Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Read Free Book Online Page B

command. It came and went as it pleased, always returning to his arm. “That is a truly remarkable bird, sir,” Phillipe said, attempting conversation for the first time in hours. Navarre was a man of few words, and in his grim presence, Philippe had obediently been the same. “I’d swear she flew at those men of her own free will!”
    Navarre glanced back at him. “We’ve traveled together awhile. I suppose she feels a certain . . .” he hesitated, “. . . loyalty to me.” The hawk trained a beady eye on Phillipe and hissed defiantly, flaring her speckled wings. Suddenly he felt that the bird was in no way this man’s property . . . that they traveled as equals. And that he was very definitely an unwelcome addition to their relationship, at least as far as the bird was concerned. But what about Navarre? The man who dressed like a mourner and fought like an angel of death plainly had some grudge against the Bishop’s Guard; but that didn’t change the fact that he had risked his own life twice to save the life of a total stranger they happened to be hunting. Once, it could have been a lucky coincidence; but not twice. It was almost as if the man had been following him . . .
    Phillipe cleared his throat. “If . . . you don’t mind, sir, perhaps you could explain a certain loyalty which you seem to feel to me.” This time Navarre did not respond, or even look back. Phillipe went on, pressing for an answer that was suddenly important to him. “It’s just that you’ve saved my life twice and . . . I’m nobody!” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “Well, I’m somebody, of course . . .”
    Navarre rode in silence for another long moment, thinking carefully. Thinking about the truth, and about why he needed this remarkable mass of contradictions who clung to the saddle behind him. Weighing what he had seen of Phillipe Gaston’s potential so far against the possibility of telling him that truth. The words rose up inside him—the sudden, terrible need to share his burden with someone . . . But not this one. Not yet. He forced himself to remember that the boy was only a common thief, a quick-tongued liar with no honor and probably no future. He had seen enough of those to know better than to trust one, even one with such spirit.
    He closed his mouth and thought for another moment, remembering their first meeting. He smiled to himself, out of Phillipe’s view. “I began thinking about what you said to me that day on the bridge.”
    “Aha,” Phillipe said, “I see.” There was a moment of silence. “What did I say?”
    “That I would be needing a good man to watch my flank.”
    He felt Phillipe straighten up behind him with sudden surprise and pride. “One does what one can,” Phillipe murmured, in a fair imitation of modesty. After another moment he asked, nonchalantly, “Did you happen to notice that wicked gash across Captain Marquet’s cheek?”
    Navarre swiveled in his saddle, looking back in curiosity.
    “He asked for it.”
    Navarre’s eyes turned bleak, as he thought of how much more Marquet deserved. But seeing the boy’s expression, he only nodded gravely, one warrior acknowledging another. He looked ahead again, to hide the smile that suddenly eased the tight, bitter line of his mouth.

C H A P T E R

Six
    F ornac stood in the road outside the tavern with a hand pressed to his bandaged, aching head, overseeing the bloody job of loading the dead bodies of his fellow guardsmen onto an oxcart. Marquet had ridden back to Aquila to report to the Bishop. Jehan had taken the handful of men who were still able to ride and gone in pursuit of Navarre and Gaston. Fornac had been left in command of the cripples and the dead, which he realized was more of a rebuke than a compliment.
    He shouted at the driver as the last body was dropped into the cart. The driver cracked his whip, and the cart lumbered away on its long journey to Aquila. Watching it go, he noticed an unexpected figure coming in his