Kill the Dead by Tanith Lee Page A

Soban. Her death, and the ominous lacuna which followed it: the fact his premonitions had foreshadowed.
The holy brothers had a stretcher ready at the compound gate. Three of them lifted Myal and laid him on the stretcher and carried him into the single-story hostel.
Dro stood outside the open door, looking through into a room divided by wooden screens and shafts of sunlight. Bed frames were stacked in a corner. One bed had been prepared.
The colour of the order was cream, the same colour as the faded whitewashed walls. Everything blended, brick and linen and men, into a positively supernal luminescence. Myal might come to and think himself in some bizarre afterlife peopled by ugly angels.
One of the angels glided up to the man in black.
“An act of laudable charity, my son,” said the priest, who was far younger than Dro. “To bring in the sick traveller and to pay for his lodging. Rest assured, your piety will not go unnoticed.”
“Really? I thought I’d been fairly circumspect.”
The priest smiled seriously.
“I think you mentioned moving on today. We might be able to come to some arrangement about a horse. Generally, of course, we don’t buy and sell, but I’m sure we could agree on a price. Seeing your–er–your difficulty.”
“What difficulty is that?”
The priest stared at him.
“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