Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,32

than I shall forget winning the bishopric of Munster from you.'

Giving Marciac an amused smile, he went to knock on La Fargue's half-open door.

La Fargue had arranged for his personal use a small private office that communicated with the fencing room by a door and with the upper floors by means of a tiny spiral staircase, hidden behind a moveable wooden panel. Here he received visitors, meditated, and wrote reports to His Eminence.

But he rarely shut the door.

This evening, like the Blades, he too waited in a silence measured out by the long, regular strokes of Almades's whetstone. Booted and armed, he was leaning back in his armchair with his crossed ankles up on his worktable. Pensive, he played with a small pendant that he normally wore around his neck, winding the chain around his index finger — first in one direction, then the other. It was a worn, scratched, tarnished piece of jewellery which had a cover to protect the miniature portrait within. That of a woman La Fargue had loved long ago, but which also resembled closely the daughter they had produced together.

Grown into a young woman, that daughter had recently made a reappearance in his life. She had been in danger and he had been forced to take steps to protect her, putting her beyond the reach of both the Black Claw and Cardinal Richelieu's agents. But it had meant he was separated from her once again. He did not even know where she was now, as prudence dictated. But at least his mind was at rest, knowing there was nowhere his daughter would be safer than in the hands into which he had entrusted her.

La Fargue lifted his head and closed his fist over the pendant when he heard Leprat knock at his door.

'Yes?'

The musketeer entered.

'I'm afraid nothing is going to happen this evening,' he said.

'So am I.'

'It will soon strike midnight.'

'I know.'

'Should I order the horses unsaddled?'

'Let's give La Donna another hour to manifest herself

'Very well.'

At that same instant, Almades ceased sharpening his rapier. Leprat turned and saw Andre arriving, a letter in his hand.

'Where's the captain?' asked the groom.

The Spaniard pointed in the direction of the small private office. Andre crossed the fencing room, watched attentively by the whole company, as La Fargue and his lieutenant walked out to meet him.

Agnes, Marciac, and Ballardieu rose to their feet. Almades sheathed his blade, now sharp as a razor.

Saint-Lucq remained stretched out on the bench, but had turned on his side, his head propped up by one elbow.

'Captain,' said Andre, 'a rider just delivered this.'

'Thank you,' replied La Fargue, taking the letter from him.

The seal was Cardinal Richelieu's. The old captain split it open and unfolded the letter amidst a deep silence.

Everyone waited.

La Fargue read the contents, and then announced:

'La Donna presented herself at the Palais-Cardinal an hour ago.'

The others looked at him without understanding.

'She came to offer herself up as a prisoner,' he explained with a faint, ambiguous smile. 'And when you think about it, it's a clever move on her part . . .'

4

It was not the most well-known of the sixteen gates of Paris. It was not the most frequented, or the best defended. And once night fell, and the thick doors between the two massive towers were closed, it became a dark, silent edifice whose sinister calm would — ordinarily — go undisturbed until the following morning.

The dracs arrived shortly after midnight, their mounts walking in the black ground-hugging mist that accompanied them.

There were eight in all.

Seven vigorous black dracs and one other drac with pale scales, the colour of dirty bone. The black dracs were riding calm, powerful warhorses. Wearing gloves and boots, they were dressed like hired swordsmen. Wide leather belts were cinched around their waists and they had solid rapiers at their sides.

The other drac was unarmed. But he carried a large carved staff hung with various small fetishes: tiny bones, teeth, feathers, old scales. Dressed in stinking, filthy rags encrusted with what looked like dried blood, he rode bareback on a giant salamander whose belly grazed the black mist and whose slow, steady step set the pace for the whole group. The drac was very old. He was missing some teeth and his back was bent. His yellow eyes, however, gleamed with a lively spark. And a particularly virulent and baleful aura emanated from him.

The dracs drew to a halt on the narrow stone bridge that crossed over the fetid ditch before the gates. They waited, as the