The Demon and the City - By Liz Williams Page 0,33

breakfast. Perhaps with a side dish of blood.

Seventeen

The hospital wing had fixed Paravang's ribs and bound up the scores in his flesh under a protective coating of synthetic skin. They kept him unconscious for a day or so, to let him mend, and woke him up on the following day. He was sore, but his ribs had healed and his worst afflictions were a severe itching and an unpleasant harsh taste in his mouth, soon removed by several cups of tea.

"You can go home now," the nurse said. He smiled brightly at Paravang, who grunted in reply. They had sent round a car, and so he traveled back to Bharichay in comparative splendor. Once he was back in the safety of his small flat, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps things would quiet down now. He spent a peaceful couple of days or so, reading and practicing Hsing-I to loosen his aching muscles. Paravang's neighbor fed him throughout his indisposition, producing bowls of chicken breast soup and noodles on the hour. Paravang grinned grimly at the thought. She probably wanted something.

He had just returned from one of his exercise sessions in the local park when the doorphone rang. Paravang got stiffly to his feet to answer.

"Who is it?"

"Jhai Tserai," purred the phone. He was so startled that he pressed the button to admit her.

"Mr Roche," she said, once inside, and her voice held that low note of concern which Paravang so much distrusted. "I'm so terribly sorry."

She sat down in his armchair and proceeded to explain a number of things. Everyone knew how much stress he was under, what with the temporary removal of his license, and it was completely understandable that he had reacted negatively to what he perceived as provocation. She'd done that herself on occasion, she confessed, it was very natural. The demon detective, too, was under a great deal of pressure, a long way from home and so on, and although his attack on Paravang was unpardonable, she hoped that Roche would manage to rise above it. A complaint had been made to the police department. Paravang was still a part of Paugeng—they didn't forget old employees, even under currently embarrassing circumstances—and Tserai wanted to recompense Paravang for his dreadful ordeal and offered him: three days' worth of trauma counseling, which he could select as he chose, a bonus for his sterling work over the past six months and, of course, the sickness pay he would normally be charged would be waived.

Paravang Roche, his voice trembling, told her how grateful he was to have worked for such a caring company. He accepted her generous offer and remarked that his training in various spiritual disciplines had given him the inner serenity to discount what the world would regard as a painful episode. His former employer patted his hand.

When she had left, Paravang fell back against the couch and sent a fervent prayer to Senditreya that Jhai Tserai would suffer a prolonged, painful and eventually fatal accident before the year was out, accompanied in her death throes by Seneschal Zhu Irzh. He had expected the attempt to buy him off, and had enough native cunning to anticipate what might happen if he made a fuss. The last site manager for Paugeng had been a man with little or no sense of personal danger, some sort of genetic mutation, Paravang supposed, and had not only taken Tserai to task over medical related staff problems once, but several times. The man had an extensive opportunity to explore such difficulties, now, having come down with an unusual kidney disease after a visit to Tevereya. There had been considerable speculation as to its cause, never satisfactorily resolved. Fortunately, Paugeng looked after its own, and had provided medical treatment at a discount rate.

So Paravang determined to take what was offered and make other arrangements to regain inner serenity. He made more tea, and after he had drunk this he took the downtown to Air Street and headed for Senditreya's temple, where he demanded to see the priest-broker and spent an hour pouring out his woes. The broker opened his eyes wide at the sight of the ragged scratches that were healing slowly underneath the synth skin and was suitably and gratifyingly horrified. Paravang could not resist milking this unfamiliar sympathy.

"Unprovoked!" he told the broker. "First, the foul creature revokes my feng shui license. Then he forces me to work for him, without pay, and in the course of my duties—during which he