Kill the Dead(25)

“Your affliction.”

“Oh dear,” said Dro, “have I been afflicted?”

“Your leg. I meant your lameness.”

“Oh dear,” said Dro, “you meant my lameness.”

The priest went on staring, suddenly aware his point was being wilfully missed. He folded his hands in his sleeves, afraid their work-a-day calluses and gestures revealed too much.

“I’m certain you’d be better riding than walking about.”

“Surely not inside the inn,” said Dro.

He began to walk away, and the priest clicked his tongue at the limp. Dro stopped, turned and looked around at him. The priest involuntarily retreated a step and his hands fell back out of his sleeves.

Dro walked out of the compound and across the stepping stones in the water course, to the other side of the street. But striding past the open front of a leather worker’s shop, he found the priest almost at his elbow again.

“My son, we must part as friends.”

“I don’t think it’s obligatory, is it?”

“According to holy writ, it is,” said the priest smugly. “All that meet as strangers should part as friends.”

“Pity it’s never caught on.”

A woman leaned gracefully over a kiln where pots baked. Her hair was the colour of the clay. She watched Dro intensely, lovingly. She touched a chord of memory he did not want, but the priest plucked his sleeve, distracting him.

“When you think about walking on, remember the horse. We can arrange it privately, if you wish. That way I can get you a reduction. Don’t forget.”

“My apologies,” said Dro, “I seem to have forgotten.”

He went through the door of the first inn.

The priest stood outside with his mouth drooping. When he turned, the red-haired woman had vanished from sight.

Twenty minutes later she came into the inn, voluptuous in a different dress, with copper leaves pendant from her ears. The room was all but empty save for a cat or two and Parl Dro drinking the local wine in a corner.

She lifted a cup from the counter, crossed over to him and sat down facing him. He looked back at her silently.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” she inquired.

“I’m not going to offer you a drink, but you can have a drink.” He moved the flask toward her.

She filled the cup and drained it. Her skin was softly flushed by the sun. Her eyes were a foxy summer shade, catching flame from the metal leaves in her ears.

She said quietly: “My man’s away.” Dro sat and looked at her. “I mean,” she said, “the house is empty. The bed’s empty.”

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You don’t like the look of me.”

“The look of you is very appealing.”

“But not to you.”

“I’m the one who said it.”

“But the one who doesn’t want it. Or do I only remind you of someone else?” She smiled at him. “I’d like,” she said, “to sail a boat across the black pools of your eyes. You’re beautiful. Even better than they say. And much younger. I know who you are, you see. Maybe it’s true, the other story.” She waited for him to ask her what other story. Of course, he did not. She said, “The story no ghost-killer ever sleeps with anyone. That unspent sex builds up a reservoir of power. Like the proverbial virgin being able to snare a unicorn. Not that I’m saying you’re a virgin. Or that there’re unicorns, for that matter.”

There was a silken dappling on the street. Silver strings tautened past the open door. The woman glanced at the rain.

“I think I know where you’ll be going. If it exists. When you get there, you might wish you’d been nicer to me.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you’re interested now, are you? ‘Why?’ Because when I said my man was away, I was simplifying things. He left me two years ago, to try your business. He wasn’t so clever, and didn’t get so famous as you. I don’t think he lived as long as you have, either. He left me to look for the old town, the one they call the Ghyste Mortua. He never came back. I never thought he would. Maybe he found some woman he liked better, and that’s why he stayed away. Or maybe he found the town, on the side of the hill, or in the lake, where the landslide left it. The ghost town. And it killed him. He could never make me understand. He said the Ghyste was in this world, and not in it. That you could only find it at certain times of year, when particular stars were here, or there. But he was one for the lusts of the flesh, my man. Perhaps that’s why he was no good at your vocation. Parl Dro.” She got up, turning her face to the rain flicker.