The Iron Khan (16 page)

“We can’t just sit here,” Inari said. “And where’s the goddess Herself? Could the Empress have — ?” She found that she did not want to continue.

“I don’t know what the Empress is and isn’t capable of, after all this,” Miss Qi said blankly. “She’s supposed to be powerless but she obviously isn’t.”

They waited for a while, but the opalescent boat did not move and no sound came from it. At last Miss Qi and the badger took hold of the rope and, hauling hard, pulled the boats closer together. They had agreed to go together, just like last time.

The goddess’ boat gleamed like moonlight as they set foot on it. Inari did not feel comfortable here — it was one thing being friends with the kind Miss Qi, whom she felt to be a kindred spirit, but another exploring the boat of the goddess. Inari did not belong and she knew it. Within her, there came a faint twinge of discomfort, as if the child, too, knew that this was not its place. Inari put a hand protectively to the base of her abdomen and kept close to the Celestial warrior. They moved through corridors glittering with pale jeweled tapestries, past elegant furniture. It made the houseboat feel homely and squat, but Inari thought she preferred it all the same. The air smelled faintly of perfume — jasmine, perhaps, or sandalwood. In one of the cabins, they came across a maid, frozen in the act of pouring tea. Her stiff skirts fanned out around her and although she had been arrested in motion, the tea had not: it pooled over the surface of the table and dripped down the legs. Inari, who liked order, had to stifle the urge to seize a cloth and mop it up.

“You see?” the badger said.

Inari nodded. She passed a hand across the maid’s eyes but the woman did not blink. Her face had a glassy, glazed expression — an ivory statue.

“At least she doesn’t seem to have actually possessed anyone,” Inari said doubtfully.

“Not yet.” Miss Qi turned to the badger. “Where did you hear this sound, then?”

“Down the stairs.”

Leaving the maid, they followed the familiar down the stairs and into another maze of passages. Despite the beautiful decoration, the boat felt claustrophobic and cramped. The badger paused outside a door and waved a paw for silence. Inari and Miss Qi listened. At first, there was nothing, but then they heard a distant scratching, like a mouse. Had it not been for the unusual circumstances aboard the goddess’ vessel, Inari might have suspected a more prosaic explanation, like vermin, but the frozen maid told a different story.

The door was open a crack. Miss Qi put her eye to it, but withdrew with a shake of the head.

“Can’t see anything,” she mouthed.

There was a brief, odd moment, almost as though an electric current had passed through the ship. Inari felt a tingling along her nerves; her scalp prickled.

The doorway erupted into movement: whirling limbs, a golden-black glitter as if some vast insect had whistled into view. Inari screamed as a bright edge swept down toward her; she threw herself to one side. Across the passage, Miss Qi was a blur, her own blade striking out. There was a cry, cut short. She could hear the badger growling. But Inari’s vision was filled with black and gold as she was picked up and turned upside down.

“No!” she cried. “Be careful! I — ”

Too late. Her abductor was running down the corridor. She could see the floor and the whisking end of a brocade tail-coat. Behind her, someone — Miss Qi? — gave a sharp short shout. She glimpsed figures. Then they were onto the deck. Up and over, with Inari’s head bouncing painfully from side to side — but at least it was still attached to her shoulders, she thought. They must have come up along the far side of Kuan Yin’s boat: she caught sight of a towering mast and hanging sails like rags. Inari was flung face down onto the deck and her wrists and ankles bound. She felt the boards of the vessel shudder beneath her. Squirming around, she saw that they were already moving, though there was no wind in those limp black sails. Then the world was suddenly bright. Inari saw something descending from the night skies, gleaming pale like a diamond star.

Kuan Yin was coming back at last. But before Inari could feel the faintest trace of relief, the boat beneath her speeded up, the incorporeal substance of the Sea of Night splashing soundlessly over the rail. The darkness opened up and the boat was gone, swallowed by a maw of air.

Chen and Robin did not discover what had happened until later that evening, when, without warning, Mhara appeared in the middle of the temple. His manifestation was sufficiently sudden for Chen to blink and step back.

“Mhara!” Robin said. “I’ve been trying to contact you.”

“I was in the Book room,” the Emperor said. “Chen knows.”

“Kuan Yin was here earlier. I’m afraid there’s a problem,” Chen began.

“I know. My mother.” The Emperor’s serene face took on an expression of unfamiliar unease. “She’s missing. I’m very sorry, Chen. Your family seems continually to be caught up in my own problems.” He paused and Chen realized that he was ashamed: it seemed unnatural, to be facing the Celestial Emperor when the Emperor himself was in the wrong. “She’s taken Inari with her.”

“How did you find out?” Chen and Robin said simultaneously.

“Do you know where she’s gone?” Chen then asked.

“Kuan Yin returned to find pirates ransacking her vessel,” Mhara said. “Her crew was frozen, but remained aware. One of her maids saw Inari being taken. Miss Qi was with her, and the badger. She is not alone. I know that isn’t much comfort.”

Chen took a deep breath. “It’s somewhat reassuring. I know there are supposed to be pirates on the Sea of Night, but — ”

“These weren’t local.”

“Then — ”

“These people came from somewhere else. Another sea, in another Hell. There are such.”

“I thought the worlds were supposed to be sealed off from one another,” Chen said. “Unless — ” Zhu Irzh had recently managed to get snatched into a Hindu Hell, after all.

“Unless one is venturing in lands where many different cultures have strong religions,” Mhara said. “Even then, one tends to find oneself only in the realms belonging to one’s own particular faith. There is a certain amount of bleed — Between was such an area — but the Sea of Night is not such a place.”

“So what does this mean?” Robin asked. “That the walls between the worlds are breaking down?”

“I can’t think what else it would mean,” Mhara said. “Somehow, against all magical logic, it seems that my mother managed to contact someone outside the Sea of Night.”

“Or someone contacted her,” Chen said. “She’s still powerful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she’s still powerful. And she wants revenge for what she sees as my slights.”

“I can’t just sit here,” Chen said.

“No. But equally, you can’t go to the Sea of Night on your own, with no clue of who these people are or where they’ve come from. We know roughly where they entered the Sea. I will send you a boat, Chen, if you wish.”

“I’d like to take Zhu Irzh with me,” Chen said, “but I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“I think you’ll find that Zhu Irzh has a task of his own,” the Emperor said.

•

The “boat” the Emperor sent was a warship, which Chen had not been expecting. It did not look like something that had come from Heaven. It was high and black and blunt, not modern. It lay at anchor just off the coast of Singapore Three, not far from the typhoon shelter and the place where, until recently, Chen’s own home had been moored.

“Can anyone else see it?” Chen asked Mhara as they stood at the harbor wall, looking out. The boat, silhouetted against a fiery sunset, was the color of ink: a medieval engraving. Its sails billowed gently in an otherwise unnoticeable wind.

The Emperor laughed. “Only a few. It won’t show up on naval radar, if that’s what you mean. Quite invisible.”

“Who’s the captain?”

“You’ll meet him.” Mhara pointed. A skiff was setting out from beneath the shadow of the war-junk, moving swiftly over the gleaming water. Chen could see a small figure hunched in the prow, but no one seemed to be rowing the craft. They climbed down the harbor steps to meet it and as the skiff slowed, the Celestial in it stood. He reminded Chen of Miss Qi: another heavenly warrior, pale-faced and sloe-eyed. He bowed his head as he neared the Emperor.

“Majesty.”

“Don’t bother with all that,” Mhara told him. “It’s good that you’re here.”

“I’ve come to collect Master Chen,” the young man said. He extended a guiding hand, but Chen climbed on board without aid, nodding his thanks.

“I have to return to Heaven,” Mhara said. “With my mother missing, I need to be there, but I’ve placed troops on the borders.”

“You think she’s trying to raise an army?” Chen asked.

“I think she wants Heaven back,” Mhara said. He raised a hand in farewell as the skiff set off again, a smooth, invisible glide. Chen watched the Emperor’s tall figure recede against the lights of the city, until suddenly it was no longer there. He sighed. He wished that he could believe Mhara to be wrong, but a maternal plan to reclaim Heaven sounded all too plausible.

But what did she want with Inari? And where was Zhu Irzh? Chen told himself not to fret as the black bulk of the war-junk drew closer. Then they were alongside the ship and a rope was tossed downward. The pilot seized it and held it taut while Chen scrambled up onto the deck. The sails belled out over his head and all at once the city was falling fast behind. They came out of the harbor mouth, speeding past the place where Chen’s houseboat had been moored, and then toward the hummocks of the islands, whalebacks against the still-red sky. As they passed the last rock, with the towers of Singapore Three glittering in the distance, Chen felt the world shift around him. He gripped the rail. Beside him, the pilot of the skiff gave him a sympathetic glance. Chen looked back. The city was no longer there. Ahead, lay the yawning dark expanse of the Sea of Night.

The forest shifted and warped around Omi’s fleeing form, the trees changing as he ran. It was hard to tell, out of the corners of his eyes, but he thought they were shifting into words: huge flickering characters written on the air. The world was rewriting itself, Omi realized, perhaps transformed by the contents of the scroll that he now carried carefully between his cat-jaws. Different tastes — blood, jasmine tea, snow, metal — touched his tongue and the scroll seemed to be singing, a small joyous voice that spoke in a language he could not understand.

Behind him, however, he could still hear the ifrit, crashing through the trees. Ifrits, Omi reminded himself, can’t read. He was confident that he could outrun it and if not — well, then he would simply have to turn and fight. But he was worried about the scroll, wanting to keep it safe, hoping that he could make the oasis before —

And there it was, whirling through a wall of words and symbols, the startling blue crescent of the moon-shaped lake with the pavilion beyond.

Omi conjured a last burst of speed from his limbs and was out once more into the desert. The ifrit gave a shriek, perhaps rage, perhaps despair. But Omi was already bolting across the harsh shiver of the sands toward the lake. He shot through the gate and as he did so, was jarred forcibly back into his human form. He just managed to catch the scroll before it hit the stone flags. Turning, he saw the ifrit hurtling toward the gate, its narrow, leathery head outstretched. Half phoenix, half pterodactyl, it struck the air of the gate and exploded in a shower of blood and fire. Omi shielded the scroll under his coat as blazing fragments fell all around the courtyard and the air was filled with the reek of burning demon.

Inside his head, the Book said, “Well?”

“I got it!” Omi said aloud, exultant.

“So you have. Well done. Bring it to me.”

Omi took the stairs two at a time and found the Book, not unexpectedly, sitting where he had left it on its pedestal.

“Open the scroll,” the Book instructed him. “Read it to me.”

“I can’t,” Omi said blankly. “I don’t know what language it’s written in, and anyway, there’s not much writing on it as far as I can see — it’s a map.”

“That doesn’t matter. Just open it.”

Doubting, Omi did so and experienced a curious sensation, as though the top of his head had been lifted off. He felt words entering his consciousness, unfamiliar, unrecognizable, and he spoke.

When he had finished, he stared. The spell hung before him in the air, its letters glittering like fire. But it was not just a spell. The words snaked into configurations of their own, forming constellations in the dim air of the library.

“It’s still a map,” Omi said, peering.

“Yes. Words that formed the world,” said the Book. “And if you could look within me, you would find part of me missing.”

“The scroll was taken from you?” Omi asked.

“Stolen from me. Stolen, and used to rewrite the rules of the land. It must be restored and I must be restored with it.”

“How is that to happen?”