Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Page B

missed the speculative glance that Pitou gave to his own puzzled face. Pitou looked away at Navarre, and then at his wife, with a barely perceptible nod; her face tensed.
    Navarre strode out past the ramshackle barn to where the black stallion grazed patiently among the weeds. He began to rummage in his saddlebags, heedless of the others or what they might think. His hands found the fluid softness of cloth and the cold curve of burnished metal with the ease of long familiarity. He drew out a woman’s gown of periwinkle-blue silk, and the golden-winged helmet he had worn once in his rightful place as the Captain of the Guard. He stared at them for a long moment, lost in memory, before he looked up again at the setting sun. “One day . . .” He repeated the vow that he had made to himself—and to her—before so many sunsets, that gave him the strength to face the night ahead.
    Phillipe rose from his place at the fire, abandoning the rabbit remains to the Pitous, and followed Navarre quietly across the yard. He got to within an arm’s length of Navarre’s back; the other man did not even hear him. Phillipe halted uncertainly, peering past Navarre’s shoulder. He blinked in surprise as he saw a woman’s fine silk dress neatly packed among the supplies. Navarre’s hands pushed past it, searching for something hidden deeper in the bag. He pulled out a worn piece of parchment and unfolded it carefully. The writing had grown so faint that Phillipe could make out nothing but a single capital letter I. Navarre’s hands trembled.
    “Sir?” Phillipe whispered.
    Navarre spun around with the speed of a striking snake. Phillipe saw tears shining in his eyes, in the split second before those eyes filled with furious rage.
    Phillipe fell back a step, his heart constricting with the same terror he had known when he first saw Navarre. He opened his mouth, but for a moment nothing at all would come out. “If . . . there’s nothing else I can do,” he managed, “I think I’ll turn in.”
    Slowly Navarre’s face changed. The storm passed through his eyes, and was gone as suddenly as it had come. He ran a hand through his close-cropped, sandy hair. “There’s a stall in the barn,” he said brusquely. “Before you gather more firewood, see to my horse.”
    Phillipe swallowed a hard lump of unexpected irritation, nodded as agreeably as he could. He reached out for the black’s reins with an uncertain hand, trying his best to imagine an ancient, docile cart horse. “C’mon, old girl, let’s . . .”
    The horse reared with an angry snort and shied violently away, jerking the reins from his hand. It fixed Phillipe with a furious stare, for all the world as though he had insulted it.
    Phillipe smiled nervously. “Spirited little lady, isn’t she? Ah . . . what’s her name?” he asked, hoping that if he could get on more personal terms with the creature things would go better.
    “His name is Goliath,” Navarre said.
    Phillipe flushed. “Pretty name,” he said, refusing to back down.
    Navarre took the stallion’s reins and handed them to Phillipe. “Go with him,” he told the horse.
    Phillipe was almost disappointed when the horse did not nod. He led the stallion away gingerly, talking all the while in what he hoped was a forthright manner. “Listen, Goliath. Before we get to know each other better, I feel I should tell you a story about this tiny fellow called David . . .”
    Navarre watched Phillipe and the stallion disappear into the creaking barn. A grin pulled his reluctant mouth up. Somehow the boy kept slipping past his guard, making him smile in spite of himself. He turned away, saw a patch of sunflowers still blooming among the weeds outside the barn door. He crossed slowly to them, looked down at their bright orange faces washed by the glow of sunset. He studied them wistfully, leaned down to pluck the largest one. He twirled it gently between his fingers, gazing out into the dusk, his thoughts far away from