Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,20

Rochefort without looking around. He stood up straight and slowly turned away from the window. He was close to fifty years of age. He had a haughty face with a pale complexion, dark eyes, and a penetrating gaze. There was a small scar decorating his temple, where he had been grazed by a pistol ball.

'I've come all the way from Artois,' La Fargue retorted. 'And you?'

The old captain waited, silent and impassive.

'I was about to leave,' Rochefort lied.

'I need to see the cardinal.'

'When?'

'As soon as possible. Today.'

Rochefort nodded as if he were weighing up the pros and cons of this request.

It was said of Rochefort that he was His Eminence's damned soul. In fact, he was the henchman who took charge of the cardinal's dirty work and was therefore feared and hated. But he was perhaps Richelieu's most loyal servant and he was certainly the least scrupulous. A man who obeyed his master blindly and did not burden himself with moral considerations. Thus, while he would sometimes commit unspeakable acts when ordered to do so, he would only do so upon receiving the order.

'Did you meet with La Donna, captain?'

'Yes. Last night.'

'And?'

'And now I need to see the cardinal.'

The glances of the two men clashed for a moment, before Rochefort smiled joylessly and said:

'We don't like one another at all, do we?'

'No.'

La Fargue and Rochefort despised one another. Unfortunately the service of the cardinal forced them to work together once again, now that the Blades had reformed. The captain only took his orders from Richelieu. And he answered to him alone for his actions. But the comte was a necessary intermediary.

'I can't guarantee,' Rochefort said, adjusting his baldric, 'that the cardinal will reeeive you soon.'

He donned his hat, preparing to depart.

'La Donna claims to know something of a plot against the king,' La Fargue revealed.

Rochefort raised an eyebrow.

'Well, now . . .'

'And she is willing to reveal the details if certain of her demands are met.'

'So La Donna is making demands . . . What are they?'

'She asks for His Eminence's protection.'

'Nothing else?' the cardinal's henchman said with amusement.

'What does it matter, if she's telling the truth?'

'No doubt, no doubt . . . But do you believe that she is?'

La Fargue shrugged.

'Who knows? But she gave me something that will perhaps help the cardinal form an opinion.'

The old captain held out a stained and dog-eared letter that seemed to have got wet at some point. It was the letter La Donna had entrusted to him before fleeing into the storm on the back of her wyvern.

'This comes from La Donna?' Rochefort enquired.

'Yes.'

He took the document and examined it with a casual air. Then he placed it in his pocket and walked to the door.

'I'm expected at the Palais-Cardinal,' he declared from the threshold. 'Then I will join His Eminence at the Louvre.'

'Very well,' replied La Fargue, who himself went over to glance out the window. 'But time is running short. La Donna promised to make contact this evening and before I meet her again I need to know what the cardinal has decided with regard to her. Moreover, she is being pursued by a band of dracs who I'm sure will give her no respite. And if they find her before we do—'

'Dracs? What dracs?'

'Black dracs, Rochefort. Mercenaries. Judging by the markings on their leader's face, I would swear they are former soldiers from the Irskehn companies.'

In the drakish tongue, Ir'Skehn meant black fire, and the Irskehns were cavalry companies levied by Spain and composed solely of black dracs. Although they were unreliable on a battlefield due to their inability to control their fury, these cavaliers had no equals when it came to marauding, harassing, and plundering. They were held responsible for several particularly horrible civilian massacres. The mere rumour of their arrival was enough to empty whole areas of the countryside.

Rochefort's eyes narrowed as he took this detail into account.

'And who else would privately hire Irskehns—' he started to say.

'—other than the Black Claw,' La Fargue concluded for him.

Gripping the back of the chair and craning his neck, Marechal was leaning far over his master's shoulder to observe the trictrac board. The old dragonnet was keeping a rapt eye upon the dice, which he loved to see roll across the flat surface. As for Laincourt, he sat unmoving with a blank gaze, his mind elsewhere.

'Come now, Arnaud! Are you going to play?' The young man raised his head, forcing Marechal to straighten up, and looked over at his opponent