by Liz Williams
Chen tried to speak, but the acrid fumes had rendered his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. He gestured towards Tso, still entangled in the chains. Tso’s anguished, angry eyes were watering profusely from the effects of the fumes.
“Who’s that?” Zhu Irzh asked sharply. “Your brother-in-law, at a guess.”
“That’s right,” Chen croaked.
“What do you want to do with him?”
Chen considered this. There was a strong case to be made for leaving Tso exactly where he was: firmly secured and out of mischief. There was also an argument for dispatching him to one of the lower levels, but Chen did not feel that he could cope with even the limited death of a demon on his already weighted list of sins. It took no more than a moment to make his decision.
“Leave him where he is,” he said hoarsely.
“No!” Tso protested. “You can’t leave me! Get me out of here!”
Zhu Irzh grinned. “No chance,” he said.
“Chen Wei! As the brother of your wife, I appeal to you! I—”
“Sorry,” Chen said. “As far as I’m concerned, any obligation I had to you vanished when you sold me out to the Ministry.”
“I had no choice! My status—my feet, I—”
Zhu Irzh snorted. “Come on, Chen. Let’s leave him to it.”
“Wait a moment,” Chen said. He snatched up a skein of cloth from a nearby shelf and, ignoring Tso’s cries, gagged him with it. Zhu Irzh, who was already halfway through the door, nodded in approval. Followed by Tso’s muffled shrieks, they picked their way through the ashes into the corridor. To Chen’s mingled alarm and relief, there was no longer any sign of the alchemist: only a black, greasy stain along the walls and floor.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” he asked uneasily.
Zhu Irzh shrugged. “The lower levels, probably. Don’t worry about him. He’s out of the picture.”
Chen wasn’t so sure. He lingered for a moment, sifting through the ashes while the demon waited impatiently by his side, and found what he was looking for. His rosary was, encouragingly, untouched by the blaze: the beads bright and untarnished. Hoping that it was a sign that his luck was turning, Chen wound it around his wrist and followed the demon down the corridor.
“What happened to you?” he asked, as they hastened on. Zhu Irzh actually seemed to have some idea as to where he was going, which was more than Chen did.
“I fled,” the demon said, somewhat embarrassed. “I hid in a closet in that first lab. I heard them leaving, and when I thought the coast was clear I followed them—the Minister, the alchemist and the guards. They had you all trussed up. That sour-faced prick Dao Yi was all for putting an end to you there and then but the Minister insisted that you be kept alive, and the alchemist agreed. The Minister said you’d have information, suggested they torture it out of you when you came round, but the alchemist overruled him—said he had something else in mind, something more important than information. The Minister obviously didn’t like it, but he didn’t put up much of an argument—which in itself is weird. People of that sort of status usually don’t take no for an answer.”
“I think the alchemist’s running this particular show,” Chen said.
Zhu Irzh glanced back without breaking his stride, and nodded. “I agree. And that means the Imperial Court.”
The thought of a direct confrontation with the Emperor of Hell was enough to send icy rivers of apprehension down Chen’s already bruised spine, but there was little he could do about it now. He’d been implicated from the moment Mrs Tang put the sad photo of her dead child on his desk, perhaps before. There was nothing to be gained by regrets.
They came out into the junction of two hallways and Zhu Irzh paused in indecision.
“Where are we going, by the way?” Chen asked.
“I’m looking for the Records Office. We’ve seen the labs, we know what the Ministry’s up to, but we need proof to take to the Ministry of War.”
“Why War?” Chen asked, but he thought he already knew.
The demon said, “The Imperial Court rules us all. You know that, and there’s not a great deal anyone can do about it. If they’re implicated in this plan, then they’ve come down on the side of the Ministry of Epidemics, and there’s unlikely to be any form of direct redress. However, the Imperial Court isn’t united.”
“That’s an understatement,” Chen said, thinking of the numerous antipathetic factions that racked the Imperial Court with intrigue.
“Maybe. But the most powerful Ministry in Hell is War, and if they suspect that Epidemics is trying to steal a march on them, they’ve got enough influence with their own factions at Court to seriously embarrass the Ministry. Maybe even stop them. That’s what I’m counting on, but I need proof.”
“Do you have any idea where that proof might be found?” Chen asked. The demon seemed very sure of where he was heading, and not for the first time, Chen felt a flicker of unease. The events of the previous few days had lulled him into a relationship with Zhu Irzh that, if not precisely trusting, was not so far removed from it, and this was a luxury that had to stop. It was certainly well within the bounds of possibility that Zhu Irzh was luring him into a trap; after all, he only had the demon’s word for the attempted assassination-by-saucepan, and Hell was noted for the cruelty and ingeniousness of its games. Even if Zhu Irzh was not in league with the Ministry itself, he was nonetheless a citizen of Hell; a subject of the Imperial Court and it was improbable in the extreme that he would seriously balk at any scheme designed to discomfort mankind.
Unaware of Chen’s misgivings, the demon was saying, “Because when I overheard the alchemist and the Minister talking, the Minister mentioned schematics. The alchemist asked where they were, and the Minister told him that the relevant data was in the Hall of Records. There was a floor plan in the entrance hall to the labs, I took note of it.”
“So you know where we’re going?”
“More or less. I think so, anyway.”
“And have you devoted any thought as to how we’re going to get out of here?”
“No,” Zhu Irzh remarked with sublime insouciance. “I thought we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.”
INTERLUDE
Earth
Sergeant Ma first began to notice the changes when they swung back up through the Ghenreng tunnel and onto the coast road. The narrow strip of lights that normally illuminated the tunnel was dead, plunging the highway into shadows. With a hiss of irritation, No Ro Shi switched the headlights on. Glancing up, Ma saw that the fans of the air-conditioning units that dotted the ceiling of the tunnel at regular intervals were no longer turning, and indeed, the air that was being funneled inside the car was heavy with fumes. As they came to the end of the tunnel, they hit a traffic jam.
“Get on the radio,” No Ro Shi ordered. “See how bad the holdup is—I’m not sitting here for the rest of the afternoon.”
Ma did so, and found that the usual channel was nothing more than a hiss of static.
“It’s not working,” he said.
The demon-hunter glared at him. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, find out! Try some of the other frequencies.”
At last, Ma managed to contact the precinct and speak to the operator, but her voice was wavering and distorted, audible only at brief intervals. She seemed to be trying to explain something, but it was impossible to tell what she was talking about and after five minutes or so, Ma gave up.
“Well?” No Ro Shi said.
“It’s no use. I can’t hear a thing.”
No Ro Shi muttered something that Ma didn’t catch, then added, “At this rate, we’ll be back at the precinct round about November. I’m not putting up with this.” He slammed his hand down on the horn so hard that the mechanism jammed, producing a single unwavering howl. No Ro Shi gave a wolfish grin.
“Know what they call that in Beijing, Sergeant? Sixth gear.” He snapped into reverse, backing u
p so fast that the driver of the car behind hammered his own horn, then did a brutally swift U-turn. Moments later they were speeding back through the tunnel, on the wrong side of the road.
“Where are we going?” wailed Ma. No Ro Shi, swerving to avoid a speeding truck, did not reply. Hurtling out of the tunnel, he dodged back onto the right side of the road and speeded towards the Lao Shih turnoff. They passed a Merc on its side in the ditch, and further on a truck upside down on the hard shoulder; its cargo of watermelons lying split and squashed all over the road. No Ro Shi’s foot came down hard on the accelerator and they shot through a junction. Ma squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but was unable to avoid hearing the sudden squeal of tires.
“No lights, that’s the problem,” the demon-hunter barked in his ear. “Traffic signals aren’t working.”
“Why not?” Ma asked, baffled. No Ro Shi grimaced.
“Because the bioweb’s finally crashed once and for all, that’s why.”
Ma thought back to the rows of sad, waterlogged figures in the gherao dormitory and was silent. No Ro Shi took the car onto the upper coast road: a narrow, winding one-lane track that the new highway had replaced. The road dipped and bent, revealing alarmingly sudden vistas of sea, and Ma gripped the sides of his seat until his knuckles hurt. They swerved down through the northern suburbs and came out onto the upper reaches of Shaopeng Street. None of the lights were working. At the Hsi junction, two trams had collided and derailed; they lay on their sides in the road, surrounded by crackling, jumping electric cables. Beneath the mass of twisted metal, Ma glimpsed a hand: outstretched as if in supplication.
“Ambulance services are still working,” No Ro Shi said with grim satisfaction, looking down the length of Shaopeng to where blue lights were flickering ominously. “That’s good.”
As they entered the banking district at the south end of Shaopeng, they saw that the streets were filled with people, milling aimlessly about in front of their offices. Most of them, Ma noted, were office workers, dressed in shawl-collared suits and neat white shirts; they seemed bewildered, like school-children released early from class. Alarms were sounding from all sides, and the automatic double-doors which led into the Shanghai and Macau Bank were sliding maniacally back and forth. The air was full of smoke: drifting in the currents and eddies generated by the buildings on either side of Shaopeng, and when he opened the window, Ma was alarmed to note the acrid smell of fire. A container tanker, spilling some viscous chemical from its side, was jackknifed across the road. With a curse, No Ro Shi slammed the car to a halt and leaped out.
“Can’t get past. We’ll have to go on foot. Can you call the precinct?”
Panting after him, Ma tried, but with no result. Both his radio and his mobile were dead.
“Communications are down,” he called after the retreating figure of No Ro Shi. The demon-hunter did not turn.
“Where are we going?” he shouted, his breath raw in his throat. “To the precinct?”
No Ro Shi said something that Ma did not hear. Hands plucked at Ma’s sleeve; voices assailed him:
“Officer, my friend’s trapped in her cubicle—the door won’t open—”
“—got to help him—I can’t feel a pulse—”
“—why aren’t the police answering any calls? Don’t you realize—”
“Wait!” Ma called desperately after the demon-hunter. “We have a situation here, and—”
Someone was coming out of the foyer of the Shanghai and Macau Bank: a man in khaki trousers and a shirt that was heavily sweat-stained beneath his armpits. He was staggering, and as Ma turned, a gush of blood poured from his nose. His eyes rolled back in his head; he fell, and lay still. Ma shouldered his way to the fallen man and bent over him, absently noting as he did so the technician’s badge on the man’s shirt, now half-obscured by blood. He was about to check the man’s pulse when a hand on his shoulder spun him around. He looked up into the cold black gaze of No Ro Shi.
“Touch him,” the demon-hunter hissed, “and you’re dead as well. Come with me.”
Ma tried to protest, but it was suddenly as though that black gaze filled the whole of the world. His vision swam, and his head felt as though someone was stuffing cotton wool into his ears. The command echoed in his head like the beat of a drum. Come with me. Then No Ro Shi turned and was running.
As though pulled by a string, Ma clambered to his feet and pounded along in pursuit of the demon-hunter, fending off the general public as best he could. No Ro Shi veered off down an alleyway that Ma recognized as the scene of a dozen illicit gambling dens: good thing it was daylight, he thought. A man in a soft velvet hat with a sallow face gaped in amazement as Ma rushed by, elbowing him out of the way. Ma’s chest burned and he could hear himself wheezing; vaguely, he wondered why he could not seem to do other than follow the demon-hunter—but the notion slid from his mind like greasy water and he ran on. Another alley, a twist, a turn, and the light of the port lay glassy and bright over the rooftops. Ahead lay the temple of Kuan Yin.
PART SIX
53
Hell
“Here it is,” Zhu Irzh said with satisfaction. They had paused before an immense pair of metal-paneled doors, bearing the legend RECORDS OFFICE on a small, bronze plaque.
“Careful,” Chen said as Zhu Irzh made to open the door. “You don’t know what’s in there.”
The demon waved a hand and replied, “Don’t worry about it. I know these departments. The only people who’ll be in here are a few clerks.”
Cautiously, he opened the door, and came face to face with the lipless, fire-blackened visage of the Imperial alchemist. Behind the alchemist—silent except for the rhythmic clicking of their jaws, and entirely filling the vast vault of the Records Office—were row after row of Imperial troops.
Immediately, Zhu Irzh moved to slam the door shut, but it was torn out of his hands by the alchemist’s scorched claw. The alchemist uttered a shriek of fury and triumph and swung the black blade of the machete downwards. Zhu Irzh ducked; the blade buried itself in the metal door. The alchemist roared again, wrenching the blade free with a squeal of tortured metal that made Chen’s teeth sing in his head. The front row of troops gave a great bound, springing forwards on curiously jointed heels. Zhu Irzh kicked upward, catching the alchemist on the wrist. The last loosely attached shards of flesh and bone came apart and the alchemist’s hand, still grasping the machete, clattered to the floor. The alchemist wailed aloud: a thin, eerie sound like a screaming frog. He raised his good hand in command: fire shot from it, once more singeing Chen’s hair and setting alight the skirts of the demon’s much-maligned coat. Chen lifted his rosary, stilled his breath in his pounding chest and began to chant. Zhu Irzh snatched off the coat, balled up the flaming bundle and hurled it into the alchemist’s face. Then he drew his sword, slicing across the alchemist’s midriff. The alchemist folded over the sword like a broken puppet, only to snap up again moments later. He opened his mouth wide and a gout of flame shot from it, still stinking of chemicals from the laboratory. In the split second before he dived to the floor, Chen realized how the alchemist had survived the fire: he had simply swallowed it. The protective chant diverted the blast of flame, which roared upwards and torched the drapes of the hall. Chen rolled beneath the blast of heat; came up on his feet on the opposite side of the hallway. Zhu Irzh was still slashing at the alchemist; the fire had missed him. The Imperial troops took another leap and this time their efforts landed them in the blazing hallway. Chen found himself facing two huge warriors; the time had come for flight.
“Zhu Irzh!” Chen shouted, evading the slash of an axe blade. “Leave it! Run!” He turned to bolt down the corridor and this time found himself facing the Minister of Epidemics. The Minister’s face was distorted and purple with rage. Any thoughts that the Minister might still want them alive were dispelled in the next instant.
“Kill them both!” the Minister roared. “Kill them now!”
But at that point the fire
abruptly hissed out. A great cold wind blew through the hallway, scattering the Imperial troops like so many ninepins, and Chen’s breath was sucked out of him as violently as if he had been shoved through an airlock. Someone struck him, knocking him against the wall, and Chen recognized Zhu Irzh’s gaping face. The doors of the Records Office slammed shut, trapping the Imperial troops behind them. The alchemist collapsed like a bag of bloody bones, and Chen could breathe again.
And three people were sprawling in the wreckage of the hallway.
54
Ma had vaguely expected the temple of Kuan Yin to be quiet, a haven from the mounting chaos in the city beyond, but the courtyard was full of people. They clamored prayers as they besieged the elderly priest; some were frantically reading their fortunes as they tried to make sense of what was happening to them. No Ro Shi shouldered them aside, and ignoring the priest’s protestations, made his way through the temple doors.
Ma had been to the temple once before, to pay his respects to the goddess, and it was just as he remembered it. The jade statue of Kuan Yin stood serenely at one end of the long room; fresh flowers covered the altar. No Ro Shi strode towards the statue without breaking his stride.
“What are we doing here?” Ma asked.
“Things are happening much faster than I reckoned, Ma. The plague’s already loose. There’s nothing we can do to stop it in this world, we’ll have to go to Hell.”
“What?” Ma quavered, not believing what he’d just heard.
“Chen will need our help,” the demon-hunter said, gathering an armful of incense sticks. “We don’t have time to go through the Night Harbor. Come and stand over here.”
“No way,” Ma said.
The demon-hunter turned and his gaze was once more dark and compelling. “Do as you’re told, Ma. You might not be a lot of use, but I want someone at my back.”
55
“Inari!” cried Chen.
“Leilei!” sighed Zhu Irzh in the same instant. Inari was gazing down at her hands, her mouth wide, and then her face crumpled with palpable relief. Scrambling to her feet, she took a tottering step forwards and fell into Chen’s arms.
