Snake Agent

by Liz Williams

  “I’ll get over to Tang’s as soon as I can. Right now, I need to try and track down a ghost. I’ll meet you later.” He waited for No Ro Shi’s assent, then slammed the phone back in his pocket and swore. Zhu Irzh uncoiled himself from the sofa and strolled across.

  “Problems?”

  “Yes.” Chen said curtly. He felt as though the force of the Tao was pulling him in opposite directions. If he didn’t find Pearl Tang’s ghost soon, then he was fairly sure that her father would: this was presumably why Tang had not left the premises. Chen imagined the industrialist, still wearing his Armani suit, hunched over his occult preparations in the cellar. But on the other side from duty lay Inari, hunted and afraid, somewhere out in a city where the very ground burned her feet as she ran. Chen studied Zhu Irzh’s enquiring face and wondered just how far he could trust the demon. The answer was almost certainly not at all. If he abandoned duty and went after Inari, the goddess’ wrath would know no bounds, but if anything happened to his illicit demon love, he’d never be able to live with himself. Apprehension of what Kuan Yin might do formed only a small part of the equation, however: he would not live in fear of the gods, however threatening they may be. Inari could at least look after herself to some degree (here, he thought of his wife precipitating Beijing’s foremost demon-hunter into the oily waters of the harbor and gave an involuntary smile), whereas the ghost could not. Pearl would have to come first. Lao was watching him closely.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Not entirely. Can I have a word with you?” Pulling Lao into the hallway, he shut the door. “There’s no way you can keep Zhu Irzh here, can you?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t want your hellish friend lounging about in my house.”

  “Look,” Chen said, trying not to sound too impatient. “I’ve just found out that a man named No Ro Shi is here, from Beijing. The demon-hunter.”

  “No Ro Shi is here? Why?”

  “He was drafted to help me, ironically enough.”

  “What about Zhu Irzh? What about your wife?” Lao said, aghast.

  “Precisely. It’s a bit of a problem. I have to try and work round the demon-hunter; that’s why I need your help.”

  “Gods know I’ve got enough grudges against Hell, and usually I’m grateful for any support we can get, but No Ro Shi’s a nutter,” Lao said. “He’s somewhere to the left of Chairman Mao. He’s got an ideological axe to grind against any manifestation of the supernatural.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance,” Chen said. “What about Zhu Irzh?”

  “There’s nothing I can do, not long term. I can keep him here for a couple of hours, like we did this morning, but eventually the restraints will wear off and he’ll be free. And I don’t honestly know how long I could hold him if he really put his mind to breaking out. He’s hanging around because he needs our help, not because we’re making him.”

  “This is getting complicated,” Chen lamented. “I obviously don’t trust Zhu Irzh, and now I’ve got a demon-hunter to keep off my back. Zhu Irzh and I just happen to have ended up together—this isn’t some kind of formal inter-departmental arrangement. It’s entirely fortuitous, and as such, it’s likely to be frowned upon. I don’t want to risk taking him to Tang’s while No Ro Shi is there, and I don’t want to leave him on his own in case he succeeds in finding the ghost and snatches her back to Hell. And I can hardly take him home, because No Ro Shi’s sniffing around and I can’t reach Inari.”

  “See if you can track down the ghost. It’s likely she won’t be that far from Tang’s; after a while in the world, they’re drawn back to the vicinity of their death, unless someone gets hold of them through séance. My advice is to head for Tang’s anyway and tell Zhu Irzh to keep his head down. Anyway,” Lao added, with a glance at the closed door, “does it really matter if the demon-hunter does us all a favor and takes out the Seneschal?”

  Chen sighed. “I don’t like being a party to murder. That’s what No Ro Shi does, you know. He can kill a demon’s presiding spirit—what passes for its soul. He doesn’t just dispatch them back to Hell—he can fling them off the Wheel itself. I’m not sure I want that to happen even to Zhu Irzh.”

  “He’s the enemy, Chen.”

  “Nevertheless,” Chen said firmly, and went back into the living room.

  “Is everything all right?” the demon asked.

  “Fine,” Chen said abruptly. He did not want to embark on lengthy explanations in front of the demon, although it was worth any money that Zhu Irzh already knew about Inari. “Lao—can we borrow your tian h’ei?”

  “I suppose so,” Lao sighed. “As long as you bring it back in one piece. It’ll need something that belonged to the dead girl.”

  “The only thing I’ve got is a spectral scarf,” Chen said, as Lao shuffled from the room. “It’ll have to do.”

  “You’re borrowing his what?” the demon asked.

  “Surely you’ve come across them? It’s a creature. A ghost-tracker.”

  “Oh, a rhu xhur, in Gweilin. Yes, of course I know what they are; they’re as common as rats.”

  He glanced up as Lao came back into the room, the ghost-tracker in his arms. Zhu Irzh regarded the small, squat, lobster-like thing with some distaste, which appeared to be mutual. The ghost-tracker hunched its bony carapace and rotated its antennae.

  “I’ll put him on his lead,” Lao said. He placed the unappealing beast on the floor and carefully attached a long leather strap to its collar. Claws rattled and snapped.

  “You can take charge of it,” Zhu Irzh said fastidiously to Chen. Lao seemed surprised.

  “Don’t you like them?”

  “I don’t like vermin.”

  “Vermin!” the exorcist said, outraged. “You’re a fine one to talk!”

  “What did you say?”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Chen said, and there was something in his tone which made Zhu Irzh, as well as Lao, fall silent. “We’re not here to trade insults.”

  “I have been a model of exemplary politeness,” Zhu Irzh retorted.

  The exorcist gave a snort of contempt. “White words; black heart.”

  The demon gave an icy bow in the direction of the exorcist, turned on his heel and stalked from the room. Behind him, claws rustled on the parquet floor of the parlor as Chen and the ghost-tracker followed.

  Down in Shaopeng, Zhu Irzh hurried alongside Chen, occasionally peering with interest into shop windows and smiling with invisibly voracious benevolence at small children. Chen made a foray into the traffic to flag down a taxi, but even though he displayed his badge, three shot past without stopping. The ghost-tracker scuttled along, casting about itself with its long whiskers. Its claws clicked on the pavement. Passers-by took one look at Detective Inspector Chen hastening down the road with a lobster on a string, like one of the more eccentric French surrealists, and gave him a very wide berth. Of course, thought Chen, mortified, it had to be the main street of the entire city; it couldn’t have been somewhere unobtrusive and quiet. His bitter musings were interrupted by the sudden warble of his mobile. Chen fished it out of his pocket, almost dropping it in his haste.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that American Express? I’d like to report a stolen credit card.”

  “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. This is a private cell phone.”

  “Are you sure? This is the third time I’ve got the wrong number,” the person on the other end of the line complained. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the system today, I thought all this new technology was supposed to make things better, but if you ask me—”

  Shrugging in irritation, Chen cut the caller off. He’d hoped it was Inari who still had not responded to any of the calls that he had made over the course of the morning. All he had got was his own voice on the answer phone. The ghost-tracker was tugging at the leash. A man in an expensive, cowl-collared jacket gave it a horrified glance and crossed the road. Cursing, Chen dodged once more into the mass of cars and this time a taxi swerve
d towards the curb. Bundling Zhu Irzh and the ghost-tracker inside, Chen said, “The Garden District. And quickly.”

  16

  Tsin Tsi, First Lord of Banking, lifted the skirts of his heavy robe to climb the verandah steps; no wonder he was hot, he thought. He sank onto the verandah seat with a sigh and, taking up a bone fan, beat the steaming air energetically. This produced a minimal effect, but then the phone rang and the First Lord of Banking put down the fan and picked up the receiver.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “This is Taigun. You asked me to report when I had concrete information.”

  The First Lord of Banking leaned forward, fixing his rapacious gaze on the photograph that lay upon his desk.

  “You have something?”

  “I believe so. I’ve been making enquiries port-side. There are rumors, My Lord. Of the ghost-trade. And also of a new and remarkable drug, which is still in the alchemical stages of its making.”

  The First Lord of Banking frowned. “What sort of drug?”

  “A drug that gives dreams.”

  With a snort, the First Lord of Banking said, “They all do that.”

  “Not dreams of Heaven, My Lord. Not dreams of everything that is forbidden to us, from which we are eternally barred. Not dreams that are real. This drug—or so the rumors say—can take a person to Paradise.”

  The First Lord of Banking drummed his lacquered talons idly on the polished bone of the table and said, “How much faith do you place in such rumors, Taigun?”

  “I have met one who claims to have experienced it.”

  Softly, the First Lord of Banking said, “And what if he lies?”

  “I do not think he does. I can be very persuasive, Lord. That is why you hired me.”

  “True. Very well. This needs reflection. I have been handed a broken puzzle, Taigun, and I need to work out how to mend it … Who is producing this drug? Do you know?”

  “I do not. But rumor also says that it is someone who is very highly placed, who can command immense resources and take much to which we are not entitled. Including the souls of the virtuous.”

  “Innocent souls? To make a drug? An ambitious plan, and one that would require alchemy of the highest order. We are talking about metaphysical transformation, Taigun. And that requires the mandate of the Imperial Court.”

  There was a short, tense silence before Taigun said, “Is there any news from the world of the living?”

  “None yet.” The First Lord of Banking frowned again. “I have had no word from Seneschal Zhu, yet he has now been gone for some time. Zhu Irzh is young, and easily distracted. I think a reminder of his responsibilities might be in order.”

  “Shall I see to it?”

  “No. I’ll handle it myself.”

  Something was causing the back of his neck to prickle and itch. Turning, the First Lord of Banking saw his First Wife glaring at him with a gaze like molten brass. Guiltily, he remembered promising her that he’d go to the opera with her that night. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The frown intensified. With a sinking heart, the First Lord of Banking realized that First Wife was already dressed to go out. She was wearing a loud red paneled gown, embroidered with opium poppies, and her hair was arranged on a lattice of gilded wire. Her doe eyes, angry now, were artfully outlined with kohl. Silently, she mouthed, “Hurry up!”

  The First Lord of Banking covered the mouth of the receiver for a moment. “I’ll be quick,” he said placatingly.

  “The performance starts in an hour!”

  “Call me when you have more to tell me,” the First Lord of Banking said hastily into the receiver, and hung up. “There!” he remarked in triumph to the glowering Lady Tsi.

  “About time,” First Wife replied, sour as a pickled plum.

  The First Lord of Banking was not looking forward to the opera, a lot of wailing and hooting if you asked his opinion, but he supposed it was important to attend, show support for the arts and all that. He let his wife lead him to the dressing room and fuss about his clothes, keeping up a running commentary as she did so:

  “… can’t see why you insist on wearing that dreadful old hat …”

  “Only around the house!” the First Lord of Banking protested. He clapped one hand to the ancient, beloved skullcap. First Wife muttered something dark that he did not hear, and he submitted to her ministrations. At last, clad in a dignified brocade robe, he made his way downstairs to be transported to the opera. Outside the comparative coolness of the house, a wall of warmth hit them. First Wife smiled. She liked the heat. The First Lord of Banking sighed.

  Hell’s version of the Pellucid Island Opera House was crowded. The First Lord of Banking and his wife made their way slowly through the throng, greeting other eminent citizens of the underworld. A person clad in a long, formal robe of human skin, the tiny veins like delicate traces of embroidery, turned to greet the First Lord.

  “Lord …” He managed to make Tsin Tsi’s title sound like the last word in irony. The First Lord of Banking looked into the round, puffed face, like a soft mass of dough, and smiled in return.

  “Minister. What a surprise.”

  The Minister’s eyes were like drops of blood in the surrounding flesh, and quite without expression. The First Lord of Banking continued, “So how are things in Epidemics these days? I hear great things about this new form of bird flu. But I see they’ve found a remedy for that autoimmune disease of yours. Bad luck, eh? Still, you had a good run for your money with that one.”

  “It is the way of things,” the Minister of Epidemics said, in a voice that sounded like oil bubbling up in his throat. “Each illness has its season.” He reached up to brush a few flakes of skin fastidiously from the collar of his robe, which was lined with fine, blonde fur. The First Lord of Banking wondered enviously where the Minister had managed to obtain the skin of a European, but doubtless he could afford such expensive fashions. Tsin Tsi remembered his American carp and rose a little in his own estimation.

  “You seem to be producing more and more diseases. I’m surprised Heaven does not act.”

  The Minister of Epidemics gave a soft snort. “It’s in Heaven’s interest not to interfere. Otherwise the world would be wholly overrun. Humans breed, you know. Like vermin.” He shuddered, and his fleshy mouth pursed in disapproval. “Our services are valuable ones. Although the Ministry of War doesn’t do so badly, I suppose. Yet I like to think we’re more reliable on a long-term basis.”

  “And I suppose your activities do provide the Celestials with a multitude of innocent souls,” the First Lord of Banking mused. The Minister of Epidemics stared at him, unblinkingly, for a moment, and to his eternal shame the First Lord found his own unnatural flesh crawling beneath the demon lord’s regard. The Minister of Epidemics said softly, “You’d do well not to challenge me, Tsin Tsi. I know you have your own area of influence, but I do not think you want to discover the true length of my arm.” He spoke indifferently, as though commenting on nothing more important than the weather, and then he turned his back on the First Lord of Banking and strode away.

  “What was all that about?” First Wife asked, bewildered, and the First Lord replied, equally baffled, “I have no idea.”

  17

  “Detective?” It was the hesitant voice of Sergeant Ma. “At last! I’ve been trying to reach you, but the communications system—”

  “—is not working properly. I noticed.” Chen closed the taxi window to shut out the roar of the traffic as they shot along Shaopeng.

  “Detective, something’s happening at Tang’s place.”

  With a distinct sense of déjà vu, Chen said, “What?”

  “We don’t really know.” Ma sounded both bemused and afraid. “No Ro Shi says he’s never seen anything like it.”

  “All right,” Chen informed him wearily. “I’m on my way.”

  He hung up, saying to the demon, “Something’s happening at Tang’s. We might have a problem, by the way—I didn’t menti
on it before. A demon-hunter from Beijing’s appeared on the scene. Name of No Ro Shi.”

  “No Ro Shi?” Zhu Irzh’s head whipped round. “No Ro Shi’s here?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “What an unexpected pleasure,” the demon said. The tip of his dark tongue snaked out, flickering momentarily over his lower lip. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “You had a run-in with him?” Chen asked. The demon shot him an oblique glance.

  “You could say that.”

  Chen rubbed a distracted hand across his forehead. “That might complicate matters. He’s a heavy character.”

  “I’m not afraid of No Ro Shi,” the demon said, bridling.

  “I didn’t suggest that you were. We need to decide how to handle him, though.”

  The demon gave a fluid shrug. “My task is still the same: to find Pearl and take her back to Hell. If No Ro Shi gets in my way, too bad for him.”

  “Look,” Chen said firmly. “Let me make one thing clear. No Ro Shi’s off limits. If you do anything to him, we’ll have every authority in Beijing on our backs and it’ll be far more trouble than it’s worth—for you, not me. People will be prepared to pull strings in Hell on No Ro Shi’s behalf.”

  “He has protection,” the demon said in disgust. “So I’ve heard. But if some accident should befall him …”

  “Make sure it doesn’t,” Chen said. He tapped on the glass screen that separated them from the driver and motioned to the stream of traffic ahead. “The Garden District. And quickly.”

  18

  A young couple was strolling across the sand. Their heads were close together, and the girl began to laugh, helplessly. Breaking away, she ran down the beach until she was lost in the glare at the edge of the sea. Inari, watching them from her perch high in the rafters of the pier, sighed enviously. She had never been so free from care, not even in the more recent days of her marriage when she had at last made a tentative attempt to find her own freedoms. Humans seemed to think that her kind were so powerful, that they could do whatever they chose and take whatever they wanted, but when you were locked into the rigid and ritual hierarchies of Hell, you realized that this simply wasn’t so. Inari leaned back against the dank, weed-strewn struts of the pier. The badger-teakettle, which had remained vigilantly in its animal form, lay fast asleep in a damp bundle in her lap. For the thousandth time, Inari tried to decide what to do. She knew that her husband would be worried about her, but she could not go home in case the assassin was still there, and she did not want to get Chen into further trouble. Moreover, the feng shui tides of the city made her feel small and threatened, and the ground would burn her feet if she spent too long walking around. The day seemed too huge and too bright, but the sun was already past its height and beginning to sink through the haze. She would wait until twilight, a more comfortable time for her, and then perhaps she would venture out and try to find money to call Chen, or maybe even steal a phone. In her flight from the houseboat, she had taken nothing with her, and now she cursed her own panic. Even under the circumstances, she should have tried to think ahead. The badger stirred in her lap. The young couple was out of sight along the sand. Inari gazed like an owl into the distance, waiting for night.