Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,45

It caused him fleshly pain, to be sure. But more, he found it an intolerable humiliation that he, a dragon, was forced to wear the outward rags of such an ignoble race.

Stretching a hand towards an elegant liqueur service stowed in a case, he poured himself a small glass of a thick yellow fluid that shimmered like liquid gold. It was golden henbane. Or more precisely, the liqueur distilled from golden henbane, a plant whose cultivation, trade, and consumption were strictly forbidden in France, as it was almost everywhere in Europe, but which permitted the preparation of various potions and brews that were highly prized by sorcerers. For common mortals, however, it was a powerful drug. Particularly sought-after by members of high society in search of thrills, it was sold under the cloak at premium prices.

There was a knock at the door.

The so-called Mauduit closed the liqueur case, sat up straight, and hid his glass before bidding his visitor to enter. But the man who appeared already knew his secrets. He was a hired swordsman with an olive complexion and sharp features. Booted and gloved, his sword at his side, his clothes and hat were made of black leather. A patch — also of black leather, with silver studs - hid his left eye but failed to conceal

the smear of ranse that spread around it, across his cheekbone, his temple, and the arch of his eyebrow.

The Alchemist relaxed, recovered his glass, and pointed to the case as the visitor dropped himself into an armchair.

'Do you want some?'

'No,' replied the one-eyed man, who had a strong Spanish accent.

Eyes closed, the Alchemist slowly drank the liqueur and enjoyed every drop. The dragons took great delight in golden henbane. It was not only delicious to their palate but, more importantly, it helped them reclaim their fundamental nature. It was often necessary. If the primeval dragons of long ago had struggled to assume and preserve a human appearance, how many now, among the last-born of their race, were not even capable of maintaining an intermediate draconic form? The Alchemist would have been ashamed to admit it, but the metamorphoses were becoming more and more difficult for him, too. The latest transformation, in Alsace, had proved particularly painful. It had almost killed him. Without the golden henbane it was possible he would not have succeeded at all. And without it, his present sufferings would have been unbearable.

'Really, you're sure?' insisted the Alchemist, pouring himself another dose. 'It's excellent.'

This time the ranse victim contented himself with curt shake of the head.

He called himself Savelda and, like the Alchemist, he served the Black Claw. He was the henchman of the masters of the secret society. Or, rather, a trusted lieutenant. The one the elders of the Grand Lodge sent when the matter was important, the one who carried out their orders without ever questioning them.

'Well?' asked Savelda. 'Your visit to see la Malicorne?'

'She is a spent force.'

'I told you so.'

'I had to be sure ... In any event, we can expect no help from her. It's a shame. I'm convinced that our projects would

have appealed to her. She would have loved to take part in them . . .'

'No doubt.'

The Alchemist waved his hand, as if to dismiss an affair that was definitely closed.

'Where are you with your recruitment?' he enquired.

'Progressing. But finding reliable men at such short notice isn't easy.'

'What can I say? The men I brought back from Germany all perished in Alsace, so do the best you can.' The Alchemist clenched a fist and his eyes blazed. 'Those cursed Chatelaines!' he hissed between his teeth. 'They very nearly had me. If I had failed to assume my primal form . . .'

He rose and, shaking his head, went over to the window.

'Speaking of which . . .' said Savelda after a moment. 'Our masters are becoming alarmed. The Grand Lodge still supports your plan, but the fact that you encountered the Chatelaines on your route has them worried.

'I'm touched by our masters' concern for my well-being . . .'

The one-eyed man ignored his irony.

'What could the Chatelaines know?' he asked.

'Nothing. Those bitches don't know anything.'

'Nevertheless . . .'

The Alchemist spun round and stared into Savelda's eyes.

'They've always been after me,' he asserted. 'Should we have hoped that they would just conveniently give up on the eve of our venture? They recently tried to capture me, just as they've tried in the past and as they shall try again in the future. And that's all.'

'Very