The Cardinal's Blades

5

That morning, reclining on a long, low seat, the vicomtesse de Malicorne was savouring the tranquillity of her flowering garden when the marquis de Gagniere was announced. The strange globe filled with its shifting darkness was next to her, on its precious stand, and she caressed it nonchalantly-as she might have stroked the head of a sleeping cat. The turbulent interior of the Sphere d’Ame seemed to respond to each stroke. Gagniere, arriving on the terrace, made a conscious effort to look elsewhere. He knew the dangers that the soul sphere represented. He also knew the use to which it was destined to be put, and the casual manner with which the young woman was treating this relic, entrusted to her by the Masters of the Black Claw, both worried and astonished him.

“Good morning, monsieur le marquis. What have you come to tell me at such an early hour?”

“Leprat is dead.”

“Leprat?”

“The messenger Malencontre and his men failed to stop between Brussels and Paris. Using your information I laid an ambush for him yesterday evening, near the Saint-Denis gate.”

“Monsieur Leprat…” sighed the young woman with a thoughtful look. “Is that so?”

“One of the King’s Musketeers,” Gagniere hastened to explain.

“And formerly one of the Cardinal’s Blades. I told you you would be hearing more about them, didn’t I?”

“Indeed. However-”

“You killed him?”

“Yes. With a pistol ball to the heart.”

“My congratulations. And the letter?”

The elegant marquis took a deep breath.

“He didn’t have it.”

For the first time since their conversation began, the vicomtesse lifted her gaze to look at her visitor. Her angelic face remained unreadable, but her eyes burned with fury.

“Excuse me?”

“He did not have it on him. Perhaps he never had it at all.”

“So he was simply playing with us while the true messenger travelled discreetly, by a different route and without mishap?”

“I believe so.”

“Yes,” said the vicomtesse de Malicorne, contemplating her garden anew. “It’s certainly possible, after all…”

They were silent for a moment and Gagniere did not know what to do with himself; his perfect manners forbade him from taking a seat without invitation so he was forced to remain standing, ill at ease, his beige deer-skin gloves in his hand.

“If the letter is at the Louvre-” he began.

“That indicates that the king and the cardinal now know we represent a threat to France,” finished the pretty young woman. “I’ll wager that the prospect of facing the Black Claw within their kingdom does not enchant them.”

From the little smile she displayed, however, one could guess that this development, upon reflection, did not truly displease her.

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” she concluded. “For the moment we have other matters to attend to…”

She suddenly rose and, taking the arm of the marquis, asked him to stroll with her in the garden. This initiative surprised Gagniere, until he realised that the vicomtesse wished to be out of range of any listening ears. Even here, in her own home.

“You will recall,” she said at last, “that our Spanish brothers and sisters promised to send us a trustworthy man. And so they have: Savelda is here in Paris.”

“I still think we should not let him know of our plans.”

“Impossible,” interrupted the vicomtesse. “On the contrary, give him a warm welcome. Do not hide anything from him and employ him as usefully as possible. If it is understood, between you and I, that Savelda’s mission is to keep us under surveillance, then we should not reveal our suspicions. We must show ourselves to be grateful of the honour the Grand Lodge of Spain does us by placing a man of his worth at our disposal…”

“Very well.”

This matter being settled, the vicomtesse turned to another subject: “When will you capture Castilla?”

“Soon. Tonight, even.”

“And the girl?”

“Castilla shall lead us to her and we will abduct her.”

“Charge Savelda with the task.”

“What-!”

“It will keep him busy. And that will leave us with a freer hand to prepare our first initiation ceremony. Once that has taken place, a Black Claw lodge shall exist in France and our Spanish brothers, jealous as they may be, shall not be able to do anything against us.”

“You will then take the rank of Master.”

“And you, that of First Initiate… but do not cry victory just yet. Many have failed because they were too quick to believe they had succeeded and did not see danger coming. In our case, I do foresee that there is danger.”

At the bottom of the garden, in a verdant nook, was a stone bench. The vicomtesse took a seat, and indicated to Gagniere that he should join her.

“There is one matter,” she murmured, “about which Savelda and our masters must be kept in ignorance: one of our agents at the Palais-Cardinal was caught yesterday.”

“Which one?”

“The best. The oldest. The most precious.”

“Laincourt!”

“Yes. Laincourt… I still don’t know how it was done, but it has happened. Monsieur de Laincourt was unmasked. He is under arrest now, no doubt waiting to be interrogated.”

“Where?”

“Le Chatelet.”

“Laincourt won’t talk.”

“That remains to be seen. You will need, perhaps, to make sure of it.”