Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,9

them back. They waited for the order, gesture, or pretext that would unleash them.

'She had a wyvern,' La Fargue explained. 'You brought the wrong mounts.'

'Who are you?'

'Someone hunting the same game as you. But I arrived too late.'

'You he!'

Saint-Lucq had his eye on one drac - younger and more impetuous than the rest — who was struggling to control his aggressive impulses and twitched with each peal of thunder. The half-blood imagined the desire to hurt and to kill eating away at him like acid. The tiniest thing, probably, would suffice to . . .

'Do you really think so?' La Fargue replied to the drac leader. 'Do you believe this woman only has one enemy?'

'Who do you serve?'

'That's none of your business. Even so, I could answer if you tell me who your master is . . .'

The young drac who had attracted Saint-Lucq's attention could by now barely contain himself. His head was drawn in, his jaws were clenched, and he was breathing hard. His glance crossed that of the half-blood, who, with a thin smile on his lips, dipped his own head slightly to stare directly at him above his red spectacles.

'There are seven of us, old man,' the drac leader observed. 'And only three of you. We can kill you all.'

'You can try, but you shall be the first to fall. And for what? For a woman who is long gone, if the storm hasn't already brought her wyvern down . . .'

As if hypnotised, the young drac couldn't take his eyes off Saint-Lucq. He was filled with a boiling rage and the dracs to either side of him were aware of it. They didn't understand the cause but they, too, started to become agitated.

Then the half-blood supplied the final trigger: a discreet wink and a blown kiss.

The young drac screamed with rage and attacked.

Saint-Lucq easily dodged him, inflicting a nasty sword cut to the face as his opponent charged past.

That could have been the signal all had been dreading or hoping for. La Fargue and Almades took a step back and placed themselves en garde, while the dracs were about to launch forward when their chief barked out an order that froze them in place:

'Sk'ersh!'

For a few long seconds, no one dared to move. Bodies remained fixed in martial stances beneath the pitiless downpour. Only eyes shifted, looking left and right, watchful for the first threatening gesture.

'Sk'ersh!' the drac leader repeated in a lower tone.

Little by little, muscles relaxed and breathing resumed.

Blades were not replaced in their scabbards, but they were pointed back down at the sodden ground.

His mouth bloody, the drac Saint-Lucq had wounded ruefully regained his place among his comrades.

Then their leader advanced slowly but resolutely towards La Fargue, who had to wave Almades back before he intervened. The black drac drew so close that they touched chests, allowing him to sniff at the captain's face from below.

He did so for some time, with a mix of avid hunger and animal curiosity.

La Fargue endured this examination without flinching.

Finally, the drac stepped back and promised:

"We shall meet again, old man.'

*

The dracs retreated in good order and soon vanished at a gallop into the night and the howling rain, taking their black mist with them.

'What now?' Saint-Lucq asked after a moment.

'We return to Paris,' the captain of the Cardinal's Blades replied. 'I don't know what's going on, but His Eminence must be warned without delay. The king's life may be in danger.'

2

Cardinal Richelieu was preparing to take his leave with the other members of the Council when King Louis XIII called him back:

'Cardinal.'

'Yes, Sire?'

'Stay for a moment.'

Lifting a red-gloved hand to his chest, Richelieu indicated his obedience with a silent nod and drew away from the door through which ministers and secretaries of state were departing. They passed one by one, without lingering or looking back, almost cringing as if they feared the sudden touch of an icy breath on the back of their necks.

Draughts were not uncommon in the Louvre, but in this warm month of June 1633 the only ones to be truly feared were the result of a royal cold spell. Such cold spells did not cause noses to drip, aggravate rheumatism, or force anyone to stay in bed, but they could provoke an illness serious enough to ruin destinies and finish careers. The members of the Council were well aware of this and were particularly wary of contagion. And they had all felt a distinctly wintry blast this morning when His Majesty