Snake Agent: A Detective Inspector Chen Novel (26 page)

"Worse than I had thought," said the badger-teakettle softly, and Chen could only agree.

Inari had now been in Fan's strange home for over a day, and she still knew nothing about her hostess. The scarred woman seemed to spend most of her time in solitary contemplation; either within the polished hollows of her underground cavern, or outside on a narrow ledge of rock that overlooked nothing but a gorge filled with bonewort and stones. Inari knew the values of meditation, so she did not interrupt Fan during these periods. However, when the woman returned to prepare food for their evening meal, Inari ventured a question.

"How long have you been here?" she asked tentatively.

Fan smiled.

"For a long time, I think. But I'm really not sure. It's hard to measure time here, isn't it? Or perhaps you don't find that."

Something about the manner in which she said this gave Inari the impression that Fan was not a native of Hell, but it was hard to tell whether this was the case. The scarred woman did not smell human, and with her red and gray eyes she did not look like one, either, but neither did she have the characteristic presence of demonkind. She was most unlikely a celestial entity; what would a goddess be doing in Hell? Inari had never heard of such a thing; the Celestial authorities did not work that way, being fastidious about where they spent their time.

"I don't know," Inari said, in reply to Fan's question. "I've lived most of my life in Hell, so it doesn't seem so strange."

"And yet you chose to leave," Fan said quietly. She turned to face Inari. It was unsettling to be confronted with those eyes, the one so fierce, the other as tranquil as a cloud.

"I said it did not seem strange. I did not say I liked it."

"Demons do not generally choose to leave their world, not for long. You must love that human of yours very much to have given up everything for him. Or perhaps the fact of it is that Hell gave
you
up? It is difficult to know the truth about you, Inari. I hear many conflicting stories."

"You seem very interested in me," Inari said nervously.

"I find you interesting, that is why."

"Listen," Inari said. She stepped close to Fan and laid a hand on her sleeve. The woman's arm felt warm, as though she was radiating an unnatural degree of heat. Fan looked down at Inari's hand with a slight smile, as though she had never expected to see such a thing.

"Yes?" she said.

"Fan," Inari said timidly. "Can you help me? I have to get a message to my husband. I have something important to tell him."

"What is it?" Fan asked mildly.

"I—I'd rather not say, if you don't mind."

Fan looked up. She was still smiling, and her strange gaze seemed suddenly to encompass Inari's own: red and gray like the skies of Hell, whirling her up and up into a vortex that encompassed all the worlds in one. And then Inari was floating down, pulled by the duality of the woman's eyes; a leaf blown down the walls of the worlds. She heard her own voice saying far away, "Because I'm leaving him. I'm not going back to the world of the humans. I'm staying here." And inside her there was a quick, sharp tug of utter anguish that brought her hand to her mouth like a broken doll. Fan steadied her, and the woman's fingers felt like bands of iron. It was then that Inari realized dimly that Fan was far stronger than she was, even though she was a demon and the scarred woman was—well, what? She stared dumbly into Fan's face and heard the woman say, "It's all right, Inari. Something has changed, that is all. Sit down and I'll get you some medicine." She helped Inari settle against the wall, and folded her hands in her lap.
I am nothing but a puppet,
Inari thought,
my strings are cut
. Numbly, she looked down at her own hands: noting the long fingers, the gilded talons. The varnish was wearing away now, chipped by flights and battle, and she could see the thick ivory surface of her nails beneath.
That is me,
she thought
, I will be worn down until there is nothing left but bone; not the pretty doll of my mother's house, nor the ornamental human wife on the houseboat. . . I cannot walk on the earth of Earth; my feet burn as though they are bound. I carve vegetables into pretty shapes; I smile at my husband and go to the market in the morning. I am bound by my culture as surely as any wife of ancient China and yet I am a demon, a supernatural thing, a creature to terrify and fear. And if I stay in Hell, where will I go?

"You can stay here for the time being," Fan said in her quiet voice, as though answering the question that Inari had not asked aloud. "Until we work out what path we are going to take." Inari looked up. The scarred woman was holding a bowl, filled with bitter herbal tea, and her face was devoid of expression. She reminded Inari suddenly of the badger-teakettle: swift to help, curiously loyal, yet keeping its own mysterious counsel. Inari had never received any impression of affection from the badger, and never expected to. That was not what it did; that was not what it was. It moved in its own strange path like a moon around the world that was herself, and she had the same sense from Fan. Except that this time, Fan was the world, and Inari the moon: passing into its dark phase, hidden, eclipsed.

"We?" Inari whispered.

"You and I together, yes. There is a task I must accomplish."

"So you'll help me?" Inari asked, disbelieving, and Fan nodded, sadly and with faint surprise, as though it was the last thing that she had intended to do.

Mindful of the possibility of further visitors, Zhu Irzh opened the door of his room with his sword drawn, but at first sight everything was as he had left it. He glanced quickly around the room, then strode across and flung open the door of the bathroom. Nothing. This seemed less than enterprising on the part of the enemy, Zhu Irzh thought. He crossed to where a pan filled with water sat on a small iron hob and absently lit the flame beneath with a touch of his hand, intending to make some tea. The fire flared up with a blue spark, and Zhu Irzh frowned. That wasn't right: the flame was burning far more fiercely than it should, and if he left it like that the pan would be scorched. . . He lifted the pan off the hob and promptly dropped it. The handle was red hot; too hot even for a demon's touch. The pan rolled under the sofa and Zhu Irzh, through a haze of pain, could hear the scuttling of little clawed feet. Hissing, he dropped to his knees and flicked under the sofa with his tail. The sharp spine of the tail grazed something and there was a hoarse cry. With his rosary wrapped tightly around the knuckles of his uninjured hand, Zhu Irzh peered cautiously beneath the sofa. A trail of dark blood led into the shadows. Zhu Irzh hauled the sofa aside and saw an immense, mottled salamander. It gazed at him from malevolent jade eyes for a moment, then said softly, "You'll regret that, demon. Oh, you will." Then it disappeared behind the skirting board, squeezing itself fluidly through a crack. As it disappeared, Zhu Irzh saw that one of its back legs was bleeding, and the droplets of blood that remained behind soon sizzled into ash. Zhu Irzh cursed. No way to run a trace, then. His hand was stinging, as though someone had lashed it with a whip. Glancing down, he saw with dismay that the palm was already beginning to swell. The flesh had become puffed and sore, and oozed minute drops of blood. The handle of the "pan" must have been the salamander's poisonous tail. A bolt of pain shot up Zhu Irzh's arm like bitter lightning. This was serious. He needed medical attention. Of all the times to run foul of the Ministry of Epidemics. . . But he could be reasonably sure that they had been the ones who had sent the salamander in the first place. Grimacing in pain, Zhu Irzh tried to remember whether there was any other institution that dealt with health, but as far as he knew the local doctors and apothecaries were indentured to the Ministry itself. It was highly debatable whether he'd find anyone to treat him, and if he didn't—well. Death to a demon was different from the death of a soul, but it was still nasty and lasted a long time, and Zhu Irzh had no wish to experience the various delights of any of Hell's lower levels for the next few centuries. No use dithering about here, anyway. Wrapping his hand in a piece of cloth, Zhu Irzh hastened out into the city.

It was still early evening, and the main streets were crowded with people going home from their day's work. Zhu Irzh encountered two tall, spined warriors of the Ministry of War, their eyes as black and shiny as polished marbles. He passed a woman from the Ministry of Lust exuding a complexity of pheromones into the steamy air around her as she swayed along on tiny, bound feet. Her hair drifted on the wind like seaweed; her face wore a painted dark smile. Despite the growing pain in his hand, Zhu Irzh was unable to resist a second look. He thrust his way through a group of minor civil servants clad in the gray robes of some dull functionary's office, twittering and whispering like crickets as they relayed boring office gossip to one another, and then past a diverse collection of whores from the Pleasure Quarter: denizens of some demon lounge out for a night on the town. Compared to the executive from the Ministry of Lust, they seemed tired and brittle; their limbs arranged in a series of mannered poses as they moved. Their leather and skin garments creaked as they walked, and they smelled musty. Zhu Irzh made a mental note never to patronize whatever establishment they might come from.

The pain in his hand was growing increasingly intense and Zhu Irzh winced. If he didn't find an apothecary soon. . . He glanced upwards and saw all manner of signs: makers of razor kites, purveyors of bones, manufacturers of knives, but no one who offered simple healing. Sometimes Hell really did live up to human expectations. The crowds were beginning to annoy him, and in his debilitated state he did not want to take the chance of having his pocket picked, or of being furtively wounded by any of the covert hit-and-run knifers or acid-throwers who tended to congregate in crowded places, so he turned off into a side street. There was more chance of finding an apothecary here, anyway, away from the crowds. He hastened along the shabby streets filled with steam from the restaurant vents and the pungent smell of rotten vegetation, and turned a corner to see, with an overwhelming combination of relief and apprehension, the red neon sign of an apothecary.

Zhu Irzh hammered on the door with his good hand, and after a moment, it opened. A wizened face peered out, above a quivering rat's tail moustache.

"What do you want? I'm closed."

"I can pay. I need help," Zhu Irzh told him.

"Have you got health insurance?"

"Of course I've got insurance. What are your charges?"

"Depends what's wrong with you," the apothecary said, small, yellow eyes gleaming in the growing twilight. Sighing in exasperation, Zhu Irzh stuck out his injured hand.

"Poison. A salamander."

"An elemental, eh? Such injuries, while not rare, are not easy to treat. Or cheap."

"Can you help me or not? I told you I could pay."

"No. I don't have the equipment."

"Imperial Majesty! It's blood poisoning. How difficult can it be?"

"It is not merely a question of infection. It is the matter of magic where elementals are concerned, and I cannot help. You need an alchemist, not a mere apothecary."

"Where can I find an alchemist then?"

"The Guild of Alchemists is a subdivision of the Ministry of Epidemics and is not allowed to advertise. I suggest you make enquiries of them." He began to close the door, but Zhu Irzh wedged his tail in it.

"No," Zhu Irzh said firmly. "That's not good enough." Fishing in his jacket pocket, he took out his badge and stuck it in the face of the apothecary. "Get me the name of an alchemist—now. An independent operator, not someone with Epidemics. You know as well as I do that such people exist. And if you don't give me a name, I'll have you closed down."

Grumbling and muttering, the apothecary trundled to the back of the shop. He fished in a cabinet and took out a laminated business card, which he handed grudgingly to Zhu Irzh.

"Here you are."

"This doesn't mention anything about alchemy. It says this character's a trader."

"I suggest you read it more thoroughly. See there, on the very last line?
Pharmaceuticals
. That's the one."

"Very well," Zhu Irzh murmured. He didn't seem to have much of a choice, and the alchemist did not live very far away: somewhere in the backstreets of the Pleasure Quarter. He tucked the business card in his pocket and turned on his heel to go.

"What about my payment?" the apothecary cried.

"What payment? You haven't done anything."

"I gave you the name, didn't I?"

"Think yourself lucky I didn't have you arrested," Zhu Irzh snapped. The apothecary's curses followed him up the street: he could feel the faint prick as each one burst against his skin, like a shower of needles, but they were not especially effective and soon they had faded away. Far more worrisome was his arm, which now throbbed with monotonous regularity; pushing up his sleeve, he saw a thin dark line running up the swollen flesh, almost as far as the elbow. If he didn't hurry, he thought with dismay, it would be the lower levels for sure.

Chen and the badger huddled behind the barrels on the dray, trying desperately to keep out of sight. They had spent the afternoon waiting, and were now both uncomfortable and hungry. Tso had told them that his shift would end early in the evening, but it was already well after twilight and the draymaster had begun to secure the tailgate, ready to take the dray on its nightly rounds. The stench of blood beneath the closed tarpaulin of the dray was overpowering, and it made Chen's head pound with rhythmic nausea. He closed his eyes and leaned cautiously back against the wall of the dray, his fingers resting in the thick, soft fur of the badger's back. The badger was trembling, and Chen was not quite sure why. The creature did not usually seem to feel fear. Perhaps it, too, was affected by the heavy, sour odor of the blood. Chen opened his eyes as the sound of voices filtered in.