Snake Agent

by Liz Williams

  Chen sprinted over the road and, followed by the badger, hauled himself across the sill. The room was a standard one, bare except for a wide couch and soft rugs. For Hell, it was almost salubrious.

  “Now,” Chen said, rolling up his sleeves. “Sit down.”

  Obediently, the demon did so. Chen crouched beside him and lightly touched the injured hand, which Zhu Irzh snatched hastily away.

  “Okay, okay,” Chen said soothingly, as if to a wounded animal. “All right. I know it hurts. I’m going to have to cut your sleeve off, I’m afraid.”

  “You seem literally hell-bent on ruining my entire wardrobe,” Zhu Irzh said bitterly.

  Chen smiled. “Vanity’s a sin, you know. Not that it matters here … I’ll do this quickly. I warn you, it’s going to hurt.”

  Taking a small, folding pair of crane scissors from the pocket of his jacket, he slit Zhu Irzh’s sleeve as far as the elbow. The demon made no sound, but he grew as still and stiff as stone.

  “I wouldn’t worry about being brave,” Chen murmured. “It’s a bit late for face now.”

  “It’s not a matter of honor,” Zhu Irzh said through gritted teeth. “Someone might come in if I start screaming the place down.”

  As gently as he could, Chen examined the injured hand. Despite the swelling, and the darkness of the demon’s skin, he could tell where the spines had gone in. A series of little holes marched in regular array across Zhu Irzh’s palm.

  “Have you done this before?” the demon asked nervously. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, that is?”

  Chen nodded.

  “Yes. Once or twice, and not under similar circumstances, but I have done it.” And with the goddess’ protection and favor, both times, he thought. He drew a flat packet of acupuncture needles from his pocket and opened it.

  “I think perhaps I ought to tell you,” the demon said rather weakly, “that I don’t like needles very much.”

  “Don’t look, then,” Chen said. There were five holes in the demon’s palm. Chen took five slender needles out of the case and laid them carefully across the top of the box. The kit contained a minute autoclave, and he didn’t want to run the risk of the needles touching anything that might contaminate them. “You won’t feel a thing,” he told Zhu Irzh encouragingly. The demon sniffed in disbelief. Taking Zhu Irzh’s arm, Chen placed it across his own knee, then took the longest of the needles and inserted it into the first hole in Zhu Irzh’s hand. The demon’s swollen fingers curled slightly, but he made no sound. Taking the rest of the needles, Chen placed them in the holes, working fast and murmuring the shortest and most potent of the Healing Mantras as he did so. Once all the needles stood quivering in Zhu Irzh’s wounded hand, Chen took a box of spirit-matches from his pocket and lit one. Breathing across the demon’s hand, he lit his own human breath so that the needles were ringed in fire. Then he resumed the mantra: holding Zhu Irzh’s wrist lightly between his fingers and concentrating ferociously on healing. Not having the rosary was a blow, and he was painfully conscious of the goddess’ absence, but as he came to the end of the fifteenth recitation of the mantra he was suddenly aware of a minute stirring at the edges of the universe: a note plucked in the eternal strings of the Tao. It did not have the familiar warm presence of Kuan Yin’s favor; it was nothing more than a quirk of interest on the part of the Tao itself, but the needles flamed up into five thin columns of golden fire and fell away, consumed to ash. There was nothing left except Zhu Irzh’s smooth, long-fingered­ hand, patterned by five tiny holes which, as Chen watched in fascination, closed like flowers in the cold, leaving only the smallest frost-scars in their wake. Zhu Irzh opened his eyes and stared down at his healed hand.

  “Thank you, Detective Inspector. I think you’ve just saved my life. In a manner of speaking.”

  “As you saved mine,” Chen said, with a smile. “Are you keeping track? Because I’ve lost count.”

  Graciously, the demon inclined his head. His hand curled around Chen’s wrist for a moment, and then he rose and crossed to the window. “Well,” he said. “Time to pay a visit to the Ministry.”

  43

  Fan was standing on the edge of the precipice, gazing out across Hell. She had been there for some time now, and Inari was by no means sure what the scarred woman was seeking. Perhaps it was some kind of meditative practice, but Fan seemed dangerously exposed on the lip of the rock. The perpetual wind caused her robes to stream out behind her like a banner of fire and ash, and her hands were upraised as if to catch the wind. Far below, all the way to the dark horizon, the lights of the port city of Hell guttered and burned.

  Fan had told Inari to stay behind in the cave, but Inari had grown tired of being cooped up, and tired, too, of being told what to do, so she had crawled up the narrow passage into the last of the light, and now struggled against the wind to where Fan was standing. She did not want to startle the woman and make her fall, though it seemed to Inari that nothing very much would alarm Fan. She stepped onto the rocky ledge and called, “Fan? It’s me. Inari.”

  The scarred woman did not turn her head. She called back, “Inari? It is coming.” It was as well that Inari had a demon’s hearing, for the words were snatched and swallowed by the wind.

  “What?” Inari asked, bewildered. “What’s coming?”

  Fan lowered her hand in the direction of Hell and spoke a single word. An arc of smoking flame shot from the palm of her hand, rending the windy air. As Inari came to stand beside her, something fluttered out of the wild darkness and came to rest on the tip of the flame. Fan began to draw the flame back into the palm of her hand, like someone reeling in a fishing line, murmuring as she did so in a swift, urgent mantra. Soon, the fire was gone, and a soot-black thing crouched in the centre of Fan’s scarred hand.

  It was small, and covered in oily dark feathers. It had no eyes. Its toothed beak gaped for air, and the talons of its four feet settled around Fan’s fingers with the grip of a vice.

  “My messenger,” Fan said. “Now, quickly, back inside. Creatures such as this attract attention so far from the city, and they don’t ride the storm alone.” She cast a swift, wary glance up into the racing sky. “I told you to stay inside.”

  “I’m sorry,” Inari said. “I—”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have to get below ground.” Firmly, Fan grasped Inari’s arm and led her back along the lip of rock towards the entrance of the cave. The messenger clung shrieking to her shoulder, talons splayed, and Inari could see thin, red bars of blood creeping out from beneath Fan’s robe.

  “It’s hurting you,” she said in dismay.

  But Fan only echoed, “It doesn’t matter.” She shoved Inari towards the entrance. Inari had to bend her head to duck under the rock. As she did so, she looked up and what she saw nearly made her fall down the stone steps.

  Something was passing overhead. It was immense. Its body was too vast to be seen properly, but she caught a glimpse of a coiling, rolling back. Spines drew down lightning from the upper skies, illuminating the span of its scales. Its thick lips were drawn back in a permanent snarl, concealed by the clouds of its breath, and a single crimson eye like a sun swiveled in the direction of the ground.

  “Get in,” Fan hissed, and kicked at Inari’s fingers. The edge of her boot only grazed Inari’s hand, but it was enough to make Inari lose her paralyzed grip and stumble. She fell heavily to the stone floor on her hands and knees, and was joined a moment later by Fan and the messenger.

  “That was one of the wu’ei,” Inari heard herself say. Her shaking arms gave out at that point and she collapsed onto her face. The floor felt cool against her skin, and reassuringly solid. Fan’s hand reached out to grip her shoulder.

  “Get up,” the scarred woman said gently. “Do not forget what you have just seen, Inari. It is you whom the wu’ei are looking for. This is why I told you to stay below. You’ll be safe here, underground beneath the dome of the old devil’s skull, but outside it is a different story. Now rise, and
let us see what my messenger has to say.”

  44

  Zhu Irzh seemed to have recovered his exuberance along with a return to health. They had now been making their way through the Pleasure Quarter for some twenty minutes, and despite Chen’s protestations, Zhu Irzh still wouldn’t stop talking. Since the demon was clearly too streetwise to use names, the conversation was not only one-sided but cryptic in the extreme.

  “—remarkable how they thought they could pull a stunt like this without anyone noticing,” he said over his shoulder, as they passed a stall selling deep-fried knucklebones. “After all, it’s hardly as though they don’t have enemies. Such conceit! And such carelessness, too—the only reason that the relationship between the worlds has survived as long as it has is because of mutual self-interest and support.”

  “You mean your people set up deals with powerful humans and bleed the rest dry,” Chen remarked at the demon’s retreating back.

  “Well, precisely! What other arrangement did you have in mind? The whole justification for having such a bureaucratic system in the first place is so that balance is maintained, and so that one institution doesn’t benefit at the expense of all others. Imagine the chaos that would ensue on Earth and in Hell if the Ministry of War were perpetually triumphant! Humans would be decimated and half of Hell would be out of a job.” Zhu Irzh ducked under an awning of sinews and waited for Chen and the badger to catch up.

  “How’s your hand?” Chen asked, to stem the flow of socio-economic analysis. The demon waved it negligently at him.

  “Fine now, thank you. I really am most obliged, Detective Inspector.”

  “Good. Where did you say we were headed?”

  “First, to my employer. As I explained to you, the notion of further investigating our friends at the You Know Where is an excellent one, but having been assaulted by an entity masquerading as my own saucepan in my own front room, I am somewhat loathe to do so without reinforcements of some kind. Hence we are going to visit my employer.”

  “By which you mean the Vice Division?”

  “Actually, ah, no.” Zhu Irzh’s face betrayed some slight unease. “Although Vice is, indeed, my principal employer, I’ve recently been co-opted by someone else. I’d rather not name names now, if you don’t mind. One never knows who might be listening.”

  He led Chen down a further warren of side streets. They had left the Pleasure Quarter behind, now, and were making their way through the shadowy, unlit streets of one of the residential quarters of Hell. This region seemed to Chen to be aiming at a certain degree of bourgeois respectability: each small house bore a neat, black lawn, like an undertaker’s apron, and he could see a familiar corpse-light neon flicker within.

  “You have television here?” he whispered to Zhu Irzh. Somehow, this was an aspect of Hell that had passed him by. The demon merely grinned.

  “Who do you think invented it? Some of your finest technological advances emanate from the laboratories of Hell, after all. Not all of them have been granted their export licenses yet, if what I understand from my cousin in Customs and Excise is correct, but once the paperwork’s been sorted out I’m sure you’ll find your world makes a few further technical strides … Through here.”

  Chen followed him through a small, dark park. Dim lights glistened in the shadows, and there was a faint, unpleasant sound of whispering. A soft, sucking noise drew Chen’s attention, but Zhu Irzh drew him away.

  “That’s what the Vice Division likes to see,” he murmured. “Young people out enjoying themselves … Another couple of blocks and we’ll be there.”

  Turning the corner, Chen saw that they were now standing in a wide square, lined on one side by spiked iron railings. A pair of tall and imposing gates led onto the square itself; surprisingly, these were open. Zhu Irzh frowned.

  “Unusual.”

  “Is this where your employer lives?”

  Absently, the demon nodded. “Yes, but his security’s generally pretty good—they only let me in because I’ve got a pass.”

  “We’d better take a look,” Chen murmured. He followed Zhu Irzh’s cautious, sideways path towards the gates. They were flanked by a small guardhouse, presumably the place where security normally stood, but it was empty. The headless body of a winged, doglike creature still clung to the peaked roof of the guardhouse. The badger-teakettle gave a long, low growl.

  “What do you think that was?” Chen asked.

  “Ro’ei,” replied Zhu Irzh, staring up at the corpse. “Like a security camera. Someone’s made sure it can’t see much anymore … Follow me.”

  He angled around the gates, careful not to touch the glistening iron, and Chen followed his example. They were now standing at the top of a short drive, paved with a white, smooth substance that Chen at first thought to be stone. Then he realized.

  “Bone paving,” he said aloud.

  Zhu Irzh nodded. “My employer’s not short of cash. You should see the inside of the house.” He gestured towards the mansion that stood at the end of the driveway, and Chen’s eyebrows rose. The curling, lacquered roofs and gilded gargoyles were impressive enough, and so was the immense colonnade which ran the length of the facade, but it was the height of the building that Chen found so remarkable. It must have been at least nine stories high: the size of a small office block, and every inch encrusted with ornate decoration. Typical of Hell, thought Chen: overdone and ostentatious and overwhelming, designed to cow an already beaten populace.

  “Wow,” he said. The demon grinned sympathetically.

  “It is a bit excessive, isn’t it?”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “My employer is the First Lord of Banking. Head of the Ministry of Wealth. He—” Zhu Irzh broke off and grabbed Chen by the arm, dragging him backwards into the spiny bushes. The gates were opening. Crouching uncomfortably in the shrubbery with the badger at his feet, Chen stared, aghast, at what was coming through.

  The creature was covered in thick, black scales. Eyes like stars glittered beneath heavy brow ridges and its clawed feet grated against the bone surface of the driveway. It was at once more horse than dragon, and more dragon than horse, depending on the angle from which you viewed it. A surprisingly anomalous array of ebony plumes nodded above its elongated head; its bridle was encrusted with silver. It was drawing a carriage: a huge, round construction that seemed on continual verge of toppling over. As this ensemble rushed past towards the house, Chen glimpsed a pale, pinched face peering out from behind the veils that concealed the carriage window, and there was the unmistakable reek of decay.

  “The Ministry of Epidemics?” Chen whispered.

  “I think so. Certainly smells like it.”

  “Why are they here?” They were crushed so closely together in the midst of the bushes that Chen felt, rather than saw, Zhu Irzh shake his head.

  “I’ve no idea. Someone from the Ministry paid my employer a visit a day or so ago: they’re keeping a close eye on each other.”

  “And you said your employer is the First Lord of Banking? I’ve never had any dealings with him.”

  “My family has ancient associations with the Ministry of Wealth. In fact, it was a bit of a scandal when I decided to go into Vice—my dad thought it was too respectable—but we patched it up. I don’t know why they’ve come—” Chen nudged him sharply in the ribs. Others were coming through the gates: a battalion of the troops of Hell. They marched in the traditional rows of three abreast: they carried pikes, and their swords were swung over their shoulders. They moved with the spiky lurch of insects, though their feet were invisible beneath the long leather armor. Chen could see their faces only dimly: desiccated human brows and noses above loose, toothed jaws. Zhu Irzh’s grip tightened on his arm as they passed, but Chen had already seen it. Each warrior bore a badge upon his arm: a sun, in eclipse. The sign of the High Imperial Court of Hell.

  Zhu Irzh clasped Chen by both arms and hauled him backwards through the shrubbery until they were standing on the l
awn. Mouthing, “Come with me,” the demon ran in the direction of a nearby pergola, keeping to the shadows. Chen followed. He could still hear the sound of the coach as it thundered up the drive, and as he joined the demon beneath an arbor shrouded with the heavy scent of blood-roses he saw the coach sweep around the side of the house and come to such an abrupt halt that splinters of bone sprayed out beneath its wheels. Lights were going on inside the mansion, until the vast structure was lit up like the Pellucid Island Opera House. A moment later, a figure appeared on the balcony. Chen saw that it was wrapped in what looked like a bulky dressing gown, and from its curious gait he determined that its feet were reversed. This person was one of the honored ones of Hell, then. As he watched, the figure shimmered, as if seen behind a haze of heat: a protective spell had been cast.

  “Is that the First Lord?” he whispered to Zhu Irzh.

  “I think so.” Zhu Irzh poked him in the back. “Look.”

  Someone was getting ponderously out of the coach. This person wore stiff, pale robes, and moved with a heavy, rolling stride. The dragon-horse snorted restlessly as he passed. The odor of disease momentarily overcame the drenching scent of the blood-roses.

  “I think that’s the Minister of Epidemics,” Zhu Irzh murmured.

  “This is serious then. Demons of that status don’t normally leave their own institutions. They don’t have to.”

  “Unlike their minions,” Zhu Irzh remarked bitterly.

  “Sshh! He’s saying something.”

  The Minister’s voice drifted across the gardens like a plague cloud.

  “I am here on the authority of his Imperial Majesty! You are to surrender this property and all its works to the Ministry of Epidemics, my own organization, without ado. Failure to comply will result in the immediate forced appropriation of your assets.”

  “This is monstrous!” the First Lord of Banking cried from behind the haze of his spell. “I protest in the strongest possible terms.”