Snake Agent: A Detective Inspector Chen Novel (37 page)

"Ambulance services are still working," No Ro Shi said with grim satisfaction, looking down the length of Shaopeng to where blue lights were flickering ominously. "That's good."

As they entered the banking district at the south end of Shaopeng, they saw that the streets were filled with people, milling aimlessly about in front of their offices. Most of them, Ma noted, were office workers, dressed in shawl-collared suits and neat white shirts; they seemed bewildered, like school-children released early from class. Alarms were sounding from all sides, and the automatic double-doors which led into the Shanghai and Macau Bank were sliding maniacally back and forth. The air was full of smoke: drifting in the currents and eddies generated by the buildings on either side of Shaopeng, and when he opened the window, Ma was alarmed to note the acrid smell of fire. A container tanker, spilling some viscous chemical from its side, was jackknifed across the road. With a curse, No Ro Shi slammed the car to a halt and leaped out.

"Can't get past. We'll have to go on foot. Can you call the precinct?"

Panting after him, Ma tried, but with no result. Both his radio and his mobile were dead.

"Communications are down," he called after the retreating figure of No Ro Shi. The demon-hunter did not turn.

"Where are we going?" he shouted, his breath raw in his throat. "To the precinct?"

No Ro Shi said something that Ma did not hear. Hands plucked at Ma's sleeve; voices assailed him:

"Officer, my friend's trapped in her cubicle—the door won't open—"

"—got to help him—I can't feel a pulse—"

"—why aren't the police answering any calls? Don't you realize—"

"Wait!" Ma called desperately after the demon-hunter. "We have a situation here, and—"

Someone was coming out of the foyer of the Shanghai and Macau Bank: a man in khaki trousers and a shirt that was heavily sweat-stained beneath his armpits. He was staggering, and as Ma turned, a gush of blood poured from his nose. His eyes rolled back in his head; he fell, and lay still. Ma shouldered his way to the fallen man and bent over him, absently noting as he did so the technician's badge on the man's shirt, now half-obscured by blood. He was about to check the man's pulse when a hand on his shoulder spun him around. He looked up into the cold black gaze of No Ro Shi.

"Touch him," the demon-hunter hissed, "and you're dead as well. Come with me."

Ma tried to protest, but it was suddenly as though that black gaze filled the whole of the world. His vision swam, and his head felt as though someone was stuffing cotton wool into his ears. The command echoed in his head like the beat of a drum.
Come with me.
Then No Ro Shi turned and was running.

As though pulled by a string, Ma clambered to his feet and pounded along in pursuit of the demon-hunter, fending off the general public as best he could. No Ro Shi veered off down an alleyway that Ma recognized as the scene of a dozen illicit gambling dens: good thing it was daylight, he thought. A man in a soft velvet hat with a sallow face gaped in amazement as Ma rushed by, elbowing him out of the way. Ma's chest burned and he could hear himself wheezing; vaguely, he wondered why he could not seem to do other than follow the demon-hunter—but the notion slid from his mind like greasy water and he ran on. Another alley, a twist, a turn, and the light of the port lay glassy and bright over the rooftops. Ahead lay the temple of Kuan Yin.

"Here it is," Zhu Irzh said with satisfaction. They had paused before an immense pair of metal-paneled doors, bearing the legend RECORDS OFFICE on a small, bronze plaque.

"Careful," Chen said as Zhu Irzh made to open the door. "You don't know what's in there."

The demon waved a hand and replied, "Don't worry about it. I know these departments. The only people who'll be in here are a few clerks."

Cautiously, he opened the door, and came face to face with the lipless, fire-blackened visage of the Imperial alchemist. Behind the alchemist—silent except for the rhythmic clicking of their jaws, and entirely filling the vast vault of the Records Office—were row after row of Imperial troops.

Immediately, Zhu Irzh moved to slam the door shut, but it was torn out of his hands by the alchemist's scorched claw. The alchemist uttered a shriek of fury and triumph and swung the black blade of the machete downwards. Zhu Irzh ducked; the blade buried itself in the metal door. The alchemist roared again, wrenching the blade free with a squeal of tortured metal that made Chen's teeth sing in his head. The front row of troops gave a great bound, springing forwards on curiously jointed heels. Zhu Irzh kicked upward, catching the alchemist on the wrist. The last loosely attached shards of flesh and bone came apart and the alchemist's hand, still grasping the machete, clattered to the floor. The alchemist wailed aloud: a thin, eerie sound like a screaming frog. He raised his good hand in command: fire shot from it, once more singeing Chen's hair and setting alight the skirts of the demon's much-maligned coat. Chen lifted his rosary, stilled his breath in his pounding chest and began to chant. Zhu Irzh snatched off the coat, balled up the flaming bundle and hurled it into the alchemist's face. Then he drew his sword, slicing across the alchemist's midriff. The alchemist folded over the sword like a broken puppet, only to snap up again moments later. He opened his mouth wide and a gout of flame shot from it, still stinking of chemicals from the laboratory. In the split second before he dived to the floor, Chen realized how the alchemist had survived the fire: he had simply swallowed it. The protective chant diverted the blast of flame, which roared upwards and torched the drapes of the hall. Chen rolled beneath the blast of heat; came up on his feet on the opposite side of the hallway. Zhu Irzh was still slashing at the alchemist; the fire had missed him. The Imperial troops took another leap and this time their efforts landed them in the blazing hallway. Chen found himself facing two huge warriors; the time had come for flight.

"Zhu Irzh!" Chen shouted, evading the slash of an axe blade. "Leave it! Run!" He turned to bolt down the corridor and this time found himself facing the Minister of Epidemics. The Minister's face was distorted and purple with rage. Any thoughts that the Minister might still want them alive were dispelled in the next instant.

"Kill them both!" the Minister roared. "Kill them now!"

But at that point the fire abruptly hissed out. A great cold wind blew through the hallway, scattering the Imperial troops like so many ninepins, and Chen's breath was sucked out of him as violently as if he had been shoved through an airlock. Someone struck him, knocking him against the wall, and Chen recognized Zhu Irzh's gaping face. The doors of the Records Office slammed shut, trapping the Imperial troops behind them. The alchemist collapsed like a bag of bloody bones, and Chen could breathe again.

And three people were sprawling in the wreckage of the hallway.

Ma had vaguely expected the temple of Kuan Yin to be quiet, a haven from the mounting chaos in the city beyond, but the courtyard was full of people. They clamored prayers as they besieged the elderly priest; some were frantically reading their fortunes as they tried to make sense of what was happening to them. No Ro Shi shouldered them aside, and ignoring the priest's protestations, made his way through the temple doors.

Ma had been to the temple once before, to pay his respects to the goddess, and it was just as he remembered it. The jade statue of Kuan Yin stood serenely at one end of the long room; fresh flowers covered the altar. No Ro Shi strode towards the statue without breaking his stride.

"What are we doing here?" Ma asked.

"Things are happening much faster than I reckoned, Ma. The plague's already loose. There's nothing we can do to stop it in this world, we'll have to go to Hell."

"What?" Ma quavered, not believing what he'd just heard.

"Chen will need our help," the demon-hunter said, gathering an armful of incense sticks. "We don't have time to go through the Night Harbor. Come and stand over here."

"No way," Ma said.

The demon-hunter turned and his gaze was once more dark and compelling. "Do as you're told, Ma. You might not be a lot of use, but I want someone at my back."

"Inari!" cried Chen.

"Leilei!" sighed Zhu Irzh in the same instant. Inari was gazing down at her hands, her mouth wide, and then her face crumpled with palpable relief. Scrambling to her feet, she took a tottering step forwards and fell into Chen's arms.

"That's your
wife?"
Zhu Irzh asked in dismay.

It was then that Chen's suspicions were confirmed. Over Inari's quivering shoulder, he said, "Yes, she is. Zhu Irzh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—how could I?"

"Just my luck," the demon muttered.

The First Lord of Banking stepped forwards. "Where is he?" he hissed at Zhu Irzh.

The demon stared at him, blankly. "Where's who?"

"The Minister of Epidemics, who else? I suppose you've been mooning over some strumpet while I,
I,
have been suffering in dire extremity in the depths of Hell." His face was suffused with rage.

Hastily, Chen detached his quivering wife and bowed, saying quickly, "Eminence. We were both witness to the woeful destruction wreaked upon your house by unscrupulous persons. Seneschal Zhu Irzh has been working tirelessly ever since to seek those responsible and bring them to justice."

"Very well," the First Lord of Banking said, somewhat mollified. "Then where are these self-same culprits?"

Chen pointed at the wreckage of the alchemist.

"Well, there's one. Slain by Seneschal Zhu, unless I am greatly mistaken. The Imperial troops appear to be confined behind these doors. I don't know what happened to the Minister of Epidemics."

"I know," someone said in a still, quiet voice, stepping forwards. Chen felt his knees turn inexplicably to water.

"You do not know me," the scarred woman said, pre-empting him. "I am Fan. And I know where the Minister of Epidemics has gone."

"Where, then?"

"To seek sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" the First Lord of Banking asked, brow furrowed.

"This game has become too public. It has attracted the attention of Heaven, of the world above, and of the Lords of Hell, such as yourself, and I am sure you would be the first to agree that the Ministry of Epidemics has overstepped the mark."

The First Lord of Banking snorted. "That's one way of putting it. I do not expect inter-departmental backstabbing to be taken to such extremes. But if the Ministry has the backing of the Imperial Court, what can one do?"

"The Lords of Hell can do little. But Hell alone does not have a say in what happens in the world. The endeavors of the Ministry of Epidemics have attracted Heaven's attention, too. And that is where the Minister has gone."

"To Heaven?" Zhu Irzh asked, amazed. Fan smiled.

"Not quite. To the nearest incarnation of it, to seek asylum from the wrath of his Imperial Majesty. To the temple of Kuan Yin. And that is where we must go, too."

"All very well," the First Lord of Banking said. "But first we've got to get out of the Ministry." He glanced uneasily at the Records Office, where a persistent banging had replaced ominous silence. The troops were trying to get out.

Fan nodded. "Then let's go."

They hastened through the hallways and passages of the Ministry of Epidemics, and as they went, Chen saw that changes were taking place. The drapes had become moldered, and stank of damp. Some of these had fallen away from the walls, revealing scabrous patches upon the bilious green plasterwork. The gaps between carpet and wall had begun to ooze a thick, slimy fluid which seeped into the carpets and made them sticky, causing both Inari and the First Lord to slip. Behind them, the banging was growing louder, reaching a rhythmic intensity that suggested the release of the Imperial troops was imminent.

"What's happening?" Zhu Irzh asked, puzzled, but it was Chen who first realized what was taking place.

"It's the Ministry," he said. "I think it's sick."

Zhu Irzh stared at him blankly.

"Sick?" Inari echoed doubtfully.

Chen nodded. "For once, that's a good sign. In a way."

The First Lord frowned. "I don't see how."

Patiently, Chen explained. "The Minister of Epidemics has fled; the Imperial Court has withdrawn its favor due to the Minister's bungling. Without the Minister to oversee it, and with the destruction of the Imperial alchemist, the building itself has become infected with its own bio-organisms. It's breaking down."

"That could be possible, you know," the First Lord admitted, glancing back. "The building itself may seem to be made of metal and stone, but it's impregnated with the essences of all the plagued spirits who have ever passed through its portals."

"That's a lot of spirits," Zhu Irzh murmured, after a pause.

"Indeed."

A thunderous bang came from the direction of the Records Office, and the pounding of many inhuman feet. By now, Chen was almost dragging Inari along, and even Zhu Irzh's breath was coming fast and ragged. They turned a corner into an immense antechamber, with a neat placard at one end that indicated a flight of stairs.

"Over there!" Chen panted, pointing. They bolted for the stairs, but the doors were locked.

With a glance at one another, Chen and Zhu Irzh kicked them in. The party tumbled down into a shadowy stairwell, which opened out onto a space so vast that at first Chen had a hard time taking it in. He could see all the way up to the uppermost stories of the Ministry, and all the way down. The stairwell ran around a great column of dark air; it was a very long way to the bottom. Holding fast to Inari's hand, and followed by his companions, Chen started the descent.

It became immediately evident that the stairs were not designed for human feet, nor even for their analog. Some steps were exceedingly wide, some very narrow, as though the architect had tried to please everyone via the dubious method of insane and haphazard compromise. They had gone no more than two flights when the doors by which they had entered were blown back on their hinges. One of the doors came loose and hurtled past the startled party, only to drift as softly as a leaf down into the depths of the stairwell. Above, the Imperial troops were coming through. Their talons grated on the stone; they emitted a high, sibilant whispering. Chen and the others speeded up, half-falling down the uneven stairs in their haste, but the Imperial troops moved too quickly, bounding down the steps like dogs. In the next moment, the troops were nearly upon them, so close that Chen could see their crimson throats between their long, sharp mandibles. Desperately, Chen prepared to fight. Zhu Irzh followed his lead, drawing the sword with a hiss. The Imperial troop leader bounded through, and past them. The first line of troops followed, flowing around Chen and Zhu Irzh, and down the stairwell. As the rest of the battalion of Imperial soldiers scrambled after them, Chen and the others were left standing, open-mouthed, in disbelief.