Kill the Dead, Tanith Lee [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗

Swords, his eldritch elderly sister, was brewing more tea. Thearomatic steam curled across the hovel, and vanished as if passing through thewalls: the ghost of tea.

“Soyou’ll trance yourself without a drug, and get into Ghyste Mortua. And then you’lldestroy Ghyste Mortua,” said Sable, “like all the other ghost-killers weregoing to. But they never managed it, did they, eh? What’s youridea?”

“Waitand see.”

ParlDro wondered then if she could see, past the iron, the steel, the self-denying,cynical, adamant desire to kill the dead which symbolized his existence sobleakly, see by all that to the sombre terror in his heart, lying thereimmovable as Myal on the bed.

MyalLemyal did not know his body lay miles away under a sheet in a hovel. Myal’spsychic body seemed as actual to him as actuality had ever seemed, and was evenplagued by the same ills of nervousness and exhaustion. But then, the town ofTulotef seemed also actual. The town, and the girl.

Andthe three riders who had escorted them to the gate.

Inthe end, these men had not beaten Myal. They had not even let him ride thehorse. At the last instant, as the irrevocable gateporch leaned over them—high,wide, echoing—they had pulled him down. As he landed on the paving, theinstrument catching him again an almighty thump between the shoulders, a manhad leapt for the vacant saddle. Spurs dug in, the horses shrilled. In a skirlof sparks and reverberant, gate-magnified hoofbeats, the riders dashed awayinto the heart of the unearthly town.

Myalrose, dabbing at fresh bruises. Ciddey Soban stood nearby. She was socompletely normal, and mortal, that he caught his breath again in a whirlingdoubt of all facts and fantasies. White, bad-tempered, her eyes blazing, sheslashed the dank atmosphere in the gate with her cat’s tongue.

“Scum!Villains!”And then a host of detrimental words Myal was vaguely shocked—though notastounded—she knew.

Afterdelivering these epithets, she stood simmering, like any spoiled noble girl whohad not got the masculine treatment she supposed was her right.

Itall seemed so real. The hollow gate, wide open and unguarded, yet like a scoreof similar town gates Myal had gone in and out of. The angry female. The softcool vapours of night. The gauzy sounds of people and action going on in thevicinity: hoofs, feet, metalware, voices, wheels and occasional bells; a dogbarked somewhere, lusty and demanding. There was even a vague smell like bakingbread—

Theonly wrong note was the half-mooned darkness. All this clamour of anindustrious town in the forenoon, carried on at midnight.

“Asfor you—”

Myalturned automatically. Ciddey Soban glared at him.

“Damnit,” said Myal defensively, “what was I supposed to do? You’re all ghosts.”

“Be quiet.”

Hequailed at the venom in her eyes, and said, fawningly, “Well, they were—”

“Youoffered me your protection,” she snarled.

“DidI?”

“Andyou let them molest me, threaten me with a sword.”

“Andyou wanted to lead me into town by a ribbon.”

“That’sall you’re good for. Someone’s lapdog.”

“They’dhave beaten me up, while you—”

“I’dhave laughed.”

“Ithink,” said Myal, turning from the gateway, “I’ll just—”

“Noyou won’t. As a protector, you’re ridiculous, but you’re all I have. You’llstay with me. You, and that silly stringed instrument.”

Shewalked in the gate. She was imperious. It would be simple to retreat, dodgeaway into the forest that stretched from the slope, pressed like a huge crowdagainst the causeway, rank on rank of bladed darkness which was trees. Simpleto retreat. Or was it simple? Something which was more than the willpower ofthe ghost girl was enticing him toward that gate.

Asudden uncanny notion struck Myal, unformed yet menacing. He had remembered theway the riders had threatened him by the pool, stating the penalties for thosewho consorted with the deadalive. Of course, they had been threatening him. Butthe odd thing was, they had spoken many of the words as they stared at Ciddey.As if they were grinningly, nastily unsure which of the two, the girl or themusician, was the ghost.

Andthen again, why had they abruptly abandoned Myal to his own—or Ciddey’s—devicesat the gateway? As if he did not really matter to them. The undead needed theliving to feed from, was that not Parl Dro’s enduring philosophy? So why—

“MyalLemyal, willyou do as I say?”

Ciddeywas glaring again, from the town side of the gate.

“Whyshould I?” Myal asked, obeying her.

Oncehe was in the town, a sense of total helplessness overcame him, not physical,but mental; not even truly unpleasant. Ciddey and Tulotef had got the better ofhim. Small surprise. He gave in.

GhysteMortua was not as he had been picturing in the part-assembled song. Not dusk.Not dim and shrivelled. No fireflies. And yet, so strange.

Thestone street inclined upward, narrow and closed in by houses with blind walls.It was pitch dark there, but somehow everything was visible, in a thousandshades of black, even the bricks or the stones. While over the tops of roofsthe gust of light dazzled into the sky, dousing the stars, which he had takento be the light of the lamps of Tulotef—or was it rather the light of Tulotef itself?A glow like phosphorous on a bone. Myal braced himself to shudder, and theshudder did not come.

Thesound was curious too, for noise was everywhere, yet no figures were directlyapparent. Then, suddenly, gazing at a blank yard, you saw a man definite asyour own hand seen by daylight. A cobbler mending a shoe, a smith hammering. Ortwo children playing with a cat.

Ciddeywas prowling ahead of him, and he, dutiful page or bodyguard, or dog, orwhatever he was supposed to be, remained about a respectful yard behind her. Alarge building blocked the head of the street, but with an arch through and aflight of steps. The first lamp burned in the arch, and Myal regarded it warily.It was a ghost lamp, for certain, a pale greenish-lemon moth light flutteringquietly in its smoky glass, clear and evident as a flower or a jewel in thegloom. And yet casting no brightness and no colour from itself on anything. Noton the wall, not on the stair. Not even on Ciddey as she passed under. Nor onMyal. And when he held his hand against it, no blood showed in his fingers, andhe felt no warmth.

“Comeon,” she snapped, ten steps above him. “Don’t play with that. If you