by Liz Williams
“Mother has always run a very—traditional—household,” the demon said apologetically. “And her idea of a nice dinner is usually blood soup followed by some kind of series of main courses. Boiled trotters and that sort of thing.”
“Please don’t worry on my account,” Chen said. “I’m only mentioning it in case you think I’m being rude—I can eat when we get back to the hotel.”
“I might join you,” Zhu Irzh said. “I’m not fond of home cooking. At least, not at this home.”
He motioned Chen to a seat near the head of the table. There did not seem to be any names attached to the place, so Chen sat where he was told and reasoned that Zhu Irzh could have it out with his mother if the need arose. Other people were filing in now. To Chen’s secret dismay, the sullen, angular Daisy sat immediately opposite him and was joined by a squat escort, who favoured Chen and Zhu Irzh with an oily smile.
“So pleased to meet you,” this person said, unctuously.
“This is my brother-in-law, Sip Lu.” Zhu Irzh tended introductions.
“And what do you do?” Chen asked.
“He works for one of the Ministries,” Daisy said. She leaned aggressively over the table. “Lust, you know. He’s very successful.”
Chen could not imagine sharing a bedroom with anyone as needle-like as Daisy, let alone an actual bed. Perhaps Sip Lu gave at the office.
“What’s your actual role at the Ministry?” Chen asked, more from a slightly desperate desire to make conversation than from any real wish to know.
“I am Thirteenth Under-Clerk to Lesser Lord Twelve. We issue licenses to demon lounges, collect fees, that sort of thing.”
“Interesting,” Chen said, feeling feeble.
“And yourself?”
“Lu, you know perfectly well what he does,” Daisy hissed. “He’s a policeman. On Earth. He works with my brother.”
“Ah! Are you in vice?”
Suppressing the impulse to answer frequently, Chen explained that the role of the police in Singapore Three was somewhat different to that which they played in Hell. Sip Lu nodded politely, but Chen was left with the feeling that he might not have made himself fully understood. There was something oddly stunted about Sip Lu, as though he could be drugged. He smiled and beamed, seemingly without reason. Perhaps Daisy kept him under some form of control. Looking at Daisy’s long, twitching fingers, scratching nervously at the table top, Chen thought she was the kind of woman who would take whatever steps were necessary in order to establish her own agenda, and from the wary way that Zhu Irzh was staring at his sister, the demon thought so too. Then Zhu Irzh glanced up and Chen saw his face freeze.
The demon’s mother had entered the room, swathed in her preposterous furs, on the arm of a demon so large that he had to bend slightly to avoid brushing his crest against the ceiling. A lizard-like person, with enormously bulky limbs, a long, sinuous tail, a scaled rust-coloured face with curving tusks. He, too, was wearing armour and carried with him a strong scent of gunpowder. When he turned, Chen could see that the insignia on his shoulder was that of the Ministry of War. Unsurprising.
“What the—? That’s Erdzhe Shen,” Zhu Irzh whispered.
“Who?” Chen had never managed to fix in his mind the various principal personages of Hell, largely because there was so much back-stabbing and so many palace revolutions that personnel turnover was exceptionally high. But Zhu Irzh had spoken as if Chen should know and that suggested that this Erdzhe Shen was a major player.
“He’s only the Minister of War,” Zhu Irzh said. Chen glanced across at Sip Lu and saw that the Lust demon’s face had grown watchful, overriding the expression of greasy vacancy. Zhu Irzh spoke urgently to Daisy.
“Did you know about this? Mum’s new boyfriend?”
“Of course I did,” Daisy hissed. “Why do you think she threw dad out? She’s been putting up with his girlfriends for years, she didn’t care—she had her own life and you know as well as I do that they didn’t share a room for years. It wasn’t until Erdzhe came along that she decided to make the break. Erdzhe is more powerful than dad ever dreamed of being.” Erdzhe. Daisy spoke the name with a kind of complacency, a smug twitch of the lip, clearly pleased that despite her own ministerial connections, she was permitted to use the name of the Minister of War. But since her mother was now nearing the head of the table, with her vast escort in tow, Daisy fell silent. The couple took their places, Zhu Irzh’s mother with a glance like a simpering skull, and everyone rose.
“A toast to the birthday girl!” the Minister of War boomed, in a voice that set glassware rattling. “To my beloved!” From the look that he bestowed upon her, it might even be true, thought Chen. How odd, though Zhu Irzh had proved susceptible in the past so perhaps it was a family weakness. But allegiances in Hell were notoriously unstable. Perhaps the real wonder was that Zhu Irzh’s parents’ marriage had apparently survived for so long.
“I don’t think I can handle this,” Zhu Irzh muttered.
“I don’t think you’ve got much choice,” Chen whispered back. The first course was already arriving; it was, as predicted, blood broth. He pretended to take a sip when everyone else did, but beneath the table he inscribed a careful sigil on the underside of the polished wood, holding his breath as he did so. His own magic, being goddess-given, was erratic here in Hell. After a moment, however, he saw the blood broth evaporate. It would be embarrassing if noticed, but hopefully everyone else was concentrating too much on their own dinners.
The Minister of War was attacking his food with gusto; there was certainly nothing wrong with his appetite. He finished two bowls of soup and then went on to the main course, slabs of something greenly meaty in black bean sauce, fried locusts, adders’ tongues and a number of things that Chen was unable to identify.
“It’s deer,” Zhu Irzh said in an undertone. Thus encouraged, Chen took a careful mouthful and found that the meat was revolting.
“Sorry, Zhu Irzh. Can’t eat it.” At least it had the benefit of killing what little appetite he still possessed. He prepared himself for executing another spell when Zhu Irzh said, “I’ll have yours, then. It’s not as bad as usual, actually.”
Chen transferred it swiftly onto the demon’s plate. Glancing back, he saw that the Minister of War’s gaze was fixed on him, as green and reptilian as a lizard’s. Chen gave a blandly polite smile and after a moment, the Minister looked away. Chen did not know what to make of this. The Minister’s gaze had been impossible to interpret: not rage, even at finding a human (and the one-time servant of a goddess, something which was surely visible to the Minister) seated at his girlfriend’s dining table, nor disquiet. There had been something remote and alien and calculating about the Minister’s expression and it concerned Chen.
It wasn’t until halfway through the main courses that the disruption happened. Chen became aware of sounds in the hallway, distant scuffling and muffled shouts.
“Zhu Irzh? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” The demon frowned, just as the door burst open and two maidservants rushed in bearing an enormous cake. It was heavily iced in red and black, appearing almost lacquered. A small figure at its summit represented, perhaps, Mrs Zhu.
“Oh god,” Zhu Irzh said under his breath. “Just what we need. A birthday surprise.”
Chen gritted his teeth. He hated this kind of thing, ever since being obliged to attend other children’s birthday parties. He put the polite smile back in place and kept it there. The women carried the cake ceremoniously to the head of the table and placed it on a hastily-cleared space. It seemed an odd time to do this; shouldn’t they wait until the dessert course, or after the meal? But perhaps things were done differently here; it was Hell, after all.
There was an expectant pause. Zhu Irzh’s mother leaned forward with the rapacious look of a gannet. The Minister radiated smugness. The cake burst open in an explosion of black and red icing, which spattered those guests nearest the head of the table, and a demon leaped
forth. Looking back, Chen did not know quite what he had been expecting: not a naked girl, given the nature of the gathering, but certainly not a heavily armed and armoured being who uttered a roar and hurled himself through the air in the direction of Zhu Irzh’s mother, a glittering sword in his hand.
Zhu Irzh was on his feet in a flurry of black silk. Daisy screamed like a whistling kettle and kept on screaming. The Minister gave a bellow that temporarily deafened Chen. Zhu Irzh’s mother was scuttling backwards with the speed of a spider. Chen, acting before he really had a chance to think, snatched the table knife from the side of his plate and cut a bloody rune into the palm of his hand. Then, with no time to worry about whether it would work, he threw it in the direction of the sword-bearing demon, who had by this time landed squarely on the floor in front of Zhu Irzh’s mother.
The rune blazed through the air in an arc of fire and struck the demon in the midriff. A ragged, smoking hole appeared in his armour and the demon looked down in fleeting dismay, before exploding in a manner similar to that of the cake, only messier.
“Well,” Zhu Irzh said, picking strips of charred flesh out of his hair. “That was novel.”
Zhu Irzh’s mother slapped Daisy across the face. “Be quiet!” Daisy’s screams subsided to a whimper, but Chen caught sight of something in her face, a swift and secret expression that again, he could not interpret. He filed it away for later consideration.
The Minister of War turned to him. “A good shot and a quick spell! Especially from a human.”
“To be honest,” Chen said, “I didn’t know if it would work down here.”
“But so it did, and if it had not, my beloved would have been sent to the lower levels, there to eke out an existence among the creeping things.”
“No change there, then,” Chen thought he heard Zhu Irzh say.
“Well, I’m just glad I was here to help,” Chen said, feeling like someone in a television cop drama.
“He should be rewarded,” Zhu Irzh’s mother remarked. Her expression was beady.
“There’s really no need for that,” Chen said quickly. Zhu Irzh nudged him. “No, go for it.”
“I should like Zhu Irzh to have my reward instead,” Chen explained. As he spoke, he saw a flicker of light in the air, moving between himself and Zhu Irzh: the mark of a destiny spell, being cast. Chen himself had done nothing, it must be some function of the proffered reward itself. Oh dear.
“In that case, I accept,” Zhu Irzh said before his mother could react, “I should like Grandfather’s heart.”
“What!” That was the demon’s mother.
“What?” That was Chen.
“You heard me, mother.” The spell sparkled around him as he spoke.
“Zhu Irzh? What are you doing?” Chen hissed.
“You know I told you he was murdered here? He’s been nudging me. I can feel it.”
Chen expected Mrs Zhu to refuse indignantly, but he could feel the spell still working: a cool, powerful tugging at his magical senses. This was something old and strong. Zhu Irzh’s mother rose as if under compulsion, and began to totter out of the room, as jerkily as a puppet. Chen expected the Minister of War to intervene, at least to make some kind of protest, but he did not. Instead, he watched, with that same remote gaze with which he had favoured Chen.
“Come with me,” Zhu Irzh said to Chen. Everyone else at the table appeared turned to stone. Chen, his skin prickling, followed the demon out of the door.
A narrow passage, decorated with the same unpleasantness as the main hallway, then a flight of stairs, then another. This part of the Zhu family mansion seemed very ancient to Chen, it had the musty atmosphere of great age and the house seemed to grow older as they ascended the stairs, in comparison to a Chinese mansion. He had the sudden, dizzying sensation that he was descending rather than going upwards. He did not dare ask Zhu Irzh further, in his mother’s hearing, just what this business of the grandfather’s heart was about. No doubt, he thought, he would find out soon enough.
Mrs Zhu stopped in front of a twisted little door; the kind of door behind which you find secrets.
“In there,” she said. Her voice sounded thick and sour, as if the words were being forced out of her throat.
“Good,” Zhu Irzh said. “You can open it, mother.”
Mrs Zhu gave her son a curdled look but she did as she was told. As she touched the handle, Chen heard the sizzle of a spell and then there was an unpleasant, burned odour. Mrs Zhu stepped through, followed by her son and Chen.
The room was small, and completely empty except for a large box that resembled a lacquered refrigerator. When Mrs Zhu opened it, Chen saw that this was exactly what it was: it hissed apart and a cloud of cold drifted out from it. Inside sat a stout pot, also lacquered with a crimson so thick that it might have been made of clotted blood. In fact, Chen wondered for a moment whether it actually was a container, or the heart itself. Then Mrs Zhu reached inside and took it out and Chen could see that it had a lid.
“Here you are, then,” Mrs Zhu said, bitterly. “Take it, since you want it so badly. I wish you joy of it.” But her fingers were curling around the sides of the pot.
“Is this given to me of your own free will?” Zhu Irzh said. Again, the prickle of spell-work made Chen’s fingertips twitch.
“Yes,” Mrs Zhu whispered, very reluctantly.
“Under what circumstances?”
“You have been granted it as a reward and I am giving it to you.”
“Thanks, mother,” Zhu Irzh said. “I’ll take it now, then.” He reached out and took the pot from her hands, then wrapped it carefully in a fold of his silken coat. As he did so, the atmosphere in the room lightened and lifted; Chen felt as though a thunderstorm had passed by. The crackle and sparkle of the spell dissipated, leaving behind it an odd sense of solidity and firmness. A little piece of destiny, Chen thought, cemented into place.
They went back down the stairs and now even the staircase seemed to have changed, appearing less gloomy. It was so subtle that Chen wondered at first whether he was imagining things, but then they reached the hallway and he saw that it was no longer decorated with scenes of torment. He thought Zhu Irzh must have noticed the same thing, because the demon’s face wore a small, smug cat-smile.
“Well, mother,” Zhu Irzh said, just as they reached the dining hall. “I won’t stay for dessert, after all that. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Given the trouble you’ve caused, I couldn’t care less.” Mrs Zhu brushed past her son into the dining hall, where everyone sat or stood much as they had been left. A strong odour of decomposition hung in the air, the last trace of the vanquished cake assassin. Daisy still stood with the palm print of her mother’s hand red upon her pale face. Only the Minister of War remained unfrozen, and he was sitting where they had left him, sipping tea.
“Beloved! You’re back.” As though Mrs Zhu had been for a stroll in the garden.
“Get rid of these people, Erdzhe. I don’t feel much like partying any more,” Mrs Zhu said.
“Anything for the birthday girl,” the Minister said, jovially. He rose and clapped armoured hands. Servants began drifting back into the dining room.
“Come on, Chen.” Zhu Irzh was more cheerful than he’d been all day. “If we go back to the hotel now, the bar’s probably still open. I could use a drink.”
Nodding to Mrs Zhu—and feeling that any protestation that it had been a wonderful gathering would fall upon stony ears—Chen went outside. After the stifling atmosphere of the Zhu family mansion, even after the demon had been given the heart, the night air of Hell seemed almost refreshing. Zhu Irzh, ignoring the carriage in which they had arrived, walked rapidly to the end of the drive and flagged down a coach that, it appeared, was a taxi.
“Thank Gods that’s over,” the demon said piously, as they sank back onto the worn leather seats. “I couldn’t have coped with much more of that. Did you see the way she was simpering at him? All right, I can’t really blame her for k
icking dad out. But to take up with the Minister of War … !”
“It seems a bit—coincidental,” Chen mused. The demon shot him a sharp look. “You thought so, too?”
“It’s just that we seem to have had an awful lot to do with the Ministry of War over the last forty eight hours. One can’t help wondering whether these things knit together.” Chen paused, glancing out across the nightscape of Hell. “So, Zhu Irzh, what’s all this business about your grandfather’s heart?”
“Right. That. Well, the heart has been a bone of contention—or an organ of contention, anyway—ever since my grandfather went to the lower levels. As I told you, he was sent there by one of the family, and he can’t get back, because his heart was removed and spell-guarded. As you saw. To be honest, even if he could get back up here, it probably wouldn’t be a very good idea to summon him, because people tend to—deteriorate—when they’ve been in the lower levels for even a short while. Remember Inari, when she was trapped down there? So poor old grand-dad almost certainly isn’t the man he used to be.”
“So why not leave his heart where it was?”
“It didn’t even occur to me when we went to dinner. And I would have left it alone, quite honestly, except for two things. One is that the spell that guarded it links the family fortunes in with the fate of the heart, so whoever holds the heart, holds the luck of the family—and the house and every other bit of inheritance, such as it is. So when I saw a chance, I took it. I don’t want the Minister of War getting his claws on any of that.”
“No,” Chen said thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you do.”
“The other thing is that there’s a rumour that the heart can be used for magic—but I don’t know what kind of magic.”
“Why was your grandfather killed—well, sent down—in the first place?”
“For challenging the rule of the Emperor of Hell. He was trying to stage a coup, but my uncle was loyal to the Emperor. That’s partly why the spell guarding the heart refers to the family fortunes—all that would be put in jeopardy if grandfather came back, so it was made to be in our interests to keep him down there. Just in case. Ah, here we are.”