He was waiting for Parl Dro—initially, with glib certainty, which masked a vague unease. After about half an hour, with a nervous agitation that masked alarm, rage and a curious unaccountable anguish.
Myal was not sure why he had demanded Dro’s appearance in Tulotef. The argument he had given was dramatic and inane—proof. Proof of what, and who wanted it? No, Myal was conscious that he had merely been forcing the issue. And that, as from the very start of their acquaintance, if such it could be called, Myal had felt a foolish magnetism to Dro, one way or another. The magnetism worried Myal for a number of reasons. At first, it had seemed just another of his impulsively fatal fascinations with the element of danger. He had had, besides, the excuse of wanting to make a song of Ghyste Mortua. But when had that idea first taken hold of him? Could he really pin it down as being before he tried to rob the ghost-killer in the mountain valley village? It seemed to Myal now that there had been some faintly unsavoury destiny that had directed him over the mountain pass and into the village, only four or five days before Parl Dro also limped the same way. Unsavoury and supernatural. For not only had Myal’s wandering advent meant a meeting with Dro, but also the ultimate revelation about the instrument—no longer a rare terpsichorean mystery, but a jest, a con trick, the toy of a clown. The coincidences that belaboured the plot Myal’s recent days seemed to have become niggled him. Dro and he, and Ciddey Soban come to that, seemed tangled like strands of wool.
Something unprecedented was happening to the procession. He had not been watching it with all his attention, but in retrospect, it seemed to have stopped, and now it seemed to be changing course like a demented river—
“Enjoying yourself?”
As before, Myal nearly overbalanced. He whirled around with a yell of startled vexation and of relief. Parl Dro stood under one of the yellow lamps, still as if carved. As on the hill, there had been no discernible prologue to his arrival.
“You like giving me heart failure, don’t you,” said Myal.
“Not particularly. It’s too easy.”
“Well, you’re here.”
“So I am. Now what do we do?”
“I—don’t know,” said Myal slowly. “I think we just wait. Something’s going to turn up.”
“Yes, something’s bound to do that.” Dro looked away over the slope to the muddled writhing of the procession. “You realise your psychic abilities,” said Dro, “undisciplined and infantile as they are, have persuaded you to precipitate a crisis.”
“Oh, don’t give me that.”
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what I have given you.”
The procession was spooling up into an alleyway. Myal was suddenly reminded of a flock of sheep, and let out a crow of laughter. The duke-earl of Tulotef, and all his ghoulish court, were coming this way. Insubstantial or not. Harmful or not. Certainly, a crisis.
On the road, they would pass by the inn where Myal and Ciddey had lain together. Maybe that was significant He had noted the inn sign jutting out across the street between the roofs quite some way down. And though he could not see it, the girl would still be trapping the unicorn by its horn and the mailed warrior slashing off the unicorn’s head. A castration symbol? Or maybe a simple omen. Myal turned back to Dro.
“I think Ciddey’s with the procession. If so, she’s said something about you to their ruler here—about your line of work. You said Tulotef was weak, but how weak is Tulotef s weak? They could kill you, could they?”
“Unless I was here in astral shape only, as you are. As I originally planned to be. As you dissuaded me from being, did you not?”
“I’m sorry. I thought—you said—”
“They don’t kill. Not randomly any more. They haven’t the energy left to do it, and there’s no true incentive. Except with an exorcist. That hate goes as deep with the deadalive as fear of the deadalive goes with most humans.”
Myal choked down presumably imaginary nausea, and said, “Get going. Run.”
“Run? You forget I’m a cripple,” said Dro very graciously.