The Demon and the City

said, with unease. "Whatever religion one might practice."
    "Then maybe the heretics are right."
    Robin looked about her. This area of the Night Harbor was nothing like the city they had left. Great shadowy buildings rose on either side, but as Robin watched, they shifted, altering into mere facades, some crumbling into ruin before her eyes. Mhara tugged at her arm.
    "Robin . . ."
    "I know. I'm coming. Do you know where we're going? Can you tell?"
    Mhara's face fell. "I thought I knew. But now I'm not so sure."
    Robin looked about her, frustrated. "I don't know the typography of the Night Harbor. Only the superstitions about the journey of the soul—across the razor bridge, through Bad Dog Village, then to the port . . ."
    "We are not near the razor bridge," Mhara said. "That lies close to the entrance to the port, and in any case, we would not be drawn to it—you are a living soul, and I am a Celestial."
    "What about Bad Dog Village, then?"
    "We will probably have to pass through that." Mhara's eyes were wide in the dim light. "Or around it, which would be wiser."
    "Bad Dog Village is not supposed to be a nice place," Robin said, shivering. "The souls of the lost, caught between Heaven and Hell."
    "Like Deveth," Mhara murmured. "Talking of dogs."
    Robin grimaced. "Or bitches."
    The area through which they were now walking was no longer so built up. She could see ahead to what looked like fields, filled with shadow-colored corn. When she looked back, the buildings had melted away and all she could see were the fields, stretching into the distance. The air smelled moist, filled with growing things. It was, Robin felt, the healthiest place they had come to since entering the Night Harbor. The crops, however, varied. Sometimes the fields seemed to contain corn, tall and fringed. Sometimes, the ghostly leaves of pak choi rose stumpily from the earth, and when Robin glanced again, she saw nothing but rice paddies. Then the crops were once more corn. Mhara paused and touched one of the tall, nodding heads.
    "It's not supposed to be a good thing to eat when you are in the Night Harbor."
    "I'm not hungry anyway," Robin said. The idea of eating any of these shadowed plants was off-putting—then Mhara's hand whipped back. The fringed ear of corn was writhing. Moments later, it split to release a huge moth, which unfurled sticky wings and sailed off into the darkness. The remains of the ear of corn shriveled and withered, and the long stem sank silently back into the ground. A minute later, a sullen potato plant emerged.
    "Let's go," Robin said, appalled by this strange fertility. But they did not get far. The corn rustled as if a wind was rushing across it. Mhara drew Robin back, further into the roadway, but figures were already leaping from the corn, waving long pikes. Robin clapped a hand to her mouth. The figures were squat, moving springlike on legs that bent backward from the knee. They wore leather armor, and long fingers tipped with black nails clasped their weaponry. Their faces reminded her horribly of Deveth's new form: snarling doglike masks, mouths gaping behind short tusks. They stank of old meat and piss. They formed a ring around Robin and Mhara, and moved in closer, jostling and yipping at one another.
    "So," one of them said in a strangely musical voice, "you're the missing boy."

Thirty
    "Good news?" Paravang Roche asked hopefully.
    The broker shook his head.
    "No news?" Again, the broker shook his head.
    "I thought it was to be last night!" Roche said in an urgent undertone. Several people, their prayers disturbed, glanced at him and frowned. The broker was obviously choosing his words carefully.
    "So did I. But evidently matters have gone awry. The appointed gentleman did not return to the hiring place, nor was he at his abode this morning. There is beginning to be some concern."
    Paravang felt someone draw a long, cold finger up his backbone. He was on the ground again and an expressionless killer's face was gazing down at him.
    "What is to be done?"
    "Give it another day," the broker said. He rose stiffly to his feet, wincing.
    He is not a young man, and neither am I, Paravang thought. His jaw still hurt where the demon had cuffed him to the floor. He was reaching an age where his feet hurt him if he stood for too long, whereas his enemy paced the ground with predator's grace, the walk of a man who dispatched trained assassins without even thinking about it, and now he might be hunting me. Why