The Demon and the City

for his sterling work over the past six months and, of course, the sickness pay he would normally be charged would be waived.
    Paravang Roche, his voice trembling, told her how grateful he was to have worked for such a caring company. He accepted her generous offer and remarked that his training in various spiritual disciplines had given him the inner serenity to discount what the world would regard as a painful episode. His former employer patted his hand.
    When she had left, Paravang fell back against the couch and sent a fervent prayer to Senditreya that Jhai Tserai would suffer a prolonged, painful and eventually fatal accident before the year was out, accompanied in her death throes by Seneschal Zhu Irzh. He had expected the attempt to buy him off, and had enough native cunning to anticipate what might happen if he made a fuss. The last site manager for Paugeng had been a man with little or no sense of personal danger, some sort of genetic mutation, Paravang supposed, and had not only taken Tserai to task over medical related staff problems once, but several times. The man had an extensive opportunity to explore such difficulties, now, having come down with an unusual kidney disease after a visit to Tevereya. There had been considerable speculation as to its cause, never satisfactorily resolved. Fortunately, Paugeng looked after its own, and had provided medical treatment at a discount rate.
    So Paravang determined to take what was offered and make other arrangements to regain inner serenity. He made more tea, and after he had drunk this he took the downtown to Air Street and headed for Senditreya's temple, where he demanded to see the priest-broker and spent an hour pouring out his woes. The broker opened his eyes wide at the sight of the ragged scratches that were healing slowly underneath the synth skin and was suitably and gratifyingly horrified. Paravang could not resist milking this unfamiliar sympathy.
    "Unprovoked!" he told the broker. "First, the foul creature revokes my feng shui license. Then he forces me to work for him, without pay, and in the course of my duties—during which he never stopped arguing—he attacked me. Why? It must be some kind of curse. An enemy has conjured him from Hell to persecute me."
    The broker nodded, sagely. "I know the being," he had told Roche. "I have made enquiries. He is attached to the police department—an unorthodox but legitimate arrangement. Putting an end to his persecution of you will undoubtedly attract attention."
    "What are you saying? I thought you wanted to help me?"
    "That is correct. My sympathy for your plight is as bottomless as the pits of Hell itself. I am not suggesting that there is nothing that can be done. Merely that it will not be cheap. Legal fees can eat money like candy."
    Paravang shot the broker an incredulous glance. "Who said anything about legal fees?"
    The broker favored Paravang Roche in turn with a lengthy and considering look.
    "Then there is a man . . ." he began.
    The broker had set it all up for Roche, deducting a token payment from the practitioner. The bulk would be paid once the exorcist had carried out his work. Then they had gone together into the temple and Paravang had gazed with bitterness at his fickle, beaming goddess. Senditreya's bovine face betrayed nothing. Useless to rely on such an apathetic deity. He was glad that he'd had the wit to turn to human help.
    "Will it not be too soon? Look obvious?" he had asked the broker.
    "Not if it is carefully done. Leave it to me."
    Paravang caught the tram back to his neighborhood: the row of crumbling tenements that lined the suburban hills. He was tired and angry, and he was not pleased to find a neighbor, an elderly, vituperative woman, waiting outside his apartment. Not wishing to lose face, however, Paravang forced himself to be polite.
    "Good evening," he said with a small, stiff bow.
    "Citizen Roche! You have to do something about it!" the old lady said without preamble.
    "What?" asked Paravang, bewildered.
    "The Third Commercial Bank! What else?" his neighbor said. Paravang listened as patiently as he could while she explained at length and volume the wickedness of the new Third Commercial Bank for pointing their sharp and nasty roof right at her kitchen window.
    "Spoils my dinner!" she shrilled. "Brings bad luck!"
    This was the problem with being a dowser, Paravang reflected. Everyone expected you to be able to solve their problems for them, especially when some