The Alchemist in the Shadows

2

At the Hotel de l'Epervier, they were waiting for La Fargue.

The Blades were gathered in the garden, in the shade of the chestnut tree, around the weather-bleached old table whose legs were tangled in the tall weeds. Agnes and Marciac were playing draughts while Ballardieu watched the game, sucking on his unlit clay pipe. Saint-Lucq, sitting casually nearby, as impassive as ever behind his red spectacles, juggled with a dagger. And Almades, leaning back against the tree trunk with his arms crossed, simply waited. Leprat was missing, and lor good reason: he had orders not to leave La Renardiere where La Donna was due to return early in the afternoon, under close guard. Glasses of wine and a bowl of juicy fruit attracted buzzing insects to the table, standing in the dappled sunlight which filtered through the chestnut tree's leaves.

La Fargue finally arrived. He took a seat — turning a chair until its back was against the table, and straddling it — and they all listened to his words closely.

'Here's what it's all about,' he began. 'You know that since she gave herself up La Donna has been interrogated in secret at Le Chatelet every morning, by the Paris provost's lieutenant lor civil affairs.'

'Monsieur de Laffemas,' Agnes noted.

'Laffemas, yes. He is both honest and tenacious. He can be difficult at times, but he's hardly the monster that some people claim. In any case, he's smart and not easily fooled. In short, he seemed to be the perfect man to worm information out of La Donna—'

'But?' Marciac interrupted.

'But La Donna is causing problems. Without her smile ever faltering, she deceives, lies, and evades him. Days have passed without her saying very much about what she has done or learned since she began her career as a spy.'

'And concerning the plot?' asked Saint-Lucq.

'On that subject,' the old gentleman answered, 'she hasn't even pretended to respond. She simply repeats, over and over, that the cardinal knows the price of that information. Laffe-mas has tried to learn a little more with indirect questions and falsely innocent allusions to the matter, but in vain. So far, La Donna has always seen straight through Laffemas's game and she's played her own cards marvellously.'

'She's a crafty bitch,' the half-blood said. 'But then, no one succeeds in her line of work by being an imbecile—'

'Or ugly,' added Marciac. 'Is she as beautiful as they say? Could I relieve Leprat? He must be getting bored out there, all alone at La Renardiere—'

Agnes gave a ringing laugh, and Saint-Lucq smiled at the crudeness of this manoeuvre.

'Out of the question,' said La Fargue with absolute seriousness.

'But—'

'I said no.'

'All right!'

The Gascon shrugged his shoulders and, sulking a little, poured himself a glass of wine. The young baronne de Vaudreuil gave him a sympathetic pat on the back.

Then she declared:

'On this point at least, La Donna has never been mysterious: she has always said that she will reveal the details of the plot against the king in exchange for the cardinal's protection. But she's still waiting to receive that protection. How can we reproach her for remaining silent on the subject?

What could she possibly hope to gain by speaking before she obtains her guarantees? She's not an idiot—'

'But that's where the shoe pinches,' said La Fargue.

'How's that?' asked Ballardieu in his loud voice, frowning.

'The cardinal cannot give La Donna his protection while she's considered to be a criminal, which is what she will

continue to be until she's acquitted of the crimes she's been convicted of. Or until the king pardons her.'

'But we're taking about La Donna!' Agnes exclaimed. 'Clearing the name of the adventuress would require a rehabilitation trial that would be a parody of justice!'

'And for that same reason, the king cannot pardon her with the stroke of a quill without risking a scandal,' La Fargue acknowledged. 'In short, La Donna is asking for something she knows is impossible—'

'Let's not forget . . .' added Almades in a flat tone which nonetheless drew everyone's attention,

'Let's not forget that time is against La Donna as well as us—'

'What?' said the Gascon, astonished.

'Let us suppose that there is in truth a plot against the king. A plot about which she has some vital intelligence. What will happen if the plotters make their move while La Donna is still at His Eminence's mercy?'

Agnes understood:

'The cardinal will be merciless.'

'And La Donna will be lucky if this adventure doesn't end in a noose,' concluded Marciac.

The Spanish fencing master nodded.

'So what game is she playing at?' the baronne de Vaudreuil wondered.

'That is precisely what the cardinal wants us to discover,' declared La Fargue with enough authority to retake control of the debate and nip any further idle speculation in the bud.

The others all turned back to him and waited for him to continue.

'Let's start by finding those black dracs who are hunting La Donna. They know more about her than we do, and if we could learn why they are tracking her . . . Besides the cardinal would be pleased to hear they have been prevented from doing any further mischief.'

'How do we find them?' enquired Saint-Lucq.

'They are somewhere in Paris. They arrived five days ago.'

This piece of news aroused surprise. Then Ballardieu, who read the gazettes avidly, recalled that the previous week the

guards at one of the Paris gates had been found dead without any clues as to who had killed them.

The authorities had quickly removed the bodies. Was there a connection between the dracs' arrival in the capital and the deaths of these unfortunate men?

'Yes,' La Fargue asserted. 'One of the guards survived a few days in a delirious state. He spoke of dracs and of a "creeping black death". The cardinal's master of magic thinks it's the same black mist that accompanies our dracs ... By the way, Agnes and Marciac, you will be seeing him this afternoon.'

'The master of magic?' asked the Gascon.

'The cardinal believes he can be useful to us.'

'Good,' said Agnes.

The old captain then'turned to Saint-Lucq:

'As for you—'

'I know,' replied the half-blood. 'If the dracs have been in Paris for five days without being spotted, there is only one place they can be . . . Do you have any special instructions?'

'No. Find them, that's all. And don't get yourself killed . . . For my part, I will be meeting a man Rochefort claims knows La Donna well, who might be able to help us pin her down.'

'Who?' Marciac asked distractedly, observing bitterly that the bottle of wine was empty.

'Do you remember Laincourt?'

'The man Richelieu wanted us to recruit last month? The one who refused?'

Listening to the Gascon, one might wonder which crime, in his eyes, weighed more heavily against the former Cardinal's Guard: having almost become a member of the Blades out of favouritism, or having declined the offer?

'The very same.'

Marciac pulled a face.

'He saved my life at risk of his own,' Agnes said in a conciliatory tone.

'So what?' the Gascon retorted in perfectly bad faith. 'We save each other's lives all the time and we don't make a song and dance out of it—'

The captain clapped his hands and stood:

'Get going!' he cried. 'Into your saddles!' And then, in an almost paternal manner, he added: 'And watch out for yourselves.'

The group of people in the service of any great personage formed his 'household'. Thus one might speak of the king's household, or those of the queen, the duc d'Orleans and the marquis de Chateauneuf. As social customs required that everyone lived in a manner befitting their birth and rank, some households could have as many as two thousand servants all of whom had to be paid, fed, dressed, lodged, and looked after as needed. This applied especially to the king's household, but also to that of Cardinal Richelieu. And it cost fortunes.

Numerous, prestigious, and particularly onerous to maintain, the cardinal's household was commensurate in size with the rank of the public figure it served. It was composed of a military household and a civil household. Devoted to the protection of His Eminence, the military household comprised a company of horse guards, a company of musketeers and a third unit of gendarmes, which was generally deployed in military campaigns. In practice, the right to maintain a military household amounted to possessing a small private army. It was thus a privilege the king rarely granted. But the numerous plots aimed at Richelieu had made it necessary in his case, as well as a mark of the trust which Louis XIII accorded his chief minister.

The cardinal's civil household encompassed all those who were not men of war. In addition to the multitude of domestic servants, kitchen boys, and stable hands, along with other minor employees occupied with necessary but largely anonymous tasks, it included: a high almoner and master of the chamber who filled the role of general superintendent and thus controlled the household's purse strings; a confessor; three auxiliary almoners; secretaries; squires and gentlemen servants, all well-born, the first looking after the cardinal's horses and teams, the second accompanying him about his duties or carrying out delicate missions on his behalf; five valets who commanded the lackeys in livery; a maitre d'hotel

who reigned over the ordinary staff and dealt with suppliers; a bursar; three chefs, each assisted by their own cooks; four wine stewards; a bread steward; two coachmen and four postillions; a mule driver; and porters.

To which list, one could add a physician, an apothecary, and two surgeons.

Plus one master of magic.

Every great household had to have one. Of course as the practice of draconic magic was against the law, masters of magic were not themselves magicians. Or, at least, they weren't supposed to be. But their knowledge of dragons and associated arcana was much sought after in order to detect and thwart any possible threats. Some of them called themselves astrologers or seers; others were doctors or philosophers; some were even men of the Church. Many were simply charlatans or incompetents. However, for a select few scholars, draconic magic was an object of serious study which required a reasoned approach.

The cardinal's master of magic was named Pierre Teyssier. He possessed a brilliant and original mind and although Richelieu rarely called on his services he did finance Teyssier's research and publications, in his capacity as a patron and friend of the sciences.

Teyssier lived in rue des Enfants-Rouges, and he was expecting a visit from the Cardinal's Blades.

Agnes and Marciac, accompanied by Ballardieu, decided to go to rue des Enfants-Rouges on horseback and thus spare their boots from contact with the foul Parisian muck, which — in addition to being sticky and smelly — was corrosive and ruined even the best leathers. They would also be able to breathe more easily, with their heads above the crowds in the streets which would soon become oppressive in this heat. Indeed, they made a detour in order to take the Pont Neuf across the Seine, more to benefit from the breeze from the river than from the lively street entertainers performing there. This bridge, unlike others in the city, was not lined with houses, making it possible to enjoy the open air, as well as the unique view of the capital's river banks.

Having travelled along the quays, however, they were finally forced to return to the stuffy, noisy, and polluted atmosphere of the city's streets. With Ballardieu bringing up the rear, the three Blades crossed the narrow, populous Place de Greve, in front of the Hotel de Ville, without even glancing at the bodies rotting on the gallows. Next they took rue des Coquilles and rue Barre-du-Bec, tiny mediaeval alleys where passers-by were tightly squeezed, then rue Sainte-Avoye and rue du Temple, until they reached their destination.

Located in the northeast of the capital, rue des Enfants-Rouges was named after the hospital of the same name, a hospice for orphans whose little inmates were dressed in red. The neighbourhood was peaceful, still dotted with cultivated fields and dominated by the hulking donjon that rose in the Lnclos du Temple. Surrounded by a crenelated wall, this former residence of the Templar knights now belonged to the Order of the Chatelaine Sisters. Marciac pointed out the house La Fargue had described to them before they left the Hotel de l'Epervier.

'This one,' he said.

He and Agnes dismounted, knocked at the door, introduced themselves to the old manservant who came to open up, and followed him inside. Ballardieu was left with the horses. There was a stall selling refreshment further up the street and the former soldier, with his eyes shining and his mouth dry, cheerfully envisaged a long wait.

'Don't get drunk,' the young baronne warned him before they parted.

Ballardieu made his promise and went off, leading the mounts by the bridle.

The cool air inside the magic master's dwelling was pleasant. As they waited in an antechamber Marciac removed his brown felt hat and wiped his brow. Agnes envied the comfortable casualness of his attire; she, too, would have liked to go about with her shirt collar wide open and her doublet unbuttoned, although in honesty she had little cause for complaint. True, the thick leather corset that cinched her waist was a little heavy, but her riding outfit — with breeches and boots — was far more practical than the starched dresses that polite society would have normally imposed on her given her gender and rank. Polite society which the baronne Agnes Anne Marie de Vaudreuil blithely chose to ignore.

'What?' asked the Gascon, noticing her watching him out of the corner of her eye.

'Nothing,' she said at first. Then she added impishly, 'That's a pretty doublet.'

They were standing side by side, looking straight ahead, in an antechamber which was almost devoid of furnishings.

'Are you mocking me?' asked Marciac warily.

He feigned nonchalance, if not indifference, towards his clothing, but was in fact quite careful of the image that he presented and even fastidious in his own fashion.

'No!' Agnes protested, hiding a smile.

'Then, thank you,' he retorted, without looking at her.

The doublet in question was a crimson garment that Marciac had not been seen wearing before his long, solitary mission to La Rochelle. The cloth was of quality and the cut elegant. It must have been expensive, yet all of the Blades knew full well that the Gascon chased after two things in life: money and skirts. And he was only ever lacking for money.

'A gift?' Agnes persisted.

'No.'

'I deduce, then, that you have funds. Did the cards smile on you ?'

The Gascon shrugged and said modestly:

'Yes they did, rather . . .'

'In La Rochelle?' the baronne asked with some surprise.

La Rochelle had been the Protestant capital of France since the failed siege in 1628 and the withdrawal of the royal armies. Agnes genuinely doubted that gambling dens abounded there, so Marciac was either lying to her or he was hiding something, but she was not given the occasion to ferret out the truth. Someone was coming.

They had expected to see the manservant who had asked them to wait. Instead a young man entered, barely twenty years of age. Perhaps less. He looked like some student from the Sorbonne, with wrinkled clothes, a badly buttoned waistcoat, short but tangled blond hair, a joyful almost impudent air and his hands still damp, as if he had just finished drying himself with a towel after a wash.

One of the master's pupils, no doubt.

'My apologies for keeping you waiting,' he said. 'I know your visit was announced, but . . .'

He did not complete his sentence, but smiled and looked at the visitors.

After a moment of hesitation, Marciac explained:

'We're here to meet with His Eminence's master of magic'

'Yes, of course,' the young man replied, still smiling.

And as he stood before them in expectant silence, realisation dawned upon the two Blades and they glanced at one another in astonishment.

It was Agnes who guessed first:

'I beg your pardon, monsieur, but would you be—'

'Pierre Teyssier, at your service, madame. How can I be of use to you?'

Laincourt pushed the door open and entered the cool dim interior of the small esoteric bookshop with pleasure. Removing his hat, he mopped at his brow with a handkerchief, only to see Bertaud

— after begging another customer to excuse him - come hurrying over.

The bookseller seemed anxious.

'There's someone here, waiting to see you,' he said in a low voice.

'And who would that be?'

Rather than answer, the bookseller instead pointed with his chin at a nook inside the shop. The cardinal's former spy looked over calmly, at the very moment when La Fargue put a book he had been glancing through back on a shelf.

The two men stared at one another without either showing any particular emotion.

Then, not taking his eyes off the old captain, Laincourt said over his shoulder:

'Don't worry, Bertaud. The gentleman and I are already acquainted.'

Turning away from the window, the Alchemist went over to his desk.

He had changed his clothes since his morning visit to the former vicomtesse de Malicorne. He still wore black, but now his attire was that of a member of the bourgeoisie rather than a gentleman.

Here, at home, he was a scholar, a master of magic known as Mauduit.

He sat in his armchair with a sigh of mixed relief and discomfort. Maintaining this cursed human appearance was becoming more and more taxing, both physically and emotionally. It caused him fleshly pain, to be sure. But more, he found it an intolerable humiliation that he, a dragon, was forced to wear the outward rags of such an ignoble race.

Stretching a hand towards an elegant liqueur service stowed in a case, he poured himself a small glass of a thick yellow fluid that shimmered like liquid gold. It was golden henbane. Or more precisely, the liqueur distilled from golden henbane, a plant whose cultivation, trade, and consumption were strictly forbidden in France, as it was almost everywhere in Europe, but which permitted the preparation of various potions and brews that were highly prized by sorcerers. For common mortals, however, it was a powerful drug. Particularly sought-after by members of high society in search of thrills, it was sold under the cloak at premium prices.

There was a knock at the door.

The so-called Mauduit closed the liqueur case, sat up straight, and hid his glass before bidding his visitor to enter. But the man who appeared already knew his secrets. He was a hired swordsman with an olive complexion and sharp features. Booted and gloved, his sword at his side, his clothes and hat were made of black leather. A patch — also of black leather, with silver studs - hid his left eye but failed to conceal

the smear of ranse that spread around it, across his cheekbone, his temple, and the arch of his eyebrow.

The Alchemist relaxed, recovered his glass, and pointed to the case as the visitor dropped himself into an armchair.

'Do you want some?'

'No,' replied the one-eyed man, who had a strong Spanish accent.

Eyes closed, the Alchemist slowly drank the liqueur and enjoyed every drop. The dragons took great delight in golden henbane. It was not only delicious to their palate but, more importantly, it helped them reclaim their fundamental nature. It was often necessary. If the primeval dragons of long ago had struggled to assume and preserve a human appearance, how many now, among the last-born of their race, were not even capable of maintaining an intermediate draconic form? The Alchemist would have been ashamed to admit it, but the metamorphoses were becoming more and more difficult for him, too. The latest transformation, in Alsace, had proved particularly painful. It had almost killed him. Without the golden henbane it was possible he would not have succeeded at all. And without it, his present sufferings would have been unbearable.

'Really, you're sure?' insisted the Alchemist, pouring himself another dose. 'It's excellent.'

This time the ranse victim contented himself with curt shake of the head.

He called himself Savelda and, like the Alchemist, he served the Black Claw. He was the henchman of the masters of the secret society. Or, rather, a trusted lieutenant. The one the elders of the Grand Lodge sent when the matter was important, the one who carried out their orders without ever questioning them.

'Well?' asked Savelda. 'Your visit to see la Malicorne?'

'She is a spent force.'

'I told you so.'

'I had to be sure ... In any event, we can expect no help from her. It's a shame. I'm convinced that our projects would

have appealed to her. She would have loved to take part in them . . .'

'No doubt.'

The Alchemist waved his hand, as if to dismiss an affair that was definitely closed.

'Where are you with your recruitment?' he enquired.

'Progressing. But finding reliable men at such short notice isn't easy.'

'What can I say? The men I brought back from Germany all perished in Alsace, so do the best you can.' The Alchemist clenched a fist and his eyes blazed. 'Those cursed Chatelaines!' he hissed between his teeth. 'They very nearly had me. If I had failed to assume my primal form . . .'

He rose and, shaking his head, went over to the window.

'Speaking of which . . .' said Savelda after a moment. 'Our masters are becoming alarmed. The Grand Lodge still supports your plan, but the fact that you encountered the Chatelaines on your route has them worried.

'I'm touched by our masters' concern for my well-being . . .'

The one-eyed man ignored his irony.

'What could the Chatelaines know?' he asked.

'Nothing. Those bitches don't know anything.'

'Nevertheless . . .'

The Alchemist spun round and stared into Savelda's eyes.

'They've always been after me,' he asserted. 'Should we have hoped that they would just conveniently give up on the eve of our venture? They recently tried to capture me, just as they've tried in the past and as they shall try again in the future. And that's all.'

'Very well. But let's be twice as prudent, all the same.'

'I am never lacking in prudence, or in determination. So apply yourself to reassuring our masters of the Grand Lodge and remind them that it is only a matter of days now before the destiny of France takes a . . . different turn.'

The Ile Notre-Dame — later known as the Ile Saint-Louis -for a long period had remained in a wild state. Until fairly recently there had been no bridges permitting access to the island, either from the quays along the Seine or from Ile de la Cite, so it was rarely visited except by anglers or, on sunny days, by amorous couples whose rowing boats rocked gently among the tall rushes and beneath the weeping willows' drooping branches. Occasionally, it was the scene of murders. The first dracs settled there during the reign of Henri IV. They built scattered huts for themselves on its banks which soon grew into a village. The king allowed this, against his ministers'

advice. He knew that the dracs posed a problem for Western societies that would not be resolved on its own, and he realised that the capital's gates could not shut them out, any more than could the borders of his kingdom. Lastly, he understood that dracs and men were forced to co-exist now that the dracs had freed themselves from the millennial tutelage of the dragons. But Henri IV was also aware of the danger these creatures, with their ferocious, violent nature, represented. So he let them establish themselves on this marshy island, in order to live there by themselves and be contained as far as possible. And when the canons of Notre-Dame protested the king responded by purchasing their island, to do with it as he saw fit.

Under the aegis of Henri IV, the drac village prospered. By 1633, it had been transformed into a neighbourhood built entirely of wood, whose damp lanes, dark alleys, lopsided houses, and shacks built on stilts covered the entire island, which Parisians had renamed as Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles, or Our Lady of the Scales. As for the neighbourhood itself, it was nicknamed Les Ecailles with a mixture of scorn and fear. Although the king's authority still prevailed there, Les Ecailles did not form part of the commune of Paris. It was a faubourg in the very heart of the capital, exempt from municipal taxes and visits from the city watch. During the day, the presence of humans was more or less tolerated, although it was understood that anyone who ventured onto the island did so at their own risk. At night, on the other hand . . .

Between dusk and dawn Les Ecailles revealed its true character, that is to say: it was both bewitching and deadly. For at night the neighbourhood became the theatre of a life animated by the primitive energy that heated the blood in the dracs' temples and dug into their bellies. Once night fell, fires were lit; fiery red braziers glowed on street corners; torches sputtered outside tavern doors. Along the winding alleys, dracs jostled one another at almost every step due to their dense numbers. The night air was filled with heady scents. Faint melodies met and became intertwined. Brawls broke out: sudden, violent, and always bloody. Warlike chants rose from smoke-filled cellars. Tribal drums beat and their disturbing rhythms sometimes carried across the Seine to disrupt the sleep of ordinary Parisians. On the island, even the dreams of humans were unwelcome.

Here a human being was a stranger, an intruder, an enemy.

Prey.

But a half-blood?

Night was falling when Saint-Lucq crossed, alone, over the small southern branch of the Seine by one of the three rickety wooden bridges which had been built to link Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles to the capital. Four grey dracs were killing time around a big fire. They saw his solitary silhouette arriving and supposed that providence had supplied them with a cheap way to entertain themselves.

One of the dracs, urging the others to watch him perform, strutted forth to meet Saint-Lucq and deliberately planted himself in his path with an evil grin on his lips.

The half-blood did not slow down or veer aside by even an inch.

But he halted just before bumping into the drac who surpassed him in terms of height, weight, and strength.

And he waited.

The drac, who until then had been exchanging nods and winks with his companions at a distance behind him, suddenly looked perplexed. This wasn't going as planned. The man should have tried to avoid him while he, by taking successive sidesteps, would have cut off any attempt to advance. And this cruel little game would have continued until his victim became exasperated, fled, or tried to force his way past.

But instead . . .

Because the brim of his hat hid his eyes, Saint-Lucq slowly lifted his head until the grey drac's scaly features were reflected in the scarlet lenses of his round spectacles. The drac's gaze became lost in them, while the half-blood stood there unmoving.

He waited, expressionless, for the reptilian to smell, detect, discern in him the blood of a superior race, a blood that would make the drac's primordial instincts scream out in fear and respect.

As finally happened.

Frightened and ashamed, unable to bear the dumbfounded looks on his comrades' faces, the drac stepped aside, letting Saint-Lucq continue on his way, and then fled down the nearest alley.

The other three members of the band were speechless for a moment. What had happened? Who was this man in black, calmly walking at a steady pace, and now disappearing around a corner to penetrate further into Les Ecailles?

After a brief consultation, they resolved to follow him.

And kill him.

The nightmares had stayed at a distance for some time, but tonight the whole baying pack had returned to haunt Agnes's sleep. Awakening with a start, her throat and brow damp with sweat, she knew she would not be able to fall asleep again immediately in the warm night air. She therefore got up and, feeling a slight pang of hunger, decided to find herself something to eat. She would no doubt locate something to nibble in the kitchen, as she waited for sleep to return or for dawn to break. In any event, it was pointless to remain in her bed, surrounded by shadows and at the mercy of her regrets.

Without paying much heed to convention, the young baronne de Vaudreuil dressed in a summary fashion and, barefoot, silently descended the shadowy main staircase. All of the denizens of the Hotel de l'Epervier were fast asleep . . .

. . . except for one person, already in the kitchen.

It was La Fargue.

Sitting alone in the candlelight, his hat and his Pappen-heimer placed beside him, the old gentleman was polishing off a substantial snack.

Upon seeing who had joined him, he smiled and greeted her softly:

'But who have we here? Are you hungry, baronne?'

Agnes cast a longing eye over the appetising victuals on the table.

She yawned.

'Well, yes, as a matter of fact . . .'

'Then sit down,' La Fargue invited her, pointing to the place opposite him.

She took a seat, watching the gentleman cut a piece of bread, butter it, and then spread a thick slice of pate upon it.

'Here,' he said.

Agnes bit deeply into the tartine, and her mouth was still full when La Fargue, handing her a glass of red wine, asked:

'So? This master of magic?'

She had to swallow with the help of a sip of wine before answering.

'Frankly, the man seemed very young and a trifle . . . whimsical.'

The old captain smiled faintly.

'Sieur Teyssier often gives people that impression.'

'Are you acquainted with him, then?'

'Well enough to know that he is extremely learned. Besides, His Eminence is not in the habit of surrounding himself with mediocrities.'

Still dubious, the baronne de Vaudreuil shrugged and continued to devour her tartine.

'He spoke of the men the dracs killed when they entered Paris that night,' she declared. 'According to him, the poor wretches all died of the ranse.'

The ranse was a terrible disease said to be transmitted to humans by dragons and which, in its final stages, corrupted the soul as much as the body. The process, however, was usually a slow one.

Those who fell victim to the disease could live with it lor years.

'They succumbed in just a few minutes?' La Fargue queried in astonishment.

Agnes nodded, unable to reply, once again having her mouth full.

She gulped, and added:

'Teyssier had one of their hearts in a jar. It was a black, revolting thing that could have come from the carcass of some old man who'd suffered from the disease for years. But in fact, it belonged to a halberdier on guard that night. The man was not even thirty . . .'

La Fargue grimaced.

'The dracs have a sorcerer,' he said.

'That was Teyssier's opinion ... Is there any more pate?'

Agnes had finished her tartine and, with a hungry look, was examining the rest of the food on the table.

'I'll take care of that. Tell me what else Teyssier had to say.'

And while the old gentleman prepared a second tartine for her, Agnes explained:

'Teyssier believes that the dracs have a sorcerer with them, and it's thanks to him they can follow La Donna's trace. He believes they will find her sooner or later, unless they abandon their hunt—'

'—or they are stopped.'

'Yes — not too much butter, please — in all likelihood, if the sorcerer were eliminated, La Donna would no longer be in any great danger.'

'Couldn't another sorcerer take over?'

'That's what I asked. But Teyssier affirms that it is not quite so simple. A bond has to be formed between the sorcerer and his prey, and such bonds are not easily woven.'

La Fargue nodded his head gravely and mulled things over while Agnes started on her second tartine. She respected his silence by chewing as quietly as possible.

'La Donna is hoping that we will rid her of this sorcerer.' La Fargue said.

'Who knows? It's a risky wager, if their trap is gradually closing about her as time passes. As Teyssier puts it, it's a little

like a net that the sorcerer tightens each day. Or rather, each night, because drakish sorcery is a nocturnal thing . . .'

'But La Donna was all alone, up until these last few days. Now she has at least twelve musketeers to accompany her wherever she goes. And that's not counting Leprat, who is worth six men alone. I think that, as far as her personal safety is concerned, her situation has improved.'

'So she invented a plot against the king to force us to protect her?'

'No, because she will have to offer a full account soon of what she has already affirmed. But I wager that she has played the card of this plot to her sole advantage ... I shall go and talk to her tomorrow.'

'And Arnaud de Laincourt? Wasn't he supposed to assist us in this affair? Weren't you supposed to meet him today?'

'According to Rochefort, he knows La Donna well and he could be useful to us. But he refused to give me an answer, even though I saw his eye light up with a strange spark when I mentioned La Donna—'

'I think he would make a fine recruit.'

'Perhaps.'

'And the cardinal thinks so, too . . .'

'True. But I am the sole judge of who does or does not wear this ring.'

La Fargue tapped the steel signet ring he wore on his finger, a ring which all the Blades possessed.

Agnes de Vaudreuil carried hers beneath her shirt, hanging on a chain around her neck.

Her hunger satiated, she stifled another yawn and stretched.

'Captain, with your permission I'm going to retire to my apartments and try to get some sleep in the few hours of cool night air that remain.'

'Of course. It's very late.'

The young woman rose.

'And thank you for the tartines,' she said with a smile.

A smile that La Fargue returned in a paternal fashion.

'But now that I think of it . . . ,' he suddenly recalled. 'Where did Marciac get to?'

'He went to gamble at La Souvange's mansion. And I believe he intended to visit Gabrielle tomorrow.' 'Ah . . . ! Good night, Agnes.' 'Until tomorrow, captain.'

At home, in his bed, Arnaud de Laincourt was trying to read by candlelight. But he was finding it impossible to concentrate. He finally gave up, turned his book over on his chest, laced his fingers together behind his neck, and uttered a long sigh.

Then, from the shadows which he haunted, the memory of the hurdy-gurdy player said: You're thinking about the offer from the duchesse de Chevreuse.

Yes.

The House of Chevreuse is one of the greatest households in France. Under its protection, there is no glory or honour that a man such as you cannot hope to attain after a few years . . . But I sense your trouble: for someone who has served the cardinal so well, joining the duchesse and her party would be almost lik^e going over to the enemy. And then there is La Fargue, isn't there . . . ?

Indeed.

What exactly did he want today?

He wanted my help in a delicate matter involving ha Donna.

That sounds rather like the cardinal, calling you bac\ to his service for a time.

No doubt . . .

There was a silence.

Then, just before Laincourt drove him from his thoughts, the hurdy-gurdy player told him: You will have to ma\e a choice, boy . . . And don't ta\e too long about it, or others will do the choosing for you.

( )l the three grey dracs who had followed Saint-Lucq since his arrival on Ile Notre-Dame-aux-Ecailles, two were lying dead in the mud, now darkened by their blood, at the end of an alley where they had thought they could easily put paid to their victim — who was armed, to be sure, but also alone and visibly unaware of the danger he was in. As for the third drac, he was currently being held at bay by the point of a rapier that

was nicking his larynx, and struggling to comprehend how the human could have surprised and then overcome them. All three dracs had entered the alley with swords in their fists, their senses searching the shadows and the silence, and suddenly death had struck twice.

In the nocturnal darkness, with two small red disks in the place of eyes, Saint-Lucq was no more than a silhouette brandishing his rapier — a rapier which did not so much as tremble as it caught a small sliver of the pale moonlight.

'First, you will listen,' he said in a calm voice, 'and then you will think. And lastly, you will speak . . . Don't speak until you have thought, and above all, don't speak until you have listened carefully. Do you understand? You may answer.'

'Yes,' replied the drac.

'Perfect. This is the moment when you listen. Seven black dracs. Mercenaries. They have been in Paris for five days now, and in those five days no one has seen them. That can only mean one thing: that they have been hiding in Les Ecailles for the past five days. I want to find them and I'm counting on you to lead me to them. A mere piece of information or two shall satisfy me. That, and nothing less . . . Have you understood what I just said?'

The drac, still immobilised by the point of the sword threatening to pierce his throat, nodded.

'Good,' said Saint-Lucq. 'Now, this is the moment when you think . . .'

At La Renardiere, Alessandra saw the sun rise and knew it was approaching the hour when the chambermaid would knock at her door. The young Italian woman's pallor betrayed her anxious state. Seated in an armchair before her window, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and Scylla in her lap, she stared blankly out at the scenery and started whenever she spied signs of movement in the sky.

Charybdis had still not come home.

The two dragonnets had been slipping out of the manor each morning for four days now, and flying to Paris to accomplish a mission whose importance they scarcely understood hut whose urgency they nevertheless felt. They returned each afternoon, before their mistress was brought back to La Renardiere and her apartment was once again visited.

The previous day, however, Scylla had been alone in the cage when Alessandra returned.

The adventuress was immediately worried, but she had to deal with her most pressing concern first, making sure no one noticed the absence of the male dragonnet. Luckily, Charybdis and Scylla were twins. By leaving their cage open and letting the female come and go freely, all Alessandra had to do was to call 'Charybdis' from time to time in order to convince others that both little reptiles were present, if never together in the same room.

Finally they had all left her alone and La Donna, from her window, had scanned the skies all night, tormented by the long wait. In vain. Dawn had come, and now morning. La Renardiere began to stir and Alessandra would soon have to show herself, to endure the hypocritical chatter and attentions of her chambermaid, to put on a brave face with Leprat, and then let herself be taken by coach to see that miserable Laffemas, in his no less depressing Chatelet . . .

Assuming that Charybdis's disappearance wasn't noticed by someone first, would Alessandra be able to maintain the illusion of normality for so long?

She doubted it.

Charybdis and Scylla were far more than pets to her. She adored them and regarded them as her allies, partners whose faithful services she readily employed.

Too readily perhaps.

If anything had happened to Charybdis she would never forgive herself, although she knew she'd had no choice but to use her dragonnets to locate her pursuers' hiding place within Paris. It was in fact the second part of her plan. First, deliver herself up to the cardinal, be held at La Renardiere, draw the dracs to Paris, and force them to establish a base in the only area within a radius often leagues where no one would notice them: Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles. Thus the prey would corner the hunters — concluding the first part of her scheme. Next, discover their lair before they discovered hers. And finally, having achieved all that, carry out the third and last part of a plan that had been carefully thought out in advance . . .

There was a knock at the door.

Surprised, Alessandra leapt to her feet, at a loss for a moment before she recovered her wits. She shut Scylla in the cage, threw the shawl over it and barely had time to slide beneath the bed sheets before the chambermaid came in. It was a typical technique used by domestic servants who were overly curious, either professionally or as a personal vice: knock, open the door, catch sight of something by surprise and, if necessary, excuse themselves, lie, and pretend to have heard permission to enter.

'Get out!' cried Alessandra, feigning to still be half-asleep.

'But, madame—'

'I said, get out!'

'But it's already late, madame!'

'You pest! Leave at once or I shall beat you!'

The chambermaid was in full retreat when La Donna's slipper hit the door.

How much time did I gain? La Donna wondered. Probably less than an hour. The chambermaid will knock at my door once more, and then it will be Leprat. And I won't be able frighten him away by throwing slippers . . .

Despondent, Alessandra got up and walked to the window, taking care to remain far enough away so as not to be seen from the garden. Wasn't she supposed to be keeping to her bed out of laziness?

Eyes narrowed, she peered up at a sky that was now clear blue . . .

. . . and held her breath when she saw Charybdis.

He was coming back to her.

His flight was erratic, to be sure. But it was her little dragonnet approaching with a great deal of valiant if clumsy flapping of his wings, no doubt too tired to maintain the spell that made his body translucent. Alessandra was unconcerned by that, however. Right now, all that mattered to her was that Charybdis was still alive and, throwing caution to the winds, she opened the window to gather the dragonnet in her arms.

He took refuge there, trembling, exhausted, with a slight wound on his flank, but quite alive.

Moreover, he had succeeded in his mission.

'Yes?' Guibot enquired, opening the pedestrian door within the great carriage gate by a few inches.

'Captain La Fargue, please.'

'Are you expected, monsieur?'

'I believe so. I am Arnaud de Laincourt.'

The little old man, to whom the name meant nothing, nevertheless stepped back to allow him entry.

Then, having carefully closed the door behind him, he hurriedly hobbled on his wooden leg to precede the visitor into Hotel de I'Epervier's courtyard. It was about one o'clock in the afternoon.

The sun shone in a cloudless sky and its white heat crushed everything beneath it.

'Might I trouble you to repeat your name, monsieur?'

'Laincourt.'

'This way, monsieur.'

La Fargue received Laincourt in the saddlery, a small room which could only be entered by crossing the stable. He isolated himself there on occasion to work leather with sure, precise gestures, the movements of a conscientious artisan that fully occupied his attention, sometimes for hours on end.

Today, sitting on a stool before the workbench, he was re-stitching the seams of an old saddle bag.

Without raising his eyes from his task, he asked:

'Do you work with your hands?'

'No,' replied Laincourt.

'Why not?'

'I don't have the skill.'

'Every man should know how to do something with his hands.'

'No doubt.'

'Good artisans know what pace they should work at if they want to do things well. It requires patience and humility. It leaches you about time . . .'

In response to this, the young man held his tongue and waited. He didn't understand the meaning of this preamble and when in doubt he always preferred not to express an opinion.

'There!' La Fargue declared, having assured himself of the solidity of his final stitch.

Rising, he called out:

'Andre!'

The groom, whom Laincourt had seen in the stable upon arriving, appeared in the doorway.

'Captain?'

'Here's something that could still be useful,' said the old gentleman, tossing him the repaired bag.

Andre caught it, nodded, and went away.

La Fargue filled a glass with wine from a bottle that was waiting in a bucket of cool water and offered it to Laincourt. It was quite warm in the saddlery. The sun beat down on the roof and the nearby heat of the horses in the stable did not help matters. The two men toasted, Laincourt lifting his glass and La Fargue raising the half-full bottle.

'If you are here,' said the captain, taking a swig from the bottle, 'that means you have come to a decision . . .'

'Yes. I've decided to help you to the extent that I can. But I should like to make it clear that I shall not commit myself to more than that. I want your assurance that no matter what secrets are revealed to me from this moment on, my freedom will be returned to me as soon as I demand it.'

'You have my word on it.'

'Thank you. So, what do you expect from me, monsieur?'

'Follow me.'

Snatching up his baldric and his hat as he passed, La Fargue led Laincourt out of the stable. They crossed the mansion's paved courtyard and passed through the main building to the garden in the rear, where they sat down at the old table beneath the chestnut tree. Sweet Nai's brought them more to drink and a plate of cold meats, and discreetly left them in peace.

La Fargue recounted the whole business that occupied the Blades at present, from the rendezvous in Artois to their current situation, including the plot which La Donna claimed to have information about and the resistance she was offering to the questions Laffemas put to her.

'La Donna is in the cardinal's power?' Laincourt exclaimed. 'And has been for nearly a week?'

'Yes.'

'Where is she being held? In which prison?'

'She has been given lodging at La Renardiere.'

'Under close guard, I hope . . .'

The old gentleman nodded.

'A dozen of the cardinal's musketeers protect the domain. And my lieutenant is lodged under the same roof as La Donna.'

'You can be sure she is doing her utmost to seduce him.'

'Leprat is not a man to let himself fall under some beauty's spell.'

Laincourt did not respond to this. He took a sip of wine and then, after contemplating the weed-choked garden with his quiet gaze, said:

'I still don't know what you expect of me.'

La Fargue paused before saying:

'The cardinal thinks very highly of you, monsieur. And he maintains there is no one in France who knows La Donna better than you. I should therefore like to have your opinion concerning this affair, now that you know the nature of it and all the details.

The young man allowed himself a few instants of reflection before replying.

'One thing is for certain: La Donna is lying.'

'Why?'

'Because she always lies. And when she isn't lying, she's concealing something. And if she isn't lying or concealing something, it's because she's busy deceiving you.'

'Do you think she is lying about the plot?' asked La Fargue.

'You do realise that this plot comes at exactly the right moment to provide her with protection, just when the Black Claw is, in all likelihood, trying to hunt her down.'

'Nevertheless—'

'Yes, of course. Nevertheless, you cannot afford to be deaf to La Donna's claims. The risks and the stakes are too great.'

'Precisely.'

'I can tell you two things. The first is that if this plot exists, La Donna has only evoked it because doing so serves her own interests. The second is that if she is giving monsieur de Laffemas so much trouble, it is because time is presently on her side. No doubt she is waiting for some event to happen. What might that be? I don't know. And we shall probably only find out once it's too late to do anything about it.'

La Fargue remained silent and thoughtful for a long time, his gaze distant. His meditation, however, was interrupted by Almades who approached, after clearing his throat in warning, and handed him a note.

'This was just delivered,' said the Spaniard before returning from whence he came.

Laincourt watched the old gentleman read the missive before shaking his head in a fashion that expressed both amusement and admiration, a small smile on his lips.

Finally La Fargue asked:

'If you were to meet La Donna, if you had the occasion to speak with her alone, would you be able to disentangle the true from the false in all that she might tell you?'

The cardinal's former spy shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.

'Frankly, I don't know . . .' he admitted. 'Why?'

La Fargue handed him the note.

'Because today she has asked to speak with you.'

Delivered with the back of the hand, the slap struck him with full force, reopening the wound on his cheek and provoking general hilarity. Ni'Akt fell over backwards, spilling the meagre contents of his mess kit on the ground, which caused even more laughter. But he immediately got back up and, his eyes shining with fury, he stood before the one who had struck him and was now taking cruel enjoyment from the situation. They were dracs - more, black dracs — and this was how dracs behaved, as Ni'Akt knew all too well. He was the

youngest of the band. It was normal for him to be subjected to taunts and humiliations from the more senior members, until another took his place. But since that famous night in Artois when he had tried to attack that cursed half-blood, he had become a veritable punch-bag who was spared nothing. In fact, his comrades did not reproach him so much for stepping out of line as for the fact that he had been beaten, wounded, and then ridiculed. Dracs did not tolerate weaklings. And the ones taking it out on Ni'Akt, moreover, were feeling bored.

They had been cooped up in the rickety, rotting shack deep in the heart of Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles for almost a week now. In the cellar their saaskir, their sorcerer-priest, was performing the necessary rituals to find the woman they had orders to kill. But for the time being they had nothing to do. Their chief, Kh'Shak, had forbidden them to even leave the shack. Under these conditions, tormenting Ni'Akt was welcome entertainment for his five companions.

Simmering with anger, his temples buzzing and his eye aflame, Ni'Akt struggled to restrain himself.

Ta'Aresh had strut k him while he'd been trying to find an out-of-the-way corner where he could eat in peace what little the others had deigned to leave him. Ta'Aresh, the biggest and strongest of their number, after Kh'Shak. Ta'Aresh who looked down on him and defied him to defend himself.

Ni'Akt hesitated.

The dracs' violent customs allowed him to fight back, just as they generally permitted the use of force to resolve even the slightest problems or differences within the group. However, Ni'Akt did not have the right to fail. If he struck Ta'Aresh, the latter could only save face by killing him. It would force a light to the death . . .

The young drac preferred to beat a retreat, which only earned him more scornful laughter.

But he had a plan.

This morning, at dawn, he had overheard Kh'Shak con-ferring with the saaskir after returning from a discreet nocturnal sortie. The chief had learned that a half-blood was looking for them, asking lots of questions and leaving bodies

behind him. Evidently, venturing into Les Ecailles did not frighten him. In fact, he seemed to arouse a peculiar fear in the dracs he encountered . . .

Like Kh'Shak, who was growing worried, Ni'Akt was convinced this half-blood was the same one they had met on the night when they had almost caught up with La Donna: he had the same black clothing, the same scarlet feather on his hat and, above all, the same round spectacles with red lenses.

To the young drac it seemed as if destiny was offering him a chance to wash away the affront he had received. This evening he would sneak out and, if luck smiled upon him, he would find the half-blood.

And then he would kill him, bring back his head, and drop it into Ta'Aresh's lap. ?

La Donna's carriage was about to take her back to La Renardiere when La Fargue and Laincourt, followed by Almades, arrived in the Grand Chatelet's courtyard at a slow trot.

Le Chatelet was a sombre fortified edifice which had originally been built to defend the Pont au Change, but had since been rendered useless for military purposes following the enlargement of Paris and the construction of new city ramparts by King Philippe Auguste in the 12th century.

Massive, sinister, and somewhat deteriorated, Le Chatelet stood on the Right Bank, its main facade looking out over rue Saint-Denis. At present the seat of the law courts under the jurisdiction of the provost of Paris, it possessed several round towers and a large square pavilion, a sort of keep which housed a prison. The sole entrance was an archway flanked by two turrets. Fairly long but narrow, it opened onto a small, foul-smelling courtyard where visitors were immediately struck by the full misery of the place.

From his saddle, monsieur de La Houdiniere, captain of the Cardinal's Guards, had already raised his arm to give the departure signal to the coach and its escort. He froze on seeing La Fargue and frowned when he recognised Laincourt, having been his direct superior until the young man had left the

company of His Eminence's horse guards. La Houdiniere had only been a lieutenant then, and he had not delved into the circumstances behind Laincourt's dismissal. All he knew was that those circumstances were murky.

'You're returning to La Renardiere already?' La Fargue observed in surprise as he approached at a walk.

Almades and Laincourt remained behind.

'Yes!' replied La Houdiniere. 'Monsieur de Laffemas chose to cut short his interview today as he deemed it to be entirely unfruitful. La Donna's latest whim, it seems, has exhausted his patience.'

'A whim which I believe I know,' said the old gentleman, looking at the coach where a pretty hand had discreetly lifted the window curtain.

The note he had received at the Hotel de l'Epervier had come directly from Laffemas. La Houdiniere, no doubt, did not know its contents.

'Would you allow Laincourt to have a conversation with La Donna, right here?' asked La Fargue.

The other man thought for a moment and then shrugged.

'All right.'

He gave the necessary orders, and Laincourt, after a nod from the captain of the Blades, dismounted. He walked across the uneven paving of Le Chatelet's courtyard and, under the gaze of his former brothers-in-arms, climbed aboard the vehicle. No one heard what was said within, behind the richly padded walls and the thick drawn curtains. But less than half an hour later the coach and its escort moved off, taking La Donna back to La Renardiere, while La Fargue, Laincourt, and Almades proceeded to leave Paris by the Saint-Martin gate.

Taking the road to Senlis, then the one leading to Soissons, the three riders passed Roissy and continued at a gallop to Dammartin. There, they needed to ask for directions. The first good wife they came across in the village square was able to assist them. Everyone living in the area knew the manor belonging to the famous painter, Aubusson.

'Where did you meet La Donna?' La Fargue asked Lain-court as they followed the track that had been indicated to them.

Keeping a watchful eye all about, Almades brought up the rear in silence.

'During my stay in Madrid,' Laincourt replied. 'She was already busy there, hatching schemes.'

'Were you adversaries or allies?'

The young man smiled.

'Frankly I still don't know, to this day. But I would probably not be far wrong to say that La Donna had no true ally but herself, as is always the way with her . . .'

'You seem to be very wary of her.'

'As if she were a salamander on live coals.'

'But she must, for her part, hold you in some esteem. Laffemas has interrogated her for days, practically in vain, and here she is suddenly confiding in you.'

'Don't be fooled, monsieur. I count for nothing in this whole affair. If La Donna spoke to me it is merely because she had already decided to speak, to me or to someone else, in the fullness of time.'

'Then why did she ask for you?'

'Someone constrained by force or a threat to reveal a secret will often offer a final resistance by demanding the right to choose the person they shall finally speak to. It's a way of not surrendering completely, of maintaining some semblance of freedom and control.'

La Fargue nodded.

'And La Donna, according to you, was playing out such a scene.'

'Yes.'

'But why?'

'So that it would seem like she was finally giving in. So that we would be less suspicious of her impromptu revelations. And so that we would not wonder why she chooses to speak now, when in fact that is the only question which should interest monsieur de Laffemas.'

'Why now.'

'Precisely. Why now.'

The old captain raised his eyes towards the manor whose red tiled roofs could be seen behind the trees that crowned the hill.

They were getting closer.

'And this Aubusson. Do you know who he is or why La Donna is sending us to him?'

'He is a painter,' said Laincourt, drawing on his recollections. 'A portrait artist who, some years ago, was quite renowned. At present he seems to have retired from the world . . . But I do not know what bonds unite him to Aless— to La Donna. I imagine they met at a princely court somewhere in Europe, when Aubusson still travelled abroad.'

'Perhaps she was his mistress,' La Fargue suggested slyly.

'Perhaps,' said Laincourt impassively.

And perhaps she still is,' added the old gentleman, watching the other out of the corner of his eye. 'I have heard that she sometimes uses such means to further her ends.'

'We're almost there now.'

Aubusson was reading when his valet came to warn him that three riders were coming up the road leading to the manor. Visitors were rare in these parts. Understanding what was going on, the painter thanked the boy, put his book down, and went to his room to find the thick leather folder that Alessan-dra had placed in his care the week before. 'You'll know the moment has arrived when a certain Captain La Fargue comes seeking these papers,' she had told him. 'You won't have any trouble recognising him. A white-haired gentleman, but still big, strong, and full of authority. His visit will be the signal.'

From the window of his chamber on the upper floor, Aubusson watched the riders enter the courtyard at a walk, and immediately spotted La Fargue.

Aubusson called back his valet:

'Jeannot!'

'Yes?'

'When the oldest of those three riders tells you his name is I ,a Fargue, I want you to give this to him.'

The boy took the folder, but hesitated.

'The matter has already been settled and he won't ask you any questions,' the painter reassured him.

Jeannot scurried away. He ran down the stairs, crossed the front hall with his heels clattering on the flagstones, burst out onto the front porch, and went with a quick step to meet the visitors.

Without seeking to conceal himself, Aubusson watched the scene from his wide-open window. After exchanging a few words the valet gave the leather folder to La Fargue. The latter untied the ribbon that held it shut, cast a glance at the documents it contained and, without expression, closed it once more.

After which, he lifted his eyes to look up at the painter, as if in search of confirmation.

Is that all? he seemed to be asking.

Aubusson gave him a slow, grave nod, to which the old gentleman responded with a brief salute before giving his companions the signal to depart.

The portrait artist watched the riders head off into the distance at a fast trot and waited for his valet to rejoin him.

'Monsieur?'

'Go to the village and ask the master at the staging post for two saddled horses.'

'Two, monsieur?'

'Yes, two. And don't tarry on the way . . .'

The boy scampered off again.

. . . because it's happening tonight, Aubusson added to himself.

'And now?' Laincourt asked, in loud voice in order to be heard over the beating hooves.

'Here,' replied La Fargue. And without slowing their pace, he handed over the leather folder they had obtained from Aubusson.

The cardinal's former agent hastened to slip it inside his doublet.

'What am I supposed to do with it?' he asked.

'You must take it to rue des Enfants-Rouges, to sieur Teyssier. He is the—'

'—master of magic for His Eminence, I know. But why?'

'So that he can study these documents and determine their authenticity. I will be content with his first impression. Wait until he communicates that to you, and then come and find me at the Hotel de l'Epervier. Almades and I are going there directly, in case there is news waiting for me there.'

'News from La Donna?'

'Among others, yes.'

'Can you tell me what these documents are, that I'm carrying?'

'If they are in truth what they seem to be, they were stolen from the Black Claw. As for their content, I cannot say. The text appears to be in draconic . . .'

Saint-Lucq tottered backward, leaning against a scabby wall and, eyes closed, waited to recover his breath and his calm. Strength and lucidity returned to him. His heart ceased to beat so furiously. He inhaled deeply and reopened his eyes.

The body at his feet lay in a spreading puddle of black Mood. The fight had taken place in a deserted alley in Les Ecailles. It did not seem to have drawn anyone's attention, which was a good thing. But someone could turn up at any moment. Night was falling, which meant that Les Ecailles would soon be swarming with creatures the half-blood would rather not have to face, especially not with drac blood on his hands.

Saint-Lucq re-sheathed his rapier. Then, crouching, he pushed his red spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose and turned over the body to examine it.

A drac, then.

A black drac. Young. One whose cheek bore a nasty wound that the half-blood abruptly recognised: it was the hired blade he had provoked and wounded that night during the storm, in Artois. Saint-Lucq supposed the young drac had spotted him and been unable to resist the temptation to take immediate revenge. Had he warned his comrades? Probably not. If he had, the half-blood would not have confronted a single impulsive adversary in a hurry to finish him off, but instead a whole group of determined, well-organised mercenaries.

Saint-Lucq stood up again.

He looked around, sniffing at the damp air, and was suddenly convinced that he was close to his goal. It wouldn't be long now before he found the lair of the dracs on La Donna's trail.

Upon their return to Paris, La Fargue and Almades left Laincourt at the entrance of rue des Enfants-Rouges and continued down rue du Temple. They took the Pont au Change, crossed the Ile de la Cite, and then the small arm of the Seine by way of the Pont Saint-Michel. On the Left Bank, they passed through the Buci gate as they returned to the faubourg Saint-Germain and, finally, rue Saint-Guillaume and the Hotel de l'Epervier. They entrusted their horses to Andre, and La Fargue immediately summoned his troops. Only Leprat and Saint-Lucq were missing, the former on duty at La Renardiere and the latter busy searching Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles. So it was therefore Agnes, Marciac, and Ballardieu who joined Almades and their captain in the main hall on the ground floor

— their converted fencing room. They all found a seat wherever they could.

La Fargue began by asking if they had received any news from La Renardiere, the Palais-Cardinal, the Louvre, or even Le Chatelet. And when they replied no, he proceeded to recount the events of the afternoon. After — and even during - this recital, he had to answer questions about Aubusson, Laincourt, La Donna, and above all, the famous documents they had received from the painter. This took a good hour.

'So,' Marciac summed up, 'having revealed the existence of a plot against the king, La Donna spends almost a week dancing this strange pas de deux with monsieur de Laffemas until, one fine morning, she suddenly declares that she will speak to none but Laincourt and, without further ado, sends him to the one person who can provide proofs of her claims.'

'That's right.'

'Am I the only one to find this rather astonishing?'

No one knew how to reply to this, except Ballardieu, who muttered:

'I find this Italian woman very capricious. I say a good spanking would probably suffice to bring her back to sweet reason. The cardinal has coddled her, if you want my opinion.'

The others glanced at one another, thinking there was a certain amount of good sense in the old soldier's words. Marciac, however, was the only one to really imagine the spanking.

'But that's not the most important thing,' said Agnes. 'After all, if La Donna has found some personal advantage in this affair then so much the better, since without it she would have kept the information to herself or else sold it to the highest bidder. What does matter, on the other hand, is the plot itself. Our first duty is to protect the king, the queen, and the cardinal. Not to guess at the secret motives of a foreign spy.'

'Agreed,' said the Gascon. 'So what about these papers found at the painter's home, this Aubusson?

Do they even attest to the existence of a plot?'

La Fargue shrugged.

'How can we know? I can only say that if these documents are authentic, their value is immense.'

'Documents belonging to the Black Claw,' Almades reminded them.

'Yes. They will reveal their secrets once they've been translated. It's only a matter of time.'

'To be sure. But isn't time precisely what we lack?' Agnes emphasised.

A silence followed, finally interrupted by monsieur Guibot who knocked, opened the door, and announced Laincourt. The latter was promptly invited to enter. Looking grave, he distributed courteous nods all round, gratified Agnes with a more pronounced salute, and then gave La Fargue a questioning glance.

'Speak,' said the Blades' captain.

'1 have just come from His Eminence's master of magic. He cannot yet attest to this formally, but the authenticity of the papers he has studied appears to be borne out. According to him, they are quite definitely Black Claw documents, and may even emanate from the Grand Lodge itself—'

The Black Claw had many lodges throughout Europe, France excepted. The Grand Lodge was that of Madrid. Historically, it was the first to be founded, and it remained the most important and influential of them all.

'—and they have much to do with a certain Alchemist,' Laincourt concluded.

This last revelation had the effect of a thunderbolt in a clear sky. All those present were dumbstruck, as if seized by a superstitious awe. Then, slowly, eyes turned to La Fargue.

His face had turned frighteningly pale.

"What name did you just say?' he asked faintly.

Not understanding the commotion he had just provoked, Laincourt hesitated.

'The Alchemist . . . Why?'

'You say these papers of the Black Claw relate to him. What else ?'

'That was all Teyssier said on the subject.'

'Could La Donna have dealings with the Alchemist?'

'Who knows?'

La Fargue rose from his chair with a determined air.

'Almades,' he said. 'Ask Andre to saddle two horses. You and I are leaving for La Renardiere at once.'

'Captain . . .' Agnes objected. 'It will be the black of night by the time you arrive . . .'

But the old gentleman appeared not to hear her.

'Monsieur de Laincourt,' he asked, 'could you be ours until morning?'

When the young man nodded, he went on to say:

'In that case, I want you to return to sieur Teyssier and oblige him, if necessary, to spend all night studying the documents we entrusted to his care. Make sure he knows how important this is. If you wish, Agnes or Marciac will accompany you.'

And turning to those two, he added: 'But I want at least one of you to remain here, to wait for news from either of our two parties. Is that understood?'

*

Less than a quarter of an hour later, after La Fargue and Almades departed into the dusk, it was decided that Agnes would go with Laincourt to see the cardinal's master of magic.

'It's up to you to guard the fort,' she said to Marciac.

Embarrassed, the latter rubbed a hand over his stubbled cheeks and, drawing the young baronne aside, out of earshot of the others, he murmured to her:

'I have to go somewhere, Agnes.'

'What? Now?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'I can't tell you that.'

'Nicolas . . .' Agnes sighed.

'I swear to you it doesn't involve a woman. Or a card game.'

'So what is it then? Or rather, who?'

'I would tell you if I could . . .' Then in a more breezy tone, as if they had already reached an accord, he said: 'Listen, I promise I won't be long. And anyway, Ballardieu will be here. It's not as if I'm abandoning the place to the enemy, is it?'

And after dropping a quick kiss on the young woman's brow, he left her there, making a discreet exit from the mansion through the rear garden. Agnes stood for a moment with a troubled expression on her face, before pulling herself together and quickly dashing up the main staircase to her bedchamber.

Now armed and booted, a leather cord securing the heavy plait of her black hair, Agnes joined Laincourt in the stable, where he was helping Andre and Ballardieu saddle two more horses.

'We need to make haste,' she said. 'The Paris gates will be closing soon. Need a hand?'

Although its ramshackle walls and muddy ditches were very poor defences indeed, Paris was a fortified city and its gates were closed during the night. The Hotel de l'Epervier, being located in the faubourg Saint-Germain, lay outside the city's walls, whereas His Eminence's master of magic lived within. To be sure, the Blades all possessed passes signed by Richelieu himself, but persuading the city watch to open up was both a tiresome business and an enormous waste of time.

Laincourt did not answer. He continued to busy himself with the horses as if he had not heard Agnes, and then, with a stony expression, he asked:

'Will you tell me what this is all about?'

The young baronne de Vaudreuil exchanged an embarrassed look with Ballardieu. Then she told herself that the cardinal's former agent no doubt deserved to know the heart of the matter. She sighed and with a resigned air, waved to Andre and Ballardieu that they should leave.

And once she and Laincourt were alone in the stable she said:

'Go ahead, ask your questions. I will answer if I have the right to do so.'

He had just finished saddling his mount. After tightening a last strap, he stood up and caught the baronne's gaze.

'What happened, just now?' he wanted to know. 'Why did La Fargue react the way he did when he heard me speak the Alchemist's name? And why did the rest of you, at that same moment, seem so worried?'

Agnes wondered where she should start.

'What do you know of the Alchemist, monsieur?'

Laincourt pursed his lips.

'I know what is said about him.'

'Which is?'

'Which is that he is the oldest, the craftiest, and the most formidable of the Black Claw's agents. The very best of them, in fact. But this name — the Alchemist — is all anyone knows of him, and it is, no doubt, a nom de guerre. No one knows what he looks like, his age, or even his true gender. He is supposed to have been involved, to a greater or lesser degree, in every important plot and bloody revolt that has taken place. Yet, even if we can detect his presence everywhere, no one has ever caught sight of him anywhere—'

'—to the point that some people doubt his very existence,' Agnes finished for him. 'Yes, I've heard all that before . . . But

are you one of these sceptics, Arnaud? If you are, then I urge you to revise your opinion. Because the Alchemist, to our great misfortune, does indeed exist. He was even on the verge of being captured, once. By us, by the Blades, acting on La Fargue's initiative.'

Laincourt frowned.

'I didn't know that,' he confessed.

The young woman's face darkened.

'It was five years ago,' she said.

Night had fallen upon Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles when Kh'Shak, returning after an hour's absence, entered a miserable back yard and found his soldiers standing in front of the shack where they had been hiding these past few days. Ready for an expedition, the black dracs were heavily armed and struggling to contain their impatience. Kh'Shak was surprised. He had given no orders to prepare for a sortie before he left in search of Ni'Akt, the youngest member of his unit. Since they had been in Paris, Ni'Akt had suffered more than his fair share of humiliation and insults from his elders and Kh'Shak had feared for a moment that he'd deserted. But guided by rumours, he had quickly found his dead body -already stripped of its possessions — lying in a fresh pool of blood.

And then he had come right back.

Kh'Shak walked right through his men without looking at them.

He went into the shack and descended the rotting stairs to the damp cellar filled with its appetising odour of rotting meat. Gutted animal carcasses littered the dirt floor and there were yellow candles burning that produced much smoke in addition to their dim light.

Kh'Shak had expected to find his saaskir cross-legged on the ground in the middle of the room. But the old pale-scaled drac was sitting on a keg, gnawing a haunch of raw, spoiled meat with what remained of his yellowed teeth, finally at the end of his long fast.

'Ni'Akt is dead,' announced the hulking black drac. 'He went out despite my orders and was killed. I think the half-blood murdered him.'

The other drac nodded but continued to eat.

'That means he will find us soon,' added Kh'Shak. 'He is very close now.'

'It doesn't matter,' said the sorcerer. 'The one we are searching for has finally revealed herself to the Eye of the Night Dragon. I know where she is hiding and I shall lead you there by thought.'

'At last!'

'Did you believe the task was easy?'

'No, but—'

The old drac lifted a thin clawed hand in an appeasing gesture.

'Rejoin your men, Kh'Shak. Find your horses and leave without further delay. If you act quickly and well, La Donna will be dead this very night.'