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?”