Snake Agent © 2005 by Liz Williams This edition of Snake Agent © 2008 by Night Shade Books Cover art by Jon FosterCover design by Michael FuscoInterior layout and design by Jeremy Lassen All rights reserved ISBN 978-1-59780-107-2 Night Shade BooksPlease visit us on the web athttp://www.nightshadebooks.com
Detective Inspector Chen:
Snake AgentThe Demon and the CityPrecious DragonThe Shadow Pavilion (Forthcoming)Banner of SoulsBloodmindDarklandEmpire of BonesThe Ghost SisterNine Layers of SkyThe Poison MasterThe Banquet of the Lords of Night and Other Stories
Hanging by his heels and twisting slowly in the draught that slipped beneath the crimson door, Detective Inspector Chen tried desperately to attract the demon's attention. Yet despite his whispered pleas, the demon's eyes remained tightly shut, and his wet, black lips moved faintly, as if in prayer. Hearing the alchemist's heels retreating down the passage, Chen tried again. "Tso! Listen to me!"
The demon's only response was to squeeze his eyes even more firmly closed. Chen sighed. Tso had never liked to confront uncomfortable realities, and had gone to some lengths to avoid them, but now he, too, was dangling by his heels from a hook in the ceiling and—thought Chen, bitterly—the truth of what the demon had done must finally be faced.
"Tso, I know you've probably had a bang on the head, but I'm quite well aware you're still conscious. We have to find a way of getting down," Chen insisted.
"No use," the demon whined, without opening his eyes. "There's no way out of here."
"Nonsense," Chen said, more firmly than he felt. The blood was rushing to his head and making him dizzy: the metal walls of the chamber seemed to tilt and spin. Reflected within them, his face was no more than a blurred, unhappy moon. He tried not to think about Inari, but it was hard to keep anxiety at bay. Stop fretting about your wife, he told himself. The badger will look after Inari; all you have to do is worry about getting down and getting out of here. To the demon he said, "The alchemist will be back in a little while, and then we'll really have problems. Now, listen. My rosary's on the table to your right—can you see it? I want you to try and reach it."
The demon's eyes opened at last, dazzling and sudden. Chen stared, blinking, into the hot-coal heart of the demon's gaze.
"Reach your rosary?" Tso said, nonplussed. "How? My hands are tied."
"You'll have to swing over and see if you can grab it with your tongue."
"But my tongue will get burned!"
"When that nightmare of an alchemist comes back you'll have a damned sight more to worry about than a sore tongue," Chen said with barely restrained patience. The demon's mouth opened and Tso emitted a long, hissing breath that stank of offal. Chen was unable to repress a shudder.
"Oh, very well!" the demon complained. "I'll try."
He began to swing, dangling like some monstrous piece of bait from the hook in the ceiling. Chen watched, holding his breath, as the demon came within a couple of feet of the table. The long, black tongue shot out and flickered over the surface, missing the rosary. Tso tried again, anchoring himself to the table-leg with his tongue. The barbed, sensitive tip probed over the surface of the table, flicked the rosary, and recoiled.
"Hurts!" the demon said, indistinctly.
"I'm truly sorry. But if we don't get out of here. . ."
Tso tried again, and this time flicked the rosary off the table with all the neatness of a toad catching flies.
"Well done!" Chen enthused. The demon hissed with pain as the rosary seared the end of his tongue, but the barbs held it securely. Swinging back, Tso flicked the rosary in the direction of Chen, who lunged for it with his teeth and missed. The rosary, detaching itself from Tso's tongue, wrapped around an ornately carved pineapple that decorated the edge of the alchemist's desk, where it hung, dangling tantalizingly out of reach just as the alchemist stepped back through the lacquered door, ceremonial machete in hand.
Detective Inspector Chen brushed aside the chaos on his desk and carefully lit a single stick of scarlet incense. Smoke spiraled up into the air, contributing to the brown smear that marked the ceiling like a bloodstain immediately above Chen's desk and adding to the heat of the city outside. The air conditioning had failed again, a lamentably regular occurrence in the steamy South China summer. Chen bent his head in a brief prayer, then picked up the photograph and held it over the stream of smoke. The girl's face appeared by degrees, manifesting out of a dark background. She was standing in the doorway of a go-down, gazing fearfully over her shoulder. Her hair was still scraped back into its funeral braids, and her white face gleamed out of the shadows like the ghost she was. Studying the photo, and the expression on the girl's face, Chen was aware of the sudden hot glow of rage in his heart. How many more young women might have gone the same way after their deaths, unnoticed and unmourned? But whoever was behind all this had made a mistake this time, choosing the daughter of Singapore Three's premier industrialist rather than some nameless prostitute. Chen held the photograph out to the woman sitting on the other side of the desk and said gently, "Let's begin at the beginning, Mrs Tang. Are you sure that this is your daughter?"
Mrs Tang's grip tightened around the handle of her Miucci handbag as she studied the photograph. In a little whispery voice she said, "Yes. Yes, that's Pearl."
"Now, you say someone sent this to you?"
"Yesterday. I didn't go out of the house, and I'm sure no one came in—it was the servants' afternoon off. But when I walked into the living room, the photo was sitting on the bureau. In a red envelope. I didn't know what it was at first. There was a note, telling me what to do." She gestured towards the spiraling incense. "You can see her face for a little while, but then it fades again."
"And did you notice anything—strange? Apart from the envelope?"
Mrs Tang moistened dry lips. "There was some ash. Like dust. At first I thought the maid hadn't been cleaning properly, but it was white and soft. Like incense ash."
"I see. Mrs Tang, I know how hard this is for you, but at least we have a lead. You must try and be hopeful."
Mrs Tang's face began to crumple.
"You will find her, won't you?"
Reaching across, Chen patted her hand. "Don't worry. We'll find your daughter, and we'll make absolutely sure that this time she completes her journey to the afterlife." He did his best to sound reassuring.
"Thank you," Mrs Tang murmured. She pushed her expensive sunglasses to the top of her head and rubbed her eyes; they were rimmed with redness. "I'd better go. I couldn't tell my husband I was coming here; he'd be furious if he knew I'd gone to the police. I told him I was going shopping."
Chen sighed. This was an added complication, but hardly an unfamiliar one. "Is there anything you can do to change your husband's mind?"
"I don't think so. H'suen's a hard man to talk to sometimes. I've tried discussing it with him, but he won't listen." Mrs Tang gave a brittle, bitter smile. "He says it doesn't make any difference; Pearl's dead and that's that. You see, he adored Pearl. At first, anyway. She was such a sweet little girl, but then she started growing up. I mean, she was always a—well, she was a lovely, lovely girl, but she could be a little bit difficult. Willful. She was fourteen, and I used to say to him: 'What do you expect these days?' They all go out with boys, and Pearl was very popular. He used to get so angry. . .And then he found out that she'd been charging money for what she did and of course he was furious, we both were, but I said Pearl needed help, not scolding. . .And I think her eating problems started around then. . ."
She seemed to have forgotten that she had been on the point of leaving. Patiently, Chen listened as she talked, building up a picture of the dead girl. Disobedience, anorexia, promiscuity and what amounted to prostitution did not make a pretty picture, but Chen said nothing. Years of police work had taught him that sympathy won more confidences than judgment, and anyway, it came more naturally. Chen didn't feel that he was in any position to judge anyone else, certainly not these days. He sat gazing at Mrs Tang, making sympathetic noises while she rambled on about her daughter, and occasionally handing her a tissue to dry her eyes. Yet despite the tears, Chen was increasingly beginning to feel that there was something not quite right about this exhibition of maternal consideration. It was a little too artless, a little too staged. He could smell a lie, somewhere, like the stink of rotting meat beneath spice, but he did not yet know where it lay. Perhaps it related to nothing more than guilt over the peculiar combination of self-indulgence and neglect that the rich habitually displayed towards their offspring, perhaps to something darker. What had driven the fourteen-year-old daughter of one of the city's most privileged households not only to provide sexual services, but to seek payment for them? Chen mentally ran through possibilities with the hard-won objectivity of a man who has seen much to revolt him. At last Mrs Tang wiped her eyes and said, "You've been very kind, Detective Inspector. I know you'll do your best in finding Pearl." She looked momentarily embarrassed, as though she'd said too much. She leaned forwards, peering curiously at the framed photograph that sat on Chen's desk. "Oh, she's pretty. Is she your wife?"
"That's right." Once again, Chen cursed the impulse that had led him to place Inari's photo on the desk. Everyone noticed it and this was a problem, but it made his job easier, somehow, if he could glance at her face occasionally. He should just keep a picture in his wallet – but that made him feel as though he was shaming her somehow.
"What's her name? She looks Japanese."
"She's called Inari." Chen shifted impatiently in his chair. He got the impression that Mrs Tang was delaying her return home, but then again, it didn't sound as though she had a lot to look forward to.
Mrs Tang said, "She's lovely, even behind those big sunglasses. Is she a model? You know, my sister runs an agency and she's always looking for people. If you like, I could take your wife's number."
Chen said hastily, "I think maybe not. It's very flattering, but actually Inari doesn't really like going out all that much and—anyway, thank you."
"What a pity. She really is beautiful."
Chen allowed himself a small, smug smile, then stifled it. It didn't do to dwell too much on his marital luck.
"I'm very fortunate," he murmured. Mrs Tang sighed, no doubt thinking of her own lack of fortune in that department.
"I really should go now," she said reluctantly, and rose from her chair.
Chen saw her to the door of the precinct, then made his way slowly to the vending machine. Sergeant Ma was bending over it, thumping the side with an immense fist.
"Damn machine's not working again. I—oh." He stood hastily back as he saw who it was.
"Take your time," Chen said politely.
"No no no no no. It's quite all right. It's all yours," Ma muttered, and made a rapid, waddling exit in the direction of the canteen. With a resigned sigh, Chen managed to extract a paper cup of green tea from the machine, and carried it back to his desk. As he turned the corner, he saw that Sergeant Ma had come back and was surreptitiously waving a blessing paper over the vending machine. Chen was used to being a pariah, but some days his colleagues' aversion to him got him down. He sipped his scalding, tasteless tea and contemplated the girl's photograph for a few moments longer, then collected his jacket from the back of his chair and left the precinct.
It was only the beginning of summer, but already the heat had built to oppressive levels. Despite the heat of the precinct, stepping out onto Jiang Mi Road was like diving into a warm bath. Chen glanced at the pollution meter on a nearby wall, but the results were too depressing to take seriously. He walked slowly down towards the harbor, lost in thought. By the time he reached the edge of the typhoon shelter, the weather had grown a little cooler. There was a storm building out over the South China Sea, and the air tasted of lightning and rain. Chen smiled, picturing Inari resting her elbows on the windowsill of the houseboat, waiting for the thunder to break. His wife loved storms; she had once told him that they reminded her of her home. The only good thing about the place, she had added bitterly. The ferry terminal lay a short distance along the quay, and Chen sat down on the bench to wait. Someone had left a newspaper, and he picked it up, beginning idly to read. Singapore was opening yet another franchise city, this time along the Myanmar coast. Chen could remember a time when Singapore Three was the last in the franchise line; this new development would be the sixth city. Chen read on, learning that this version of Singapore would be developed along the same lines as all the others, and he smiled again, fancifully imagining another Detective Chen sitting on an identical ferry terminal bench, several thousand miles to the south.
A distant humming interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see the wallowing shape of the ferry as it approached the terminal. Fifteen minutes later Chen stepped off at the opposite dock and into the labyrinth of streets that constituted Zhen Shu Island.
This was a rough area, and Chen walked warily, but no one bothered him. He supposed that he was anonymous enough: a middle-aged man wearing unfashionable indigo clothes. But occasionally he would see someone start and shy away, and realize that he, or at least the aura of his profession, had been recognized. No one liked policemen, and cops who were in league with Hell were doubly unwelcome. So Chen walked unmolested through the narrow streets of Zhen Shu until he found himself standing in front of Su Lo Ling's Funeral Parlor.
Unlike the neighboring shops, the funeral parlor was a magnificent building. A black faux-marble facade boasted gilded columns on either side of the door, and red lanterns hung from the gable in a gaudy, tasteless display. This was hardly inappropriate, Chen reflected, given the number of citizens who met their end in a similar manner. A narrow alleyway ran along one side, leading further into the maze of Zhen Shu. The sign on the door proclaimed that the funeral parlor was closed. Undeterred, Chen kept his finger on the bell until blinds twitched from the shops on either side. Over the insistent jangling of the doorbell, he could hear footsteps hastening down the hall. The door was flung open to reveal a short, stout gentleman in a long, red robe.
"What do you want? This is a place of rest, not some kind of—oh." His eyes widened. Chen never knew how people could tell; it must be something behind his eyes, some inner darkness that revealed his close association with the worlds beyond the world. When younger he had spent hours peering into the mirror, trying to detect what it was that made people so afraid, but even to himself his round, ordinary face seemed as bland and inexpressive as the moon. Perhaps this very impassiveness was what unnerved others.
"I'm sorry," the stout man said in more conciliatory tones. "I didn't realize."
Chen displayed his badge. "Franchise Police Department. Precinct Thirteen. Detective Inspector Chen. Do you mind if I come in? I'd like to ask you a few questions."
With many protestations of the honor done to the establishment, the stout man ushered Chen inside. The interior of the funeral parlor was as ostentatious as the facade. Chen was shown into a long, mirrored room with a scarlet rug. Carp floated in a wall-length tank at the far end of the room, their reflections drifting to infinity in the multiple mirrors. The stout man clapped his hands, twice, summoning a small, wan maid.
"Tea?" whispered the maid.
"Thanks. What sort do you have?"
The maid closed her eyes for a moment and recited:
"Jade Dragon Oolong; Peach and Ginseng; Gunpowder Black. . ." She rattled through a list of some fifteen teas before Chen could stop her. Evidently the funeral parlor was not short of funds.
"I'll have any of the oolongs. Thank you."
"Now, Detective Inspector." The stout owner of the funeral parlor settled himself into a nearby armchair. "I am Su Lo Ling, the proprietor of this establishment. What can we do to help?"
"I understand you handled the funeral arrangements for a ceremony a week ago, for a girl named Pearl Tang. The daughter of someone who needs no introduction from me."
"Indeed, indeed. So very sad. Such a young woman. Anorexia is a most tragic condition. It just goes to show," and here Mr Ling shook his head philosophically, "that not even the materially blessed among us may attain true happiness."
"How very wise. Forgive me for asking such a delicate question, but were there any—irregularities—with the funeral?"
"None whatsoever. You must understand, Detective Inspector, that we are a very old firm. The Lings have been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century, in what was then Peking, before I moved the business here. Our connections with the relevant authorities are ancient. There have never been any difficulties with the paperwork." A small pause. "Might I ask why you pose such a question?"
"Your establishment does indeed possess a most honorable reputation," Chen said. "However, I fear that an irregularity—doubtless nothing to do with the manner in which Pearl's funeral was handled—has nonetheless occurred."
"Oh?" There was the faintest flicker of unease in Ling's face, which Chen noted.
"You see, it appears that the young lady in question did not in fact reach the Celestial Shores. A ghost-photograph of her has been taken, revealing her current whereabouts to be somewhere in the port area of Hell."
Ling's mouth sagged open in shock.
"In Hell? But the payments were made, the sacrifices impeccably ordered. . .I don't understand."
"Neither does her mother."
"The poor woman must be distraught."
"She is naturally concerned that the spirit of her only child is not now reclining among the peach orchards of Heaven, but currently appears to be wandering around a region best described as dodgy," Chen said.
"I'll show you the paperwork. I'll go and get it now."
Together, Ling and Chen pored over the documents. To Chen's experienced eyes, everything seemed to be in order: the immigration visa with the Celestial authorities, the docking fees of the ghost-boat, the license of passage across the Sea of Night. He felt sure that the explanation for Pearl's manifestation in the infernal realms could be traced back to Ling, but the parlor owner's round face was a paradigm of bland concern.
"Well," Chen said at last. "This is indeed a tragedy, but I can see nothing here that is at all irregular. I realize that you operate a policy of strict confidentiality, but if you should happen to hear anything—"
"Your august ears will be the first to know," Ling assured him, and with innumerable expressions of mutual gratitude, Chen departed.
He returned to the precinct, intending to make some additions to his report, but on arrival he was summoned to the office of the precinct captain. Sung eyed him warily as he stepped through the door. Captain Su Sung looked more like one of Genghis Khan's descendants than ever, Chen reflected. Sung's family was Uighur, from the far west of China, and he was known to be proud of the fact. A subtle man, Chen reflected, a man who looked like everyone's notion of a barbarian and capitalized upon it to hide a quick intelligence.
"Afternoon, Detective Inspector," Sung said now, with civility.
"Good afternoon, sir," Chen said with equal politeness.
"H'suen Tang's wife has been to see you." It was a statement rather than a question.
"That's right. This morning. Her daughter's gone missing."
"And her daughter's already dead, right?"
"That's correct, sir."
Captain Sung sighed. "All right, Detective. I leave all this supernatural business to you, as you know, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. But I've had an e-mail from the governor's office this afternoon. The governor's a friend of the Tangs, it seems, and apparently Mrs Tang hasn't been—well, quite right in the head since her daughter died. In fact, she's evidently been behaving strangely for months, and Tang's naturally concerned. The last thing he wants is a scandal."
Su Sung sat back in his chair and contemplated his subordinate through half-closed lids. The air conditioning was still down, and the captain's office was as hot as an oven. A thin thread of sweat trickled down the back of Chen's neck.
"Scandal?" Chen said with careful neutrality. "Perhaps you might elaborate?"
"Do enough work to keep Mrs Tang happy, but don't start shit-stirring. The last thing anyone wants is for the press to get hold of the fact that H'suen Tang's fourteen-year-old daughter was working as a cut-price whore."
"I'll be discreet," Chen said. Unexpectedly, Sung smiled, which transformed his heavy features into something resembling menace.
"Make sure you are," the captain said.
Chen went back to his desk, pretending not to notice that his colleagues hastily drew coats and papers aside as he passed by. He sat down, reached for the little phial containing the flatscreen, then poured its contents carefully over the desk panel. The thin nanofilm of the flatscreen oozed across the panel like watery slime, and Chen wondered again whether he'd done the right thing in choosing this particular color scheme. When the new technology had been introduced, most of Chen's colleagues had selected lucky red as their flatscreen color, but Chen had chosen green, feeling in the back of his mind that the less resemblance the thing bore to blood, the better. Now, he watched suspiciously as the flatscreen settled into its panel and its programs started to run. He did not trust all this new biotech, no matter how much the media raved about it. What was wrong with good, old-fashioned electronics, and a nice colored box like a large, boiled sweet that you could turn on and off with your finger? As for the technology that lay behind it—using actual human beings as interface nexi for this new equipment, let alone subjecting them to supposedly benign viruses—it all sounded deeply unnatural to Chen. Then again, the nexi volunteered, and they were certainly rumored to be well paid. Well, that was progress for you. Chen heaved a sigh of relief as the data scrolled across the screen; at least he'd done it properly this time and the screen hadn't ended up oozing onto the floor.
Moving the pen with care across the surface of the screen, Chen called up a list of the city's death records over the course of the last month. Pearl Tang's name was among them, and so were the names of a number of young girls. Chen frowned, and scrolled through the records of the spring, summoning up coroners' reports and trying to discern patterns. Anorexia was reported in a number of cases, but then, this was hardly unusual. If he really wanted a lead (which given the captain's warnings, Chen was not sure that he did), it would make sense to call up the Celestial records as well.
Sighing, Chen scribbled a note on a piece of red paper and took out his cigarette lighter. At least this was technology that he could understand. He folded the note into an intricate octagon, muttered a brief prayer, and set the note alight. Then he waited as it crumbled into fragrant ash and dispersed into whatever airs existed between Heaven and the world of Earth. Time for another cup of tea, Chen decided, and made his way as unobtrusively as possible to the vending machine.
When he returned, the requested data was already scrolling down the screen: some conscientious Celestial clerk in the Immigration Office, Chen supposed. He was rather hazy about the modus operandi of communications between the other realms and the world of the living; once upon a time, the mandates of the gods would have been made known through signs in the heavens or from the lips of prophets, but now that the People's Republic of China was a modern twenty-first-century state, who knew how deities and demons alike managed the interfaces? One thing was certain, however: this new method of bio-communication was a lot faster than the old system. In the old days—that is, up until a year ago—he would have had to wait over an hour before the required data was transmitted. Now, it had come through in minutes.
Sipping his tea, Chen began cross-referencing the names of the girls who had died against the names of those spirits who had actually arrived in Heaven. The Celestial Immigration Department was a body of legendary pedantry and thoroughness, and Chen was sure that no one would have slipped through the net. Yet at least five of the names on the deceased list were not matched by corresponding records in Immigration. This might mean, of course, only that the spirits had been destined for Hell, not Heaven; getting hold of Hell's records would take longer, and would also mean calling in several favors. Chen glanced at the clock. It was already close to seven, long after the end of his shift. If he could get hold of his contacts this evening, he thought, pressure might be brought to bear. . . He was about to pick up his jacket and leave the precinct house when the large and tremulous face of Sergeant Ma manifested like an apparition over the partition of the cubicle.
"Detective Inspector?"
"Yes?"
"There's a phone call for you. From H'suen Tang. He says it's urgent."
Chen was suddenly aware of a cold constriction in his chest, as though his lungs had begun to crystallize. He said, "Okay. Thanks for telling me. Put him through."
At the other end of the line, H'suen Tang's voice sounded tinny and distant, as though he were speaking from the bottom of a well. The industrialist said without preamble, "Chen, isn't it? My wife came to see you this morning. Your name and number were written in her diary." He paused, expectantly, but Chen said nothing, deeming it better to await developments. Besides, he resented the industrialist's preemptory tone, and he'd long since ceased to be impressed by the power wielded by other human beings. In terms of the larger metaphysical picture, Tang was a very small fish indeed. But Tang's next words surprised him. The industrialist said, "Look, I need your help. I think something's happened to my wife."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you'd better come over and see for yourself." Tang sounded both afraid and irritable, as if annoyed by the unfamiliar phenomenon of his own fear. Calmly, Chen took the ...
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