Snake Agent

by Liz Williams

  “We?” Inari whispered.

  “You and I together, yes. There is a task I must accomplish.”

  “So you’ll help me?” Inari asked, disbelieving, and Fan nodded, sadly and with faint surprise, as though it was the last thing that she had intended to do.

  40

  Mindful of the possibility of further visitors, Zhu Irzh opened the door of his room withs his sword drawn, but at first sight everything was as he had left it. He glanced quickly around the room, then strode across and flung open the door of the bathroom. Nothing. This seemed less than enterprising on the part of the enemy, Zhu Irzh thought. He crossed to where a pan filled with water sat on a small iron hob and absently lit the flame beneath with a touch of his hand, intending to make some tea. The fire flared up with a blue spark, and Zhu Irzh frowned. That wasn’t right: the flame was burning far more fiercely than it should, and if he left it like that the pan would be scorched … He lifted the pan off the hob and promptly dropped it. The handle was red hot; too hot even for a demon’s touch. The pan rolled under the sofa and Zhu Irzh, through a haze of pain, could hear the scuttling of little clawed feet. Hissing, he dropped to his knees and flicked under the sofa with his tail. The sharp spine of the tail grazed something and there was a hoarse cry. With his rosary wrapped tightly around the knuckles of his uninjured hand, Zhu Irzh peered cautiously beneath the sofa. A trail of dark blood led into the shadows. Zhu Irzh hauled the sofa aside and saw an immense, mottled salamander. It gazed at him from malevolent jade eyes for a moment, then said softly, “You’ll regret that, demon. Oh, you will.” Then it disappeared behind the skirting board, squeezing itself fluidly through a crack. As it disappeared, Zhu Irzh saw that one of its back legs was bleeding, and the droplets of blood that remained behind soon sizzled into ash. Zhu Irzh cursed. No way to run a trace, then. His hand was stinging, as though someone had lashed it with a whip. Glancing down, he saw with dismay that the palm was already beginning to swell. The flesh had become puffed and sore, and oozed minute drops of blood. The handle of the “pan” must have been the salamander’s poisonous tail. A bolt of pain shot up Zhu Irzh’s arm like bitter lightning. This was serious. He needed medical attention. Of all the times to run foul of the Ministry of Epidemics … But he could be reasonably sure that they had been the ones who had sent the salamander in the first place. Grimacing in pain, Zhu Irzh tried to remember whether there was any other institution that dealt with health, but as far as he knew the local doctors and apothecaries were indentured to the Ministry itself. It was highly debatable whether he’d find anyone to treat him, and if he didn’t—well. Death to a demon was different from the death of a soul, but it was still nasty and lasted a long time, and Zhu Irzh had no wish to experience the various delights of any of Hell’s lower levels for the next few centuries. No use dithering about here, anyway. Wrapping his hand in a piece of cloth, Zhu Irzh hastened out into the city.

  It was still early evening, and the main streets were crowded with people going home from their day’s work. Zhu Irzh encountered two tall, spined warriors of the Ministry of War, their eyes as black and shiny as polished marbles. He passed a woman from the Ministry of Lust exuding a complexity of pheromones into the steamy air around her as she swayed along on tiny, bound feet. Her hair drifted on the wind like seaweed; her face wore a painted dark smile. Despite the growing pain in his hand, Zhu Irzh was unable to resist a second look. He thrust his way through a group of minor civil servants clad in the gray robes of some dull functionary’s office, twittering and whispering like crickets as they relayed boring office gossip to one another, and then past a diverse collection of whores from the Pleasure Quarter: denizens of some demon lounge out for a night on the town. Compared to the executive from the Ministry of Lust, they seemed tired and brittle; their limbs arranged in a series of mannered poses as they moved. Their leather and skin garments creaked as they walked, and they smelled musty. Zhu Irzh made a mental note never to patronize whatever establishment they might come from.

  The pain in his hand was growing increasingly intense and Zhu Irzh winced. If he didn’t find an apothecary soon … He glanced upwards and saw all manner of signs: makers of razor kites, purveyors of bones, manufacturers of knives, but no one who offered simple healing. Sometimes Hell really did live up to human expectations. The crowds were beginning to annoy him, and in his debilitated state he did not want to take the chance of having his pocket picked, or of being furtively wounded by any of the covert hit-and-run knifers or acid-throwers who tended to congregate in crowded places, so he turned off into a side street. There was more chance of finding an apothecary here, anyway, away from the crowds. He hastened along the shabby streets filled with steam from the restaurant vents and the pungent smell of rotten vegetation, and turned a corner to see, with an over­whelming combination of relief and apprehension, the red neon sign of an apothecary.

  Zhu Irzh hammered on the door with his good hand, and after a moment, it opened. A wizened face peered out, above a quivering rat’s tail moustache.

  “What do you want? I’m closed.”

  “I can pay. I need help,” Zhu Irzh told him.

  “Have you got health insurance?”

  “Of course I’ve got insurance. What are your charges?”

  “Depends what’s wrong with you,” the apothecary said, small, yellow eyes gleaming in the growing twilight. Sighing in exasperation, Zhu Irzh stuck out his injured hand.

  “Poison. A salamander.”

  “An elemental, eh? Such injuries, while not rare, are not easy to treat. Or cheap.”

  “Can you help me or not? I told you I could pay.”

  “No. I don’t have the equipment.”

  “Imperial Majesty! It’s blood poisoning. How difficult can it be?”

  “It is not merely a question of infection. It is the matter of magic where elementals are concerned, and I cannot help. You need an alchemist, not a mere apothecary.”

  “Where can I find an alchemist then?”

  “The Guild of Alchemists is a subdivision of the Ministry of Epidemics and is not allowed to advertise. I suggest you make enquiries of them.” He began to close the door, but Zhu Irzh wedged his tail in it.

  “No,” Zhu Irzh said firmly. “That’s not good enough.” Fishing in his jacket pocket, he took out his badge and stuck it in the face of the apothecary. “Get me the name of an alchemist—now. An independent operator, not someone with Epidemics. You know as well as I do that such people exist. And if you don’t give me a name, I’ll have you closed down.”

  Grumbling and muttering, the apothecary trundled to the back of the shop. He fished in a cabinet and took out a laminated business card, which he handed grudgingly to Zhu Irzh.

  “Here you are.”

  “This doesn’t mention anything about alchemy. It says this character’s a trader.”

  “I suggest you read it more thoroughly. See there, on the very last line? Pharmaceuticals. That’s the one.”

  “Very well,” Zhu Irzh murmured. He didn’t seem to have much of a choice, and the alchemist did not live very far away: somewhere in the backstreets of the Pleasure Quarter. He tucked the business card in his pocket and turned on his heel to go.

  “What about my payment?” the apothecary cried.

  “What payment? You haven’t done anything.”

  “I gave you the name, didn’t I?”

  “Think yourself lucky I didn’t have you arrested,” Zhu Irzh snapped. The apothecary’s curses followed him up the street: he could feel the faint prick as each one burst against his skin, like a shower of needles, but they were not especially effective and soon they had faded away. Far more worrisome was his arm, which now throbbed with monotonous regularity; pushing up his sleeve, he saw a thin dark line running up the swollen flesh, almost as far as the elbow. If he didn’t hurry, he thought with dismay, it would be the lower levels for sure.

  41

  Chen and the badger huddled behind the barrels on the dray, trying
desperately to keep out of sight. They had spent the afternoon waiting, and were now both uncomfortable and hungry. Tso had told them that his shift would end early in the evening, but it was already well after twilight and the draymaster had begun to secure the tailgate, ready to take the dray on its nightly rounds. The stench of blood beneath the closed tarpaulin of the dray was overpowering, and it made Chen’s head pound with rhythmic nausea. He closed his eyes and leaned cautiously back against the wall of the dray, his fingers resting in the thick, soft fur of the badger’s back. The badger was trembling, and Chen was not quite sure why. The creature did not usually seem to feel fear. Perhaps it, too, was affected by the heavy, sour odor of the blood. Chen opened his eyes as the sound of voices filtered in.

  “Last minute check. Master’s orders.” That was Tso. Chen took a deep breath of relief.

  “I’ve already fastened up the tailgate; it’s too late now.”

  “But master was insistent!” Tso’s voice rose to a mosquito whine, almost as unbearable as the stink of the blood. There was the sound of footsteps, and then the tailgate once more rattled down. Tso’s face gazed up at them like a stray moon.

  “One … two … three barrels … All seems to be in order. Sorry to trouble you,” he said loudly, extending a clawed hand to help Chen down. Chen and the badger clambered as quietly as they could from the back of the dray and Tso slammed the tailgate up and locked it. Chen dodged behind a nearby stack of barrels as the dray rumbled out of the courtyard, the lashing tail of the ch’i lin sending a swirl of dust into the evening air.

  “Where were you?” Chen hissed.

  “I had things to do. I was as quick as I could. Now let’s get out of here,” Tso said, and set off in his stumbling gait towards a small door in the back wall of the courtyard. Stepping through, Chen found himself in a narrow alleyway, which led out onto one of the main thoroughfares.

  “Where’s this place you’re taking us?” he asked.

  “It’s in the Pleasure Quarter.”

  “And you’re sure we can’t just talk here?”

  “No!” Tso said, glancing nervously around him. “My master has set all manner of spies and traps—he’s paranoid about employees siphoning off the blood. The place isn’t very far, but we’ll have to keep to the back streets. Here,” Tso added. “Take this.” He handed Chen a floppy and ancient hat, heavily stained by some unmentionable substance.

  “It’s the foreman’s,” Tso said, by way of explanation. “He left it in the office. It’ll hide your face. Pity we can’t do anything about your smell.”

  After a few hours in the dray, Chen felt as though he’d stink of blood for the rest of his life, but Tso evidently thought differently. Chen supposed that it was rather like Europeans, who always seemed to feel that they were perfumed like the very rose but who to his discerning senses often had that odd milky odor … He stuffed the foreman’s hat unceremoniously upon his head and pulled it down over his face. Tso was already heading down the street, followed closely by the badger-teakettle. Chen followed.

  The Pleasure Quarter had changed since Chen’s previous visit. He recognized none of the warren of streets through which Tso was hastening, but this did not surprise him. The Pleasure Quarter was defined by its capacity for transformation. Streets altered position overnight, shops disappeared as if swallowed by some vast maw, and brothels rose to take their place. Inari had once told Chen that the Pleasure Quarter was in fact far larger than it appeared: buildings folded back upon themselves and were bigger inside than out. Along with the Imperial Palace itself, the Pleasure Quarter was one of the oldest regions of this part of Hell, as befit the vices which it entertained. Chen supposed that Seneschal Zhu Irzh, as an employee of the city’s Vice Division, must be exceedingly familiar with this bit of the city. Tomorrow, depending on what Tso was able to tell them, he would try to contact the demon. It was not reassuring to have as his only allies—unless one counted the badger-teakettle—a disgruntled brother-in-law and a highly unreliable member of Hell’s police force, but Chen supposed that without the favor of Kuan Yin he must take friends where he found them. Impeccability was a necessity that he no longer felt able to entertain.

  Someone was plucking at his sleeve. Chen turned and saw half a young woman. Her face was plump and pleasantly smiling, her teeth were lacquered red and intricately carved, but she was completely hollow, like a melon rind scooped out from the back. He was uncomfortably reminded of Pearl Tang. She bowed, and Chen could see straight into the meaty hole of her skull.

  “Would you like to take tea with me?” she asked prettily, like a wind-up doll. Chen smiled.

  “Not just now,” he told her. She bowed again, jerkily, and glided away. Tso was waiting impatiently beneath an awning.

  “Don’t talk to people! Do you want to attract attention?”

  “It would create more of a fuss if I ignored them,” Chen said mildly. “Are we nearly there?”

  “Not far now,” Tso muttered. They were standing in a little square: one of the many courtyards of the Pleasure Quarter. From an uninformed perspective, the scene before them could almost be an attractive one: lots of bright colors, smiling faces, ornamental clothes. It wasn’t until one looked more closely—very closely in certain cases—that one began to see the decay, the mutilation, the rotten lace and stained velvet. This, Chen supposed, was the problem with Hell: it was all facade, and even that was shoddy. Tso stepped down a side street, lurching to the side as his reversed feet came into contact with one of the many potholes that rendered the sidewalk so unstable. Chen turned to follow, but found himself suddenly in the middle of a crowd of creatures.

  They were elemental dancers. He’d seen their kind once before, performing beneath Inari’s balcony at the command of her then-fiancé Dao Yi. They were not indigenous to this part of Hell, and he knew that they were very old, perhaps dating to the animistic days before Buddhism. They were animal spirits: Chen recognized a deer, staring up at him with great dark eyes above a mouth filled with most undeerlike fanged teeth. Its spiral horns twisted in mesmerizing rhythms. A clawed hand slipped into his own and held it with casual intimacy, but the green lizard gaze that stared so unblinkingly at him was as cold as river ice. Dark feathers brushed his face; hair as soft and thick as fur slid against his cheek. They were turning him around, murmuring in inhuman voices, and the heavy perfume of the narcotics from a local café was making his head spin, drawing him down, deeper and deeper … Something nipped affectionately at his throat and then sharper teeth snapped at his ankle. The intense pain brought him abruptly back to reality. He cried out, whirling in a t’ai ch’i dance of his own that sent the animal spirits flying from him. Laughter echoed and they turned and ran in a pack: tails twirling, graceful hands waving in mocking placation. From an upstairs window, someone echoed the laughter: Chen glanced up to see a woman with her hand to her face, stifling her mirth. A purplish tongue lolled out between her fingers. Chen’s ankle felt as though he’d stepped into a napalm bath. He looked down to see the badger staring grimly up at him.

  “You should be more careful,” the badger said. There was again blood on its long, pale incisors, and it licked them, once, with a relish that Chen found unnerving. He nodded.

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “Follow me,” the badger said, and disappeared into the torchlight shadows beyond the little courtyard. Limping, Chen followed, and saw that a metal door was set into the wall. His brother-in-law was waiting behind it.

  “Where have you been?” Tso hissed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I’m sorry. I got distracted.”

  Tso swore through his teeth and pointed towards a staircase.

  “Go up there. It’s third on the left. And don’t get into any more trouble. I have to pay someone for the room.”

  Stifled giggles came from somewhere in the depths of the building as Chen ascended the stairs, and he remembered the face with the spilling tongue, gazing down from the balcony. Presumably this was a d
emon lounge of some kind, but it seemed to be devoid of the usual panoply of prostitutes. A surreptitious glance into one of the rooms off the landing caused Chen to revise this hypothesis: the room was filled with demons, each lying on a narrow pallet. The air was thick with a narcotic haze and the floor was littered with ornate metal syringes: some habits passed between Earth and Hell with alarming ease. Chen found the third door and stepped cautiously over the threshold.

  The room was mercifully empty. It contained only a couch and a small iron cabinet with many drawers, set against the wall. The black velvet of the couch was stained and mottled; Chen sat down rather gingerly. He did not know what Tso got up to in here, and he had no intention of asking. A man’s private business was no concern of his, and besides, it was almost certainly repulsive. He wondered whether he’d ever get the reek of blood out of his clothes, and his ankle stung painfully. After a few minutes, Tso hastened nervously into the room and shut the door behind him. He carried four sticks of crimson incense, which he lit. The little room was soon filled with an acrid cloud of smoke, which Tso directed with a taloned hand until it wrapped around the walls like a smoke ring, connecting with the spells that guarded the room.

  “Sound precautions,” Chen said approvingly.

  “You can’t be too careful. I’ve already had more than enough trouble over all this … No one can hear us now.” He collapsed on the couch next to Chen. “So what’s been going on?”

  As concisely as possible, Chen apprised his brother-in-law of recent events. When he had finished, Tso stared at him in horror.