Grinning, the demon followed her back into what was left of the street.
The winter sun lay low and crimson through the bare trees. Droplets of water were strung in icy beads along the branches and the feathers of the long grass. The air smelled of snow.
"God, it's cold," Robin said. She flung her arms around herself for warmth. Beside her, Mhara was scenting the air; Robin watched him curiously. The long braid had come undone and the dark hair streamed down his back. He gathered it together, absently, with one hand.
"Not so far now, Robin."
She smiled. "I don't even know where we are. I thought we were in Shai, but—" She looked at him questioningly, but he did not reply. Instead, he took her cold hand and led her through the trees, toward the sun, and she saw that the trees were blossoming. They were not thousand-flower, but the sweet scent was the same, spilling out into the air.
"If I look," Robin said. "Will I find a star?" She smiled at Mhara.
"You might," he agreed. "But what do you really want to do?"
"I want to go home," she told him.
"You're sure, are you?"
"Quite sure. There's nothing for me in Heaven. I want another life, another chance. Other choices."
"You've always had those." He spoke quietly, as if there was something she should have realized, but she did not know what it might be.
"I know," she said. "But I made the wrong ones. It's important, in Taoism, to place oneself in harmony with one's innermost beliefs, isn't it? I haven't really done that in my life. I haven't done anyone any good."
"Who can say?" Stepping behind her, Mhara put his arms around her waist. "Robin," he said into her ear, "it's winter here. Look—the air's full of snow. We should get moving."—and after a moment she put her hands over his.
"We should," she agreed. She could not tell whether it was snowflakes or flower blossoms that drifted through the frosty air.
A day later, Jhai and her mother were standing outside Paugeng, surveying the impressively improbable angle at which the building now leaned.
"Hell of a lot to do," Jhai remarked, almost cheerfully. Her mother gripped her hand in sympathy.
"Oh, Jhai, I'm so sorry. All your hard work . . ."
Jhai looked at her. Opal seemed older, somehow; it must be the stress of the last few days, not to mention her daughter's confession, but at least she was still alive. Jhai said, "Well, mother, we've gotten away with it. You know what I mean. And I can start again. Sometimes it helps, having a clean break." She was aware of a curious sense of anticipation, almost eagerness. Perhaps Heaven would come after her, or Hell. She didn't know how things would work out with Zhu Irzh, but perhaps it didn't matter. After all, she reflected, lovers came and went, but the city—well, the city and Paugeng would endure as long as she could help it. There would be a lot of rebuilding to do. And then, when she had finished with the city, there was the rest of the world to consider. She thought that her business interests had been a little narrow up to this point.
With Shai shattered and fallen, a major gate between the worlds was closed. It wasn't the only one. There had been reports all over the city, from people unable to contact their dead relatives anymore. Hell was sealed and silent. But not, Jhai thought, for long. There were other gates, after all. She thrust the thought aside. They'd solve that problem when they came to it.
"A lot to do," Jhai repeated. She met her mother's gaze, and pulled her fur-collared jacket closer against the unseasonable chill.
"I have to go back to Heaven," Mhara said. They were sitting on the steps of the little, ruined temple, looking out over the city. The dust from the various quakes had resulted in a magnificent sunset: the sky was a blaze of glory across the port.
"I know," Robin said. She reached out and took his hand.
"My father wants me to begin taking things over." Mhara sighed. "I expect that means he wants me to do things exactly as he would do them—continue the process of withdrawing Heaven from the other realms. That's not what I have in mind."
"No," Robin said. "I didn't expect you to."
"And you, Robin." He turned to her and smiled. "What are we going to do with you?"
"If I could be with you, up there," Robin began hesitantly, but she knew that the Jade Emperor was still in charge, and mortal humans just didn't get to be consorts of Celestial princes. "But I don't think I can. And besides, Mhara, it really isn't my kind of place. Maybe when I die . . ."
Mhara was looking at her strangely. "You haven't realized, have you?"
"Realized what?"
"You're already dead, Robin."
"What are you talking about?" She looked down at her own apparently solid flesh. "It looks real enough to me."
"But it isn't. You died in Shai. Senditreya killed you."
"Why aren't I in the Night Harbor then?"
"Because I'm keeping you tethered here. But you're free to go wherever you want now. Heaven, if you wish."
"But I can
touch
things, pick things up."
"I said you were dead, not that you were a ghost. You just can't die again, Robin. You'll remain in this form, forever, until you should choose to move on."
"But people can see me?" Robin was still grappling with the concept.
"Yes, you're quite visible."
"I need some time," Robin whispered. "Time to think about all this."
"Then you shall have it. I'll come back tomorrow." Slowly, he faded away until there was only a faint shine upon the air.
When he had gone, Robin rose from the steps of the little temple and walked out. She walked past the shattered shops and collapsed awnings of the upper half of Shaopeng, past the dust-covered parks and gardens, all the way to the port. She stayed there for a long time, looking out across the harbor, the emergency shipping dashing to and fro, the helicopters soaring overhead. And gradually, over the course of the day, she knew what she must do, and when night eventually sank over the port, she walked all the way back again to the temple, to tell him.
He came back the next day, as promised. She told him then.
"You're sure?" Mhara said. He was leaning on the ruined framework. Robin had already made a start in cleaning the temple out. The broken bricks had been removed, and she had discovered a kind of hut at the back, equipped with a sink and other facilities, half-covered in vines. Presumably, it had been the home of the previous priest. She felt light and clear and not hungry—better than she had felt for some time. If this was what being dead was like, then she could live with that.
"I think so. I need some space, to think about things. What I've done, how I can make amends. I need some space away from you, and some time with you. So that's what I'll do, Mhara. I'll keep your temple here on Earth, turn it into the sort of place that's worthy of you. I think you've earned your worship now, and with one less goddess on the scene, they'll need all the help they can get. The people round here look as though they can use it. And maybe I could come and see you?"
"Or I could come here," Mhara said.
"We'll work it out," Robin said, as she kissed him a temporary goodbye. After all, it would really be just like any long-distance relationship.
Paravang Roche sat back in the armchair and stretched his feet toward the fire. At least it was warm. Dark, though, but he didn't mind that. There were a few things he missed about his little apartment, but not many, and he had to admit that there were compensations. As long as Mahibel wasn't fussing too badly about the forthcoming wedding, they got along well enough and he had to admit that it was pleasant, being looked after like this. Somehow, he'd always expected the food in Hell to be terrible, but the dishes served up every night were surprisingly good, although he couldn't always tell what they were. And the neighborhood bar was full of elderly gentlemen who held a rather similar view of the world to himself. He and his new bride wouldn't have to worry about money, since the goddess' partners in this neck of the woods regarded Paravang as having conducted their vengeance on Senditreya on their behalf and had been generous in consequence. A good thing that the lords of Hell could be both opportunist and lazy. There had been no reliance on living relatives, which was just as well, since Paravang couldn't see his father parting with much cash in the world of the living.
Even his mother's frequent visits were less unwelcome than they might have been. She was obsessing about the marriage ceremony, of course, but that was only to be expected and it would be over soon. Paravang was letting the women get on with it.
Rising to fetch more tea, he glanced out of the window into the yard. Senditreya was grazing placidly on the little patch of grass. As he watched, she raised her black head and looked at him out of a sour crimson eye. Her mouth opened: she emitted a long, mournful bellow. She was, Paravang thought, of much more use as a cow than she had ever been as a deity, though he didn't think much of the milk. Perhaps a more varied diet might help . . . But as a dowry, she had saved him a fortune.
He turned away from the window and reached in his pocket. Chen's written guarantee was still there. Paravang studied it for a moment, smiled grimly, and then he threw it into the fire.
The spirit was singing her heart out, her ethereal voice soaring up into the air. Uneasily, the demon peered sideways, trying to see, but his view was impeded by a crimson edge of rock. He stamped from one foot to another, trying to concentrate, but the spirit's voice seemed to drown out the whole world. Beside him, his demonic kin swayed in a ferocious display of hatred, surging forward to follow the dragon as it charged toward the singing spirit. Soon, it would be upon her . . .
The demon, hopeful, looked up and to his intense relief saw that the hero's feet were now visible, descending rather jerkily from a cloud. With a sweep of his wand, the hero (mighty Xu Xiao, whose eyes flash pinwheel lightning and whose voice makes a whisper of storms) summoned the Storm Lord King onto the stage. The demons danced back as the Storm Lord advanced. The great creature, twisting and turning to conceal the sweating stagehands beneath its many-legged sides, batted at the dragon, causing the latter to dance with anger and return the compliment with a wave of its clawed foot.
The two beasts circled one another warily for a moment, then as the orchestra soared to a crescendo they leaped, screaming, to collide in the middle of the stage. Storm Lord King and Celestial Dragon tore at each other's throats, the centipedal king at last gaining an advantage. It seized the dragon's head between its jaws and pulled. The head came off, like someone decapitating a large shrimp. The Storm Lord rolled acrobatically backward and tossed the head into the air. Snapping in outrage, the dragon's head trailed sparks into the upper reaches of the dome, narrowly avoiding the chandeliers. There was a thunderous firecracker bang, which made the audience squeal, and all the lights went out.
The audience rose in applause as the opera thundered to a close and the curtain fell; not a moment too soon, the demon thought. He frowned behind his heavy mask, longing to take it off and transform himself back into fifteen-year-old Pin, the chorus boy. His face felt as though it had melted. What were the stagehands thinking, to leave the hero's descent so late? Pin peered into the shadows at the back of the stage, but the curtain was already rising. His hands were seized by demons on either side as the cast rushed forward to take the first bow. A moment later, the lights came back on to reveal the whole cast, manifested in the aftermath of the divine battle and singing their hearts out.
The lights had gone up now, revealing the auditorium in all its vulgar glory. Pin blinked up at the audience, automatically noting who was there and who was absent. The box belonging to Paugeng Pharmaceuticals was not empty. The demon—the real one—was there again.
Along with a bunch of elderly Malay executives, the dark, golden-eyed figure was standing next to Paugeng's heiress, and the opera's sponsor, Jhai Bhatya Tserai herself. Rumors traveled fast in Singapore Three and Pin had heard a lot about Jhai's demon. It was said that she had traveled to Hell, fallen in love with him, and brought him home as her consort. Hell had half-destroyed the city as a consequence: it had only recently been restored after all the earthquake damage. Other rumors contested that Jhai had summoned the demon herself, down in the rebuilt labs of Paugeng, where no one who was not indentured to the company was ever allowed to go. And there was another, even weirder, rumor that said that the demon had something to do with the police department, and had met Jhai in the course of his enquiries. Pin did not know the truth of the matter, but as he was still something of a romantic at heart despite everything, he preferred the first theory.
He was so busy gazing at the demon that he almost failed to notice the snapping string of firecrackers as they detonated above his head. The cast bowed once more, then retreated backstage to enjoy their success.
As they began changing out of their costumes, the choreographer, Miss Jhin, came into the dressing room and clapped her hands for attention. There was to be a party at Paugeng, to honor the visiting Malay dignitaries, and certain cast members had been invited. They were waiting for the invitations now. Miss Jhin was excited by this brush with the cream of society, and fluttered about adjusting people's costumes.
"So pretty, and they noticed you especially!" she gasped. This last was directed at Maiden Ming, the sweet-voiced, sweet-faced, and evil-tempered singer who led Second Chorus. Delicate in her gauzy costume, Ming smiled daintily and bowed her head.
"Old perverts," she muttered when Miss Jhin's back was turned. Her face was flushed beneath the layer of powder. "I'll bet they noticed me. And I suppose the flute player intends to live up to his name?" She gave Pin a nasty look. He mumbled something, and turned to the mirror to adjust his make-up, seeing a young man with a soft mouth and almond eyes underneath a sideways fall of hair. He practiced a soulful expression, wondering doubtfully whether it would convince anyone that he was really a thoughtful, intelligent person and not merely some frivolous actor. Those looks won't last much longer, he thought gloomily, seized by a familiar sense of anxious desperation. He must find a patron soon, before his face failed him.