Snake Agent

by Liz Williams

  “I’d noticed,” Chen said. He felt hollow inside, like a reed with the pith sucked out. He had encountered the wu’ei only once before, and never wished to do so again. The wu’ei: more than demons, less than deities, but with all the infernal powers of the Imperial Court. It was their task to track down the wrongdoers of Hell, those who had violated the laws of the worlds beyond the world. The thought of Inari being back in Hell was bad enough, but contemplating her in the hands of the vast inimical presences of these underlords was little short of appalling. Rubbing his hands across his face, Chen tried to force his racing brain into considering his options. First thing tomorrow, he would go to the Night Harbor as planned, to see if he could find Pearl Tang, but he would not be coming out again. Instead, he would be traveling on to Hell … Beside him, the badger bristled.

  “What—?”

  “Be quiet,” the badger murmured. “Something is coming.”

  Chen thrust thoughts of Inari from his mind with an effort and rose from the chair. Moving stealthily to the kitchen door, he peered through the crack. The badger dropped from the kitchen counter and whisked silently around the legs of the chair.

  At first, Chen could see nothing except the deck of the houseboat and the ripple of the harbor lights on the water. Then, he noticed that something was coming across the surface of the water itself: a dark wake, bringing something behind it. The thing was no more than a faint glow, a miasma of shadow upon the heave of the sea. It disappeared beneath the houseboat, only to swarm up over the deck and pause, uncertainly. It was the missing, lobster-like ghost-tracker, and with it was the figure of a girl, dressed in the remnants of a funeral robe. The back of her head was missing. It was Pearl Tang.

  Motioning the badger to stay in the kitchen, Chen stepped out onto the deck and held out his hand.

  “Pearl?” he said, gently. The ghost-tracker scuttled forwards, its antennae swiveling. The ghost turned and he saw her face crumple with relief, only to smooth out moments later into a blank mask as the emotion drained away. Yet he could see fear in the lines of her insubstantial form: a quivering like heat that distorted her as he watched.

  “Detective Chen?” Pearl’s voice was no more than a shiver in the air.

  “Come inside,” Chen said. “Quickly, now. I don’t know who might be watching.”

  Fearfully, the ghost glanced once over her shoulder, then brushed past him into the kitchen. Once inside, she was almost swallowed by the light: Chen had to look hard in order to see her at all. The ghost-tracker, finally relieved of its task, crawled beneath the warmth of the stove. The ghost whispered, “That—that person. He’s gone, isn’t he? The one who wanted to take me back?”

  “Zhu Irzh? Yes, he’s gone. I’m not quite sure where though.” The possibility of Zhu Irzh and Inari both being in Hell produced a curious reaction in Chen: a lifting of the spirits, combined with a pang of sheer anxiety. He was not entirely certain how to account for either emotion.

  “It’s hard to remember,” she said. “You were arguing, and the demon was going to take me, so I ran away. I don’t know where I’ve been. I just drifted through places—I went to the pavilion in the park, but it didn’t look like the place I knew anymore, it was full of strange people in the trees, like birds, and their eyes were bright, so I didn’t stay. I went through the market, I think—I remember someone standing at the entrance with a sword, and he was all bloody, but he wasn’t alive … I don’t remember. It was evening, and I think I was going home, but before I could get there, this creature found me.”

  “Pearl, remember what you told us about your father, and the Ministry, and the person who stood by your bed and talked with your father about why he was doing these things? Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?”

  The ghost looked utterly blank. She shook what remained of her head.

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “I told you! I don’t remember.”

  “All right,” Chen said wearily. “Then we need to get you out of here and into Heaven where you belong.”

  “How can we do that?” Pearl asked, puzzled, and Chen replied, “Don’t worry. I know someone who might be able to help.”

  25

  Seneschal Zhu Irzh’s second cousin twice removed was a terrible hypochondriac. Usually, this was not a characteristic that Zhu Irzh found endearing and, moreover, the cousin was a meager little person, with lank, gray hair and a permanent sniff, completely lacking in anything resembling feminine charm. She was, however, on first name terms with practically every apothecary and remedy-maker in Hell, and Zhu Irzh was confident that someone, somewhere, would have contacts in the Ministry of Epidemics. Such contacts were needed. Hell’s health-care system being what it was, the waiting list for appointments at the Ministry reached practically to infinity and Zhu Irzh needed to get through its iron doors that day. As soon as he could, therefore, he collected a bunch of herbs (morning glory, purging croton and blackberry lily) and a box of blood candies, and went to pay a visit to his neglected relative.

  He found his cousin sitting in an armchair, gazing beadily out at the events in the street beyond. As he stepped through the door, however, she collapsed into a huddle beneath a blanket, and emitted a faint, but convincing, moan.

  “I thought you might be a touch poorly, so I’ve brought you these,” Zhu Irzh said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  His cousin opened a small, red eye and inspected the presents. She poked the candies suspiciously. “These look musty. Where did you get them? Tso’s?”

  “No, I purchased them in another fine emporium,” Zhu Irzh said loudly, as the cousin was genuinely somewhat deaf. “Near the Opera House.”

  “The where?”

  “The Opera House!” Zhu Irzh shouted into her ear. The cousin sniffed, and her small bony hands tightened around the bundle of herbs.

  “And these are all wilted. What did you do, sit on them?”

  “They were fine when I bought them,” Zhu Irzh said, bridling. “It’s not my fault if it’s a trifle warm outside. I’ll put them in a vase for you. Anyway, how are you feeling?” He tried not to sound too apprehensive as he spoke these last words. He had a feeling he was about to be told.

  Half an hour later, his cousin finally came to the end of a long list of ailments, some of them involving rather more personal information than Zhu Irzh wished to hear. The litany did, however, seem to mollify his cousin to some degree, and she even ventured a wintry smile. Beaming back, Zhu Irzh embarked upon a careful round of questions and arrived at a list of some eight medical practitioners who enjoyed a close working relationship with the Ministry of Epidemics. Armed with this list, he accepted a small and nasty cup of herbal tea and then departed, with protestations that he would come again soon. He got the impression that he left his cousin happier than when he had arrived, a consequence that disturbed him. Zhu Irzh was suspicious of good deeds.

  The first two practitioners on the list were out. The third was in, but a queue of scowling, suffering citizens extended through the door and Zhu Irzh had no desire to spend another hour like the previous one, treated to a recitation of suffering. He thus proceeded to the fourth practitioner, a handsome establishment in the Shadow District, with a facade that was almost concealed behind a vast array of charms and testimonials. Stepping through the double doors, Zhu Irzh found himself in a wide and well-appointed hallway.

  “Good morning,” said a voice. Zhu Irzh turned to see a young woman swathed in a coral robe. She smiled, displaying small, white teeth. Her eyes were a startling, but vapid, blue.

  “Excuse me,” Zhu Irzh said, not quite believing the evidence of his own eyes. “But aren’t you human?”

  The girl gave a vacant giggle, and did not reply. Then her face ironed itself out to perfect blankness once more, and she said as if by rote, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Zhu Irzh reached for his badge.

  “One moment. I will ask if the doctor can see you,” the g
irl said. She glided around the edge of the desk and spoke rapidly into a gilded trumpet. Zhu Irzh studied her, narrow-eyed. The girl was definitely human, and a Westerner. She was even alive: he could smell her blood, her breath, hear the faint crack of her bones inside her skin. What she was doing here, however, remained a mystery.

  “The doctor will see you now,” the receptionist murmured, with a glazed smile. Zhu Irzh bowed in response, and stepped through the door.

  The man inside looked up as Zhu Irzh came in. He, at least, was indigenous: an immensely stout person, whose crimson eyes were almost buried in the fleshy folds of his face. He displayed sharp teeth in a welcoming grin.

  “I am Dr So. And you are a seneschal, yes? From the Vice Division? I have excellent relations with Supreme Seneschal Yhu, you know. We have a little poker session every Friday night.”

  “Poker?”

  “A human game. From the West. Most stimulating.”

  Zhu Irzh tried not to show his dismay that Dr So knew his superior. Since he wasn’t actually working for the Vice Division on this particular case, but was under the aegis of the First Lord of Banking, complications might ensue. Still, thought Zhu Irzh with a return to his usual insouciance, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  “Talking of humans,” he said, “that’s a charming receptionist you have working for you.”

  “You like her?” Dr So beamed. “Well, I’ll let you into a little secret. She’s not the only human I have working for me. She’s really only one of my girls. If you are interested in getting to know any of them better, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement …”

  “That would be delightful,” Zhu Irzh said, somewhat in­­sincerely. “Might I ask how they came to be in your employ?”

  Dr So tapped the side of his nose. “Trade secret, I’m afraid. But you just let me know and I’ll see what I can do. Now. What else can I help you with?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Zhu Irzh said. The pursuit of the medical practitioners on his cousin’s list had given him some considerable time to come up with an appropriate cover story, and he was eager to try it out. Glancing towards the door, he said, “You do appreciate, I’m sure, that this is a matter of some delicacy, and I really would be most grateful if it went no further …”

  “Of course,” Dr So said, adopting an expression that was evidently meant to convey sympathy and interest, but which succeeded only in revealing the acquisitiveness beneath.

  “There is a young lady, you understand,” Zhu Irzh began with careful hesitancy, “of my acquaintance, who has something of a little problem.”

  “A common occurrence, alas.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure that a man of your experience and understanding will comprehend the often—restricted—lives that women of high breeding are compelled to endure, especially those of families attached to the Court. And I’m sure you understand also the temptations to which boredom can so often lead.”

  “I confront them every day.”

  “I knew you’d have a firm grip on the issues involved. In this case, the young lady has allowed herself to become—let’s say, over-familiar—with a particular narcotic. One that is, unfortunately, in somewhat short supply.”

  Dr So’s carefully manicured eyebrows crept up the lunar expanse of his countenance, like caterpillars. He said, “To what narcotic would you be referring?”

  “Soma ore.”

  “I see. Yes, that is a problem. Ordinarily, one rarely sees cases of soma addiction—it’s a drug that is far beyond even my own price range. But for someone attached to the Court—yes, I can see how she might have become exposed to it. And it doesn’t take long to become addicted, they say.”

  “The young lady doesn’t want to go through the regular supplier, for the very good reason that she purloined the initial sample from someone who had best remain nameless, and is worried­ about the consequences of that. However, happily for her, she is quite extravagantly wealthy and therefore well able to afford the actual narcotic—it’s actually obtaining it that is proving so problem­atic. She tells me that the source lies within the Ministry­ of Epidemics, and I have it on good authority that you have contacts there. I need to get in there today—you know how hard it is to obtain an appointment with someone, but once through the door, I can achieve my goal with relatively little trouble. If you would be so kind as to put me in touch with one of those contacts, I would of course ensure that your help did not go unrecognized.”

  “That is perfectly understandable. Indeed, I would be willing—perhaps—to function as purveyor to the lady in question, if she so chose. But it will take time.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Zhu Irzh said quickly. The object of the exercise was to get into the Ministry himself, after all. “She’s really quite desperate. And due to her somewhat debilitated condition, I am the only one whom she trusts. Misguided, but you know what addicts are like …”

  “Mmm. Well, I can certainly put you in touch with a couple of people. We would need to discuss the matter of recompense, of course.”

  “Perhaps you could jot down a few thoughts on that, and let me have them,” Zhu Irzh suggested. His smile widening, Dr So scribbled a sum on a flimsy fragment of skin and passed it across the desk. Zhu Irzh was careful not to let his mouth hang open, and he had to remind himself that the First Lord of Banking was covering his expenses. Instead, he said, “That seems quite reasonable. I’ll speak to the young lady today and arrange a payment. Through a suitably circuitous route, of course.”

  “I’ll need a promissory note from you, first.”

  “Naturally,” Zhu Irzh said.

  He parted from Dr So with two names in his pocket and a certain apprehension as to what the First Lord of Banking would say when presented with the bill. Still, Zhu Irzh told himself, if he wants to know what’s going on, he’ll have to shell out for it. Information was, as everyone knew, the world’s biggest money-spinner these days. He smiled at the receptionist as he left, but she was busy filing her nails and did not look up. It was only after he stepped through the door that Zhu Irzh realized she’d had nothing in her hands.

  26

  The Temple of Kuan Yin was once more silent and still. Nothing stirred within as Chen, exorcist Lao and the ghost of Pearl Tang stepped across the threshold, followed by the gliding, elusive shape of the badger. It was no more than an hour until dawn. Lao was still complaining at having been roused from his bed at such an ungodly time, and Chen was unable to blame him. He had, however, been ruthless in his insistence that Lao abandon his slumbers and join them at the temple; a persistence which Chen now attributed to the several cups of strong espresso that he’d downed in an effort to remain awake. The coffee had merely served to provide a wide-eyed jitteriness; Chen felt like a puppet on a string, jerked in conflicting directions. He glanced up at the goddess, whose shadowy form still stood implacably at the far end of the room.

  “What now?” Lao asked irritably.

  “We’ll need protection,” Chen said. The last time he had set foot in the temple had been in the company of Zhu Irzh, and he still half-expected the demon to slide out of the darkness. Whatever might have befallen Inari, he was taking no more chances with the sad shade of Pearl Tang.

  Grumbling, the exorcist set up candles and incense and delineated a protective circle. As he did so, Chen could sense the sentinel beasts of the Four Quarters as Lao awoke them to ritual presence: green dragon, white tiger, red bird and black tortoise. A small wind stirred within the temple, blowing a scatter of dust in from the silent courtyard. Beneath the rustling ceremonial banners that lined the walls, the badger whimpered.

  “Sorry,” Chen said. “Is this distressing you?”

  “I am a creature of Hell. This celestial conjuring curdles my blood,” the badger hissed. With a flicker of transformation, it changed, and then there was only an old iron teakettle settling back onto the reed mat.

  “All right,” Chen said, relieved. “Are we done?”

 
“Nearly,” Lao murmured, scowling with concentration. He raised his hands for the final incantation and the protective circle shimmered up around them. From within it, as though through a heat haze, Chen could see the statue of Kuan Yin; cold, still, and green as glass polished by the sea. Bowing his head, he began to pray: not for himself, nor for Inari, but for the spirit of Pearl Tang, a sad life, made barren by privilege, and too soon ended. He did not glance up as he prayed, but he knew when the goddess turned his way. He heard Lao take a deep, indrawn breath, and then he raised his head.

  Kuan Yin stood before him once more. This time, she did not look like a goddess: she was not radiant; she did not inspire awe. She was small, and quiet-faced, and middle-aged. She brought with her only a trace of salt like a sea breeze as she stepped over the protective bounds of the circle. Walking straight past Chen, she took Pearl Tang’s nebulous hands.

  “It is time to go where you belong,” she said, and Chen saw Pearl’s hands grip those of the goddess. This time, they did not fall through. Turning, Kuan Yin began to lead Pearl from the circle, but Chen whispered, “Wait.” It seemed like the hardest word he had ever uttered. Kuan Yin looked at him, and now the goddess-aspect was back: Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha-field, surrounding her. Chen felt his knees begin to buckle.

  “Wait?” the goddess echoed, in a voice that was horrifying in its calmness.

  Chen said, “You know as well as I that this spirit has been rent from the web of life and cast into a purgatory not of her own making. But she is not the only one. I do not want to see a procession of Pearl Tangs rattling between here and Hell, snatched into a place where only undeserved suffering awaits them.”

  “What you may want, Chen Wei, is of no consequence.”

  “No, I know that. But do you agree that if I can prevent the exploitation of these spirits, the so-called ghost-trade, then that is what I must do?”