“Well hobble then. I’ll stall them.”
“With what? Handstands? Communal singing?”
“I’ll think of something. They can’t hurt me. Can they?”
“Probably not. I wouldn’t swear to it, under the circumstances.”
“I know you’ve got a death wish,” said Myal coldly. “Any kind of murderer has. But don’t indulge it here and now. Go on.”
“While you bravely fight them off. That’s what it will come to.”
“Go.”
“Have you ever fought the deadalive?”
“Will you—”
Parl Dro stood like an emperor, watching the tide of death sweep around corners, between walls, up steps. Myal shouted at him, then muttered, then ceased communication of any sort. He too watched, with a fundamental sinking of his non-present vitals, until the crimson spectres of Tulotef s priesthood brimmed up into the street, directly in front of him. Priests, a choir, even the carriages had somehow negotiated the route. Then everything folded aside, and a wedge of mailed riders came pushing through.
Myal saw through all of them. Not literally, since they appeared solid enough; their insubstantiality proclaimed itself in other, more insidious ways. Yet his eyes seemed to pierce them all, like any unknown mob, seeking and resting themselves on a single familiar face, which obviously was Ciddey’s.
White as some wicked flower, she sat on a horse which a man in mail had been leading. His face was a blank, as if set there ready to be sketched in with emotion, personality. All their faces were the same. Except for hers.
There was also a man riding close at her side, clothed in an oddly far-off glitter. He must be the duke. Ciddey, not taking her eyes from Myal, made a small gesture to this man, deferring to him. Yet the duke of Tulotef hung there, somehow creditable only because Ciddey included him in her awareness.
And it was Ciddey who spoke.
“Hallo, traitor,” she said to Myal. And then she called him a very foul name. Although Myal had been on the receiving end of it countless times, it unnerved him especially, coming from her kissable lips. But her eyes had gone past him. They had fixed on Parl Dro. “Lord duke,” said Ciddey, “the man in black is the man I told you of. The murderer. He killed my sister virtually in front of me. My darling sister, all I had in the world. I swore to have justice from him. I dedicated myself to it. I came all these miles to your town and your court to ask it.”
The ghost duke stared at Parl Dro. Some vestige of decayed mortal anger marked his countenance, which was firmer now. His long-nailed hands tensed very slightly on the jewelled reins.
“The lady has a grievance against you,” said the duke to Parl Dro. “How are you prepared to answer it?”
“With a politely smothered yawn,” said Dro.
“Your insolence suggests desperation.”
“I’m sorry. It was meant to suggest boredom.”
“I—” said the duke.
Ciddey cut through like a thin white blade.
“Don’t debate with him, lord duke. Kill him.” Ciddey leaned from the horse and clutched the shoulders of the mailed retainer who had led it. “You kill him.”
The retainer tensed, given life. But, “How?” said the duke simply, over Ciddey’s head.