Free Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Page B

gestured at the palace rising above them. “I raise their taxes only to be told there’s nothing left for me to tax. Imagine.” He stopped abruptly, searching Marquet’s face again with sudden, fanatical intensity. Marquet stood still, riveted by his gaze.
    “Last night the Lord Almighty visited me in my sleep,” the Bishop said softly. “He told me that Satan’s messenger traveled among us. And that his name was Etienne Navarre.”
    Marquet stared at him, his brutal face transfixed. He dropped to his knees, kissing the Bishop’s ring again.
    “Go.” The Bishop gestured toward the gate. “To break faith with me is to break faith with Him.”
    Marquet rose and hurried to the exit, a man on a holy mission of extermination.
    The Bishop turned to his secretary, waiting a few paces behind him. “Get me Cezar,” he said. He had to be completely sure.
    Navarre started out of a deep sleep as a sound he recognized almost instinctively set off alarms in his subconscious. His eyes snapped open; his body, tensed for instant action, lay obediently still. It was late afternoon already. His searching eyes found the hawk perched above him on a tree limb, perfectly calm, her head cocked curiously as she watched something below.
    The sound came again—the whoosh of a broadsword through the air. Navarre raised his head and smiled. Resting on his elbows, he watched the young thief swing his broadsword again, with a look of vicious triumph, hacking at invisible enemies. The boy needed both hands just to lift the sword, and he staggered with every swipe of the blade, its weight and momentum dragging his small body around. Navarre pushed up onto his knees.
    Phillipe chopped another attacker in two as he battled his way through the treacherous ambush toward his helpless lady love. Any other man would have been hopelessly outnumbered, but he was the Black Knight, who fought with the strength and skill of ten. He raised his sword for another blow—
    And was spun around, as a black-clad arm wrested the sword effortlessly from his grasp.
    Navarre drove the sword into the earth between them and sat back in the rainbow of fallen leaves beneath the tree. “This sword has been in my family for five generations,” he said quietly. “It has never known defeat in battle.” His blue eyes met Phillipe’s brown ones with faint reproach, but he smiled. His hand reached out and caressed the sword’s hilt.
    It was a thing of beauty, as Phillipe had noted with awe and admiration. Two large jewels were embedded in the lower crosspiece, and one more partway up the handle. “This jewel represents my family name. This one, our alliance with the Holy Church in Rome.” He touched the two stones in the crosspiece briefly. “This stone,” touching the third, “is from Jerusalem, where my father fought the Saracens.” His hand stopped, his fingers exploring the empty setting at the sword’s hilt. He looked up at Phillipe.
    Phillipe paled, as something far too knowing and expectant filled Navarre’s gaze. Was this what Navarre wanted a thief for—to fill that hole for him by stealing a jewel the size of a bird’s egg? Phillipe cleared his throat. “Sir . . . you don’t think that I . . .” His hands brushed his chest.
    “No,” Navarre said darkly. “This is mine to fill. Each generation is called upon to find its special mission.”
    Phillipe let his arms drop, relieved, and cautiously intrigued. Navarre was actually confiding in him, and if it wasn’t because he wanted him to steal, then perhaps Navarre really respected him after all. “And what . . . is your mission?” he asked expectantly. He saw himself riding off with Navarre on a knightly quest for the treasures of a glorious lost kingdom . . .
    Navarre looked up at him. “To kill a man.”
    Phillipe’s face went expressionless. Disappointed, he said, “Well. I pity the poor wretch,” thinking that at least it was a feat Navarre would have no trouble whatsoever accomplishing.