Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘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’t 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’te a choice, boy . . . And don’t ta’te 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 shrug
ged 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 . . .