The Cardinal's Blades

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 naive-”

“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.”