this story. Where did you learn it?"
"I asked Mhara," Zhu Irzh said. "Thought a prince of Heaven might know, and sure enough, he did."
"Fair enough," Chen said. "But what does your case have to do with a long-ago dead goddess?"
"I don't know. You see, Sulai-Ba's been locked for years, but people have gone in and out of it all the same. And lately, it looks as though the earthquakes jarred something loose, because there's been a lot of activity around Sulai-Ba: things heard in the night by people who live near it, things seen."
"What kind of things?"
"Big things."
"Mmm," said Chen. "What do you mean, exactly?"
"Someone saw something huge flying around Sulai-Ba. Something with wings and a tail."
"Something dragon-shaped, perhaps?" There was one of those disturbing instincts again, smacking him right in the solar plexus.
"Well, we don't know that for sure," the demon said. "It might have been something else—a trapped Storm Lord, for instance."
"That's not reassuring. I'd rather have dragons." Dragons were essentially ancient, civilized creatures, guardians of Celestial courts, keepers of old books and forgotten spells. You could reason with a dragon. They weren't like the Storm Lords, kuei, Hellkind's centipede law-enforcers.
"The thing is," Zhu Irzh said, "there aren't many dragons in China these days. They're ideologically unsound. Most of them left when the Communists took over. A handful in the mountains, perhaps. But otherwise, they all retreated to Sambalai, a little way off from Heaven."
"Cloud Kingdom," Chen said. "I've heard of it."
"So, I don't know whether it's a dragon or what it is. But in light of recent events, I thought I'd better check it out."
"What concerns me," Chen said, "is this missing girl from the Opera. And I don't know why. It's hardly uncommon for those sorts of people to disappear, unfortunately."
The demon narrowed golden eyes. "It isn't. But I know what you mean. I had a dream last night in which we were wandering through Hell, looking for her, but she wasn't there."
"It reminds me of Pearl Tang," Chen said. He smiled, remembering the first case that he and Zhu Irzh had worked on together. "There must be something about young female spirits that leads to trouble."
"Of course there is," the demon said gloomily. "They're women, aren't they?"
"Well, there is that," Chen admitted, thinking of Inari and feeling just a little treacherous. Goddess knew that Inari had caused trouble enough, poor love. But she hadn't meant to.
"I think we need to talk to that boy again," Zhu Irzh remarked. "I called the Opera, by the way. The girl hasn't shown up."
"We're next door," Chen said. "And there's no time like the present. In fact, there really isn't, because I've no idea how long Sung expects us to remain in Hell on this bloody fact-finding thing."
"As long as it takes, I suppose." The demon downed the last of his beer and stood up. "Okay, let's do it."
Chen was not a lover of opera per se but he had always been rather fascinated by the life of the Opera House. Backstage was another world, of giant chrysanthemums, huge cardboard clouds, twirling parasols. It smelled of face powder and cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. Zhu Irzh was smiling.
"This is fun!"
"It's got a certain charm," Chen said. He addressed a passing stagehand. "Excuse me. I'm looking for a young man named Pin."
"Oh. The flute player. You're looking for him." The stagehand gave what could only be described as a smirk. "Very popular, he is."
"We're with the police department," Chen said.
"Done something, has he? Doesn't surprise me. Always thought he was up to no good. I—"
"Actually, he hasn't done anything," Chen said. "It's about a witness statement. Now, is he here or not?"
"Don't ask me. You'd need to speak to his chorus director."
"Then we'll do that," Chen said, with a faint degree of froideur.
"Why, no," the chorus director said, once they'd tracked her down. "I'm afraid he hasn't been in for the last couple of days. I was really becoming quite concerned." She perched on the edge of her chair, blinking behind large spectacles, her legs demurely crossed at the ankles.
Chen frowned. Miss Jhin's protestation of concern seemed genuine—a nice woman, in his professional assessment, probably born into respectability but fallen on hard times. There was something a little faded about her.
"Where does Pin live?" Chen asked her.
"Why, here, at the Opera. A lot of them do, if they've been orphaned—Pin's mother died, you see, a few years ago. She'd been one of our chorus girls, and Pin knew all the