass muster. It was fortunate, the demon reflected with a trace of distaste, that his particular brand of Hellkind did not sweat. Humans were really quite unfortunate in that respect. He plucked a stray hair from his silk collar, and the lift came imperceptibly to a halt. Zhu Irzh stepped out into a leafy atrium, almost as large as the hallway below. A demure, smiling secretary, his hair fashionably long, greeted him. Zhu Irzh glanced at the young man with approval; it seemed Tserai had excellent taste.
“She’ll be right with you,” the young man said.
“Excellent.” Zhu Irzh was ushered into a pleasant lounge overlooking the port. A hazy afternoon sun shimmered through tinted glass and there was a clean smell, partly antiseptic, partly floral. A bank of orchids stood along one wall, engineered into fantastic creations. At the far end of the room, a voice said, “Seneschal Zhu Irzh, I understand?”
The demon turned to see a young woman stepping through the double doors. He recognized her immediately; he had, after all, just seen her face in iconic representation. In person, however, Jhai Tserai seemed to glow. She wore a saffron sari; gold sparked at her wrists and throat. She glided, smiling, down the length of the room and extended a languid hand in the Western manner. Zhu Irzh took her long, cool fingers and immediately felt as though someone had slipped a soft, gentle hand against his groin. The sensation was unexpected, wonderful, and entirely inappropriate. Jhai Tserai’s hand closed briefly around his own fingers, but the touch was experienced somewhere else entirely. How did she do that? Zhu Irzh wondered through the red mist in his head. Some kind of pheromonal enhancement perhaps. Still, he wasn’t about to complain.
To his intense relief, Jhai released his hand and stepped back. Desire receded to a part of Zhu Irzh’s mind where it could be unpacked later and examined in detail. He took a deep, shaky breath. The industrialist was regarding him with some amusement; he realized, with dim horror, that Jhai Tserai was well aware of the effect that she had just achieved. Flustered, the demon said quickly, “I’ve come with regard to a sad matter, I’m afraid. Do you know a young lady named Deveth Sardai?”
Jhai’s eyebrows rose. “I do indeed. We were in school together. I’ve known her for years. In fact,” she added in a murmur, “I’m pleased you’re here.” She leaned forward confidentially to meet the demon’s eyes and Zhu Irzh was astounded to find himself blushing.
“Are you?”
“I was beginning to worry,” Jhai said, suddenly earnest. “I couldn’t help feeling that something might have happened to her. Deveth and I keep in irregular touch—sometimes we see a lot of each other; sometimes our social lives take us in different orbits; you know how it is … We’re all so busy these days and it’s hard to catch up with old friends, no matter how much one might want to. But a young girlfriend of hers told me that she hadn’t seen Deveth for days, and naturally, I was becoming rather concerned.” She reached out and put her hand briefly over Zhu Irzh’s own, as if readying herself to be brave. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid she’s dead,” the demon said,
watching Jhai narrowly. It was hard to concentrate. His hand was still warm where she had touched him.
Jhai stared at him. “Dead? How? Oh Goddess, don’t tell me she overdosed.” She put a hand to her mouth in dismay.
“Was she in the habit of using drugs?” Zhu Irzh asked, evading the question.
Jhai frowned. “I don’t like to speak ill of a friend, but I must be honest. I knew it would get her into trouble one day. She took a lot of opium, sometimes coke, sometimes the new, more experimental stuff …” She sat down on one of the overstuffed leather couches and patted it, inviting the demon to sit by her side. “Can I be honest with you?”
“I’d rather you were,” Zhu Irzh replied dryly.
“The girlfriend. Robin Yuan. You see, Seneschal, I believe in giving the more disadvantaged members of our community a chance, and Robin’s been a good, solid worker. But I do keep a very close eye on my personnel, and lately, well, she’s been behaving a little erratically. I made a few discreet enquiries, and there have been suggestions—nothing more than rumors, mind—that Robin has a history of dealing. Nothing on the police books, she’s never been charged, but there are—rumors. Now if this has led to poor Deveth’s death—”
“Is Robin here today?”
“I’m afraid she’s off sick at the moment,” Jhai said firmly. “Seneschal, please—don’t think that I’m casting suspicion on Robin. It’s just that it’s better to be open about these things, even if it casts doubt on myself as an employer.”
Her beautiful eyes were guileless, but Zhu Irzh was left in no doubt that suspicion was exactly what Jhai had intended to cast. His admiration rose. The girl would do well in Hell, no doubt about it. And she was still having this unfortunate effect upon him … desire was washing over him in waves, making it difficult to think. If the interview got protracted, he’d have to make an excuse to visit the bathroom and do something about it, undignified though this might be. Any notions he might have had of dominating this particular interview were well past their sell-by date.
