by Pierre Pevel
‘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.’