The Demon and the City

help him out when I can. And my mother's dead."
    "Dead," the priest-broker remarked reflectively, and Paravang scowled at him.
    "Yes, over ten years ago."
    "Where is she now? Heaven or Hell?"
    Paravang scowled at him. "In Hell, if you must know. There were some . . .family difficulties involving her own parents. I'm sure she did her best, but the bureaucracy apparently decreed that she missed Celestial entry by a whisker."
    "The life-between-lives is often unjust," the priest-broker said smoothly. "And you are her only son, from the sound of it."
    "Yes, that's so."
    "A loyal son, no doubt. One who honors his mother at the festivals?"
    "Well, naturally." You had to keep in with the spirits to some extent, and tradition meant a lot to Paravang Roche, and to his father. They had both been generous, over the years.
    "A lot of Hell money bought and burned, then? Sent down to the underworld and your mum in a coil of smoke?"
    "Yes, I—" Paravang had begun to see where this was going. "You can't expect me to ask for it back! She's probably spent it by now anyway." He had no idea what sort of retail opportunities existed in Hell but, somehow, he felt sure that they were extensive.
    "I'm sure your mother loves you still. And I'm sure she's grateful. Besides, think of it this way—if your mother ended up in Hell as a result of some family embroilment, this is her chance to redeem herself. Get back onto the world's Wheel in a much more fortunate incarnation when her time in Hell runs out. You'd be doing her a favor, really, asking for the money back."
    "I suppose you might have a point," Paravang admitted.
    "Think about it," the priest-broker said.
    "I will."
    Troubled, Paravang took his leave of the priest-broker and wandered thoughtfully out into the street. He wanted to have as little to do with his shrew of a dead mother as possible, but in truth, it was the only way out. But it was unlikely, knowing his mum, that she'd simply give him the money, not without a very good reason. If she knew the Assassins' Guild was after him, might kill him—but then she'd have him down in Hell with her, and she'd be knocking on the door every hour of the day and night, demanding this, that and the other. Hell indeed. So telling her the truth was out. That meant a lie big enough for her to return the money he'd burned for her all these years, yet he couldn't think of anything compelling enough.
    But then something happened that made Paravang fleetingly reconsider the essential malice of the universe. He turned the corner and ran into the tail-end of a wedding procession.
    Marriage! Of course. His mother, when she was alive, had always been on him to get married, and things hadn't changed just because she was dead. From the content of her phone conversations, Paravang knew that it was still her dearest wish. The only trouble was that he hated women and saw no reason to seek out their company unless they were the kind whom one paid by the hour, and even then he wondered why folk bothered. He barely knew any, apart from his next-door neighbor . . . Paravang sank down onto the bench and contemplated the wedding procession as it meandered by. His neighbor might have a tongue like a shrew on speed, but she was constantly bringing him things—extra soup, leftover dumplings, noodles . . . And now that he thought about it, she seemed to seek his advice rather a lot, too. Paravang had no illusions about his personal charms. As far as he was concerned, he didn't have any. But the neighbor was a widow, and presumably lonely, and she had presumably also been around the block as far as men were concerned. He balked at actually lying to her, but perhaps if he explained, put the suggestion as a business arrangement and offered her a cut, to be paid once he'd got the Guild off his back and his license renewed . . . It might even work. Newly inspired, Paravang rose, overtook the wedding procession and headed for home.
     

Thirty-Four
    Once on board, Zhu Irzh took an immediate dislike to the boat. It reeked of Heaven: that sickly peach-blossom odor permeating every crack of its ancient wood. The wood itself was dark and glossy, with a curious sparkle to it as if it contained trapped starlight. Perhaps it did, knowing the ways of the Celestials. The demon ran his hand along a railing and found that it burned his fingers. Hastily, he snatched his hand away.
    "So sorry," the Celestial maiden said, though Zhu Irzh reckoned that she wasn't actually