The Iron Khan (9 page)

How do you think I feel? said a voice from within, and with a start Inari realized it was the voice of her unborn child. You’re not the only pawn.

Who are you? Inari asked, thinking of transmigrating souls. The assassin Lord Lady Seijin, her own slayer, had died at last, his/her soul fled, but where to? Inside the child that Inari now carried? She did not like the thought that she might be bearing the Assassin of Worlds, Seijin’s ancient title, passed down from carrier to carrier.

I will be a warrior, the child said. You may be sure of that.

Not reassuring in any sense. A warrior, or just another of those pawns? Inari asked, but the child was silent and she could feel its spirit withdrawing. But it was a legitimate question. Even Mhara wasn’t exempt, and look what Mhara was. Inari fought down futility and turned to Miss Qi.

“We’ve got to try something. We can’t sit here forever.”

“I agree,” said the Celestial. “If the engines won’t work, then what do we have? Magic?”

Inari nodded. “Not much choice, is there?”

They debated what to use, eventually coming up with a location spell. They already knew where they were, but the Sea of Night was vast and if they could pinpoint their location more accurately, Miss Qi suggested, then they might be able to send out a call for help. This would depend on whether they were closer to Heaven or Hell: Earth wasn’t as yet much good at answering mayday calls from the great beyond.

“Although things are different now,” Miss Qi mused. “With so many members of the Emperor’s March in Singapore Three, someone might actually hear us.”

“Someone might actually help, as well,” Inari added. A little more hopeful, they began their preparations.

A drop of blood, from each. They watched as the Celestial’s silvery life force and Inari’s much darker demon blood hissed and mingled in a bowl borrowed from the kitchen. There was some comfort, Inari reflected, in being abducted along with her own home. They took a drop of night, brought up in a bucket from the Sea below and rolling around in the bottom of the bowl like a bead of thundercloud. Then, together, Inari and Miss Qi spread their hands over the bowl and spoke the spell. Blood and darkness mingled, to form a thin, blurred shape over the surface of the bowl, constantly changing: the Sea of Night itself. A tiny drop of silver showed their position, close to the exact center of the Sea. And there was something else, too, a blacker spot.

“What’s that?” Inari asked.

“It’s another boat!” Miss Qi said. “Maybe one of the boats that takes souls to their destination — they might be able to help us.”

They peered at the spot. It was moving. Abandoning the bowl, Inari and Miss Qi ran to the railing and looked out. At first, through the swirling mist which covered the insubstantial waves of the Sea, they could see nothing. But then it appeared, its high prow carving through the mist. Unlike the craft which carried souls, it had no sails, no sign of a crew. Its sides were black and glistening, like wet stone. Traceries of gold snaked over the prow, gleaming in the light of the lantern that hung from it.

“That’s one of Heaven’s boats,” Miss Qi said. Inari was aware of an overwhelming relief, spared from having to deal with Hell.

“Hail it — I don’t want to leave the houseboat, but perhaps they could help us, or take a message — you could go, I don’t want you to be stranded here.”

“That’s very kind,” Miss Qi said. “But I don’t want to leave you, either.”

“I won’t be on my own — I have the badger.”

They shouted to the boat, but no one appeared on its deck. It glided in, coming closer and closer, until Inari became uneasy: it did not look as though the boat was going to stop. Maybe it, too, was adrift — perhaps the storm that had snatched the houseboat had stolen away this other craft, also, and its crew was missing. But she was becoming afraid that it would ram the houseboat.

It did not. Instead, it pulled up alongside, only three or four feet away. Now that she could see the boat more closely, it looked old. The sides were scraped and scarred, shadowy barnacles ornamented its lower reaches. It did not feel like a vessel from Heaven and when Inari stole a glance at Miss Qi’s face, the Celestial’s expression mirrored her own doubts.

“Maybe they’ve realized we’re in trouble,” Miss Qi said doubtfully.

“But who are they?” Inari had heard stories of pirates on the Sea of Night. Had some of these stolen a boat, taken it over? No one had appeared on its decks so far.

“There’s only one way to find out,” the Celestial warrior said. The boats had moved close enough together for her to step over onto the other’s deck.

“I’m coming with you,” Inari said. For all her brave words about the badger, she did not want to be on her own until she was sure that this strange vessel meant no harm. She thought Miss Qi might protest, but after a moment’s pause the warrior said, “Very well. Be careful.”

Miss Qi hopped over onto the other deck and assisted Inari’s slower progress. The baby didn’t greatly impede her so far but she was still very conscious of its safety.

There was a scrambling at the rail and the badger joined them. Inari was glad of its presence, but not entirely happy about leaving the houseboat uninhabited. Standing on the deck of the strange vessel, she looked about her. There was a general air of decay, but it was slight, and yet the boat had moved with such purpose… Was it possible that the boat itself was alive? She’d heard of such things.

Then Miss Qi dropped to one knee, her bow drawn. Inari, not being a warrior, took a moment to register that a sound had come from the interior of the wheel-house. But no further movement occurred and Miss Qi stood.

“Someone’s inside.”

“Or something.”

With Inari close behind, Miss Qi strode to the wheel-house. She paused before the door for a second, listening, then kicked the door open. It opened easily, suggesting that it had not been locked. Ahead stretched a shadowy passage. Inari and Miss Qi glanced at one another and then, with the badger at their heels, went inside.

Whispers. And echoes, that sounded like snatches of old conversations, endlessly replayed. From what Inari could catch, they sounded trivial: gossipy murmurs, expressions of delight.

Miss Qi frowned. “Those sound like Celestial voices.”

“You said you thought this was a Celestial ship. Could they be — well, not ghosts, but similar?” If the ship’s crew had been abducted, or had to abandon the ship, maybe they’d left some trace of themselves behind. But these voices sounded more like ladies at lunch than the crew of a boat.

Then the sound came again, a scratchy shuffling. Miss Qi pointed to a door at the far end of the passage. Inari nodded and together they crept toward the door. Once more, Miss Qi flung it open, but here there was no empty hallway. A luxuriously appointed chamber lay within, smothered in heavy velvet draperies, the air thick with incense. Two glistening eyes looked out at them from a masklike face above a costume so opulent Inari wondered how the wearer could stand.

Miss Qi’s mouth dropped open. She said a single word: “Empress.”

It was not entirely dark inside the cave. At some point, someone had installed electricity and now a light gleamed high on the wall, not enough to fade the irreplaceable murals, but enough for tourists to be able to see them.

“These are beautiful,” Omi said. He stood, staring up at the girls and tigers and deer that danced and arched their way across the wall.

“They are akashi,” Raksha said. “A time when the world was one and deer and tigers were friends.”

“Has there ever been such a world?”

“There still is,” Raksha said. “The afterlife of my people. I’ve seen it once, but only for a little while.” She sounded wistful.

“But — you were dead, weren’t you?”

“Our killers sent us first to Hell, then trapped our souls in our bodies. We lay there like seeds, until someone gave us the power of movement again. Some of us are still there.”

“That is a terrible thing to do,” Omi said.

“It was the Khan who slew us and the Khan who brought us back.” Raksha looked as though she might spit. “I am tired of doing the Khan’s bidding.”

Omi couldn’t blame her. He studied the akashi, who looked more like the erotic sculptures from Indian carvings — all breasts and pointed toes and sly knowing eyes — than Buddhist nuns, before walking on.

In the next cave, Omi found himself confronted by a face: an immense, placid, golden visage. He recognized it.

“Buddha!”

“Yes. He’s the guardian of this place, so I understand. He’s kept it free of the Khan’s influence.”

“He is lord of all,” said a new voice, fluting and happy. A girl stepped out from the shadows surrounding the giant head. She wore diaphanous trousers and a short-sleeved silk top that left her jeweled midriff bare. Her long hair was piled on top of her head and decorated with scarves. Rubies winked in the light, decorating wrists and neck and ears. Smiling at Omi, she walked past him and put out a hand. Omi saw Raksha flinch, but she stood her ground.

“Like us, but not,” the akashi said. She smelled of unknown magic, Omi thought, something spicy and unfamiliar, like a dust in the air.

“We have not met,” Raksha said. “I am a cousin of yours.”

The akashi studied Raksha, with her head to one side. “You are a Tokarian, aren’t you? I thought you were all dead.” She looked a little closer: Omi got the impression that she was smelling Raksha. “Ah, I see you are. My commiserations.”

“I have recently been reanimated,” Raksha said. “By an old enemy, the Khan.”

A rumbling sound came from the giant head and Omi turned. The head was as before, quite peaceful. The akashi was frowning, but in the manner of someone who seeks to solve a problem. “Do you seek sanctuary here? You would be welcome.”

“I seek aid, but not sanctuary,” Raksha said. “I’m trying to take down the Khan.”

“Ambitious,” the akashi said. She turned to Omi. “And you. You are a Buddhist?”

“Yes. I am Japanese. I trained as a warrior. My grandfather was a Samurai, killed by the Khan. My mother raised me as a Buddhist, but I have a duty of vengeance.”

“Sometimes one must fight,” the akashi said.

“Sometimes, one must. Raksha has come here asking for help. Can you help us?”

“We are held here,” the akashi said, sighing. “All of us desert spirits are closely attached to place; we are woven into the landscape. We akashi are bound to this temple complex, for instance. We cannot leave it — we would wither and die. If we could be freed, we could act.”

“It’s the same for all of us,” Raksha said. “Including the Khan. You’re right. Except for you, Omi.”

Except for me, and someone from Hell.

“Is there a way of freeing you?” Omi asked. “It seems to me that your goals and those of the Khan are the same, but from opposite sides. He seeks warriors to do his bidding, and so do you, except that the warriors you need are yourselves.”

“Believe me, we’ve tried,” the akashi said. “This temple holds many archives — some of them were ransacked and stolen by people from the West over a hundred years ago now. But documents still remain and my sisters and I have spent years going through them in search of a spell, or anything that might liberate us. The only thing we’ve ever found is a mention of a charm, very far away.”

“Do you know where?” Omi asked.

“There is a map,” the akashi said. “It is not clear. Mice ate part of it. But I can show it to you, if you like.”

Omi agreed. He was not optimistic: it seemed to him that the constant shift and change of the desert over the centuries was not conducive to information remaining the same. With Raksha in close attendance, he followed the akashi down a ladder that traversed the length of the Buddha’s body. The statue was at least thirty feet high and Omi took a moment to admire its builders, their dedication in this lonely place.

The archive was housed in the back of the caves, via a passage which led through into a modern office. It was strange to see Raksha and the akashi in this contemporary setting and Omi, fearing tactlessness, was nonetheless compelled to say as much.

“Do the monks know you are here?”

The akashi smiled. “They know our likenesses adorn their walls — and even the t-shirts that they sell.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant.”

“They may glimpse us out of the corners of their eyes, or in their dreams,” the akashi said. “But you know, these are holy men. Celibates. If they see us — well. The human mind is prone to conjuring fantasies. Especially — no disrespect — the male mind.”

“I see.”

“Our very nature hides us. Many years ago — more than two hundred — one of my sisters fell in love with a monk.” The akashi’s beautiful face betrayed sadness. “They ran away together. They did not get far. She was killed by the spell that binds us here and he pined away. Their bones lie hidden by the sand.”

“A tragic story,” Omi said.