by Liz Williams
“Where’s the bathroom?” he said to a little servant at the door. The thing turned smoothly and raised its childlike face. Pin caught the antiseptic smell of engineered flesh and automatically took a step back.
“Down the corridor and on the right,” the servant said in a sweet, whispering voice. Pin could see its vocal mechanisms stirring in its throat, but the rosebud mouth did not move. He made his way in the direction indicated by its pointing hand.
Even the bathroom was magnificent. Pin spent a moment exploring, then went over to the wall unit and splashed his face with water. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror, wishing that the glass was a gate to another world, and he could step through and walk away. There had to be more than this, but if it were a choice between either corporate indenture, or Fourth Chorus and occasional bouts of prostitution, he’d take the latter options. At least he got to go to parties, he thought dismally.
From one of the cubicles there came a sudden rustle of skirts and a stifled laugh. The door of the cubicle began to open. Pin recognised the laugh; he’d heard it often enough. So that was where Maiden Ming had got to. Having no desire, in his current mood, to encounter his rival, he stepped swiftly into the nearest cubicle and closed the door. There was the murmur of conversation, which Pin could not hear, and then a brief flurry of movement. Pin raised his eyes to the ceiling and waited. He heard the door swing open, and a grunt of exertion as someone emerged. The bathroom door whirred open and closed. Cautiously, Pin pushed the cubicle door aside and peered out. The bathroom was empty. He stepped out and paused: on the floor, just in front of the cubicle, was a single drop of blood. In the pallor of the surrounding room, it seemed almost to glow.
Pin knew that there was always the danger, in this particular kind of environment, that one would meet people whose tastes ran to extremes: his own memory winced away from certain recollections. He despised Ming, but she was a member of the Opera, and therefore one of his own. He ran to the bathroom door, listened for a moment, then stepped carefully through. The corridor was empty. Pin took a deep, steadying breath. Something had happened to Ming, presumably at the hands of one of the guests. Pin thought fast.
Appeal to his hostess was out of the question. The role of Chorus people, during their off-hours, was to attend social functions, to be amiable and amusing and to provide discreet services for the guests, for which they would be handsomely paid. They were also supposed to keep their mouths firmly shut. If Pin started making a fuss, he’d be branded a troublemaker, and why would Jhai Tserai care, anyway? Why would anyone care what happened to some little chorus girl? People like Ming and Pin went missing every day. Sometimes they turned up alive, but usually they did not turn up at all, and one was obliged to shrug one’s shoulders and carry on as usual. Pin was suddenly sickened by his environment. He considered going alone in search of Ming, but surely the place was a hive of security cameras, and he had no wish to be found somewhere that he shouldn’t be. Indecisively, he bit his lip; the impulse towards heroics warred with self preservation, and the latter won. Guiltily, he made his way back to the party.
Back in the ballroom, the party was getting into its stride.
Pin found Zhu Irzh sitting on a couch, talking to a middle-aged man whom he evidently knew. Pin appraised the stranger with a practised eye, and noticed two things: firstly that the man was entirely unremarkable, and secondly, that he did not appear to be enjoying himself. As the demon talked, the stranger’s gaze roamed around the room with ill-concealed distaste, which did not alter substantially when it focused on Pin.
“Ah,” Zhu Irzh said, with apparent pleasure. “The young man from the Opera. Chen, this is Pin, from the Pellucid Island Opera Company. Pin, this is my colleague Detective Inspector Chen, who works for the police force.”
“Delighted,” Pin said, faintly. So, those odd rumours about the demon’s involvement with the police were true. That wasn’t reassuring. Chen nodded, amiably enough, then turned back to Zhu Irzh. Pin sat down on a nearby chair and pretended not to be listening to their conversation, which was about the weather, all the time thinking: What has happened to Ming? At last, shame overcame his natural caution of the police and he blurted out, “I think something terrible’s happened.”
Zhu Irzh and Chen looked at him, startled.
“What? Why?” Chen asked, blinking. Having begun, Pin could hardly retract what he had said. He explained.
“And you’re sure it was your friend in the cubicle?” Chen said.
“She’s not exactly—yes. And there was blood on the floor.”
Chen sat forward in his chair and rubbed his hands across his forehead. “All right. What are we going to do?”
The demon said consideringly, “I have a certain amount of license to roam the premises. I’ll go and look for the girl. You stay here; pretend to have a conversation.”
Pin and Chen looked at one another with a mutual lack of appreciation, and reluctantly agreed. Zhu Irzh vanished in the direction of the door, and Pin and Chen embarked upon a desultory discourse about the Opera for the next fifteen minutes, whereupon Zhu Irzh slid back onto the couch like a ghost.
“She’s not in the apartments,” the demon said. “I can’t sense her anywhere, either. I don’t think there’s more you can do for your friend, Pin. Maybe you should go home. I’ll try and find out what’s happened to her.”
“I can’t go,” Pin said. “I’m contracted for the evening.”
“You’re for hire?” Chen asked. Not looking either of them in the eye, Pin nodded.
“All right,” Chen said grimly. “Consider yourself hired. I’ll take you home myself. Don’t worry,” he added, “I meant your home, not mine.”
Zhu Irzh nodded. “I’ll make sure Jhai doesn’t ask too many questions.”
Pin saw Chen give the demon a long look.
“Not as long as you’re still here. I should think she’d be delighted to have the competition removed … Come on, Pin. Let’s get out of here.”
They took the elevator to the atrium in silence, and flagged down a taxi. On the way down Shaopeng, Pin turned to Chen and said, “Detective Inspector. Thank you.”
Chen said quietly, “I just wish, Pin, that I could do more. That people like you didn’t have to do what you do. I understand the reasons for it, but that doesn’t mean I approve of the circumstances which generate it.”
Pin glanced at him. The policeman’s face was downcast, banded in light as they passed beneath the neon towers of the city. He was quite an attractive man, Pin decided, more because of his kindness than his round-faced, stocky appearance. One learned to notice these things. Shyly, Pin said, “If you’d like to—I mean, I wouldn’t mind if I really was for hire. I mean, for free.”
Chen gave him a startled glance. At last he said, “Oh, no. No, that’s quite all right.”
“I’m not a child,” Pin said, feeling oddly rejected. “And I’m not cheap, either.” He might be a prostitute, he thought, but he still had his pride.
Gently, Chen said, “I know. But it’s not my thing. I’m married, you see. And I meant what I said; I’m taking you to your home. Where d’you live, anyway?”
“At the Opera.”
“You actually live in the Opera?”
“We all do,” Pin said, and glancing out of the window he saw the familiar rotund shape of the Pellucid Island Opera House rising behind the go-downs and teahouses of Shaopeng. He discovered with surprise that he was almost pleased to be back.
“We’re here,” he said.
“All right. Zhu Irzh knows where to find you, doesn’t he, if he discovers anything.” Chen turned to him. “I’m sorry about your friend. We’ll do what we can. Goodnight, Pin.”
Pin stepped out into the humid night air and the car pulled away. He watched it go for a moment, then made his way slowly through the back entrance of the Opera House to the dressing room that he shared with the rest of Fourth Chorus. He had thought that he was too agitated to rest, but it was not long
before he fell into sleep, dreaming of golden eyes.
2
Mrs Pa always tried to get to the temple early, but although the setting of the cheap alarm clock crept further back each morning there were always people there before her, squatting on the steps of Emmereng Ghat in the sultry morning air. Mrs Pa had to avoid stepping on them as she hobbled up the temple steps. The clients muttered furious imprecations into the dim dawn light, rattling the pai cups in a frenzy and sending thin wooden spills cascading over the translucent marble. Hands were cast up around Mrs Pa’s narrow shins, in elation or despair. There was already a snaking queue at the teller’s counter and Mrs Pa had to wait, watching as the sun drew up over the edge of the temple roof. The last breath of unhealthy night air drifted away, and Mrs Pa’s turn came. She grabbed a paper packet out of the slot, not daring to take time to choose, and shoved a coin towards the teller. Her hand shook a little as she fumbled it open. Stupid, stupid of me, Mrs Pa thought and then stared dumbfounded as the slip was released to reveal the auspicious eight and lucky mountain sign.
“What are you waiting for?” a voice bawled in her ear. Mrs Pa turned to find an elderly gentleman nudging her elbow. Muttering, Mrs Pa pushed him aside and went to stand in the courtyard under the growing light. Rude old man. She soon forgot him, however, because the sunlight showed it clearly: lucky eight, lucky mountain.
The great day had arrived, just as the broker had said when she’d called last night. Mrs Pa couldn’t quite bring herself to trust the broker; you heard so many stories. Still disbelieving, she inserted a coin into the counter slot. A thick spike of incense, red as embers, rattled down into the tray. A foolish machine, Mrs Pa thought. The incense might break. Crossing the courtyard to the brazier she stuck the stick firmly into the pan, patting down the sand to keep it upright. She touched her lighter to the tip of the incense, and a column of smoke threaded up into the polluted air. Mrs Pa watched its passage to heaven with satisfaction. Good. Now for the next thing.
The courtyard was filling up fast, everyone shaking the telling sticks, concentrating like mad, a possessed woman (there was always one) weaving between. Her hands were full of chrysanthemum blooms which she ate methodically, petal by petal.
Mrs Pa threaded her way between the questioners and made her way out onto Shaopeng, where she was obliged to wait forty minutes for the next tram. Finally the rails hummed, and then the tram itself rattled into view at the end of Shaopeng Street. Passengers, desperate to get to work before they got fined, wrestled their way into the nearest carriage. There were too many people; arguments broke out along the margins. Mrs Pa, unresisting, let herself be carried on the flow through the doors and found herself in the centre of the car, staring up at the ceiling. She could see nothing else. How would she know when they reached Ghenret? She could not remember the number of stops. She poked a young woman in the back; uninterested dark eyes looked down at her.
“Are you going to the harbour?”
“No, Paugeng,” the young woman said. She wore a technician’s overalls and the scarlet badge of Paugeng blazed above her breast.
“I am,” someone said. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Mrs Pa squinted up. The handsome face turned to hers was pale; the golden eyes filled with amusement. A demon! Mrs Pa thought, startled. It had been a long time since she’d seen one of his kind; she’d thought she had lost the gift, if gift it was. Everyone else seemed to be ignoring him: probably they really couldn’t see that he was there. Mrs Pa wondered whether to summon a charm against him, then dismissed the thought. At least someone had some manners, but what a poor pass, that even Hellkind were nicer to you than your own these days.
“Thank you, young man,” she said, under her breath. The demon smiled. He had sharp teeth, too, she noticed. After Murray Town, the crowd thinned out and Mrs Pa could just about see through the murky window of the carriage.
“Where are we now?” Mrs Pa asked.
“Not far,” the soft voice said. “Look, there’s the Senditreya Endo. What’s left of it, anyway.”
Mrs Pa peered through the window. The iron doors of the ruined temple appeared briefly in view; the dome of the vaults catching the morning sun. They said that the Dowsing Guild was rebuilding it, and would rededicate it to someone else, but they didn’t seem to have got very far. The walls were still a tumble of masonry.
“Next stop’s Ghenret,” the demon said.
“Thank you,” Mrs Pa said again. The demon nodded and when the little knot of passengers spilled out onto the Ghenret platform, he was gone, moving quickly through the crowd.
Mrs Pa walked slowly to the market, the next stop in her preparations. It was a long walk for an elderly lady from the platform to Ghenret harbour, and she took it slowly. It was still quite early. The crowd who had got off the downtown had dispersed and the walkway was quiet. She could hear the oily tide lapping against the harbour wall. The film that coated the waves collected the light and held it, sending pale mottled shadows across the surface of the water. The warehouse go-downs filed along the edge of the harbour, dwarfed by the snaking tower. The logo of Paugeng Pharmaceuticals, identical to the red badge on the unhelpful girl’s clothing, was emblazoned over one side. Up there, away from the little world, lived Jhai Tserai. But whatever they might say about Jhai, she was reputed to be generous to her employees, and she was such a pretty girl, too. They looked after you in Paugeng, up to a point, of course. Mrs Pa had wanted her daughter Mai to apply there one day, rather than becoming a cleaner like her mother, but it hadn’t happened. Never mind. Her daughter would soon be settled now. Mrs Pa was conscious of a delayed relief, so enormous that she had not allowed herself to feel it that morning. She had been waiting so long that she thought it would never come, and now it had.
The go-down market had been open since four that morning. Most of the best stuff had gone, but there were still things to be found if you knew people, and Mrs Pa knew a great many. She had lived here most of her life, after all. She moved through the canopied alleys, squeezing oranges, stuffing pak choi and marsh-grown water chestnuts into her battered bag, and keeping up a constant litany of conversation with her neighbours.
“You’re buying a lot today,” Miss Reng probed, eyeing the bulging bag.
“A special occasion!” Mrs Pa teased her.
“What would that be?” So Mrs Pa, making the most of her big news, told her. Miss Reng gave a shriek of excitement, making people look round.
“Mai! Your daughter, getting married? How wonderful!”
Mrs Pa said, “That’s right. I found out yesterday. It’s only to be expected, of course.”
“Of course,” Miss Reng agreed, a little too quickly.
The news would be all over the district by noon. Mrs Pa, well pleased, lugged her shopping home and sat in her kitchen with a boiling kettle on the stove, waiting for the neighbours to drop by. She was not disappointed. A constant stream of people knocked on the door, on one pretext or another, throughout the day. Yes, it was true. Yes, she was so pleased, although, of course, she’d been expecting it. Mrs Pa started cooking well before dusk. Her anticipation grew. At last the phone call came.
“I’m sorry, mother, the line’s not very good. I had problems getting through.” On the other end, Mai’s voice was thin and disembodied. “Are you pleased?”
“Married! I can’t believe it. It’s wonderful. Where are you going to hold the ceremony? Had you thought?” Mrs Pa asked.
“There’s a special boat … It’s called Precious Dragon. It’s coming to the city next week, you can get married on it. Ahn and I thought it would be nice.”
“I’ll call his parents.” her mother said.
Giggling and chattering, they went into the details of the wedding. It was a terrible line, crackling as usual, but Mai explained everything twice, and then Mrs Pa told her daughter about the cooking. “I’ll send it over tonight, as soon as it’s ready.”
“Oh, mother! That’s so good of you.” Mai ta
lked on even as the line deteriorated, but at last they hung up and Mrs Pa, as she had promised, rang the bridegroom’s parents in preparation for the wedding that had, at last, arrived.
3
She had not left the vaults for years, and now the summons had come. Embar Dea swam out through West Iron Gate, feeling the heavy gush of water along her flanks as the gate drew to a close. The soft, muffled clang that it made as it shut echoed along the channel. Embar Dea moved swiftly, seeking to overcome fear. How long had it been since she had passed this way? Thirty years? After that last journey she had been confined to the peace and silence of Sulai-Ba, before its ending. The others had told her things: tormenting the elderly being with horror stories in the darkness. They told her about the pollution; the bands of oil through which they must move like a dancer between banners, the chemicals which stung the eyes and left an acidity at the back of the throat, the dangerous wash of the canal boats and junks, so many more than in her own time. Embar Dea was afraid of these things, and afraid, too, of the people themselves: the people who lived in the world beyond the Night Harbour, their sharpness, their long hands, their little heads and little eyes.
Now, after Ayo’s death, Embar Dea had been summoned to the new temple, to Tenebrae, although she did not know why. She had expected to remain here. To live out her days with the days of Sulai-Ba. But now she would have to travel through the canal system until she reached Ghenret, and then take the underground channels to the mouth of the delta, going east into the inner seas to where Tenebrae lay. It was a human name, appropriately enough for the new temple, but, strangely, a Western one. The Kingdom of Shadows. But then, not all of her kind were from the east.