Shadow Pavilion (11 page)

25

T
his is how it begins. You start with the highest intentions, driven by the purest motives. You will not, you tell yourself, stoop from these elevated goals, because you can't afford to. You have to set an example, to yourself as much as to others. Once you let that go, it's a long downward slope, rocks gathering speed until you're caught up in the avalanche, falling, falling, with the lights of Hell speeding up below you.

And gods have the furthest to fall.

Mhara knew all this—how could he not, given what he was, he thought? Yet it still seemed a damn good idea to spy on the Dowager Empress, try and find out what his mother was up to. She'd been spying on him, after all. But Mhara knew that this didn't justify anything. The spying itself would be a relatively simple matter, although he would have to undertake it himself. He did not trust the Court, any more than—so it seemed—the Court trusted him. Some of them might rise to the challenge that he had set, but they'd still be a bit wary. Of necessity, Mhara was too much, too soon, for a world that was used to deliberating for decades before decisions were reached. To the Court, Mhara must seem to have all the attention span and sense of responsibility of a three-year-old human child.

In order to spy, there was no need for devices or magic. There was, so he believed, very little chance of being found out, and in any case, this was his palace and he was entitled to know what went on in it, especially if that proved to be against his best interests. All Mhara would have to do would be to sit here in solitary peace and meditate; send his awareness forth on the flicker of the Celestial wind and listen to what his mother was saying. But staring out of the window, the marble below suddenly seemed a long way down; how much further, then, was Hell?

It was not honorable, and he was Heaven's Emperor. Principles warred briefly with expediency, and even Mhara was slightly surprised to find that principles won. The ground was close: he could see every waterdrop on a rose petal. But Hell had become very far. So, that was how it worked. He wondered how his father had managed to circumvent a constraining set of ethics. Maybe madness helped. Or maybe madness was the result.

The gardens were particularly beautiful at this time of the day. A walk in them would be just the thing to clear the head. Mhara went downstairs and out toward the gardens, heading for sunshine.

The gardens attached to the Celestial Palace were very old. Legend had it that they had been the first part of Heaven to be reclaimed from the void, fueled by human worship, landscaped by devotion and hope. Mhara walked past ancient groves of acacia, rustling in the breeze, past roses that, in a different culture, would form the Platonic essence of rose. It was not long before he found himself down by the lake, a long stretch of silver water, crossed by a little bridge at its narrow end and starred with shining lilies. In the center, another bridge arched out to an island, on which sat a small temple. A nice place to sit, and look back at the Palace, or inward toward one's own thoughts. Mhara crossed the bridge, followed by the great shoals of carp that lived in the lake. He should have brought some breadcrumbs. Once he stepped onto the island, however, the fish flicked up out of the water and changed into birds, silver and gold, with haunting voices that murmured through the trees. Mhara, smiling, headed for the temple. No one was about. He imagined that the Palace, now only just visible through the leaves, was humming with agitation like a hive; himself, veiled, had lifted the lid and given it a good shake. Here, on the island, Mhara permitted himself the luxury of doubt: it was too easy to think that you were doing the right thing. Look at the human ruler Mao: forcing the country on its Great Leap Forward, the future shining like a beacon. And look how it had ended, in a mire of stultifying bureaucracy and corruption, taking murder and fanaticism in along the way. Perhaps the old Emperor had thought he was doing the right thing, too. A horror of self-righteousness had to be preserved, without locking one into an inability to act.

Beset by such thoughts, Mhara sat gazing out over the lake, only half seeing the play of light on silver water, the little boat that had set out from the dock on the far side. In it, sat a woman, trailing a long sleeve in the water. Her robes were the color of rose petals and her long hair was piled up on her head and skewered with silver pins; one of the many court-dwellers who liked to come to the lake of an afternoon. Mhara thought of letting her know that he was on the island—one of the birds could be dispatched—but even though he might be Emperor now, that did not, to his mind, give him an automatic right to disrupt other people. So he sat still and watched as the boat glided across the water toward the temple. Soon, it disappeared behind the trees. It might make the woman uncomfortable, to find him here; she might feel that she had intruded. And it was time to return to the Palace, anyway, he'd had his moment of quiet and there was a mountain of paperwork to get through. Mhara stood, glimpsed a white curling feather on the floor, and on a whim, stooped to pick it up.

Something whirred through the air, burying itself in the plaster where, a second before, Mhara's head had been. Mhara looked up at a quivering hairpin, embedded in the temple wall. Realization came in its wake. A courtier of Heaven might not have understood, but Mhara's real home was on Earth and not such a nice neighborhood at that. He snatched the pin from the wall, avoiding the sharp tip just in case of poison, and ducked behind one of the pillars of the entrance.

He could not see anyone out there. Mhara closed his eyes and called on Ubiquity: it would enable him to see, but not, perhaps, to act. There were limits to even a Celestial Emperor's power: natural breakwaters, set there by the universe itself, to prevent gods from going to war. It hadn't always worked.

Nothing. Ubiquity enabled him to stand on the dock and stare down at the empty boat. There were no footprints, only a slight disturbance in the long grass to show that someone had passed this way. Mhara, still outside his own body, followed them up the curve of the island toward the temple. He was aware of his physical self, just a small flutter of fabric behind the pillar, and in actuality he reached down and tucked it away. But there was no sign of the woman who had come in the boat—except, he had not remembered that rose tree, those pink-and-candy blossoms. If he looked very carefully, the outline of a human figure was just visible. She was standing very still, merging into the background like the myth of chameleons.

Mhara was more intrigued than afraid. Whoever she was, she had gained entry to Heaven, had been able to borrow a boat and get close to its Emperor, all without any alarms being raised. Unless—well, how far could he trust the Court, after all? That was a related issue, but it would wait. For now, he had this puzzle to deal with. This woman was highly skilled in magic; he could feel it gliding over her in great, calm waves. There was no sense of anger, none of the simmering rage that might drive a person to kill. Instead, all he was able to feel from her was that magic, something unfamiliar to him—was she foreign?—and an intense degree of focus.

The wind stirred roses. A great sweet rush of perfume filled the garden; petals fluttered and a hand was raised to her head as she reached fluidly up and plucked a second pin from her hair. Behind the pillar, Mhara stepped out and threw.

Even from his dual vantage point, the next few minutes were confused. Mhara saw several things at once: the silver pin flicker­ing through the air like an arrow, thrown with the force of his own Celestial magic, the woman turning, startled to a degree that surprised him, a glimpse of a beautiful, remote face with eyes that were drowning wide, and then the pin striking, shattering, splitting the woman into fragments. Then there was nothing left but a shower of rose petals, gliding down to rest on the calm green grass of Heaven.

26

B
adger had no idea how long he had been traveling, but he thought he had gone no more than a mile or so. It was hard to tell, through the dense undergrowth that covered most of the forest floor. He had met some interesting things: a giant wasp, fortunately uninterested in badger spirits; a woman who had stepped out of a tree, opened wings, and soared up into the canopy; and a lizard who had looked at the badger with an old, wise eye and spoken to him in a language that he did not understand. This might not be his own Hell, but it had the same sorts of things in it.

There was also a river. It was slow and green, running sluggishly between banks of mangrove, and badger had the distinct impression that there were a number of things in it, all best avoided. He followed the river nonetheless, traveling downstream, on the principle that it must come out somewhere. He disliked this aimless­ness, feeling that he functioned best with some order to his day, but there was no helping it. And then, at a bend of the river, he heard something. It was growling.

Badger's hackles were immediately up. He recognized that growl: tiger! He slid down the bank to the water's edge and coiled himself under the mangrove roots. A voice spoke.

“Where is he?”

The badger thought dark thoughts. He recognized the voice, too—one of the tigresses, though he could not have named her. He thought it was the one who had proved timid during the conversation overheard in the kitchen. Then the reply came, “I don't know. He was here a moment ago.”

The sound of large, padding feet and a crashing through the undergrowth. The tigresses were not being particularly subtle about their hunt, but then again, why should they be? This was their preserve. Badger could hear a great deal of rooting about and then the voice—and this one was definitely the one from the kitchen, the one who seemed to be planning something—said to herself: “Hah!”

She was coming closer. Badger scrunched into the root hole, wondering whether it would be safer, on balance, to slide under the water. He was a reasonably strong swimmer, but then, so are tigers. He could smell her now, a rank feline odor, growing stronger by the minute. Next moment, she was down the bank in a rush and the badger was confronted by the unwelcome sight of an enormous golden eye.

“There you are, little demon!” the tigress said, and reached in a gigantic paw. Badger flattened himself against the wall, hissing, but suddenly the tigress was gone, upward. There was a gurgling yell and the green waters of the river were spattered with drops of dark blood. Someone jumped lightly down to stand on the roots; badger looked up into a familiar face.

“Hello, badger,” said Zhu Irzh.

The badger stared up to where the striped body hung, still swinging over green water. The fur was blackened with blood, the golden eyes were filmed.

“Impressive,” the badger said, rather grudgingly. Zhu Irzh shrugged.

“Not my doing. The trap was already there.” He pointed to a thin band of wire hiding under the roots of the tree. “Someone's been busy. I saw it when I came through here—doubled back and let her catch up, then tripped it. It's an effective snare, to collar something like that.”

“Whose doing?”

“I've no idea. I imagine some of their prey must have got away from them, just by the law of averages. Maybe there are people living out here.”

“And what has become of her?” Badger nosed the air in the direction of the tigress' body.

“Same answer—don't know. Presumably this Hell functions like other Hells; there might be lower levels. Hope she's got a nasty shock, anyway.”

“There are more,” badger said. “Seven at least.”

“Yeah, I know. I met all of them, before I was dumped on the lawn and told to make a run for it.” Zhu Irzh drew the badger back behind a thick trunk of mangrove. “We ought to get moving. You know what? This lot are nearly my in-laws. If I'd known getting married was going to prove such a hassle, I'd have made sure I stayed a bachelor.”

* * *

Night fell fast and red, the sky above the canopy deepening to a starless crimson.

“Tigers are supposed to be nocturnal,” Zhu Irzh said, uneasily. “Does this bunch ever sleep, do you know?”

“I do not. I have had little to do with them. Thankfully. I expect they captured us at the same time?”

“Yeah, I went in after you. Time was up and I waited for a bit, but I didn't hear from you and I got worried. Walked through the door and that was it—I don't remember what happened. Everything went dark. I don't think I was hit on the head.” He put a hand to his cranium. “No sign of it, must have been magical. And they must have been
good,
to take me with such little difficulty.”

“I was bundled into a bag,” the badger said, sourly.

“Bad luck. Come to think of it, they must have been pretty good to get
you.”

“Thank you.” The badger was grateful at this attempt to save his face. Zhu Irzh wasn't such a bad sort, really. “You said these demons are your family?”

“Family-to-be. They have some kind of relationship to Jhai. You know her mother's from Kerala? These are Keralan demons. A very old clan. They used to live wild in the jungles of Hell—one of them was kind enough to explain it to me, just so I knew why I was about to be killed. But in the nineteenth century, when the British came to India and set up the Raj, they hunted tigers. Wasn't popular.”

“I have sympathy with that,” badger said.

“Well, yeah. So that palace came into being—Hell grew it, apparently. Brought a demigod down—that would be the prince—and gave him a harem. Their role was to hunt the souls of British big-game hunters, soldiers, that sort of thing.”

“But if they are your woman's family,” badger said, “why are they trying to kill you?” It was not that he was unfamiliar with the concept: Mistress' relatives were continually endeavoring to poison one another, for instance. But badger liked things to be clear.

“I don't know,” Zhu Irzh said, rather wildly. “Maybe they just don't like me.” His expression, as far as badger could interpret it, was one of incredulity. “But it's more than that, isn't it? They must know how to
really
get rid of demons. Let's say a tigress jumps out of that tree right now, tears you and me to pieces. What happens to us?”

The badger thought about this. “We go to the lower levels? Or return to our own Hell?”

“Must be the lower levels here, because otherwise we'd just be transported home, and could return to Earth. They must have a way of making sure that we can't get back. They're not just hunting for sport; they're hunting for keeps.”

And away in the darkness, something snarled.