Iron Khan Page 8

  “Yes, it’s a problem, being a ghost on the earthly plane,” the demon said with sympathy. Foyle shrugged.

  “Goes with the territory. Got used to it. But you—you’re incarnate. Nothing stopping you.”

  “You’d better show me where this war room is,” Zhu Irzh said.

  “Right-o.”

  Zhu Irzh followed the ghost up a flight of stairs. The sounds continued from below, but there was no sign that anyone had heard them. Yet. He tried to be quiet, but even for a demon this was difficult: it was an old, creaky house and the floorboards had partially rotted through. The war room was situated at the end of the house, along yet another passage. With Foyle standing by, Zhu Irzh pushed the door open.

  It reminded him of his father’s study in the house in Hell: lined with books and with a huge table in the center of the room. Everything was covered with dust, except the table, which bore a number of parchments on which someone had scrawled sigils and lines that looked like hand-drawn maps. The air reeked of magic.

  “Interesting,” the demon murmured. He went further into the room to study a row of jars on an upper shelf. They contained what might have been fetuses, small curled ammonites in a dull orange liquid. “Foyle, do you know what these are?”

  The ghost shook his head. “Not a clue, old chap. Some kind of sorcery. Tap the glass.”

  “Why?” But Zhu Irzh did as instructed. The fetus moved within, a sudden squirm. “They’re alive.” He peered at the thing. It was blind, with small eyelids like shells. Its mouth opened feebly.

  “Yes. They’ve been here a long time. There were two fewer when I first came here.”

  “Hmm.” If he was going to steal anything from this room, the demon thought, one of these jars would be a good candidate so far. He inspected the rest of the war room, finding that the books were all devoted to the subject of magic—at least, the Chinese editions. He couldn’t speak for the many volumes in Arabic or other languages, but from the diagrams in a couple of the tomes, they, too, concerned the sorcerous arts.

  “He’s been looking for something,” Zhu Irzh suggested.

  “A way out. Power. A way to expand his influence. I’ve watched him, over the years.”

  The demon was not quite ready to tell Foyle about the reanimated Tokarians, but it seemed probable that the Khan had acted from this particular base of operations. “Have you seen him do actual magic here?”

  “Oh yes, many times. The last occasion was just a day or so ago. I could feel it, not see it, because of being in the wall. But it was a big spell—made the whole building shudder. I don’t know what its aim might have been.”

  “I think I do,” Zhu Irzh replied. Foyle looked enquiring, so the demon said, “I’ll explain later.” He crossed to the table and started examining the manuscripts. Most of the papers made no sense, but then, toward the middle of the pile, he discovered something that did. It was in an unknown language, full of hooks and vertical lines, and someone had made notes in the margin. In Mandarin. Reading quickly, Zhu Irzh saw mention of “revivification.”

  “I think that’s the spell,” he said, and quickly explained to Foyle what had happened.

  “Armies,” the ghost said. “He’s looking for an army. Years ago, it would have been easier to recruit—the situation was far less stable then, and some of the mountain tribes, who have traditionally done his bidding, were many in number. But now everyone’s moved into the cities and the warriors are gone. The Khan needs men.”

  Or women, Zhu Irzh thought, remembering the shaman. Foyle turned, sharply. “What was that?”

  A footstep on the stair, a distinct creak.

  “Into the wall!” Foyle commanded, pointing to a second plaster rose amid the paneling. The demon pressed it and a panel slid to one side. He squeezed within and the ghost melted through the wall beside him. Zhu Irzh slid the panel back and heard the door to the war room open.

  It was almost certainly the Khan. Zhu Irzh couldn’t see out of the cramped, musty space in which he was hiding, but he could still hear and the muttering voice sounded familiar. He tried to keep as still as possible, hoping that the concealment spell would hold if the Khan took it into his head to investigate the wall. But why should he? the demon asked himself. As far as the Khan knew, Foyle was still a prisoner and the house was secure. He hoped.

  Then the whispering began. It started as a murmur, so faint that Zhu Irzh wasn’t even sure if what he was hearing was real. But the sound escalated, rising into first a litany and then a roar, until it filled the house and the demon had to fight not to cover his ears.

  It was the Khan: not his voice, but his magic, and that magic was desperate. It reminded Zhu Irzh of some of the souls in Hell, the ones who hadn’t yet realized how hopeless their situation was. These were the spirits who had been perpetually confined, not the human souls who would, in the fullness of non-time, be released back into the reincarnation cycle. You didn’t come across them very often. They were usually to be found in the pits and dungeons of the Ministries, away from the mansions and homes of the rest of that level of Hell. And of course, one found them more frequently in the lower reaches of Hell, the endless lands where one rarely had a reason to venture.

  The Khan was one such, and he wasn’t even dead yet. It was the fear of that death that drove him; he had become pathological over the centuries. Zhu Irzh might be a demon, but he didn’t like nutters. And now he was stuck here in the wall while the Khan’s magic raved on.

  Great. He didn’t want to take a chance with the concealment spell, not with his inadvertent host in this kind of state. He’d just have to stay and ride it out.

  15

  Inari stared at the lovely, malignant figure seated before her. She’d never met the former Empress of Heaven, Mhara’s mother. Although Inari had visited the Celestial Palace, the Empress had been deposed some short time before, having proved to be as mad as her late husband. Mhara would not, of course, have his mother slain, and Inari was not even sure whether this was possible—the death of the Imperial members usually meant that they were de-souled, cast from the Wheel of Existence itself.

  Instead, Mhara had been faced with the necessity of his scheming mother’s imprisonment and rather than having her jailed in Heaven, with the possibility that she might influence someone in the vicinity, he’d sent her into exile in the middle of the Sea of Night. Inari remembered Chen talking about it, though she had never felt able to raise the subject with Miss Qi or, of course, with Mhara himself: it would simply have been too tactless.

  But now, here was the Empress, sitting like a black-eyed spider in the midst of her web, peering at Inari and Miss Qi.

  “Who are you?” she asked. She had a beautiful voice to match her appearance: low and husky. “A Celestial and a demon. Have you come to visit me?”

  Miss Qi dropped a perfunctory curtsey. “Madam. I’m afraid we are here by accident. Our vessel was caught in the winds of Earth and whirled here.”

  “Ah,” the Empress said, smiling. “How unfortunate. Well, perhaps I may be able to help you. But first, will you have some tea?”

  Inari was letting Miss Qi, a fellow Celestial, handle this one. She could sense Miss Qi’s reluctance, but knew that the Celestial would accept, rather than risk offending the Empress.

  “That would be most kind,” Miss Qi said.

  They settled themselves gingerly on the cushioned seats on either side of the Empress. The former ruler of Heaven wore a magnificent gown, with spreading skirts in pink and gold, like clouds, that took up most of the seating. The Empress smelled of jasmine, but there was something too sweet, too sickly about it, and Inari, used to far fouler odors, had to struggle not to recoil. The Empress raised a hand, in which was a small bell, and rang it.

  It took Inari a moment to recognize the person who entered. She was slight, dressed in a formal gown, moving with small shuffling steps that suggested her feet were bound. She had a pale, oval face, the color of peach blossom, and huge, dark eyes, but both her m
outh and her ears were missing and there was little expression in her limpid gaze. Across the room, Miss Qi stiffened in shock, but Inari thought only, Clever Mhara. Instead of supplying his devious mother with servants who might, even here, be suborned, or worse, sending her servants who needed to be punished and who would, therefore, resent their position, Mhara had looked to Earth for a solution. The mouthless drones who served the super rich had provided him with a way out. This thing had no proper sentience of its own, could not hear, and could not speak. From the distaste with which the Empress was regarding it, she did not appreciate its services.

  “Tea,” the Empress pronounced, bleakly.

  Miss Qi and Inari murmured thanks and sipped hot oolong. Inari was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It was clear that the Empress was both angry and mad, and despite her current status, she had once possessed a great deal of magical power. If she chose to exercise that on some nasty whim—

  But then the Empress turned to Inari and gave a glacial smile.

  “So. What is a demon doing in the company of a Celestial warrior?”

  “Circumstances,” Miss Qi said, firmly. “Much has changed in the last few months.”

  “It certainly has.” The Empress looked at Miss Qi. “I rarely hear from my son, you know. How is he faring?”

  “I have never met his August Serenity,” Miss Qi said, lying with a smoothness that Inari could only admire. Deception didn’t come easily to Celestials, whatever example the Empress herself might have set. “But I believe him to be well.”

  There was a glitter deep in the Empress’ eyes. “He betrayed me, you know,” she murmured.

  “I’m sure he—”

  “My own dear son sent me here to live. Forever.” She turned to Inari. “Do you know how long forever is, little demon?”

  “I—”

  The Empress dropped her teacup and it shattered into a hundred shards on the wooden boards beneath her feet. Hot tea mottled the surface of her skirts like blood. The mouthless drone was instantly there, to sweep up the remains. The Empress, rising, struck the drone and sent it spinning to the floor. The drone shook its head with mechanical speed, and rose.

  “I think we’d better go,” Inari said.

  “I agree.” Together, they hastened out of the cabin, with the badger at their heels. The Empress gave a shriek of fury.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  —but it was too late. Inari and Miss Qi sprinted down the passage and out onto the deck. To Inari’s intense relief, the houseboat was still there, moored on the black heave of the Sea of Night, and within reach. Miss Qi helped her over the railing.

  They stood looking back at the Empress’ boat, rocking close by. Inari somehow expected the disgraced Celestial to hurtle after them, but the boat remained quiet.

  “She’s quite mad,” Miss Qi said flatly. “I had heard the rumors, but I hadn’t—well, I found them difficult to believe, even though I know the current Emperor could never lie.”

  “Sometimes I think we’re better off in Hell,” Inari said. “You expect that sort of thing.”

  Miss Qi looked askance. “How horrible.”

  “Well, it is Hell. And at least it comes as less of a shock.”

  “True enough.”

  One of the benefits of being on the houseboat was that they had plenty of food. With the stormy season coming up Inari kept stocks of noodles and dried mushrooms, tins of bean sprouts and water chestnuts in the kitchen cupboards. As supernaturals, she and Miss Qi could survive without food, but it was more pleasant with it and she found that cooking grounded her, providing a familiar activity in the midst of this limbo. Over a simple meal, wok-cooked on a conjured flame, they discussed their options.

  These were, Inari reflected in dismay, somewhat worse than they had thought. They were stuck in the Sea of Night with the Empress’ boat moored next to them, and Inari did not like the thought of such a mad and powerful neighbor.

  “The trouble is,” Miss Qi said, “there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t move away. We can’t erect a barrier, even. We’ve nothing to do it with and neither of us could sustain that kind of magic indefinitely.”

  “Mhara must keep an eye on his mother,” Inari suggested. “Maybe he sends someone to check on her periodically. In that case, all we have to do is wait.”

  Miss Qi looked a little more hopeful at this optimistic idea, but then she said, “She must have had that boat steered next to us. I can’t believe they just drifted together. That means she’s plotting something.”

  “I agree,” Inari said. “I think we should take it in turns to sleep tonight.”

  Miss Qi nodded. “A sound plan. I am a light sleeper. You need not fear that you will be unable to wake me up.”

  However, the Empress’ boat remained quiet and still. Inari had offered to take the first watch, but Miss Qi would not hear of it.

  “You need your rest, Inari. For the sake of the baby. Besides, if she’s planning anything, it’s likely to come sooner rather than later and I am a warrior. I have badger’s help, too.”

  “I will not sleep,” the badger declared. “I do not trust that woman.”

  “No one should,” agreed Inari.

  She was surprised to find, some hours later, that she had in fact fallen fast asleep. She went out on deck. Miss Qi was still sitting on the bench, staring at the Empress’ boat with her bow in her hands.

  “I woke up,” Inari said. “I feel quite refreshed. You can let me take over the watch now, if you wish.”

  Miss Qi nodded. “Very well. If you’re sure. Nothing’s happened.”

  They swapped places and Miss Qi went below. Inari collected a book and took it out to the bench, while the badger remained on watch. The Empress’ boat was as still as before. An hour or so passed. Inari began to concentrate a little harder on the book, rather than the boat. Then, she heard a sound. It didn’t come from the boat before her, but from the cabin below. Perhaps Miss Qi could not sleep. The badger rose to his feet. “Something is wrong.”

  Inari could hear footsteps coming up from the cabin. They did not sound like the light, quick step of Miss Qi, but stealthy, as if the person was trying not to be heard. Very quietly, Inari rose from the bench and made her way along the deck, to hide around the corner of the cabin. The footsteps continued. She peered forward.

  Miss Qi stepped out onto the deck, her bow clasped tight. Before Inari could sigh with relief, however, the Celestial turned and Inari saw that her face, normally so delicate and expressive, was somehow blank. It looked as though a grotesque mask had been placed over the Celestial’s features. Beside Inari, the badger stifled a growl.

  Miss Qi’s head snapped up. In a second, the bow was up and drawn. She ran along the deck. Inari and the badger fled up the nearest means of escape: the ladder leading to the roof of the cabin, where Wei Chen grew herbs in pots. Inari crouched at the end of the roof. As Miss Qi, her face contorted, climbed onto the deck, Inari stifled any misgivings and threw a pot at her. It missed, but Miss Qi dodged and in doing so fell off the ladder. There was a thud from below. Inari climbed down the ladder on the other side of the roof, heading for the kitchen, where there were pans and knives. She did not want to injure Miss Qi, but perhaps if she could stun her—

  Just as she reached for the cupboard where the heavy iron frying pan was kept, an arrow sang past her and buried itself in the wall. Inari spun around. Miss Qi was notching another arrow to her bow.

  This, thought Inari as she wrapped her arms around herself, is going to hurt.

  16

  This time, Omi did not have the luxury of closing his eyes. He had to keep them open, to steer the crane as it flew, according to the fragment of map given to him by the akashi. Now that Raksha had been left behind—waving from the acacia groves—Omi discovered that despite his mistrust, he now missed her. For all her strangeness, she had been a calm presence, curiously dependable. Thinking back, the fact that his grandfather had not appeared during his time with Raksha b
oded well. Had she been malevolent, he felt, Grandfather would have issued some degree of warning.

  Assuming Grandfather hadn’t been prevented from doing so.

  Omi set these reflections aside and nerved himself to look down. Desert and more desert, much as it had been when he’d crossed its northern extent with Raksha. It was changing, however. The black sand and shimmering red cliffs had changed to a dusty gray. A tiny train trundled across the expanse, its tracks shining in the sunlight, and it seemed to Omi to form some demarcation line between the northern harshness and the true desert further south. What unfolded below was what Omi thought of as “desert”—high sandy dunes rolling away toward the horizon, interspersing flat expanses of sand. He grew more hopeful. He hadn’t fallen off yet, and they were surely nearly there.

  What would be found at the other end remained to be seen. He was ashamed of his hope, that a spell would be found, not for the sake of Raksha and the akashi, but for his own: that he would have aid and not be forced to undergo his trials alone. His grandfather and the sensei would have told him that there was no shame in seeking aid, but Omi was young enough to feel it all the same, and old enough to recognize it in himself.

  He’d be glad when they landed for purely practical reasons, too. Magic had its limits. His throat was parched and his eyes tired from squinting into sun and dust. He was aware of a cramp too, but reluctant to shift about too much on the crane’s back. So he concentrated on the land instead, and on the indigo-cerulean-sapphire feathers of the beautiful bird on whose spine he perched.

  After a while, he began to fear that he’d missed the spot where the pagoda lay. The dunes all looked the same, and Omi had the dismaying impression that you could just fly round and round and never spot it. But then they passed over a high ridge of dune and the crane gave a croaking cry. A black spire rose from the desert, in front of a crescent lake of startlingly clear hue. There was a line of trees. It looked, in the middle of that dusty expanse, a cool and inviting place. Omi, overcome with relief, directed the crane downward.