Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,54

up the road leading to the manor. Visitors were rare in these parts. Understanding what was going on, the painter thanked the boy, put his book down, and went to his room to find the thick leather folder that Alessan-dra had placed in his care the week before. 'You'll know the moment has arrived when a certain Captain La Fargue comes seeking these papers,' she had told him. 'You won't have any trouble recognising him. A white-haired gentleman, but still big, strong, and full of authority. His visit will be the signal.'

From the window of his chamber on the upper floor, Aubusson watched the riders enter the courtyard at a walk, and immediately spotted La Fargue.

Aubusson called back his valet:

'Jeannot!'

'Yes?'

'When the oldest of those three riders tells you his name is I ,a Fargue, I want you to give this to him.'

The boy took the folder, but hesitated.

'The matter has already been settled and he won't ask you any questions,' the painter reassured him.

Jeannot scurried away. He ran down the stairs, crossed the front hall with his heels clattering on the flagstones, burst out onto the front porch, and went with a quick step to meet the visitors.

Without seeking to conceal himself, Aubusson watched the scene from his wide-open window. After exchanging a few words the valet gave the leather folder to La Fargue. The latter untied the ribbon that held it shut, cast a glance at the documents it contained and, without expression, closed it once more.

After which, he lifted his eyes to look up at the painter, as if in search of confirmation.

Is that all? he seemed to be asking.

Aubusson gave him a slow, grave nod, to which the old gentleman responded with a brief salute before giving his companions the signal to depart.

The portrait artist watched the riders head off into the distance at a fast trot and waited for his valet to rejoin him.

'Monsieur?'

'Go to the village and ask the master at the staging post for two saddled horses.'

'Two, monsieur?'

'Yes, two. And don't tarry on the way . . .'

The boy scampered off again.

. . . because it's happening tonight, Aubusson added to himself.

'And now?' Laincourt asked, in loud voice in order to be heard over the beating hooves.

'Here,' replied La Fargue. And without slowing their pace, he handed over the leather folder they had obtained from Aubusson.

The cardinal's former agent hastened to slip it inside his doublet.

'What am I supposed to do with it?' he asked.

'You must take it to rue des Enfants-Rouges, to sieur Teyssier. He is the—'

'—master of magic for His Eminence, I know. But why?'

'So that he can study these documents and determine their authenticity. I will be content with his first impression. Wait until he communicates that to you, and then come and find me at the Hotel de l'Epervier. Almades and I are going there directly, in case there is news waiting for me there.'

'News from La Donna?'

'Among others, yes.'

'Can you tell me what these documents are, that I'm carrying?'

'If they are in truth what they seem to be, they were stolen from the Black Claw. As for their content, I cannot say. The text appears to be in draconic . . .'

Saint-Lucq tottered backward, leaning against a scabby wall and, eyes closed, waited to recover his breath and his calm. Strength and lucidity returned to him. His heart ceased to beat so furiously. He inhaled deeply and reopened his eyes.

The body at his feet lay in a spreading puddle of black Mood. The fight had taken place in a deserted alley in Les Ecailles. It did not seem to have drawn anyone's attention, which was a good thing. But someone could turn up at any moment. Night was falling, which meant that Les Ecailles would soon be swarming with creatures the half-blood would rather not have to face, especially not with drac blood on his hands.

Saint-Lucq re-sheathed his rapier. Then, crouching, he pushed his red spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose and turned over the body to examine it.

A drac, then.

A black drac. Young. One whose cheek bore a nasty wound that the half-blood abruptly recognised: it was the hired blade he had provoked and wounded that night during the storm, in Artois. Saint-Lucq supposed the young drac had spotted him and been unable to resist the temptation to take immediate revenge. Had he warned his comrades? Probably not. If he had, the half-blood would not have confronted a single impulsive adversary in a hurry to finish