Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Page A

scrawny body was twisted from years of backbreaking labor on a starvation diet; the fat, blowsy woman in the grimy apron stared at him with eyes that were dull and dead, her heavy face a map of suffering. He had met far too many people like these . . . and too many people who had tried to make one of them out of him. He pulled his ill-fitting stolen tunic back onto his shoulders self-consciously.
    Navarre swung down out of the saddle. Phillipe slid down after him, barely keeping his feet as he landed. His body ached in so many places by now that the pains almost seemed to cancel each other out.
    “Good day,” Navarre said courteously. “I wish to impose on you for shelter tonight. For myself and”—he glanced at Phillipe—“my comrade-in-arms.” Phillipe beamed and straightened his shoulders.
    The man looked Navarre up and down cautiously, as if trying to decide how dangerous he was, or how much he might eat. “We have no food to share,” he said. “But there’s straw in the barn—for a price.” His eyes never even touched Phillipe.
    Stung, Phillipe pulled out his stolen money purse, jingling the coins patronizingly. “Bravely said, my dear fellow. But don’t be frightened. We’re not above compassion for those in misery—” He broke off. The gesture had not had the effect on the Pitous that he had intended. Instead of acknowledging that he was one with Navarre, and not with them, they merely stared as if mesmerized at the money pouch.
    Navarre glanced sharply at him. He stepped between Phillipe and the Pitous, cutting off their view. “Your dinner will be payment for our lodgings,” he said. “Tonight you stuff yourself on rabbit!” He turned, signaling the hawk with an upraised arm. “Hoy!” The hawk exploded from the saddle, soaring up into the late-afternoon sunlight.
    Within the hour they had not one, but two freshly killed rabbits for their dinner feast. Phillipe gathered wood and built a fire in the yard, at Navarre’s orders, while the older man skinned the rabbits and spitted them on sticks. Navarre seemed uneasy about entering the Pitous’ house, preferring to eat his meal out of doors. Phillipe was completely in agreement, all too familiar with the vermin and the stench they would probably find inside.
    The Pitous joined them as the smell of roast rabbit filled the air. Phillipe had barely been able to control himself until the rabbits had finished cooking; the scent of freshly roasted meat made him dizzy with hunger. But the Pitous elbowed him aside, getting to the meat first; they ate ravenously and loudly, like wild animals. Watching them, he had forced himself to swallow his own meal with at least a semblance of calm and indifference. It was easier than he expected; his empty stomach had shrunken to the point where it held far less than he remembered.
    Navarre ate desultorily, though he had not eaten at all during the afternoon, even after his battle at the tavern. The hawk sat perched on the peak of the barn above him. She screeched once, flaring her wings restlessly, and looked away toward the setting sun. Navarre raised his head at her cry, looked off toward the horizon as if he were following her gaze. He tossed a bone into the fire and rose slowly to his feet.
    Phillipe glanced up at him. As he looked up, Pitou’s bony hand snatched a half-eaten piece of meat from his plate. Phillipe looked back as the motion caught his eye. He shrugged with casual arrogance. “We eat like this every night.” The knowledge that he would eat like this every night from now on made the lie more convincing.
    He looked back at Navarre, who was still standing. Navarre’s face, ruddy with sunset and fireglow, was the stark face of a man awaiting execution. A profound sadness welled behind his eyes. He walked silently past the fire and away, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the bloody rays of the sun.
    Phillipe stared after Navarre with curiosity that was half concern. Watching Navarre, he