by Liz Williams
“And if we don’t? I could end up consigned to the lowest pit of the farthest level of Hell as something the size of a toe, and you with me.”
“That won’t happen. My sponsors are protecting me.”
Zhu Irzh’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve made a bargain with someone in Hell and you trust them?”
“If I go down, I’ll make sure they go with me. They won’t risk that. And also, remember that my ancestry might be Hellkind of a sort, but it’s not from the Chinese afterlife. I have somewhere to bail out to if I have to. So what do you say? Are you with me?”
“I’ll think about it,” Zhu Irzh said. Jhai nodded.
“All right.”
The car slowed at the entrance to the harbor.
“I’ll walk from here,” the demon said. He gave Jhai a sidelong smile. She hid her disappointment well.
“When am I going to see you again?”
“Tomorrow,” Zhu Irzh said firmly. “I need some time to think.” Leaning over, he kissed Jhai hard, and was out of the car before she had time to respond. He did not look back, but he smiled again as he heard the car pull away. Well, he had wanted to know what she was up to, and now he did. High stakes indeed. And a great deal of power for someone brave enough, or foolish enough, to grasp the nettle. Zhu Irzh had already become involved in a political battle in Hell, and he wasn’t keen to court another one. Besides, he could see that Jhai was making a classic mistake: even in spite of her ancestry, because of her Earthly power, she was tacitly assuming that Hell had little influence over her, as long as she was not actually there. Zhu Irzh knew better. The first slip, and Jhai’s masters would make a sacrificial lamb of her.
Zhu Irzh blinked up into the glowing darkness, and wondered what exactly he was going to do about this. Telling the human authorities did not seem to be an option: he believed Jhai when she spoke of her control over the city council. She could make life difficult for him, demon though he was. Nor was he inclined to sell her out; if the plan worked, then there would undoubtedly be something in it for most of Hellkind, and some dark part of Zhu Irzh’s demonic consciousness reveled in the idea of the chaos to come. So, he thought, ambling down the wharf, this was one situation that he would simply wait out.
Achieving such neutrality might be easier said than done, given that Jhai had already drawn him a certain distance into her schemes, but Zhu Irzh was confident of the degree of power that sexual authority conferred upon him. The demon rarely underestimated women; Jhai, however, owed him a debt, and he intended to capitalize upon it as much as he possibly could.
He stepped carefully over the pontoons, and halted as he came within reach of the houseboat’s ladder. There was a light in the main room, showing through the shutters. The badger had no need of illumination, and Zhu Irzh had left the boat in daylight … His sword whispered through the darkness. Lightly, the demon grasped the ladder and slid up it onto the deck. The door to the main room was ajar. Zhu Irzh listened, but heard nothing. Sword drawn, he kicked open the door and plunged in.
“Glad to see you’re on the ball,” someone said mildly. Zhu Irzh gaped. Detective Inspector Chen was sitting in the armchair, nursing a cup of tea.
“But—you’re in Hawaii!”
“Not anymore. Sergeant Ma called me yesterday. He expressed some concern as to your welfare. I thought I’d cut the vacation short and come home.”
“What about Inari?”
“She’s enjoying herself with Lao and his wife. She sends her regards.” Chen regarded the demon owlishly. “Could you put that away?”
“Sorry.” Slowly, Zhu Irzh sheathed the sword.
“Want some tea?”
“No. Yes. Thank you.”
In silence, Chen poured him a cup and handed it over. The demon sank heavily into the nearest chair.
“Want to give me your version of what’s been happening?” Chen smiled helpfully.
Zhu Irzh reminded himself that he was Hellkind. He was over two hundred years old. He was stronger than almost any mortal man and he had the powers of Hell at his back. So why had he not felt so uncomfortable since being called to his grandfather’s study at the age of ten, to explain how he had managed to break each and every window in the Irzh family mansion? Taking a deep breath, he gave Chen a swift, highly edited summary of recent events. He recounted the attack on the dowser Paravang Roche, pleading ignorance of its cause, and told Chen that he had spent the afternoon with Jhai, examining her premises. Nothing was actually untrue, but there were significant omissions.
“That was concise,” Chen said when he’d finished. It was impossible to tell whether he believed the story or not. “So let me get this straight. At the moment, we’re looking at Jhai Tserai as a chief suspect? And we’re working on the hypothesis that she is at least heavily implicated in both murders, even if she didn’t carry them out herself.”
“Yes, we are.”
“And am I to assume that, cultural differences aside, your division in Hell considers such criteria as objectivity, neutrality and so forth critical when interrogating a suspect?”
“Yes, to some degree,” Zhu Irzh said warily, not liking the turn that the conversation was taking.
“So having established Jhai Tserai as principal suspect, you brought her back here and spent what is by all accounts an active night with her? In my bed?”
A distant part of Zhu Irzh noted that it was an interesting sensation to experience all the blood draining out of one’s face.
“How did you—?” He could not go on. Chen pointed at the silent, accusing presence of the iron teakettle upon the shelf.
“Oh, fuck.”
“So I am given to understand. Sergeant Ma is not the only being capable of using a telephone. And why, exactly, did you consider that becoming Jhai’s lover was crucial to the course of this investigation? Some disarming ploy, no doubt? A subtle maneuver designed to throw her off guard and elicit the truth from her?” Chen enquired, still terrifyingly bland.
Belatedly, Zhu Irzh resorted to the truth. “No. She has this—this effect on me. When I see her, all I can think of is sex.”
It was clear that Chen was sorely tempted to make the obvious retort, and Zhu Irzh winced in anticipation of being told that this was all he ever thought about anyway. But Chen said nothing, and the demon went hurriedly on: “It seems to be mutual; I’ll explain why in a moment. She turned up here, one thing led to another, and next thing I knew, we were in bed. And I’m sorry it was yours, but it is the only bed here. I promise I’ll wash the sheets.”
“That would be nice. Why is it mutual?”
“She’s not human.”
That got Chen’s attention. His eyes widened. “Then what is she?”
The demon told him.
“That,” Chen said, unwittingly echoing Zhu Irzh on an earlier occasion, “would explain a lot. About her family’s origins, about their rise to power … She’s in a startlingly vulnerable position, isn’t she, even with all her influence? And she’s risking that for you?” His eyebrows rose.
Trying to ignore the unflattering implications of that remark, Zhu Irzh said, “It’s because I’m Hellkind, I think.”
“And you know, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
“You know, Zhu Irzh, just what Jhai’s role is in all this. I can see it in your face. The badger passed on some remarkably disturbing hints, about what Jhai said to you the next morning.”
“Was that damned creature spying on me all night?” Zhu Irzh bridled. He had no objection to voyeurism, as long as he was the voyeur. At that point, the teakettle, at which Zhu Irzh had been staring accusingly, blurred and became badger. The night-black eyes were cold. The badger gave a soft, slow hiss.
“Yes,” said Chen, coolly. “He was. And just as well. Now. Out with it. What is Jhai planning? I should add, Zhu Irzh, that although I hold you in rather higher regard than you probably think, and I might—under certain circumstances—even view you not only as a colleague but as a friend, I
’ll have absolutely no hesitation in binding you here and summoning Exorcist Lao back from Waikiki to drag the truth out of you by magical force if I have to. But I’d rather you just told me—not for the sake of the world, or Hell, or Heaven, but for my sake, and Inari’s.”
Of all the appeals Chen could have made, this was the one that dived under the demon’s defenses. Not for the first time, Zhu Irzh had reason to deplore those unnerving elements within his own character, that made him more than demon, yet less than human. Conscience, and affection, and a desire for someone else’s respect. Perhaps he should look for a good therapist to eradicate these personal failings when he finally got back to Hell.
“All right then,” he said miserably. “I’ll tell you.”
After what amounted to the demon’s confession, Chen sat silently for several minutes. The demon was expecting an outcry: recriminations, blame. But to Zhu Irzh’s surprise, Chen mildly suggested that they take a walk. With the badger following, he led the demon down Lower Murray Street to Ghenret and followed the path that led out onto the market wharf. Out on the boards, the walk was slippery with spray: the tide was high tonight. Beyond the harbor the lights of Tevereya illuminated the sky and drained the light of the moon. From this angle, the bulk of the market blotted out the Paugeng tower. The market’s wooden-slatted sides were coated with salt and the eaves dangled with bagua mirrors designed to deflect the unwholesome sha that shot down the side of Paugeng and bounced off the harbor. The mirrors clattered in the little wind high above Chen and Zhu Irzh, and their mirrored surfaces caught the light. The detective and the demon made their way beyond the empty vault of the market and out onto the wider end of the rickety wharf. The Shendei stretched featureless beyond; the only land between here and Luthen Port was little Lantern Island. Zhu Irzh leaned with care on the old rail and breathed in an approximation of fresh air. Chen stood beside him, screwing up his face against the breeze.
“Look,” Zhu Irzh said. He was finding Chen’s continued silence unnerving. “There are mirrors here, too.” He pointed to the end of the dock, where a single octagon hung on a wire, fixed against the wind. Chen shook off his distraction and turned to and fro, working out the angles of ch’i and sha.
“Yes, you can follow the path of the meridian—comes down the other side of Paugeng and then across the gully between the go-downs …” They both looked at the little mirror. Its dim surface reflected the lights from the shore and then, most oddly, a perfectly reflected face, with eyes like marbles, and a rictus mouth. How peculiar, Zhu Irzh thought. He stared at the little face. It was moving.
Zhu Irzh spun and kicked the man’s feet from under him. The assassin went down on the deck, skidding on the slippery planks and bounced up again like a ball. The sword whistled past the demon’s ear and cleaved neatly through the rotten wood of the rail. It crumbled into wet dust. The demon stumbled backward out of the way and slipped, falling awkwardly on his side and feeling a jarring pain ride up his spine. Chen was balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for the next rush. While Zhu Irzh regained his footing, the assassin twirled his blade, feinted once, twice, and came at the demon from the side. Zhu Irzh ducked under the blade and slashed at the assassin’s throat with his claws. The next minute the demon was off and moving backward. The assassin screamed and rushed him, whirling the sword. Zhu Irzh drew his sword, feinted forward and kicked the swordsman in the kidneys, but the demon was a fraction off and the tip of the assassin’s blade sliced across and down, under Zhu Irzh’s own blade, catching him under the collarbone. He heard Chen hiss through his teeth. Zhu Irzh and the assassin circled one another. The assassin was gripping the blade with both hands and chanting. He made a start forward and then quite suddenly fell. The sword clattered to the floor. Zhu Irzh saw Chen’s silent figure poised above the body. Swiftly, the detective reached down and scooped up the assassin’s sword.
“Zhu Irzh, stay where you are. Keep an eye on this one. I want to check if there’s anyone else.”
The demon ignored this. He hauled himself to his feet and followed Chen. At the end of the market was a sort of hangar, used for storing heavy machinery. The rusty iron lattice of the gate was open. No one was there. Zhu Irzh lowered the sword, very slowly. He rubbed absently at his collarbone. They returned to the body: an unremarkable man in a blue Mao suit. Chen rifled his pockets and found a pair of throwing knives, a garrote and a card bearing the insignia of the Assassins’ Guild.
“So, he’s a professional.” Chen said. “Who wants to kill you? Apart from me, on occasion?”
Zhu Irzh gave him an uneasy glance. “Quite a few, I should think.”
“Who, precisely?”
“Jhai Tserai’s a possibility. I know too much now. Maybe she started having doubts and decided to take me out of the running. Then there’s the dowser I assaulted.” Zhu Irzh grimaced. “He’s shown remarkable tolerance in not trying to dispatch me before now, if you ask me. There’s a whole host of Hellkind—ex-girlfriends and so forth. There’s that demon-hunter from Beijing we met earlier in the year—he doesn’t like me being here.”
“I’d be inclined to think that Tserai and the dowser are the most likely candidates,” Chen said, reaching for his cellphone. “I’m calling the precinct. They can deal with the Assassins’ Guild.”
The rest of the night was spent in tedious and protracted statement-taking. A representative of the Assassins’ Guild was summoned. When the woman arrived, she tut-tutted in a perfunctory manner over the body and announced that it had been a freelance contract; there was no record of the attempt on their books, and anyway, the police department knew perfectly well that contracts against law enforcement personnel were not permitted. She and Chen then had an argument about client confidentiality, while the demon sat moodily on a nearby bench, pondering a variety of unpalatable options. It was close to dawn by the time Chen and Zhu Irzh got away. By mutual agreement, they headed for the precinct house.
Even at this early hour, the street was beginning to be crowded and there was a definite atmosphere of anticipation and festivity, a hum of suppressed excitement for the eve of the Day of the Dead. The light was growing, a lemony glow in the east, and the night-lit neon glow of Shaopeng was still bright, fuchsia, orange, turquoise: signs for remedies, soft drinks, drugs, and the screaming stylized faces that advertised the demon lounges near the station. Through the window of the tram, Zhu Irzh saw a lounge client stagger out into the morning and bend double, clutching his head. He looked as though it had been worth every minute, whatever it was. Many of the signs were pushing the latest from Jhai’s own commercial labs, the red Jaruda bird symbol above a lightning-bolt spill of tangerine tablets.
Along the length of Shaopeng, the chop and cookhouses were opening for breakfast, already flooded with workers carrying plastic cartons of congee; starting early in order to finish by noon and rush home for the start of the festival. Zhu Irzh found that he was ravenous, but Chen refused to stop for food.
“So,” Chen said, when they were within the wards of the precinct house. “If we’re to gain any kind of indictment against your new girlfriend, we need to set a number of things in motion. We need proof that she was behind the murder of Sardai, and we need to get Sardai’s family on our side. The quickest way to do that, I suggest, is to visit the Night Harbor, assuming that Sardai’s spirit hasn’t already departed for Hell—and it’s likely that it hasn’t, since I don’t suppose she wants to face the music down there with Tserai’s masters. Then it’s a question of offering the spirit some kind of deal in order for her to sell out Tserai.” Chen paused and took a sip of tea.
“And then?” the demon prompted.
“Then we have to find some way of breaking into the Farm.”
“The place is a fortress, Chen.”
“Not to someone whom Tserai has already taken into her confidence.”
“Perhaps, but she’s hardly likely to take me back to the Farm. And if I ask her if I can go, she’ll get suspicious.”
&
nbsp; “Then we’ll have to think of something,” Chen said. “I have an idea.”
“Oh? What?”
“I need to mull it over a bit first. For the moment, I’m going to sort out a permit for the Night Harbor. And another thing, Zhu Irzh. Heaven must be informed. As soon as possible.”
27
“No!” Robin screamed. “I’d die for him, Deveth, I wouldn’t die for you! I wouldn’t die for you!”—and abruptly the attack stopped. Mhara curled whimpering on the ground, the Lion Gate stood silent and empty, and they were alone. Robin sat up and spat blood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She hardly dared to look at Mhara, and when she did she felt a piercing, icy shock. He was curled on the ground beside her, and he was not moving.
“Mhara?” she faltered. She put a hand to his face and his skin was cold beneath the blood. The beast’s assault had ripped through the thin shirt and torn the flesh beneath into long parallel grooves; Mhara was covered in blood. A pulse fluttered in his throat. Robin stripped off her jacket and stuffed it against the worst of the wounds, but after a moment she could see the blood beginning to seep through, staining the material with a thin crust. She looked around. No one was to be seen. It was as quiet as midnight in the country. The fireworks had ceased, and it had grown suddenly cold. The four shining heads of the iron lions were furry with frost, and the rime along the steps gleamed. In the open mouth of the beast above her, the metal ball began to quiver, rocking against the lolling, bronze tongue. The dry noise that it made was the only sound. Then the ball fell, shattering on the hard ground into a thousand fragments.
Robin stared as light, golden and calm, spilled from the fragmented ball and surrounded Mhara’s prone form. The ragged wounds began to knit together, forming seams in the skin that soon faded until there was no longer a trace of injury. Moments later, the light seeped away, seeming to sink into the earth itself, and Mhara sat up.
“What happened?”
“Something healed you. A ball, from the lion’s mouth.”
