Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,23

groaned and smacked his lips without opening his eyes as La Fargue and the Spanish fencing master sat down and took their ease, removing their hats and baldrics, downing a few glasses of wine, and attacking the remains of the repast.

While polishing off the last quarter of the pate en croute, the captain of the Blades recounted his meeting with La Donna. He reported what she had told him and what she was demanding in exchange for the information she claimed to possess. Then he described the confrontation with the dracs, without omitting any details. Almades, meanwhile, remained silent as usual, eating little, controlling his urges despite his hunger and thirst.

'Can we believe what this woman says?' Leprat wondered aloud. 'Isn't she a schemer and a spy of the worst possible kind?'

'As far as scheming and espionage go,' observed Marciac, 'the worst possible kind is also the best . . .'

'To be sure. But all the same ... A plot against the king!'

'What is she like?' asked the young baronne de Vaudreuil. 'They say she is very beautiful. Is she?'

'Yes,' the captain answered. 'She is.'

'And what impression did she make on you?' Agnes persisted.

'I found her to be intelligent, determined, skilful—'

'—and dangerous?'

'Certainly.'

'If we know anything about La Donna,' Leprat commented, 'it is that she only acts out of self-interest. So what does she gain from exposing this purported plot?'

'The cardinal's protection,' Marciac reminded him.

'A protection that she must truly need,' Agnes emphasised.

'True,' agreed the Gascon. 'You are thinking of the dracs—'

'Yes. La Donna is not only being hunted, but the pack chasing her is a ferocious one—'

And snapping at her heels.'

'Black dracs and an unnatural black mist,' noted Leprat. 'I don't know about you, but to me all this reeks of the Black Claw . . .'

Marciac and Agnes both nodded.

Led by power-hungry dragons who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends, the Black Claw was a secret society which was particularly strong in Spain and her territories, including the Spanish Netherlands within whose borders La 1 )onna had waited for La Fargue. Its most ancient, influential, and active lodge was to be found in Madrid. But although there were close links between it and the Court of Dragons, the Black Claw's goals were not always in accord with those of

the Spanish Crown. Its ultimate aim, in fact, was to plunge Europe into a state of chaos that would permit the establishment of an absolute draconic reign. A reign that would spare no dynasty.

No human dynasty, that is.

'If La Donna is being pursued by the Black Claw,' surmised the Gascon, 'one can certainly understand her eagerness to find a powerful protector ... I would not like to be in her shoes—'

'And yet you are,' Agnes said in an amused tone. 'Do you suppose that the Black Claw has forgotten the defeat we recently inflicted upon its agents?'

'But in my case, I have you,' Marciac responded. 'Whereas La Donna has no one.'

The young baronne smiled.

'But why would the Black Claw be after La Donna?' Leprat wanted to know.

'Perhaps . . . ,' Agnes started to suggest, 'perhaps the Black Claw is the origin of the plot against the king. Perhaps La Donna somehow got wind of the secret, perhaps the Black Claw knows this, and now wants to silence her . . .'

'All right,' granted the former musketeer. 'Or perhaps the Black Claw is seeking La Donna for some other reason, and she has concocted this tale in the hope that the cardinal will protect her, at least for a while . . . What do you think, captain?'

In the heat of their discussion, Leprat, Marciac, and Agnes had forgotten the presence of La Fargue.

Turning their faces in unison, they saw Almades lifting an index finger to his lips in warning . . .

The captain was fast asleep in his chair.

Aubusson leaned back in his chair and considered the painting with a weary eye. It seemed to be resisting him today. Any further effort was useless. His mind was elsewhere and he could produce nothing worthwhile on the canvas.

'I might just as well go for a walk,' he grumbled to himself as he put down his brushes and his palette.

Like all artists, he occasionally had black days and now had no trouble recognising the signs.

Nearly sixty years old, he had more than four decades of experience as a painter. Starting as an apprentice he had followed the ordinary course demanded by his guild. He rose to the rank of journeyman