Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,104

middle of the night, seven riders trotted forth upon the causeway joining the island to the shore of the pond. At their head was Savelda, the Black Claw's most effective servant when it came to carrying out foul deeds. Behind him rode the Alchemist, the false master of magic using the name of Mauduit and true mastermind of a plot intended to change the destiny of France forever. The third rider was in fact a very beautiful woman: the duchesse de Chevreuse, dressed as a horseman and thrilled at taking part in this nocturnal expedition. The four others were hired swordsmen who, like those guarding the island, had been recruited by Savelda to replace the mercenaries killed in Alsace by the troops serving the Sisters of Saint Georges.

The riders reached the building site and dismounted.

Only Savelda, the Alchemist and the duchesse, however, passed beneath the roof protecting the pit and disappeared down the spiral staircase. Wearing the silver-studded leather patch over his left eye, the Spaniard led the way again with a confident air. His two companions wished to make sure that everything was ready for the ceremony the following evening. He already knew this to be the case.

In preparation for the last-minute inspection, Savelda had even ordered candles to be lit underground. The same candles that were at this very moment aiding Leprat's exploration.

Leprat was a musketeer.

He did not know much about draconic magic, but enough to recognise all the signs indicating a spell chamber. The drapes embroidered with esoteric patterns. The tall black candles waiting to be lit. The small table for ritual items. The lectern to support the heavy grimoire as the incantatory formula were pronounced. The altar, a large platform carved from a single block. And lastly, the pentacle engraved on the black stone floor and embossed with scarlet and golden glyphs.

But above all, there was an atmosphere of evil haunting this place. Whatever danger threatened the king, whatever the nature of the plot concocted by the Alchemist, it had something to do with this chamber which now only awaited the arrival of a sorcerer and, perhaps, a victim.

'Damn it!' Leprat muttered.

He started to feel ill.

He was suddenly very hot. His vision blurred. Dizzy, he felt his legs start to give way under him. He did not understand what was happening to him; indeed he had trouble keeping any wits at all. Then the disease eating away at his back awoke. It was as if the patch of ranse had come alive and was biting ever more deeply into his flesh. Leprat grimaced, fighting back moans of pain. In a feverish delirium of confused thoughts, he sensed that he had to leave this cursed chamber. He needed to get back to the surface and away from this place that was increasing tenfold the virulence of the ranse.

He clung to this idea, concentrating on its urgency. He tottered back through the curtain. The pain lessened, but the dizziness remained. Gasping, his brow bathed in sweat, he staggered from column to column, moving in the direction of the staircase and the exit. He could barely see the way. His ears were filled with a buzzing sound and he failed to hear the party descending the steps. Sapped of his strength, he continued to stumble towards the door, which Savelda was going to open at any instant . . .

. . . when he felt a pair of arms seize hold of him and haul him away.

A gloved hand blocked his mouth.

'It's me,' a familiar voice murmured in his ear.

Saint-Lucq.

Dressed entirely in black, the half-blood with the red spectacles dragged Leprat into a dark corner just before Savelda entered. The Black Claw's agent preceded madame de Chev-reuse and her master of magic. He held a lit lantern in his left hand, as the candles burning in the hall of columns did little more than point the way to the spell chamber.

I lallway to the purple curtain, Savelda slowed and then came to a complete halt. His two companions imitated him, looking puzzled. He turned around with the expression of a man who senses he has overlooked something. The leather

patch concealing his eye failed to mask the stain of the ranse that spread, star-like, towards his brow, his temple and his cheekbone. His fist closed about the pommel of his rapier.

'What is it?' asked madame de Chevreuse.

'I thought ... I thought I heard ... I don't know. Something.'

The gaze of the one-eyed man passed over Leprat and Saint-Lucq without seeing