Free Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Page A

away again as the hawk swooped down, landing on Navarre’s saddle, as if she had been summoned by some unheard call.
    “Now get some sleep,” Navarre ordered. “The bird will alert us if someone comes.”
    “Heellp! Heellp!” The scream of a parading peacock echoed through the ornamental gardens of Aquila Castle like the cries of a terrified child. Marquet entered the courtyard like the Grim Reaper, sending the bird scuttling ignominiously aside. Friars and clerics glanced up from their muted conversations as Marquet strode past, oblivious to the beauty of this oasis of luxury in Aquila’s desert of poverty.
    At the far side of the courtyard Marquet spotted the Bishop’s bodyguard and secretary; he angled past a sparkling, tile-walled fountain and headed in their direction. The Bishop sat beneath a mulberry tree, in intimate conversation with a striking young woman whose white, feather-decked gown mimicked the peacock’s spreading plumage. The Bishop dropped a tidbit from the elaborate table of delicacies beside them into the woman’s open mouth, like a man feeding a bird. Her laughter echoed through the garden. Behind them a young nun played a gentle tune on a lute; she broke off her song as Marquet approached their table without slowing down. The other clerics turned to stare with distaste at the sweat-soaked beast destroying the serenity of His Grace’s garden.
    The Bishop looked up from his conversation to see his Captain of the Guard materialize incongruously before him. His face grew rigid with displeasure as he held out his hand. Marquet bent to kiss his emerald ring, and a bead of grimy sweat dripped onto the Bishop’s perfect white robes.
    Marquet grimaced. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
    The Bishop gazed coldly at him. “Have you found the criminal Gaston?”
    “He . . . is not in my custody at this time,” Marquet mumbled.
    The Bishop’s frown deepened. “And yet you impose yourself upon this garden, unshaved, unwashed . . .”
    “Navarre has returned,” Marquet said bluntly.
    The Bishop stiffened, feeling as though lightning had touched him. He glanced at his mistress, his face tightly composed. He nodded politely to her, excusing himself, and rose to his feet. “Walk with me,” he said to Marquet.
    He led Marquet along tile-edged walkways toward an unoccupied corner of the courtyard. Marquet outlined the encounter at the inn curtly, not meeting his stare. “The criminal Gaston travels with him. My men are combing the woods.”
    Together. They are together. The Bishop looked away with hooded eyes. It was a bad omen. Navarre had risked his life to save Gaston. It could only mean that Navarre knew the thief had found a way out of the city; a weakness in Aquila’s defenses. A way out was a way back in. For his own safety, he must make absolutely certain that they were both destroyed.
    He glanced back at Marquet again. “And the hawk?”
    “Your Grace?” Marquet asked, his face blank.
    “There should be a hawk,” the Bishop said, with a little too much insistence.
    Marquet nodded, suddenly remembering. “There is. Trained to attack. It unhorsed Fomac.”
    The Bishop smiled thinly, unable to disguise his satisfaction. “Yes . . .” he whispered. “This hawk would have . . . spirit.” He looked up again, and Marquet tensed at the abrupt change in his expression, “The hawk is not to be harmed, is that understood?” He held Marquet’s gaze relentlessly, his voice falling away to a harsh whisper. “You see, the day she dies a new Captain of the Guard will preside at your funeral.”
    Marquet nodded mutely, understanding that much perfectly.
    The Bishop smiled again, at the fear and the confusion in his captain’s eyes. Always keep them unsure. He turned in the path and led Marquet slowly back toward the garden entrance. “We live in difficult times, Marquet,” he said conversationally. “This famine has prevented the people from paying their proper tribute to the Church.” He