by Liz Williams
“Then how are we to get out?” Miss Qi asked.
“The boat belonging to the goddess Kuan Yin is due shortly — it travels between the worlds, transporting souls. It might be able to tow you. You may end up going home the long way round, though.”
“I don’t really care,” Inari said. “As long as we get home. Besides, Kuan Yin has helped us in the past — she was my husband’s patron.”
“Was?” Shoth said.
“He is now independent, but with her blessing. You may ask her yourself, if you choose.”
“How long will the boat take to get here?” Miss Qi asked.
“Not long,” Shoth said. She turned her red gaze on Inari. “You are pregnant. With a warrior.”
Inari put a hand to her stomach.
“One of the warriors of the age,” Shoth said. “A fighter in the coming war.”
“Which war is that?” Inari faltered. Having recently emerged from a war between Heaven and Hell, she wasn’t sure that the three worlds would survive another conflict.
“The great war, with the star people.”
“Star people? Do you mean aliens?”
Shoth looked irritated. “I mean what I say. I’ll send a message to the goddess’ ship.” She turned on a spiny heel and was gone in a shuffle of shadow.
Miss Qi put a hand to her head. “An efficient weapon, that sling. I think I’d better sit down.”
Inari was relieved to know that they might soon be going home. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.
•
Three cups of tea later, Miss Qi spotted a sail. By now almost fully recovered, she ran across the deck, followed by Inari.
“Let’s hope it’s Kuan Yin’s ship, not pirates.”
“It is the goddess’ boat,” Inari told her. “I recognize it.”
Even from this distance, the pale, shell-speckled shape of the goddess’ craft was unmistakable. Fearing misunderstandings, they did not hail it, but waited until Shoth had come back on board. Inari was pleased to see her. She could still feel the malign, arachnid presence of the Empress, squatting at the heart of her web, spinning out spells. Kuan Yin’s boat glided swiftly over the surface of the Sea of Night, trailing a phosphorescent wake behind it. Soon, it was rocking alongside the houseboat.
Shoth stepped onto the houseboat’s deck while behind her, on the Empress’ vessel, more shadows clustered and congregated. Red eyes glittered in the darkness. There was no sign of anyone on board the goddess’ boat, but Shoth flung a line from the houseboat over its side and the line held taut.
“Are you ready, Inari?” Shoth called.
“I think so,” Inari replied. She did not know how much she would have to steer, and she was expecting interference from the Empress’ vessel despite the presence of the guards, but to her great relief they began to pull away from the side of the Empress’ boat.
Miss Qi came to stand beside her as they sailed. “How are you feeling?” Inari asked.
“Pale,” said Miss Qi, with a shiver. “I’m glad to be away from there.” She looked over her shoulder across the black expanse, to where the Empress’ boat still wallowed. “Being possessed was — not pleasant.”
“It rarely is,” Inari said.
“I could feel her in me,” Miss Qi went on, after a pause. “She’s rapacious. Like a vulture.”
“She is quite mad,” Inari reminded her.
“But that someone like that could be Empress of Heaven — ” the Celestial warrior said, shivering again. “Inari, I cannot help thinking — what if this is something to do with the nature of the role itself?”
“What happened to the Emperor before last?” Inari asked.
“It was many thousands of years ago by human reckoning. I don’t remember him, of course — I am not that old. He ascended peacefully off the Wheel of Existence, amid great honor.”
“Well, there you are,” Inari pointed out. “The Lords of Hell rarely last that long. They go up and down like yo-yos between the levels — there are constant coups.”
“But — with all due respect to yourself, Inari — that is Hell. For Heaven to be so beset — what if Mhara — ” She broke off, unable to continue.
Inari smiled. “I don’t think Robin would let him,” she said.
Kuan Yin’s vessel sailed on, towing the little houseboat slowly behind it like a tug, reversed. The boat of the former Empress of Heaven receded into the distances of the Sea of Night and that was the last they’d see of her, Inari thought to herself.
She was, of course, wrong.
NINETEEN
It was not so much like being in a library, Omi thought, as attending a particularly crowded party. Far from keeping their secrets locked between their covers, the books seemed to recognize that he was in need of help, and they all clamored at once — all offering advice, assistance, and aid. He could barely hear himself think in amongst the tumult.
He moved to the end of the shelves in an effort to be systematic, but it was not the end after all, although Omi could have sworn that when he’d entered the room, there had been a single rack of shelves running along the walls. Now, he found himself amid seemingly endless stacks, which receded into the distance. The library was a Library indeed. And he kept getting sidetracked by interesting volumes, which didn’t help.
It would be an old text, he knew. Maybe not even a book at all, which narrowed things down. And often, libraries were organized in terms of age, with the older books at the back, in a more secure location. So this is where he headed, walking swiftly past books that, indeed, looked more and more ancient as he went. Then, with a mixture of relief and panic, he realized that he had come to a dead end. The stacks briefly opened out into a room, then closed again.
Here, there were cabinets, but only a few books stood within them. Encouraged and hopeful, Omi started to search, but the books and scrolls were all written in languages that he could not read, and unlike the texts in the main section of the library, their voices were silent. He tried, cautiously, to open one of the cabinets, but the lock would not budge.
Omi stepped back to consider his options. He went round the room again, hoping that this time, something would spring out at him, that there would be something he’d be able to comprehend. But there was nothing.
And then he looked up. Above the cabinets hung what he had originally thought to be pictures. But one of them wasn’t simply a representation of trees, a river, mountains. It was a map, encased behind glass. Omi looked closer and, with a shock, saw the whole of his journey — not as a flat two-dimensional graphic, but as it had happened. The pavilion by the crescent lake was perfect in miniature. He could almost smell the breath of heat-soaked air, the coolness from the lake. There was Omi himself, a tiny leopard bounding through the convolutions of the forest, and here was the temple of the God of Writing. Omi reached out a hand, expecting warding, but the map allowed him to take it down from the wall and detach it from its case. It even rolled itself up for him, obligingly.
As soon as he tucked it inside his waistband, Omi had the disconcerting impression of being in several places at once. He was still in the library — he could see its outlines beyond the walls of the room in which he stood — but he was also aware of the forest, of the distant peaks, and then the great hum of the desert. The library was, he realized, contracting in upon itself, just as it had previously expanded, and that meant he had to get out of it.
Be careful, the map said in a small, clear voice, and he recognized it for the voice of the Book itself, speaking through the text he held. Did the Book somehow hold a connection to all books, a kind of ur-text? Or was it Omi himself who was the link? He did not know, and he realized that he did not have the time to find out. He sprinted back through the stacks, which were indeed contorting around themselves, and into the main chamber of the temple.
The God of Writing stood before him, blocking his way. The god held a book in his hands.
“Before you can go,” the god said, implacably firm. “W
hat is it that you have found?”
Omi was about to tell the god the literal truth: that he hoped he’d located the spell that held the akashi to one particular spot. But instead, there was a whisper in his ear: Grandfather’s voice, a breath only, but Omi knew what his ancestor meant.
“Knowledge,” he said. “The most valuable thing of all.”
The god bowed his head and was gone, fading out into smoke and streamers of mist, and the temple was similarly evaporating around him, swirling up into the night sky.
Omi stood alone in the forest, clutching the scroll. But not alone after all, he realized over the course of the next minute. Something was coming through the trees, crashing through branches and sending pine needles in a shower ahead of itself. A second later, he caught the characteristic electric-spice odor of an ifrit. He put the scroll between his teeth and changed, narrowing and arrowing down into a snow leopard once more, and then Omi started to run.
TWENTY
Chen returned from Heaven to Singapore Three via Mhara’s own temple, stepping out into thin, spring sunlight that was freshened with a breath of air from the sea. The colors of Earth always seemed wrong after those of Heaven, and Chen tried to work out why this was so: the Celestial Realms were rich, but mostly muted, and Earth seemed too garish, too glaring, too — uncoordinated. He blinked as he stepped into the temple’s small courtyard, a place he could not now enter without a shudder of memory. It was here that Seijin, the Lord Lady assassin, had struck off Inari’s head, and Chen doubted whether he’d ever recover from that particular shock. Things had come right again, but all the same…he was looking forward to getting home.
Robin, Mhara’s priestess on Earth and de facto wife, was nowhere to be seen as he walked through the little courtyard, but just as he stepped though the gate which led to the city beyond, she appeared. She was a little spectral herself in the sunlight, slightly patchy. Quite often, Chen forgot that Robin was herself a ghost, and it felt odd to be reminded of this fact. She wore her usual temple whites, a loose shirt and wide trousers that reminded him of hospital scrubs. But the sneakers on her feet were contemporary and casual enough.
“Hi, Robin,” he said. “Hope I didn’t startle you — did the Emperor tell you I was coming back?”
“I’ve been trying to reach him,” Robin said with a frown, “but no one seemed to know where he was.”
“I think that was because we were in — well, anyway, we had some business to attend to,” Chen amended. “Is something wrong?”
“Come back inside,” Robin said, and Chen was aware of an all-too-familiar finger of ice beginning to trickle down his spine. He followed her back into the temple and then Robin closed the door behind him.
“Chen, I’m awfully sorry. Please try not to worry, but I don’t have very good news.”
“Inari?” the finger of ice felt more like a flood. “The baby?”
“They’re missing,” Robin said. “There’s been a typhoon — the boat’s disappeared.”
“But when I left — ”
“It blew up out of nowhere. Took the meteorological organizations completely by surprise and I didn’t hear anything of it, either. Normally, we get to learn about untoward things before they happen, but this was so sudden, Chen.”
“What do you mean, exactly — disappeared? Has it been blown out to sea?” His thoughts were racing. In that case, perhaps the coastal authorities — but Robin interrupted his train of reasoning.
“There’s no sign of it. Inari must have been sailing it toward the typhoon shelter — there was helicopter camera footage of the boats. But then the chopper had to pull away — too dangerous — and when it was calm again, which apparently was literally within minutes, according to the eye witnesses, your houseboat was gone. They’re certain it didn’t sink.”
“Then — where?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Robin said. “If I can contact Mhara, I’m sure he’ll be able to help.” But Chen remembered as well as Robin did that, previously, on the occasion of Inari’s killing, the Emperor had been as helpless as any of them.
“All right,” he said, because Robin was only trying to help. “I ought to contact the station, speak to Lao and Ma. Maybe the authorities at the typhoon shelter could help. Lao might also be able to do a location spell.”
“Do what you need to do,” Robin said. “We haven’t heard from Miss Qi, either. I think she must have been with Inari — I know she was planning to visit.”
Robin pulled open the door to the courtyard once more and a pale green radiance, like watery jade, flooded in.
“What — ?” said Robin, open-mouthed. But Chen knew at once who was standing in the sunny courtyard.
“It’s you,” he said. Or, at least, an avatar of you. The figure who stood before him was not quite the goddess he remembered. Still beautiful, still serene, and yet slightly changed, not diminished, but — just not the same. She blinked sea-colored eyes.
“Hello, Wei Chen,” the goddess Kuan Yin said.
•
There was, it seemed, a considerable degree of etiquette involved in visiting someone else’s temple. Especially, Chen reflected, a someone who was effectively your boss. Kuan Yin might have been an elder deity, but she was still subject to the will of the Emperor of Heaven, and it took a few moments of raised eyebrows and significant throat clearings before Robin took the hint and formally invited her over the threshold.
“I must apologize, my lady,” Robin said, mortified. “We don’t often have visitors of your stature.”
“Not even gods can go exactly where they please,” Kuan Yin said, with the faintest note of apology. She rustled into a chair proffered by Chen and accepted a cup of tea. She looked smaller than Chen had remembered.
“I have come because of your wife.” Was there the faintest trace of disapproval in her voice? Chen could not tell: Kuan Yin, Goddess of Compassion and Mercy though she may be, still retained a capacity for expressionlessness that rendered her inscrutable. But she had withdrawn her support from him when Chen had married Inari, a clear and obvious sign of disapproval. One cannot expect one’s patron Celestial to sanction marriage to a demon, after all. At this memory Chen, although he had understood at the time and still did so, felt a distinct twinge of anger, and at this the goddess glanced up.
“Inari’s missing,” said Chen, feeling hollow.
“In fact, that is not true,” the goddess said, and sipped her tea. “She is sailing the Sea of Night, along with her own familiar and your Celestial friend.”
“The Sea of — ”
“I’m afraid there are forces at work which have conspired to snatch your wife from Earth,” Kuan Yin said.
“My wife?” Chen asked sharply. “Or our child?”
“Ah,” the goddess said. “She is safe, you should know that. There we come to the crux of the matter. Few might concern themselves only with a little demon. But Inari has contacts — ” Here she looked at Robin, and Chen knew that she was referring to Mhara, “ — and powerful ones, these days.”
“Mhara,” Robin echoed. “And Jhai, and Zhu Irzh — his stepfather’s the new Emperor of Hell. I can see why Inari might be important as a game piece.” She grimaced.
“Precisely so,” the goddess said. “And I must tell you that there are also — intimations — of events to come.”
“What sort of events?” Chen asked. He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Rumors of war.”
“With whom?” Robin asked in dismay.
“I do not know. Your husband will have heard of them, but even he may not know more. The rumors are very faint and do not originate in our own universe. They may yet come to nothing — such things have been known before. But your child, Wei Chen — your child will be a warrior.”
“It’s the same spirit, isn’t it?” Chen asked, with a sinking feeling. “Seijin?”
“Not so much the same spirit. This is not a case of possession. It is more the role that gets
handed down through the generations — a warrior for the world. Seijin occupied the last such role, but over the years became mad, unable to reconcile the male and the female self.”
“That mustn’t happen to our child,” Chen said, but he didn’t know if it could be prevented. “Are they always hermaphroditic?”
“Usually.”
“So someone wants — what? The child itself? Or to make sure it doesn’t come to term?” It seemed grotesque and awful to be discussing it in such cold and clinical terms, but he had to focus.
“I do not know.”
“But you said Inari was safe?”