Shadow Pavilion (22 page)

48

H
eaven was on the move. Mhara stood in front of the throne, watching as hundreds of people massed outside the Imperial Palace. These were the folk who had agreed to travel to Earth, there to take up roles in Singapore Three, to begin with, to see how they might best assist that city's benighted populace.

He'd left it up to them in the end, no exhortations, no enforced control. And this was what they'd chosen, restoring their Emperor's tattered faith, at least to some degree.

But there was another school of thought. Mhara could sense it, running through the Palace like a thin black wind. Discontent, dismay, a wind that could easily be fanned into flames and burning. He knew who was holding the fan, too. If he closed his eyes, he gained a small, incomplete vision of his mother, standing on the back steps of the Palace, whispering. During his time on Earth, she had managed to close him off to a considerable degree and he shivered to think of what kind of price she had paid to withstand Imperial magic.

Oh, my mother, what have you become?
But he already knew the answer to that; it had lain in the whistle of a poisoned pin and the beheading flash of a sword. Mhara's lips tightened. Chen had insisted—with utmost politeness—that the Emperor return to Heaven, that he and Zhu Irzh would handle things from then on. There was too much at stake for Mhara to enter into purely personal engagements, Chen had said, and with reluctance Mhara had agreed.

So he was back here, after the second assassination attempt, to find his mother still plotting. She must be furious, to learn that Seijin had once more failed. Furious, and also desperate, for she must know, too, that her son would now be forced to take steps.

House arrest at the very least, but Mhara did not want to disrupt things still further on the verge of the Celestial exodus to Earth. See them safely off, and then act. With that in mind, he'd better get on with it. The presence of the Dowager Empress was like a poisoned thorn, reaching the very heart of the Palace.

Motioning to the courtiers, Mhara walked down the long hall, so quickly that the courtiers were obliged to scurry in order to keep up. The courtyard of the Imperial Palace was an ocean of upturned faces and Mhara experienced more than a twinge of doubt. He had no wish to be Heaven's Mao, sending them off on their Long March to Earth
…
Their faith in him, so hard won at first, had kindled to a blaze—and what if he simply let them down? So many longed for angels; he had spoken about it with Kuan Yin, she of Compassion and Mercy, not so long ago.

“They all cry out,” the goddess had said. “They all read books about angelic powers—their own culture, other people's. They haunt the churches and temples, hoping for revelation. They see it on the television.”

“And what would happen if you gave them angels?” Mhara had asked, unease rat-gnawing within.

“They'd be horrified,” the goddess said. This, in essence, was what he was doing now, and would they be grateful? Probably not, but he had to try.

He raised his voice to address them and the murmurs immediately stilled. They were rapt, waiting.

“You are about to begin your journey,” the Emperor said.
Don't call it a march, too many memories, even all the way up here. In Heaven's terms, all that was a moment ago.
“Be warned! Earth may not welcome you. There are those who want things made worse, not better, so that they can scavenge on the remnants. Remember what you know already: the human world is filled with predators. But you have to try. Do your best and if you ask, if you have need, then Heaven will take you back and there will be no blame.” He held up a hand. “You have my blessing.” And it rolled out from his outspread fingers, a blue wave, sparkling through the air, settling over their heads.

A horn sounded. Kylin danced at the head of the procession, the crowd now forming into a neater queue. The manes of the kylin were golden; their protruding eyes gleamed with a ferocious wisdom. They grinned, displaying gilded teeth. Mhara had forbidden them from entering Earth itself, mindful of recent deific incursions: the mad goddess Senditreya's rampage through the city, in her oxen-drawn chariot, was still unpleasantly fresh in human minds. But they would see the Celestials safely through Heaven and across the Sea of Night. Difficult to say when they would arrive: these things took their own time and not even the Emperor could rearrange temporal space, not for so large a gathering. They would get there when they were meant to.

The horn sounded again and the kylins wheeled, herding stray Celestials into line. Mhara watched, hand still upraised, as they set off, a joyful procession, singing, playing flutes, and banging drums. He hoped they'd still be happy in a week or so's time. And it would mean more work for Robin: he envisaged a stream of dislocated Celestial personnel showing up at the temple door, all needing urgent advice about dealing with the human realm. Robin would cope, she always did. But that still didn't mean it was fair.

He watched until, some time later, the last members of the procession threaded their way through the groves of flowering trees and out of direct sight, and the final capering notes of the flutes faded into birdsong. Enough, they were gone, and he would watch over them all the way as far as he could. But now, it was time to deal with the Dowager Empress.

He did not find his mother immediately. He went methodically through the Palace, searching room by room, always half-expecting­ the strike of a pin between his shoulder blades. He couldn't sense Seijin but that hadn't stopped the assassin last time, had it? He thought of Inari and regret made him shiver. Standing in the middle of an ornate room, one of the guest banqueting halls for visiting dignitaries, causing the silken drapes to billow from the walls, checking for someone hiding. Finally he reached the last chamber of all and she was not there. She had not been on the back steps of the Palace for some time.

Enough and enough. Mhara stood still once more, and summoned her.

The Dowager Empress arrived with a shriek. It was, her son thought, the only time he'd seen her anything approaching disheveled. Her robes still streamed behind her, as if caught in a stormwind, and her hair was coming down. She tried to glare at her son, but the decades of habit held her face in its masklike expression.

“How dare you.” Her voice was low and cold.

Mhara said, equally icy, “On the contrary, madam. Since you've been trying to have me killed, I think I've demonstrated admirable restraint.”

The Dowager Empress grew very still. “Killed?” she echoed.

“You're a terrible liar, Mother.” Mhara circled her, wolflike, and the Dowager Empress tried to turn with him, but was hampered by her skirts. “The Lord Lady Seijin. The assassin. Tried twice and failed twice; I imagine there'll be a third attempt soon. You won't be there to see it.”

The Dowager Empress' countenance grew even paler, becoming glassy and translucent. Maybe she'd simply disappear, Mhara thought: that would be helpful.

“Are you threatening me?” the Dowager Empress whispered.

“With what? Death? Treason, a trial? Oh no. I'm going to do far worse than that. I'm going to issue you with a home all of your own. Comfort, luxury, all you could ever need. What son could do more for a mother?” Distantly, Mhara wondered where he'd dredged up this aspect of cruelty: probably no need to work out where he'd got it from, given who was standing in front of him. Now the eyes of the Dowager Empress were distinctly fearful as well as angry, but Mhara meant what he'd said. He'd even had the place made ready, arranged before the Celestials were dispatched to Earth.

“Try not to see it as house arrest—more as a holiday. I'm sure that, given time to reflect on matters, you'll reach a more balanced perspective. Healing. Inner peace.”

The Dowager Empress looked as though he had offered her a bowlful of scorpions. “I—” she began, but Mhara hissed,
“Enough.”
Blue light surrounded the Dowager Empress, darken­ing to indigo, muffling her sudden scream. The light lapped around her feet like water, pooling, rippling, then rising to first one wave crest, then another. There was a strong wind blowing, out of nowhere. Mhara looked up and saw stars all around, reflected in the depths, an untethered moon sailed by, its sharp crescent cutting through the waves. Beneath his feet, the bare boards were encrusted with something white and grainy: if this had been an ocean of Earth, it might have been salt. The ship rocked and plunged, causing the Dowager Empress to stagger, and grip the nearest mast.

“Where are we?”

“Why, Mother, I thought you'd know. You can see it from the Palace windows, after all. This is the Sea of Night.” Mhara pointed to a bright and distant line. “Look—you can even see Heaven from here. You won't be able to sail to it, unfortunately. In fact, you won't be able to sail anywhere, as this boat is anchored. Permanently.” He pointed to the chain, gleaming blue, which ran over the deck and down into the sea.

The Dowager Empress gave him a look that was filled with hate.

“Nor will you be able to leave; the boat's warded. I'm sure you'll get used to a gentle retirement. There's a state room, it's all very elegant. And now, I really have to leave. I'll visit you, from time to time. When things quiet down.”

He wondered, as he left, where his mother had picked up some of the curses she was currently employing. Certainly not from the parlors of Heaven. He looked back, once, and saw her standing there on the rearing ship, tiny against the vast expanse of the Sea of Night. Her face was upturned, and she had made some progress, at least, for the mask was finally gone: her expression was one of pure rage.

“Goodbye, Mother,” Mhara murmured, as Heaven's shore grew closer and the darkness fell behind.

49

G
o was nearly flattened in the rush, as shoppers pushed and shoved their way out of the market, away from the roar. He struggled toward it nonetheless, dodging around stalls, trying and failing not to knock over stands of peppers, strings of chilies and ginger, baskets of millet. Treading on a slick of grain, he fell, going down under the flying feet of escapees. Cursing at his wrenched ankle, Go clambered to his feet, looked up, saw Lara.

“You!” the tigress said. She was bigger than Go remembered, or perhaps it was the enhanced perspective lent by fear.

“Yeah, it's me,” Go said. That fear had already started to ebb, replaced by simple weariness. Suddenly, all he wanted was for this to be over and done with, knowing all the same that it never would. A transition, that was all, stepping from one room into another, into even deeper shit. “Go on then, Lara. I guess I deserve it. I won't even ask you to make it quick. Just get it over with.”

“All right,” the tigress said. Burning bright, indeed: she looked like a bonfire, all flame and soot, making the spilled colors of the fruit and vegetables pallid in comparison. “All right then, I will.” And leaped.

But as she leaped, Go smelled something pungent, a blast of spice, heard a harsh male voice crying out something in a language that was familiar, and not Cantonese. Lara knocked him flat again: Go was suddenly struggling underneath a mass of silken draperies and warm flesh.

“What the fuck?” Lara, no longer tiger, shouted.

“Get off me!” He was sure she'd broken a rib. Go was prepared to meet his death in feline jaws, not to be flattened by a felled actress. This might be the dream of some of Lara's fans; Go, at this point, would rather have been buried in centipedes. Moments later, his command was enforced by a tall man, gloriously dressed in orange and gold, who hauled Lara back by the arms and smacked her across the face when she resisted.

“Agni!” Lara's face was working.

“You've
been having quite a time.” Black eyes, golden ringed, a voice like a purr.

“Who the hell are you?” Go asked, then remembered. The tiger prince, no less. Agni's gaze was predator-cold.

“I might ask the same of you. Are you the man who stole my Lara?”

“I didn't see her protesting much.”

“Agni, this is my career we're talking about!”

The prince gaped at her. “What career? You're a tiger spirit. You don't need a career.”

“Jhai
has a career.” Lara began furiously tucking stray hair back behind her ears. “This is the trouble with you, Agni. These are modern times and you think all women want to do is kill things and fuck.”

“Everyone else seems perfectly happy with that!”

“Oh, that's what you think, is it? My sisters spend half their time plotting against you, Agni.”

The prince laughed. “Is that supposed to worry me? Of course they do. They need their little hobbies. They never manage to do any real harm, do they?” He gestured toward Go. “Anyway, if a career is really what you want, you can have one. I don't hold grudges, Lara”—
and I'll believe that when I see it,
Go thought—“and I'll give you a role in the hunting party. Come on, it'll be fun.” His teeth glittered. “Like old times.”

“I don't think so,” Lara spat, and she turned and ran. Go had never been so pleased to see anyone leave.

Agni, smiling, swung around to watch her go, and that was when Go also took to his heels, barely able to believe that he had cheated death once more. But as he ran he heard laughter, soft as a cat's feet, and the voice of Agni saying, “Well, you'd better go after them, hadn't you?”

All Go's courage had evaporated like water through a sieve. He ran desperately, glancing up at the rudimentary exit signs to find his way, banging into stalls and stumbling on the spilled produce. Maybe by now, someone would have alerted the authorities to the fact that there was another tiger incursion within the market; maybe police marksmen would be waiting—but then Go reached the side exit of the market and it was locked. He rattled the metal door, kicked out, but the door opened inward and he ended up hammering on it with useless fists. The authorities—or someone—had indeed responded. They'd locked everyone in.

Behind Go, somebody screamed. Go swiveled around and saw Lara, still in human guise, backing toward him. He wasn't sure if she'd even realized he was there. The tigress in front of them, however, almost certainly had. Lara's form rippled as Go stared, hazing with stripes, a phantom tail switching briefly before disappearing into the air. She was trying to change, he realized, and could not. Ahead of her, the tigress came ever on. Lara's fists bunched with magical effort; her body contorted, and still nothing was happening. The tigress licked whiskery lips.

Go turned back to the wall and started kicking it, more out of panic than anything else. But the old market building responded. A panel of corrugated iron collapsed, letting in a square of daylight. Go threw himself into it, scraping hands against the sharp edges of the ruptured metal and not caring, because he was finally free. He rolled out into steamy heat and found himself in an alleyway, buildings on one side, the market wall on the other, and at the end of it, the port.

Can tiger demons swim?
Who cares?
Go thought. He sprinted for the line of sea, hearing, behind, something battering its way through the hole in the metal wall. Someone else was shrieking, an indication of agony that—even though it was probably produced by Lara and was therefore a good thing—made an arctic sweat break out across Go's brow and dissipate the heat of the day. It spurred him on; he reached the edge of the harbor and hurled himself off the edge.

Down and down, a surprisingly long way to fall, into the sudden green shadow cast by the harbor wall. Go hit greasy water with a splash and a gasp, went under, kicked out, and came up again. He supposed he should try to rid himself of his shoes, but they were only sneakers, and instead he struck out, swimming in a confused mélange of styles that just about avoided taking him in a huge circle. He glanced back, once. A striped head was peering over the harbor wall, teeth gleaming in the sun, eyes full of fire. The sister who had visited him, or someone else? Go did not care. He hoped the lot of them were hunted down and killed; he would have no more to do with magic after this, no more spells, even if it meant starving in a garret
…

He was free. He continued swimming strongly, heading for the middle of the harbor, planning to find a boat and haul himself aboard. But that was before something grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him down.

Go swallowed filthy water and choked. The thought struck him, even in these extreme circumstances, that if he didn't drown or wasn't eaten, he'd probably die from some vile disease communicated by the revolting waters of the harbor. A lot went into the port; it was closer to soup than sea. He kicked downward, trying to dislodge whatever it was that had hold of his ankle, and squinted through the murk. He was in the shadow of a ship, now, but the kick propelled him and his assailant out into a shaft of sunlight. Go, half-drowned, found himself staring down into the fierce face of Savitra.

Tiger demons aren't always tigers. As a woman, Lara's sister evidently possessed Olympic-standard diving skills. Her grip on his ankle was unbreakable, a steel fetter, she dragged him down. Go sank through green shadows, dimly aware that the boat above him was receding, to be replaced by winding, curling shapes.
Snakes,
he thought.
Snakes, and I am dying
. It didn't seem to matter anymore, wherever he ended up. The water around him was brilliant, green and gold and shining, radiant as the sun, and instead of the oily warmth of the city harbor, it tasted of mud and weed.

Go's vision swam and pressure laid a huge, heavy hand upon him. And then, just as forcefully, Savitra was dragging him up again. Go broke through the surface with a spluttering shout. He gasped for air, wheezing, trying to keep afloat.

Everything had gone. The boats, the city skyline beyond, had disappeared. Go was looking up into dappled emerald shade, elephant-ear leaves fringing down over a mass of roots into the water. Everything was hyper-real, etched and edged in gold and flashing darkness. At first, Go thought that it was just his vision, affected by a near-death experience, or an actual death experience, whichever it had been. He felt very much alive, if the burning in his lungs was anything to go by. His ears were ringing, and that gradually resolved into the screeching of birds and something else. Monkeys. Which Singapore Three did not have, unless one counted the zoo.

“This is India,” Go said, wondering, aloud, and someone behind him answered. “Not quite.”