The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  He took it and admired the stone.

  “Yes,” he said, before sheathing his sword.

  “Damned Gascon!”

  “I hold you in high esteem as well, monsieur. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  And as he turned toward d’Orvand, Marciac deliberately added: “Splendid day, isn’t it?”

  5

  In a small study to which she alone possessed a key, the very young, very blonde, and very charming vicomtesse de Malicorne removed the black silk cloth protecting the oval mirror before which she sat. With only two candles burning, one to either side of the mirror, the room was shrouded in a half-light.

  In a low voice, with her eyes closed, the vicomtesse chanted words in the ancient, dread language of the Ancestral Dragons, the language of magic. The surface of the precious silver mirror rippled, moving like a puddle of mercury disturbed by movement deep within it, then solidified again. A dragon’s head appeared in the ensorcelled mirror—all bloodred scales, gleaming black eyes, a bony crest, and pale, large and prominent fangs.

  “Greetings, my sister.”

  “Greetings, my brother.”

  Someone, thousands of leagues distant, had answered the vicomtesse’s call. Wherever he was, he must have been human in outward form. But the mirror did not lie: the images it portrayed were an accurate reflection of the true nature of those who used it, so that the pretty young woman also presented a draconic appearance to her faraway contact. For although neither of them were Ancestral Dragons, they were both descendants. In their veins ran the blood of a race which had evolved over centuries and millennia, a race which had given up the superior draconic form to become part of mankind. But their race was no less feared for having changed, and with good reason.

  “There is some concern about your progress, my sister.”

  “Who is concerned?”

  “I am, in the first instance. But there are others as well who, unlike me, are not favourably inclined toward you. Not everyone within the Black Claw is your ally.”

  “I would have thought the Black Claw would be delighted by the prospect of my forthcoming success. A success which shall also, incidentally, be theirs.”

  “Here, in Spain, there are brothers who are jealous of your foreseeable triumph. You will prevail where some of them have failed—”

  “Should they not be reproached for that, rather than blaming me?”

  The dragon in the mirror seemed to smile.

  “Ah, my sister. You are not so naïve—”

  “Certainly not!”

  “You’re aware that failure shall not be forgiven.”

  “I shall not fail!”

  “Under the pretext of assuring themselves of this, certain Masters of the Grand Lodge have decided to assign one of their initiates of the first order to assist you. A certain Savelda. You know of him?”

  “Enough to guess that his mission is less to help me than it is to keep count of every conceivable error. So that if I do fail, my enemies are as well armed as possible to denounce me.…”

  “At least you know what awaits you. Savelda is already on his way and shall present himself to you soon. His duplicity with respect to you is certain, but the man is capable and he has the interests of the Black Claw at heart. Politics is likely to be of no importance to him. Employ him advisedly.”

  “So be it.”

  A ripple crossed the surface of the mirror and, as the vicomtesse struggled to focus her will, the phantom dragon head facing her began to waver.

  “You are tired, my sister. If you wish to continue this later—”

  “No, no. It will pass.… Continue, please.”

  In the dark close room, the young woman nimbly wiped away the black droplet that had beaded on her nostril.

  “We have,” said the dragon, “introduced a spy into the upper levels of the Palais-Cardinal.”

  “I know. He—”

  “No. It’s someone other than the spy who keeps you informed. As yet, you do not know of the spy of whom I speak. Or, at least, not in this capacity. He is one of your future initiates.”

  The vicomtesse was visibly surprised.

  The Grand Lodge of Spain had an agent close to the cardinal, an exclusive agent, of whose existence she had only just learned. It was common practice for the Black Claw, and the Grand Lodge in particular, to proceed in this manner. The Spanish Lodge had been the very first to be founded and it traditionally predominated over the other lodges of Europe, welding together an empire of which it became all the more jealous as its authority began to be questioned. It was rightly criticised for being stifled by the crushing weight of tradition and guided by masters primarily concerned with preserving their privileges. Against its influence, in the very heart of the Black Claw, there was a growing plot involving dragons who secretly dreamed of renewing—if not cutting down—the old idols. The vicomtesse de Malicorne was one of these ambitious rebels.

  “So?” she said.

  “Our spy has informed us that the cardinal has a project afoot to recall one of our old enemies. Given the time it took this news to reach us in Spain, it is perhaps already done.”

  “One of our old enemies?”

  “La Fargue.”

  “La Fargue and his Blades.”

  “Without a doubt, yes. I don’t know if their sudden return relates to your business, but guard yourself against these men, and especially against their captain.”

  6

  Jean Delormel’s fencing school was situated on rue des Cordières, close to the Saint-Jacques gate. It could only be reached by entering a small courtyard which was unevenly but solidly paved, and was almost entirely concealed by the foliage of an apple tree which grew up from its centre. At the bottom to the left the beautiful main building met the stable, which was adjoined at a right angle to a small forge. The feet and gaze of visitors, however, were naturally drawn toward the house on the right, which could be recognised for what it was by the traditional sign which decorated the threshold—an arm holding a sword.

  Sitting on a stone bench under the apple tree, a small six-year-old girl was playing with a doll—its body made of rags and with a painted wooden head—when Captain La Fargue arrived on horseback. Neatly dressed and with curly red hair, little Justine was the youngest child of Delormel, the fencing master, and one of seven offspring his wife had given him, three of whom survived. As an old friend of the family, La Fargue had witnessed Justine’s birth just as he had witnessed the births of her elder siblings. But during his lengthy absence the infant had become a pretty child, full of seriousness, who listened more than she spoke, and thought even more. This metamorphosis had seemed sudden to the captain, the evening before, on his return after five years. Nothing showed the passage of time better than children.

  Rising, Justine dusted down the front of her dress in order to offer a most formal curtsey to the rider, who had just got his feet on the ground and, to tell the truth, took little notice of her now as he walked toward the stables.

  “Good morning, monsieur.”

  Reins in hand, he stopped.

  His cold glance, severe expression, grey beard, and patrician neatness, the austere elegance of his attire, and the proud assurance with which he carried his sword, all impressed adults and intimidated children. This little lady, however, did not appear to fear him.

  Somewhat disconcerted, the old captain hesitated.

  Then, very stiffly, he greeted her with a nod of his head and the pinch of his thumb and index finger to the rim of his hat, before walking on.

  Busy in the kitchen, Justine’s mother had observed the scene through an open window in the main building. She was a young woman, pretty and smiling, whose successive pregnancies had done surprisingly little to enlarge her slender waistline. Her name was Anne, and she was the daughter of a renowned fencing master who gave lessons on Ile de la Cité. La Fargue also greeted her as he approached, this time doffing his hat.

  “Hello, madame.”

  “Good morning
, captain. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed. Do you know where your husband is?”

  “In the practice room. He’s waiting for you, I believe.… Will you dine with us?”

  It was common to breakfast in the morning, dine at midday, and eat supper in the evening.

  “With pleasure, madame. I thank you.”

  La Fargue tethered his mount to a ring in the stable when he heard: “Monsieur, my papa is going to scold you.”

  He turned and saw Justine, who loitered right at the threshold of the stable but did not enter, almost certainly because she was forbidden to approach the horses.

  Intrigued, the old gentleman’s brow wrinkled. It was difficult to imagine anyone “scolding” a man of his temper. But, the little one was still at the age when a daughter would not for a moment doubt the invincibility of her father.

  “He will scold me? Truly?”

  “My father was very anxious. So was my mother. They waited for your return until very late last night.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I heard them talking.”

  “Were you not in your room?”

  “I was.”

  “And weren’t you asleep at that hour, as is appropriate for young ladies of your age, if they are well behaved?”

  Caught out, Justine paused for a moment.

  “Yes,” she said.

  La Fargue stifled a smile.

  “Very well then, you were asleep in your room, yet you heard my friend your father speaking.…”

  The little one replied in a flash: “I happen to have very good ears.”

  And, full of dignity, she turned on her heel.

  * * *

  La Fargue left the stable a few moments later.

  Beneath the apple tree, Justine was only interested in her doll, with whom she seemed to be arguing. The morning was over. The sunshine was warm and the thick foliage gave the courtyard a pleasant freshness. From here the bustle and racket of the Paris streets were just a distant murmur.

  In the practice room, La Fargue found Martin—a young man, the eldest son and senior instructor in Delormel’s school—dispensing a private lesson while a valet gave the earthenware floor a thorough scrubbing. The room was almost empty, with bare walls and furnished with nothing but three benches, a rack of swords, and a wooden horse for teaching students mounted swordplay. There was a gallery which could be reached by a staircase on the right, from which one could comfortably observe the action below. The fencing master was at the balustrade. He adopted an air of great satisfaction on seeing the captain enter. La Fargue climbed the steps to meet him, exchanging a friendly smile with Martin on the way, the young redheaded slender man beating time for his pupil’s movements by striking the ground with a large stick.

  “Glad to see you, captain. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  In spite of events, Delormel had never ceased to address La Fargue by his rank. Out of habit, no doubt. But also to make the point that he had never acknowledged that La Fargue had been stripped of his commission.

  “For most of the night, yes, I know. The news reached me. I am sorry.”

  Delormel was astonished.

  “That news reached you? How?”

  “Your daughter. The youngest.”

  The fencing master smiled affectionately.

  “The little devil. Nothing gets past her.…”

  Tall and broad across the shoulders, Delormel was a fencing master who had been a soldier and who regarded fencing as more of a practical experience than a science. A thick scar scored his neck; another traced a pale furrow down his face. But what one noticed first was his thick russet red hair, which he had inherited from his father and passed on to all his children: a Delormel was a redhead, or they weren’t a Delormel. Well groomed, he wore a modestly cut and perfectly pressed doublet.

  “However,” said La Fargue, “you are more correct than you believe in addressing me as ‘captain.’”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The cardinal has secretly returned my rank to me. He wants the Blades to return to service. Under my command.”

  “All of them? That is: all of the Blades?”

  The captain shrugged.

  “All those who are left and would like to serve, at least. And for those who do not, I have no doubt that the cardinal shall find some persuasive leverage. Letters summoning them have already been sent out.”

  Reading the concern on La Fargue’s face, Delormel hesitated, and then asked: “And this isn’t good news?”

  “I’ve yet to form an opinion on the subject.”

  “Come, captain! The Blades are your life! And here you are! Soon those five years will be—”

  But he did not complete the sentence.

  Suddenly nervous, he looked to the left and right and then murmured: “I beg you, do not tell me you said no to the cardinal! No one says no to the cardinal, do they? Nobody. Not even you, eh?”

  La Fargue had no reply.

  His eyes flicked toward Martin and his student below and he said: “I thought you only opened your practice room after dinner.”

  “It’s only a private lesson,” specified Romand. “That braggart you see there pays in gold.”

  Calling him a braggart spoke volumes. The old gentleman, however, asked: “And how is he doing?”

  The fencing master made a disdainful face.

  “He can’t tell his right from his left, holds his sword like a shovel, believes he knows everything, understands nothing, and constantly complains, claiming that everything is badly explained to him.”

  “His name?”

  “Guérante, I believe. If I was Martin, I would have slapped him ten times by now.”

  “And you would have lost your client.”

  “No doubt, yes.…”

  La Fargue did not take his eyes from Martin’s student. He was a young man, very richly dressed and everything about him, especially his attitude, indicated that he was a wealthy scion with a head swollen by his family’s title and fortune. He lacked patience as much as he lacked talent, became irritated over nothing, and found a thousand excuses for his awkwardness. He was out of place here, where serious, practical fencing was taught; fencing which demanded hard work without sparing the ego.

  “I didn’t say no,” the captain suddenly announced. “To the cardinal, last night. I did not say no to him.”

  Delormel’s face split into a broad smile.

  “Praise be! You are never truly yourself unless you’re serving the king and, no matter what you think, you never served him so well as you did during the years when you commanded your Blades.”

  “But to what end? One death, and the treachery of a friend—”

  “You are a soldier. Death comes with war. As for treason, it comes with life.”

  La Fargue nodded, but it lacked the vigour that would suggest he truly agreed.

  Clearly anxious to change the subject, Delormel took the captain by the elbow and, limping a little because of an old wound, drew him away from the balustrade.

  “I do not ask you what your mission is, but—”

  “You can,” interrupted La Fargue. “At the moment, all we have to do is arrange, with all speed and without attracting too much attention, the recall of the Blades. And perhaps find others.… It seems clear that the cardinal has precise plans, which I shall soon learn. But why is he recalling the Blades? Why them, when he does not lack other devoted agents? Why me? And most important, why now, after all these years? There is a mystery behind all of this.”

  “These are troubled times,” suggested Delormel. “And contrary to what you said, perhaps His Eminence does lack men capable of doing the things you and your Blades have achieved in the past.…”

  Below them there was a sudden outburst which drew them, surprised, back to the balustrade.

  Guérante had just fallen, entirely through his own fault, and, furious, he hurled insults at the younger Delormel. Pale, the other withstood the ou
tburst without responding: he was only a commoner while his student was of the nobility, and therefore both protected and permitted to do as he pleased.

  “Enough,” said La Fargue after a moment. “That will do.”

  He walked down the staircase with a determined step while the gentleman struggled back to his feet and continued to howl. La Fargue seized him by the collar, forced him out of the room ignoring his thrashings, dragged him across the courtyard in front of Justine, who watched with huge round eyes, and threw him out into the street. Guérante measured his length in a patch of mud through which one would hesitate to walk, to the great delight of passersby.

  Livid, stinking, and dripping with muck and urine, the braggart pushed himself up and would have stripped off his soiled outer layers ready to fight. But La Fargue froze him in place with a movement of an index finger, pointing at Guérante’s chest.

  “Monsieur,” he said to him, in too calm a voice not to be threatening. “I am a gentleman and therefore do not have to put up with either your whims or your poor temper. If you would draw your sword, do so, and you shall learn with whom you speak.”

  Guérante hesitated, changed his mind, and returned the two inches of steel he had drawn in the heat of the moment to their scabbard.

  “Another thing, monsieur,” added the captain. “If you are religious, pray. Pray that my friend Delormel does not come to any misadventure. Pray that no one bothers either his clients or his family. Pray that petty thieves do not come in the night and plunder his school or his home. Pray that he does not receive a beating on a street corner.… Because I shall learn of it. And without any further consideration, I shall find you and I shall kill you, monsieur de Guérante. Do we understand each other?”

  Mortified and covered in slurry, the other made an effort to recover his dignity. There were spectators watching and mocking him, and he did not want to lose face entirely.

  “This business,” he promised, puffing himself up. “This affair does not end here.”

  “It does,” La Fargue shot back, harsh and inflexible.

  “We shall see!”

  “This business is finished here and now if you do not draw your sword, monsieur.…”