The Cardinal's Blades

12

As his feet touched ground in the courtyard of a beautiful mansion recently built in the Marais quarter, near the elegant and aristocratic Place Royale, the gentleman entrusted his horse to a servant who had rushed up at once.

“I’m not staying,” he said. “Wait here.”

The other nodded and, reins in hand, watched out of the corner of his eye as the marquis de Gagniere climbed the front steps with a quick and supple step.

Sporting a large felt hat with a huge plumed feather, he was dressed in the latest fashion, with such obvious care for his appearance that it bordered on preciousness: he wore a cloak thrown over his left shoulder and held in place beneath his right arm with a silk cord, a high-waisted doublet of grey linen with silver fastenings, matching hose decorated with buttons, cream lace at his collar and cuffs, beige suede gloves, and cavalier boots made of kid leather. The extreme stylishness of his manner and attire added to the androgynous character of his silhouette: slender, willowy, and almost juvenile. He was not yet twenty years old but seemed even younger, his face still bearing a childish charm and softness which would take a long time to mature, while the blond hair of his moustache and finely trimmed royale beard preserved a silky adolescent downiness.

An ancient maitre d’hotel greeted him at the top of the steps and, eyes lowered, accompanied him as far as a pretty antechamber where the marquis was asked to wait while he was announced to the vicomtesse. When the servant finally returned he held a door open and, with a bow, ushered the marquis through. Remaining by the door, he again avoided meeting the young man’s gaze as though something dangerous and troubling emanated from him, his elegance and angelic beauty nothing but a facade disguising a poisonous soul. In that respect, the young marquis resembled the sword which hung from his baldric: a weapon whose guard and pommel had been worked in the most exquisite manner, but whose blade was of good sharp steel.

Gagniere entered and found himself alone when the maitre d’hotel closed the door behind him.

The luxuriously furnished room was plunged into shadow. Drawn curtains shut out the daylight and the few scented candles that burned here and there created a permanent twilight. The room was a study for reading. Shelves full of books covered one wall. A comfortable armchair was installed next to a window, by a small side table which bore a candelabrum, a carafe of wine, and a small crystal glass. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantelpiece, looming over a table and an old leather-backed chair with a patina of age.

Upon the table in the middle of room, supported by a delicate red and gold stand, reposed a strange globe.

The gentleman approached it.

Black, gleaming, and hypnotic, it was as though the globe was filled with swirling ink. It seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. One’s eye soon became lost in its deep spirals.

And with it, one’s soul.

“Don’t touch it.”

Gagniere blinked and realised he was leaning over the table, his right hand stretched out toward the globe. He pulled himself back and turned, feeling perturbed.

A young woman dressed in black and purple had made her appearance through a concealed door. Elegant yet severe in a gown with a starched bodice, her low neckline was trimmed with lace and decorated with a grey mother-of-pearl brooch representing a unicorn. She was beautiful; blonde and slender, with a small sweet face that seemed to have been designed to be adorable. Her sparkling blue eyes, however, showed no sign of any warm emotions, any more than her pretty, but unsmiling, lips.

The vicomtesse de Malicorne took a slow but assured step toward the gentleman.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said. “… I have no idea what-”

“There is no need to reproach yourself, monsieur de Gagniere. No one can resist it. Not even me.”

“Is it… is it what I think it is?”

“A Sphere d’Ame? Yes.”

She spread a square of brocaded golden cloth over the ensorcelled globe, and it was as though an unhealthy presence had suddenly deserted the room.

“There. Isn’t that better?”

Straightening up, she was about to continue when the marquis’s worried expression stopped her.

“What is it?”

Embarrassed, Gagniere pointed a hesitant finger toward her, and then indicated his own nose: “You have… there…”

The young woman understood, touched her upper lip with her ring finger, and found its tip fouled by a blackish fluid that had leaked from her nostril. Untroubled, she took an already stained handkerchief from her sleeve and turned away to press it to her nose.

“Magic is an art which the Ancestral Dragons created for themselves alone,” she said, as though that explained everything.

She faced the large mirror above the mantelpiece and, still dabbing at her lip, spoke in a conversational tone: “I recently charged you with intercepting a covert courier between Brussels and Paris. Have you done as I required?”

“Certainly. Malencontre and his men have undertaken the task.”

“With what result?”

“As yet, I don’t know.”

Her pretty face now clean of all foulness, the vicomtesse de Malicorne turned from the mirror and, with a half-smile, said: “Allow me to enlighten you then, monsieur. Despite all the opportunities he has had to lay an ambush, Malencontre has already failed twice. First at the border, and then close to Amiens. If the rider he pursues continues at the same pace, Malencontre’s only hope of catching him is at the staging post near Clermont. After Clermont, he will proceed straight on to Paris. Is it truly necessary to remind you that this letter must under no circumstances reach the Louvre?”

The gentleman didn’t ask how she knew so much: the globe, with all the secrets it deigned to reveal to any who sacrificed part of themselves to it, was sufficient explanation. He nodded in reply: “I remain confident, madame. Malencontre and his men are quite used to these missions. They shall succeed, no matter what the cost to themselves.”

“Let us hope so, monsieur le marquis. Let us hope so…”

With a gracious, urbane gesture the vicomtesse invited Gagniere to take a seat and took one herself, opposite him.

“Right now, I would like to speak with you on an entirely different matter.”

“Which is, madame?”

“The cardinal is about to play a card of great importance, and I fear that he means to play it against us. This card is a man: La Fargue.”

“‘La Fargue’?”

“An old captain and one of the king’s most faithful swordsmen. Believe me, his return does not bode well for us. Alone, this La Fargue makes a formidable opponent. But in the past he commanded the Cardinal’s Blades, a secret company of devoted and reliable men, capable, with La Fargue, of achieving the impossible. If they have been reunited…”

Pensive and worried, the young woman fell silent.

“Do you know the cardinal’s intentions?” Gagniere asked cautiously.

“No. I merely guess at them… Which is why I want you to make inquiries into this matter. Speak with our agent in the Palais-Cardinal and learn everything you can from him. Can you meet him soon?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

Having received his orders, and believing the interview to be over, the gentleman rose.

But the vicomtesse, looking elsewhere, continued: “All this comes at the worst possible moment. We are about to achieve everything the Black Claw has been so desperate to accomplish for so long: to firmly establish itself in France. Our Spanish brothers and sisters have long since concluded that this goal is impossible, and although we are but a few hours from proving them wrong, I know that the majority are still doubtful. As for those who no longer doubt us, they already envy our forthcoming success-which amounts to saying that they too secretly hope for our failure.”

“You think that-”

“No, no…” said the vicomtesse, her hand brushing away the theory the marquis was about to propose. “Those who are envious will not try to harm us… But they will not forgive the slightest shortcoming on our part and will seize any pretext to speak ill of us, of our plans, and of our competence. They will be only too happy to claim they would have succeeded where we might still fail… These envious persons, moreover, have already begun to set their pawns in motion. I have been informed of the imminent arrival of a man sent to us by the Spanish lodge.”

“Who?”

“Savelda.”

From the corner of her eye, the vicomtesse de Malicorne detected Gagniere’s dubious grimace.

“Yes, marquis, I share the sentiment. I’ve been told that Savelda comes to help us put the finishing touches to our project, but I know that his true mission is to observe us and take note of our mistakes, in case someone wishes to reproach us-”

“We should keep him in the dark, then.”

“Absolutely not. But we shall be beyond any reproach… Now you understand why it is essential that we foresee and fend off every blow the cardinal might like to strike against us, don’t you?”

“Indeed.”

“Then start by catching that courier from Brussels. Then we shall take on the Cardinal’s Blades.”