Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge

It would be interesting to watch. “Does this walking corpse have a name?”
    Navarre climbed slowly to his feet. “His Grace, the Holy Bishop of Aquila.”
    Phillipe blinked. “I . . . see,” he said weakly. From personal experience, he knew that Navarre’s reasons for wanting the Bishop dead must be excellent ones. But he was equally sure that he did not even want to know what they were. For a moment he had forgotten that Navarre was mad. The last gossamer wisps of daydream cleared from his vision as he clapped his hands together. “Well! Then you have . . . much to do and I’ve already been enough of a burden to you. I hope our paths cross again someday.” He took a step backward, with a wave of farewell.
    Navarre hesitated as he watched Phillipe begin to back away. He willed the boy to meet his eyes. “Come with me to Aquila.”
    Phillipe shook his head. “Not for the life of my mother. Even if I knew who she was.” He took another step, glancing toward the trees.
    Navarre bit down on his impatience. This moment was going exactly as badly as he had imagined it would. “I need your help to get into the city. You’re the only one who’s ever escaped from there.”
    “Escaped?” Phillipe laughed once, sharply. “I fell down a hole and followed my nose!”
    “Then follow it back again!” Navarre snapped. He started forward, cursing the twisted fate that forced him to depend on this miserable human flea for his salvation.
    “You don’t want me with you on a mission of honor, sir,” Phillipe pleaded. “I’m just a cutpurse, a professional thief!”
    Navarre grabbed him by the front of his tunic, nearly lifting him off his feet. The boy cringed away from his gaze, from the animal fury Navarre felt rising in himself. He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to stay rational. Slowly and painfully, he tried to explain: “For two years I’ve waited to hear the warning bells of Aquila. Two years without a roof over my head, avoiding the Bishop’s patrols, biding my time, waiting for a sign from God that the moment of my destiny had come.” He looked down into Phillipe’s wide, glassy stare, into the bright, resourceful mind he knew was hiding from him behind those frightened eyes. He smiled, a quiet, merciless smile. “And here you are, boy.” He let Phillipe go.
    “Me?” Phillipe pulled himself together swiftly, pulling his tunic smooth. He looked Navarre stubbornly in the eye. “Sir, the truth is, I talk to the Lord all the time, and . . . no offense . . . but He never mentioned you.” He lifted his chin.
    Navarre jerked his sword out of the ground, swinging it back and forth easily with one hand. He looked at Phillipe again. “Perhaps—you forgot to ask.”
    Phillipe swallowed visibly, watching the barbed, razor-sharp blade slice through the air. His dark eyes turned grave. “Sir,” he said, “I’m common as dirt. With common fears and common hopes for myself. There are . . .” He fumbled, for once at a loss for words. “There are strange forces at work in your life, magical ones which surround you. They are far beyond my ability to understand, but . . .” His voice faded. “They frighten me.”
    Navarre said nothing.
    Phillipe grimaced. “You’ve given me my life—but the truth is, I can never repay you. I have no honor, never will have.” He shrugged.
    Navarre stared at him, his face unyielding.
    Phillipe went on steadily, “I don’t think you’d kill me simply for being what I am.” He took a deep breath, and shook his head. “But better that than to return to Aquila.” His fists clenched.
    Navarre was suddenly aware of how small and defenseless the boy looked, and was; of how he must appear to the boy—a bully twice his own weight, armed with a sword, dragging him into a private vendetta that was probably suicidal.
    Phillipe turned his back and walked slowly toward the woods. Navarre watched him go, watching destiny slip from his hands, and his last hope disappear. Phillipe