Shadow Pavilion by Liz Williams Page A

occasionally a rainy breath of mountain air. This, more than Heaven, had become home. Mhara was pleased to be back.
    There were several ways of contacting Chen, but when on Earth, the new Emperor preferred to work with traditional methods. He clicked open the shell of his cellphone and dialed Chen’s number. No reply. Mhara tried the houseboat and got an answerphone message. Well, it was a pleasant evening, not late, and if he recalled correctly, it was a Friday. Maybe Chen and Inari had gone out, and he would not blame them if they had. He left messages on both phones, just in case. The image of a badger’s paw, disappearing, was still fresh in his mind, and more than any of the multitudinous horrors of the world glimpsed during his coronation, it filled him with an unaccountable unease.

13
    S eijin came back to Earth on a golden day in October, stepping out of the still airs of between into a brisk, leaf-whipping wind. A temple stood before him—not Seijin’s own, for no one builds temples to half-breeds, or assassins, no matter how elevated their origins might be. This place—a rambling, ornate structure covered with gold leaf and red lacquer—had been erected several hundred years ago to the Emperor of Heaven. Former Emperor, female self reminded Seijin reproachfully: it would not do to forget the very purpose of returning here. Seijin considered the temple to be somewhat vulgar and overdone; female self thought that they had always been ahead of their time when it came to internal décor. But that was irrelevant. There was business here.
    Seijin skirted the carp pool that lay in front of the temple, mirroring it to perfection when the wind died and the ripples across the water stilled. There were glimpses of the reflected curls of the temple roof in between the sodden yellow leaves—before the Emperor’s downfall, these would have been assiduously raked out of the pool every hour by the temple servants, but now that the Emperor was gone, the leaves formed a glossy carpet across the water, with the bright shapes of goldfish and carp flickering beneath them. Seijin raised the hem of the robe and stepped out onto a leaf. Visibility from the temple precinct was good: the staff would by now be aware that they were about to have a visitor. Seijin walked lightly across the path of leaves that covered the pool, scattering shoals of fish. You’d think they’d be used to magic, Seijin thought, but then, the short-term memory of fish is nothing to write home about.
    Nor, sometimes, is the memory of gods.
    By the time Seijin stepped onto the once glassy surface of the marble steps at the far end of the pool, the temple servants were waiting. Their normally bland faces wore, Seijin was not displeased to see, the same expression as that adopted by the Gatekeeper of the Shadow Pavilion: an agitation overlying fear.
    â€œHonorable Lord Lady Seijin!”
    â€œI need,” Seijin said, bending down to the ear of one of the servants, “just to check the date.” The genteel dilapidation of the temple might betray its former master’s absence, but one never knew: problems had arisen before when moving from between and the worlds: betrayals, traps. One must always remain vigilant.
    The servant confirmed the date and Seijin gave a gentle smile. “That’s good. Thank you. Now. I understand someone is waiting to see me.”
    Preceded by much bowing and scraping, which Seijin ignored (always such a fuss with these people), the way to the temple’s current occupant was shown. The interior of the temple had been cared for rather better than its grounds; Seijin walked past glittering­ tapestries, on marble floors inlaid with golden flowers­, beneath a host of floating candles, to the inner sanctum, a window­less room redolent of jasmine.
    Seijin did make a bow, but only a very little one.
    â€œMadam. You wanted to see me?”
    â€œI did.” There was no bow