The Demon and the City

Assassins' Guild was summoned. When the woman arrived, she tut-tutted in a perfunctory manner over the body and announced that it had been a freelance contract; there was no record of the attempt on their books, and anyway, the police department knew perfectly well that contracts against law enforcement personnel were not permitted. She and Chen then had an argument about client confidentiality, while the demon sat moodily on a nearby bench, pondering a variety of unpalatable options. It was close to dawn by the time Chen and Zhu Irzh got away. By mutual agreement, they headed for the precinct house.
    Even at this early hour, the street was beginning to be crowded and there was a definite atmosphere of anticipation and festivity, a hum of suppressed excitement for the eve of the Day of the Dead. The light was growing, a lemony glow in the east, and the night-lit neon glow of Shaopeng was still bright, fuchsia, orange, turquoise: signs for remedies, soft drinks, drugs, and the screaming stylized faces that advertised the demon lounges near the station. Through the window of the tram, Zhu Irzh saw a lounge client stagger out into the morning and bend double, clutching his head. He looked as though it had been worth every minute, whatever it was. Many of the signs were pushing the latest from Jhai's own commercial labs, the red Jaruda bird symbol above a lightning-bolt spill of tangerine tablets.
    Along the length of Shaopeng, the chop and cookhouses were opening for breakfast, already flooded with workers carrying plastic cartons of congee; starting early in order to finish by noon and rush home for the start of the festival. Zhu Irzh found that he was ravenous, but Chen refused to stop for food.
    "So," Chen said, when they were within the wards of the precinct house. "If we're to gain any kind of indictment against your new girlfriend, we need to set a number of things in motion. We need proof that she was behind the murder of Sardai, and we need to get Sardai's family on our side. The quickest way to do that, I suggest, is to visit the Night Harbor, assuming that Sardai's spirit hasn't already departed for Hell—and it's likely that it hasn't, since I don't suppose she wants to face the music down there with Tserai's masters. Then it's a question of offering the spirit some kind of deal in order for her to sell out Tserai." Chen paused and took a sip of tea.
    "And then?" the demon prompted.
    "Then we have to find some way of breaking into the Farm."
    "The place is a fortress, Chen."
    "Not to someone whom Tserai has already taken into her confidence."
    "Perhaps, but she's hardly likely to take me back to the Farm. And if I ask her if I can go, she'll get suspicious."
    "Then we'll have to think of something," Chen said. "I have an idea."
    "Oh? What?"
    "I need to mull it over a bit first. For the moment, I'm going to sort out a permit for the Night Harbor. And another thing, Zhu Irzh. Heaven must be informed. As soon as possible."
     

Twenty-Seven
    "No!" Robin screamed. "I'd die for him, Deveth, I wouldn't die for you! I wouldn't die for you!"—and abruptly the attack stopped. Mhara curled whimpering on the ground, the Lion Gate stood silent and empty, and they were alone. Robin sat up and spat blood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She hardly dared to look at Mhara, and when she did she felt a piercing, icy shock. He was curled on the ground beside her, and he was not moving.
    "Mhara?" she faltered. She put a hand to his face and his skin was cold beneath the blood. The beast's assault had ripped through the thin shirt and torn the flesh beneath into long parallel grooves; Mhara was covered in blood. A pulse fluttered in his throat. Robin stripped off her jacket and stuffed it against the worst of the wounds, but after a moment she could see the blood beginning to seep through, staining the material with a thin crust. She looked around. No one was to be seen. It was as quiet as midnight in the country. The fireworks had ceased, and it had grown suddenly cold. The four shining heads of the iron lions were furry with frost, and the rime along the steps gleamed. In the open mouth of the beast above her, the metal ball began to quiver, rocking against the lolling, bronze tongue. The dry noise that it made was the only sound. Then the ball fell, shattering on the hard ground into a thousand fragments.
    Robin stared as light, golden and calm, spilled from the fragmented ball and surrounded Mhara's prone form.