Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge

direction. A fat, wheezing old man in the brown robes of a monk stopped to cross himself as the cart passed by. Then he continued along the muddy lane, precariously but resolutely. Fornac turned away and went in search of his horse, having come too close to needing last rites today for a conversation with a holy man.
    The road was empty by the time Brother Imperius reached the spot where the guard had been standing. He stopped there, wiping his brow, gazing at the ruins of the tavern yard. For a moment guilt showed in his weary, bloodshot eyes. Shaking his head, he slipped his winesack from his shoulder and drank until it was empty. Then he started toward the tavern with the uncertain gait of a man who had drunk far too much already.
    The innkeeper crouched in the courtyard, searching through the broken debris for anything salvageable. There was not much reward for his effort. He heard the sound of tankards clanking behind him and turned, shouting furiously, “Get away from that wine, you filthy bastards!” Too late he saw that the man who stood behind a charred table, pouring himself an enormous drink, was a monk. The innkeeper’s face reddened. “Sorry, Father,” he muttered.
    The monk’s shocked expression faded. “God has already forgiven you, my son,” Imperius said kindly. He lifted the tankard and drained its contents before he said, “They tell me Etienne Navarre stopped by here not long ago.”
    “You might say that,” the innkeeper answered sourly, thinking that word traveled fast.
    “Did you happen to notice the direction he was headed in? It’s crucial I find him.”
    “I’ll tell you what I noticed, Father,” the innkeeper said. “Swords, arrows, fire, and blood!” He flung a broken plate against the wall and watched it shatter.
    Imperius nodded sadly and poured himself another drink. He downed the second tankard and wiped his mouth. “May God have mercy on you, and on those desperate enough to drink this wine.” He put the tankard down and staggered out of the yard toward the road. The innkeeper shook his head.
    Farther up in the hills, and later in the day, an isolated farm in a weedy forest clearing also received unexpected visitors. The middle-aged couple who eked out an existence there looked up from their endless round of labors as two men on one enormous black horse rode slowly out of the trees.
    The woman, sweeping a futile cloud of dust out the front door with a ragged broom, stopped and stared, wiping her brow with greasy hands. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the two men. The man in front, the one she could see clearly, looked dangerous . . . but he didn’t look poor. “Pitou! Pitou!” She ran across the yard, calling shrilly to her husband. Pitou studied the strangers from where he stood in the field beside the barn. His own eyes told him much the same story. The sickle he had been sharpening still hung in his grasp, and dark speculation filled his eyes. He ran a finger along the sickle’s razor-sharp curve until a tiny line of blood formed on its tip. He put the finger into his mouth and sucked it thoughtfully.
    Phillipe glanced around the farmyard as Navarre reined in the black. The tumbledown barn, the filthy yard, the cottage with its peeling walls and rotting thatch—this was not the sort of place he had anticipated spending the night in. But any human habitation was hard to come by this far up into the hills—and he knew that Navarre was just as much a hunted man as he was now. From Navarre’s manner, and the weapons he carried, Phillipe suspected that he might have been a fugitive much longer. They had to take what they could get, for now. And besides, at this point he would gladly spend the night in hell itself just to get down off this horse.
    Navarre made no comment, but Phillipe watched dubiously as their potential hosts for the night came forward to meet them. He had seen too many people like these—old before their time, embittered by hardship. The man’s