Dragon Arcana

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘That’s what they promised, indeed. And they failed … So I have decided we will resolve this problem ourselves. The bitch deceived the Alchemist. She stole secrets from him that allowed Cardinal Richelieu to foil our plans. It’s high time she paid the price for it!’

  The Gentleman did not reply. He waited and the Heresiarch continued:

  ‘Right now, La Donna can be found at a château in Champagne where she is taking part in the transfer of a prisoner that France holds and that Rome wants. The prisoner himself is of little consequence … But an opportunity like this will not present itself again any time soon. The Illuminator is already in place, and has recruited a band of drac warriors. The small number of musketeers guarding the château will not be enough to oppose them. The whole matter will be settled tonight.’

  ‘What do you expect of me?’

  ‘Very little. I want you to prepare the Tour de Bois-Noir for the Illuminator’s return, with his dracs. They will hold La Donna in the tower for as long as necessary.’

  ‘Just hold her?’ asked the Gentleman in surprise. ‘Why?’

  The Heresiarch did not reply.

  He waited, silent and inscrutable, until the other dragon bowed to his will.

  ‘It shall be done, Heresiarch.’

  ‘I am counting on it. Goodbye, Gentleman.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  The cell door opened and Leprat, ducking his head, stepped inside. His hand on the pommel of his white rapier, he straightened up without removing his hat and allowed the musketeer posted in the corridor outside to shut the door. Low-ceilinged and damp, but clean, the gaol cell was furnished with a narrow bed, a small table, and a stool, all standing on a bare dirt floor. A bucket sat in the corner, there for the prisoner’s bodily needs. The only light came from a small semi-circular opening in the wall.

  ‘I understand you wish to speak to me,’ declared Leprat.

  The man he had escorted from the Bastille was sitting on the bed reading, his back against the cell wall. The leather and iron mask was still locked around his face. The prisoner closed his book and stood up politely for his visitor. There was elegance in both his gesture and in his general bearing. The marquis de Gagnière was a man of refinement and courtesy, but he was also a cold monster.

  ‘Indeed, monsieur. I wanted to thank you for allowing me reading material.’

  Leprat accepted the thanks with a curt nod of the head.

  ‘Anything else?’ he enquired.

  Arms crossed, the prisoner observed the musketeer from head to foot and seemed to think.

  Then he said:

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In fact, you recognised me from the moment I was entrusted to your keeping, in the courtyard of the Bastille. By my eyes, probably. And perhaps from my posture. Unless it was my voice …’

  Leprat did not reply and watched Gagnière take a step to lean against the table.

  ‘Do you remember your last words to me, that night in rue Saint-Denis?’ asked the prisoner. ‘You had just eliminated my henchmen. You were exhausted, wounded, defeated, while I aimed my pistol at you from horseback …’

  ‘I told you a man of honour would dismount and draw his sword.’

  ‘And what did I do? I shot you in the heart and left you for dead.’

  Leprat nodded silently.

  He had seen himself die in the service of the king, that terrible night in rue Saint-Denis.

  ‘So you know what kind of man I am,’ Gagnière continued. ‘And, knowing it, you have given me no reason to complain of you during the course of our journey, while I was in your power. Another man, no doubt, would not have mistreated me – not strictly speaking. But I doubt that he would have spared me all sorts of humiliations. With you, there has been none of that.’

  ‘I was not entrusted with the care of a man who tried to murder me in cold blood. Nor was I entrusted with the marquis de Gagnière. I was entrusted with a prisoner, and with the mission of protecting him and conducting him to a specific place. You might just as well be any other man.’

  ‘And if we are attacked, you will defend me even at risk to your own life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Without regret?’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘Do you know that the Black Claw has already tried to assassinate me, twice?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘And despite everything, you will persist in—’

  ‘Yes.’

  The prisoner took the time to appreciate this response, which he knew to be frank and firm.

  Finally, he said:

  ‘You are decidedly a most admirable man, monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil.’

  Leprat rejoined Durieux a little later, as the daylight was fading. The musketeers had arrived at Château de Mareuil-sur-Ay less than two hours earlier, where the final negotiations concerning Gagnière were to take place. They finished installing themselves and securing the stronghold, whose defence they were responsible for during the talks. Men in royal blue capes were already posted at the gate and on the ramparts.

  In the courtyard, Durieux was explaining to the three stalwart fellows who usually stood guard over the château that, for the time being, they could put away their halberds, breastplates, and the single arquebus they shared. Leprat waited for him to finish, noting the skilful and courteous way he dealt with them. He could have invoked the authority his rank and his cape conferred on him, but he preferred diplomacy instead.

  The halberdiers withdrew, looking satisfied.

  ‘What did the prisoner want?’ asked Durieux.

  ‘To warn me of a danger, I think,’ replied Leprat.

  ‘Here?’ Together they looked around the setting they found themselves in. ‘We were much more vulnerable on the road.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. And yet …’

  ‘Yes, I sense it, too. There’s something in the air, isn’t there?’

  Worried, both men fell silent.

  The Château de Mareuil had been built during the Middle Ages. It comprised three massive towers joined by high walls, surrounding a triangular courtyard with a keep at its heart. It was a property that had reverted to the Crown in the absence of legal heirs. A widow had previously made it her refuge, building a Renaissance-style pavilion next to one of the ramparts, which was now pierced with windows. On her death, the château had not been completely abandoned. As it was to the east of Épernay, in a wooded corner of the countryside filled with game, it had become a very convenient hunting lodge for its present owner; an old gentleman who enjoyed the king’s favour. It also had the advantage of being secluded, and a full day’s horseback journey from the border with Lorraine …

  ‘We’ve finished setting up our quarters in the old keep,’ Durieux announced after a moment. ‘We had to do some tidying up, but we should be comfortable there. The horses are in the stable and the first watches have been posted.’

  ‘Very good. The domestic servants?’

  ‘People from the village. Most of them go home at night and return in the morning. They will provide a more than adequate service for us musketeers, but we also have to think of our guest who, as a lady of quality—’ Durieux broke off when he saw Leprat’s half-smile. ‘What did I say that was funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Leprat turned towards the Renaissance building, where Alessandra di Santi and the gentleman who accompanied her had elected to lodge, making themselves at home in the apartments belonging to the master of the château and his wife. The gentleman occupied the first, where weapons, trophies, and hunting scenes abounded. La Donna resided in the second, which was pleasantly furnished and decorated.

  ‘Have no fear,’ Leprat added with another quirk of his lips. ‘I assure you that this lady can manage far more rigorous conditions than the ones she finds here.’

  From a window, La Donna was inspecting the young village girls who had come to offer their services at the château. She po
inted at two with her index finger and bid them come upstairs. The disappointed candidates turned away. Leprat knew who he was dealing with and had no doubt that Alessandra had selected the two prettiest and liveliest girls for her personal service. Seeing that he was looking in her direction she responded with a smile and a small wave of the hand. He replied more soberly with a pinch of his hat brim.

  Durieux asked no questions.

  Even so, Leprat deemed that he owed his fellow musketeer some explanations.

  ‘I do not know who the gentleman escorting her is, but this Italian woman the Pope has sent us is an adventuress and a top-notch spy. I made her acquaintance under Captain La Fargue’s command. She claimed to have knowledge of a plot and obtained the cardinal’s protection in exchange for the details. As always, her motives were murky. Nevertheless, I must admit that the information she supplied turned out to be useful in a very grave affair – one I can tell you nothing about.’

  Darkness was falling in the courtyard where lackeys, servants and musketeers came and went, all more or less busy.

  ‘Is she dangerous?’ asked Durieux.

  ‘Very. Above all else, don’t let yourself be taken in by that adorable face or her air of innocence. And be on your guard: she is one of those women who can’t help trying to seduce men, who lives for the desire she arouses.’

  From Leprat’s cold manner, Durieux realised that he was speaking from experience. Then his attention was drawn by some of the village girls who had been rejected by La Donna, now standing near the château’s gates and enduring – without too much resistance – the advances of two musketeers.

  ‘Should we permit this?’ he asked, indicating the joyful little group with his chin.

  Leprat weighed up the pros and cons of intervening, but was not given the opportunity to reply. From the top of the château’s towers, a musketeer shouted that riders were approaching at a full trot.

  La Fargue, Laincourt, and Marciac arrived at Mareuil-sur-Ay in the evening. Covered in grime, they had ridden at a fast pace for two long days, over dusty roads in the blazing summer heat. They were exhausted, and had no idea if they were in time or already too late to speak with Gagnière. They were relieved when they saw the château’s towers and its old walls, on top of which they spied blue capes with silver crosses.

  ‘The King’s Musketeers?’ Marciac observed with surprise. ‘I was expecting red capes.’

  ‘The marquis de Gagnière is a prisoner of the king,’ La Fargue noted.

  A musketeer stopped them at the gate beneath the archway, beyond a drawbridge that crossed a brush-filled ditch and was rarely raised. La Fargue handed over their papers signed by the cardinal, without dismounting, and waited for the musketeer to examine them. Behind him, Marciac doffed his hat to wipe his brow.

  ‘It’s a relief to be here,’ he whispered to Laincourt, who replied with an understanding smile.

  ‘Captain?’

  All eyes turned to the man who had just spoken: Leprat, who had come from the courtyard with Durieux. The musketeer on duty passed La Fargue’s papers over to him, but Leprat merely glanced at them and asked:

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ And then, changing his mind: ‘No, tell me later. You’re a pitiful sight, all three of you, and by the look of things you’ve earned a rest.’

  The riders were authorised to enter the château and could finally dismount in the courtyard. Leprat gave orders that their horses should be tended to and charged Durieux with finding them a place to spend the night. The old captain thanked him and, while removing his riding gloves, he caught a glimpse of a lady and gentleman at one of the windows. He did not know the gentleman, but the woman could only be Alessandra di Santi.

  ‘Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?’ said Leprat watching him out of the corner of his eye. ‘I’ll explain everything later …’

  The Blades spent a long while at the water trough refreshing themselves, before La Fargue and Laincourt followed Durieux into a dusty, vacant chamber within the keep where they would have to make do with straw mattresses for the night. Marciac had remained near the well, chatting with one of the pretty village girls that La Donna had engaged in her service.

  Having taken the time to change his clothes, Laincourt found La Fargue and Leprat a little later in an agreeably cool room, seated at a table with a few jugs of wine. The Gascon had still not reappeared, which neither astonished nor worried anyone.

  ‘I have informed Leprat of the essence of our affair,’ the old captain announced as Laincourt entered.

  While the young man took a seat and poured himself a glass of wine, the musketeer summed matters up:

  ‘So, there’s a mystery you wish to shed some light on, which has some connection to the death of the Alchemist. By investigating him, or rather the master of magic he claimed to be, you discovered that the vicomtesse de Malicorne recommended him to the duchesse de Chevreuse. La Malicorne disappeared after we foiled her plan to create a Black Claw lodge in France. So that only leaves her deputy, Gagnière …’

  Over the rim of his glass, Laincourt shot an intrigued glance at La Fargue, who paid no attention to it. Leprat had made no allusion to the threat of a dragon destroying Paris. Was that because the Blades’ captain had not told him anything about it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed La Fargue. ‘The cardinal has authorised us to speak with Gagnière, as long as doing so does not prevent or delay the negotiations over his fate. So we rode here post haste, in fear that these final discussions would be concluded before our arrival.’

  ‘Those negotiations have not even commenced. Père Joseph will lead them for France and we do not expect him until tomorrow evening.’

  ‘But La Donna is already here.’

  ‘To be sure. But she is not here to negotiate on the Pope’s behalf.’

  ‘So what is her role?’

  ‘To interrogate Gagnière in order to measure how much he really knows. After that, the Pope’s negotiator, who will also be arriving tomorrow, will have a better idea of where he stands.’

  La Fargue emptied his glass, leaned back pensively, and then gave a bleak smile.

  ‘When one thinks,’ he said, ‘that less than a month ago it was La Donna answering monsieur Laffemas’ questions in Le Châtelet. And now here she is, posing questions to a Black Claw agent …’

  Leprat shrugged and said:

  ‘My responsibilities here are limited to the prisoner’s security. If you wish to speak with him, you will need to go through La Donna. At least until His Holiness’ negotiator arrives.’

  ‘I would prefer not to wait until tomorrow.’

  The musketeer did not know what to reply.

  ‘Perhaps that won’t be necessary,’ said Laincourt.

  The two others turned toward him.

  ‘How’s that?’ asked La Fargue.

  ‘The gentleman with La Donna. I know him.’

  ‘Signor Valerio Licini?’ Leprat asked in surprise.

  ‘That is indeed his name. A scion of one of the finest aristocratic families of Rome. But he is better known as Père Farrio.’

  ‘A priest?’ asked La Fargue.

  ‘A Jesuit. He and I have crossed paths in the past. He is an agent of the Pope and I am prepared to wager that he also is the negotiator we are waiting for.’

  ‘Might he also have recognised you?’ the Blades’ captain enquired.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But why play this farce?’ the musketeer wanted to know.

  ‘It can be useful for a negotiator to test the waters first, to smell the air, perhaps hear things we might not have said in front of him if we knew his true identity … But I’m only guessing. It is not impossible to suppose that the motives of Père Farrio and La Donna are even more devious than that …’

  Upon those words, Marciac entered the room.

  Perhaps slightly more dishevelled than usual, he was in an excellent mood and had a wisp of straw in his tangled hair.

  ‘I jus
t ran into Durieux,’ he announced. ‘La Donna has invited us to sup with her this evening.’

  Armed with heavy rapiers, daggers, and pistols, the dracs stood ready in the clearing, beneath the starry sky. Assassins, brigands, and mercenaries, they obeyed the orders of one of their own, who went by the name of Keress Karn. Most of them weren’t much taller than him, but all of them were more heavily built than this red drac with sinewy muscles and the reflexes of a snake. Aka’rn, a colossal but silent black drac, acted as Karn’s personal bodyguard.

  Intelligent and devoid of any scruples, quick to be cruel, Keress Karn exercised exclusive authority over his band. He never explained his orders and they were never questioned. His cutthroats displayed a mixture of admiration and superstitious dread towards him. Indeed, who but Karn could have persuaded them to place themselves in a dragon’s service? For a drac, it was like voluntarily returning to enslavement and asking for the lash. But not a single one had challenged his decision, nor had any of them balked, later, at riding behind this dragon whose aura was so powerful that they felt, to their great shame, a servile chord vibrate in the depths of their beings. The dragon even insisted on being called ‘master’. He did not mingle with them and spoke only to Karn, who was not in the least intimidated by the dragon’s brutal and contemptuous manner. The red drac then relayed his instructions to the rest of the band.

  The last directive they received had been to dismount here, in this clearing.

  And to make ready for combat.

  So they had hitched their horses, furbished their weapons and checked their equipment as they listened to Karn explain that they would be attacking a nearby château and abducting a woman they would find there. Following those instructions, they had shared a frugal meal, eaten cold, without making a fire. Then some had addressed hurried prayers to the gods or to their ancestors, whose spirits would accompany them into battle. It was not a question of asking for protection, only of inviting an illustrious forebear to witness – perhaps – their death in combat so that glory would accrue to their lineage.

  The Illuminator had, of course, observed these rituals with disdain, sitting apart from the dracs and snorting pointedly at them, when he wasn’t snickering into his beard. Then he stood up, stepped forward and waited until all eyes were focused on him. In the middle of the clearing he planted the broad blade of his schiavone in the ground beside him and undressed completely.