Kill the Dead Tanith Lee (bts books to read .TXT) 📖

Thenhe realised, too stunned to be glad or afraid, that he had not heard the impactafter all of wood on stone. So he peered into the abyss, and saw, no longerthan his thumbnail, the instrument suspended, caught by its frayed sling. Fromthe bracket of the inn sign, streets below. For a moment his reason wasoutraged, for the inn, its sign, the bracket, were as insubstantial as the restof Tulotef. Then he recalled the stunted little tree which had appeared wherethe inn had been in the morning. It was the tree which had arrested theinstrument’s fall. He could almost make it out, now he knew.

Andbehind him Ciddey, her link to living death unbroken, was saying to Parl Dro,just as Myal once had: “Lend me your knife. I can kill you with it.”

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

ParlDro stood and looked at the ghost girl, at her sad and evil and lovely face. Hewas aware the ultimate moments had arrived, inevitable as if they had beenmaking love together, not hate. He had already braced himself. Despite theprocrastination he had offered Myal, Dro had known this event was unavoidablewhen he sat in Sable’s hovel. Maybe he had known all along, as maybe he hadknown it all. He had used Ciddey inexcusably, not from a fastidious loyalty tohis trade, but to cement his own damaged psyche. And so what came now was justenough, though not exactly the justice she craved.

Quietly,he took out the knife she had asked him for and handed it to her, the hilttoward her hand.

Sheaccepted it doubtfully, however. Even the deadalive could know surprise, asthey could know any state that suited their basic pretence of life.

“Thankyou,” she said. But then: “It will be nice to stab you with your own blade.”

“Good.”

“Whereshould I strike,” she said, “to hurt you the most, and leave you alive thelongest? You see, I want Tulotef to have you, too.”

Helooked beyond her. To him, they were only a vague tumult, like mists boiling onthe hill—archaic, stagnant ghosts. Their buildings were half-drawn in soft graychalk against the sky. Beside the phantoms of the Ghyste, Ciddey looked veryhuman. And Myal—he looked flesh and blood, kneeling on the hill’s edge, the dark-goldhair, the patchwork showman’s clothes, the pale face eaten alive with frightand personal trauma.

“Tryfor the guts,” said Dro to Ciddey. “It might be messy. Twist the knife alittle, and it will be messier. If you get it right, a man can last up to threequarters of an hour, puking blood most of the time.”

Hesaw her drain whiter than her own whiteness and her eyelids flickered as if shewere going to faint. She could kill, naturally, but the description hadunnerved her.

“MaybeI will,” she said, biting her lip. “As you die, you’ll feel theirclaws. But you know what that feels like already, don’t you, if the storiesabout your damaged leg are true? I heard that story about you when I was achild. The kiss of claws and teeth.”

“Becareful,” he said, “you’re getting close to admitting your condition. You stolea lot of strength from Myal, and his inherent psychic powers let you becomestrong more quickly than is general. But to be a total success, you still haveto believe you’re wholly alive. At least, for a while. Until you’ve settled in.And then you’ll find—”

“You’retalking too much for a ghost-killer,” said Ciddey. “I think I’ll stop you.”

Myalmade an incoherent sound.

Droglimpsed him jumping up, staggering, running toward Ciddey. Dro saw Myal’s handsnatch at her arm from too far off, and the snatch passing through her sleeve,missing a grip on ghostly muscle or bone. Dro saw Myal’s expression of utternon-comprehension as the knife thumped home in Dro’s chest. Despite her words,as on the first occasion, she had aimed for the heart.

Theblow had pushed Dro, but no more than that. He stood, and went on watching. Hewatched the red blood spread from the sides of the blade, which quivered like ametal leaf buried almost to the hilt in his flesh. He took a desolate interestin it. He had expected pain, but there was none. He had presumably gone beyondany new pain by now.

Ciddeyhad retreated. Amusingly, she had backed into Myal, and they had each shiftedaside to let the other pass. Dro half anticipated they would beg each other’spardon. Now she poised there, staring. Myal stared, too. This continued forabout a minute. Finally, Dro reached up and pulled the knife out of his heart.It was thick with blood. Ciddey coughed out a toneless little screech. So farMyal was too shocked, or too astrally oriented, to throw up.

Behindthem, the misty boilings of Ghyste Mortua were fading out. Theyhad recognised, if no one else had, the futility of brute force. Maybe they hadeven figured out why.

Drolet the bloody knife drop to the ground. As if it were a cue, Ciddey dropped onher knees. She crawled to Dro over the street. She had forgotten the ghost dukeand his retinue, just as they had let go of her and the guide she gave themback into partial reality. Her hands fastened on Dro’s ankles and sheshuddered.

“You’rean avenging angel,” she said. “Not a man, not a ghost-killer. An instrument ofretribution.”

“Ithought that was you,” he said.

“You’renot even—not even—”

“Noteven bleeding anymore,” he finished, helping her. “The mark of the knife willfade in a few days. Perhaps less.”

“Imust confess to you,” she said. She cried tears on his black boots. “Will I goto hell?”

“Thereisn’t a hell,” he said.

Hefelt unbearably tired and shut his eyes. He hardly listened as she made herconfession to his boots.

Shetold him in any case those things he had gradually come to understand whensorting his reactions to the leaning house, the room in the stone tower, thedark well, her devouring vindictiveness. Ciddey had not simply mourned hersister Cilny’s death, she had caused it. They had had one of those frequentsquabbles the village reported. It was hardly different from a hundred others,but its upshot was that Ciddey had pushed Cilny into the well. The youngersister had fallen across the rusty chain, clung to the bucket, but Ciddey hadunwound the chain. It had