The Demon and the City - By Liz Williams Page 0,17

There was no way they could force the door. Reinforced steel does not give way easily to a kick.

"What about the windows?" But the side of the building was sheer, and the double windows wouldn't open from the outside. They went out with a torch to have a look, but there was no sign of a forced entry. The lights were off.

"There must be some way in," Robin said. "What about the waste disposal?" She and Alba, shivering, went down to the basement and investigated. The base of the disposal unit was a narrow, snaking pipe that entered the main collection unit. With difficulty, they detached it.

"I'm not going up there," Alba said firmly.

It was not pleasant. The pipe stank, and its serpentine sides were slimed with refuse. Like going into someone's intestines, Robin thought. She could climb by gripping the latches; fortunately, the house was too old for a modern chemical valve system. She counted as she climbed. At the second floor, a voice, echoing loud and sharp in her ear, said, "What's that?"

Light seeped around the edges of the disposal hatch.

"Rat, or something."

"That's revolting. You mean they live in the system?"

"You're never less than twelve feet away from one, they say," the voice floated away as Robin climbed on. When she reached the third floor, she located the back of the hatch in Deveth's kitchen, praying that she'd got the right apartment. She did not find the idea of tumbling, covered in filth, onto the floor of some sneering neobohemian's kitchen, an appealing one. She had to force the hatch. An unpleasant ten minutes ensued. She couldn't dislodge the hatch, and she could feel the struts beneath her heels starting to give; they were never meant to bear so much weight. Robin pushed and tugged, certain that at any moment the struts would give way and she'd fall down the pipe, only to get stuck fifteen feet down where it narrowed. Then, the hatch gave way with a crack and she fell headfirst into the kitchen.

It was Deveth's. There was a terrible smell of rotten meat and old cigarette smoke. Robin retched over the sink. Clutching a washcloth, now dried and stiff, to her face, she made a quick tour of the apartment. She knew what she'd find: Deveth's murdered body, cold and rotting, flung against the wall. But the apartment was dark and quiet. The dreadful smell lessened as she entered the bedroom. Deveth was not at home, alive or dead. Robin found the main switch and turned all the lights on, discovering the culprit in the kitchen: a large and ancient steak sitting on the worktop. Robin picked it up with a fork and flung it down the waste disposal, unfortunately forgetting that they had disconnected it at the bottom. Someone hammered at the front door. Robin opened it to see Tarai Alba's white face floating like a balloon in the dim hallway.

"Is she—"

"No, no," Robin said, to stave off what might turn into hysteria. "She's not here."

"What's that smell?"

"She left a steak out in the kitchen. It rotted, what with the heat. Or," Robin said suddenly, "it might be me." Her vest top and canvas jeans were covered in the mold from the pipe. Filth nested in her hair. Alba regarded her with horror.

"Look," Robin said patiently, "I'm going to find something else to wear."

She went back into the bedroom. Deveth was several inches taller, but Robin found a pair of clean trousers that she could roll up at the cuffs, and a baggy shirt. Inside the wardrobe, she found a whole collection of little packets of pills and herbs. She recognized none of the herbs: strands of crimson and black, as though the contents of the packet had rotted and then dried; a musty yellow substance that smelled of old fish. The herbs were somehow sinister. Going back into the kitchen, Robin stuffed the dirty clothes in the washing machine and padded into the bathroom in her underwear.

"What are you doing?" Alba called.

"Having a shower!" At least the water was on. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror as she dressed, a short, pale-faced person under a wet bob of dark hair, wearing huge clothes. Where are you, Deveth?

Alba was hunched on the sofa, smoking sourly. Deprived of her audience, Robin thought.

"What are we going to do?"

"Well, I don't know." She wondered if Paugeng security, Tserai's private troops, could be roped in. An ice-cold thought made her shiver: What if Deveth