The Iron Khan (26 page)

They were safe, but behind them, the ifrits gathered like a stormcloud on the other side of the barrier, shrieking with frustration and rage.

Inari looked down at the loop that bound her wrist. The thin cord that depended from it extended a short distance into the air before disappearing. Inari gave the cord a slight tug and, a moment later, felt an equal return pressure on her wrist.

“Can you hear me?” she asked, feeling foolish, as though she were a child speaking into one end of a tin-can telephone.

A moment later, Miss Qi’s whisper came out of nothingness: “Just about.”

It had been the best that the clerk could do. “I cannot give you passage together throughout the realms. But I can ensure that you are joined.” The clerk held up a cord, twisted with silver and glowing with the faint light of a spell.

“Is that possible?” Jhai asked, frowning.

“Unusual. But certainly possible. Remember how the three worlds are configured: they are folded in upon one another, with points that overlap. Essentially, you are moving through different layers of the same space.”

Remembering how such places as Kuan Yin’s temple and the Opera House on Earth had analogies in both Heaven and Hell, Inari understood.

“All you have to do is to maintain the link given to you by the cord,” the clerk had said, binding the wrists of Inari, Jhai, Robin, and Miss Qi. The latter would, obviously, travel via Heaven, while Inari and Jhai took the route of Hell. Robin, meanwhile, would accompany Miss Qi: although she was a spirit, the marks granted to her as the consort of the Emperor were sufficient to allow her Celestial passage.

None of them liked the idea of separation. “We’d be stronger together,” Jhai said. “But if this is the only way…”

It seemed that it was. They walked through the doors of the Night Harbor, linked by the silver cord like dancers in some rite, and then Jhai and Inari had turned to see that their companions had vanished.

Every time she had come to Hell, in these recent years, Inari had gone by various routes. Now, with the dispensation given by Jhai’s generous bribe (claimed via the Bank of Hell), Jhai and Inari stood on the summit of a high bluff. The lights of the city, Hell’s analogue to Singapore Three — when still in existence — sparkled in the distance. Inari did not understand how the city could remain in Hell, and yet be absent on Earth. Jhai thought Singapore Three had somehow been shunted sideways by the spell, moved into some separate dimension. But they did not know for sure, and there was nothing for it but to wait for the transport that had been arranged for them. Somewhere in Heaven, no doubt, Miss Qi and Robin stood upon a pleasant rise, looking out over orchards or meadows. Inari, looking at the rugged red landscape of Hell’s plains, sighed. Jhai showed no such regrets.

“Did that clerk say when our transportation was likely to show up?”

“It didn’t say.” Inari knew only that they would be traveling by train. Zhu Irzh had enthused about Hell’s new railway network after his last trip, and even Chen had been cautiously impressed: trains like silver bullets, speeding through the sultry airs of Hell, slick and quick and luxurious. Almost something to look forward to.

Except that Chen and Zhu Irzh had been guests of the Ministry of War on that particular occasion, whereas the train that now approached the platform on which they stood was heading into the equivalent of Hell’s West; not, Inari belatedly recalled, the most sophisticated part of the realm, any more than Western China might be.

The train was rusty. It chugged, spurting black smoke into what passed for Hell’s atmosphere. It looked as though its multiple wheels might be about to drop off and spin across the plain. Jhai was staring at it with undisguised horror.

“That’s it?”

Inari reflected that Jhai, Paugeng’s scion, was unlikely to have traveled anywhere in anything less than first class or in her own private jet since infancy, if that.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Right,” Jhai said, recovering quickly. “Better get on with it.” She put out a hand and the train slowed, then ground to a halt with a great creaking and groaning of gears. There was no sign of a driver, though coals burned and sparked in the cage of the engine. A series of doors along the sides of the train looked rusted shut, but Jhai wrenched one open. With more consideration than Inari would have expected from her, Jhai reached down and extended a hand.

“Be careful, Inari.”

“Thanks.” The cord from her wrist was stretched briefly taut, then slackened again. Presumably Miss Qi and Robin were undergoing a more pleasant version of the same experience. Inari stepped up beside Jhai, finding herself in a narrow corridor, and shut the door behind her. The train pulled slowly away, picking up speed in a cloud of red dust as the rails took it across the plain. Soon the platform was left far behind. Inari and Jhai made their way down the corridor, which like many of the constructions of Hell, was awkwardly shaped. Jhai made a clicking sound with her tongue.

“Why is this so constricted?”

Inari sighed. “So that we don’t enjoy it.”

“How typical.” Jhai opened the door to the first carriage they came to and discovered it was already occupied, if not full. A sullen range of faces turned in their direction and stared.

It was some time since Inari had visited her native realm and after the uniformity of human countenances, she found the diversity of Hell had become disconcerting. Flat, squashed faces vied with long, pear-shaped ones. Crimson, yellow, and jade eyes regarded her with substantial disfavor. And the carriage smelled even worse than Singapore Three, which might generally be described as ripe. The odor of stale sweat and dried blood rose to meet her. Pregnancy made one nauseous, Inari discovered, or perhaps it was simply the unfamiliarity lent by distance. She had not remembered Hell as smelling quite so rank. Meanwhile Jhai’s elegant nose was also wrinkling.

“Delightful. Mind you, I’ve seen worse. I hardly dare ask whether they serve food on this train.”

Inari stared at her companion in horror. “You can’t be hungry!”

“I had some congee at Robin’s. That’s it. What can I say? I’m a carnivore. Let’s find a seat, Inari. Then I’m going in search of the buffet car.”

They found two adjacent places, sitting opposite an elderly spirit in a hat. She gazed at the two visitors for a moment, then busied herself by rummaging in a capacious handbag. Inari slid gratefully into her seat and pressed her face to the grimy window. Hell’s plains slipped away in a blur of dust; Inari closed her eyes and thought of the child within.

When she opened them again Jhai was shoveling sticky rice into her mouth with a pair of chopsticks, and the landscape of the plain had changed to a rockier, wilder scene, with mountains rising shadowy in the distance.

“Want some?” Jhai asked, pointing to the rice. “It’s not bad.”

“No thanks,” Inari said automatically, but she thought she might see if the buffet car served tea. Jhai offered to go for her, but just as she was rising from her seat a spirit appeared at the front of the carriage, shoving a large and ancient cart before her. Served tea without having to move cheered Inari up somewhat.

“See if you can speak to Miss Qi,” Jhai suggested sourly. “Ask her if they’d be willing to do a swap.”

Inari laughed. “I doubt it. Even if it was possible.” She took a sip of strong tea. “How long was I asleep?”

“A couple of hours. It’s difficult to tell here.” Jhai leaned across and looked out of the window. “On Earth, it would take a couple of days to reach Tibet from where we are. Here, it’s harder to say. The trouble with the other realms is that they’re folded in a way that Earth isn’t.”

“Those are quite high mountains,” Inari ventured. She had visited relatively few places in China itself, and those had mainly been on the South Coast, although Chen had once taken her to Hawaii. Inari heaved a nostalgic sigh.

“Yes, they are. Not the Himalayas, though. But I don’t know whether they’d look — ah!”

“What have you seen?”

“I thought those were clouds. They’re not. They’re peaks.”

Inari craned to see. Jhai was right. Behind the shadow hills lay a line of whiteness in the sky, and when she scrubbed at the filthy window with her sleeve she was able to see that this was, indeed, a line of glaciers. Shortly after this, the train began to slow and then pulled into a remote halt on a high platform of rock.

“Is this it?”

“You want Tibet?” the old person sitting opposite them asked.

“Yes.”

“This isn’t the border yet. You’ll know when you come to it.” She gathered up her numerous bags and got up. “Hope your documents are in order, young ladies.”

Inari hoped so, too. She helped the elderly person off the train with her bags, earning a suspicious glance and a muttered, grudging thanks. Here, the air was colder: almost Earth-normal, and unimpeded by the grubby glass, the sky was a pure, chilly aquamarine. Not very much like Hell at all, Inari thought, and her spirits rose.

When she got back to the carriage, slackening the cord between their wrists, she found Jhai speaking into it.

“Heaven’s transportation system is apparently delightful,” Jhai informed her with a roll of the eyes. “Miss Qi and Robin are progressing across flower-strewn meadows and almond groves in a carriage pulled by does.”

“Lucky them.” Normally made happy by the happiness of others, Inari felt that there were nonetheless limits on one’s charitableness. Jhai gave a sardonic grin. The train roared on, into the darkening evening.

Toward what Inari estimated to be midnight, they reached the border. The train stopped for an hour, with no sign of action, then a pair of guards got on. Scions of the Ministry of War, they had bristling, tusked faces and carried assault weapons rather than the more traditional swords and spears. Tibet had such an unfortunate relationship with China on Earth that Inari wondered what the state of the place was in Hell: not good, from the look of things.

“Papers,” the guard demanded. Jhai shoved them forward, giving the guard a glittering smile. Inari felt a brief pang of envy: she was too shy to flirt like that. The guard preened. “In order, madam. By the way, should you grow bored during the night, there’s a card game in carriage three. We’d be happy to welcome you to it.”

“I might just join you,” Jhai said. “Thanks.”

Thus the border was crossed without incident and the train speeded into the mountains. Inari dozed. She woke once, to find that they were crossing a narrow bridge of rock over a great chasm. A river snaked far beneath, lit by glancing fires. There was no sign of Jhai; presumably she had sought the buffet car once more, or perhaps the card game. Inari shut her eyes again.

When she next woke, it was close to Hell’s vague dawn. Jhai was back in her seat, curled neatly asleep. The train was trundling around an immense bend. Inari looked down and wished she hadn’t. The drop fell away beyond the thread of the rail, thousands of feet to an invisible below. The mountains were all around, the icy summits looking close enough to reach out and touch, and far across the chasm Inari spotted the first sign of life, a tiny temple, perched doll-like on the side of a cliff. She wondered if this, too, had its counterpart in the world of Earth. Then the train whisked around the curve and the temple was gone.

Jhai blinked awake at a tug on the cord. Miss Qi’s voice came faintly out of the air. “Our guide says we’re nearly there.”

“Thank god,” Jhai muttered. She stretched, stiffly. “I could do with a wash. I hope Roerich’s city has running water.”

After a sojourn in Hell, Agarta sounded like paradise indeed, no matter what its hygiene might be. Jhai and Inari got to their feet and made their way to the door. The train was pulling into the side of a temple complex, Inari saw, that stepped up the steep mountainside in a series of levels. It did not look like a building of Hell and this in itself was hopeful. Once on the platform, she watched the train haul away without regret.

“All right,” Jhai said into the cord, “what now?”

It was the temple of a shepherd god, appropriate in this mountainous region. When they walked through the door, Inari turned to look back, and had the sudden disorienting vision of a mountain pasture, soft with blossoms. A high-sided carriage stood beneath a flowering tree. Miss Qi was talking to a golden-horned deer — and then both Miss Qi and Robin were standing by her side. Inari blinked. The pastoral scene, a dusty hillside, and the sharp terrain of Hell were all visible, overlayed upon one another, glimpsed from the open doorway of the temple. Deliberately, Inari turned her back on the triple scene and followed her companions through to the courtyard, where a man was waiting by the side of a fountain.

•

“It will come to us,” Roerich explained. He smiled at Inari. “No more traveling.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“I am — but not for your lack of journeying. It’s in part due to my negligence that has led you to these straits.”

Inari smiled back at him, feeling safe with this calm-faced, austere man. “I don’t think you can blame yourself too greatly, from what you’ve told us.” They were sitting in a side chamber of the monastery. Roerich had drawn the shutters closed against the triple view and the room was plunged into a comforting, cool gloom.