The Cardinal's Blades

8

Wearing a blue silk and satin gown, with a grey mother-of-pearl unicorn pinned close to her neckline, the vicomtesse de Malicorne was amusing herself by feeding her dragonnet. From a vermilion and silver plate, she was tossing bloody shreds of meat one by one to the little reptile, who plucked them out of the air from his perch and gulped them down. It was a superb animal with gleaming black scales and shared an intimate bond with its mistress. She had sometimes been seen talking to it as if it were an accomplice, a confidant, perhaps even a friend. But the strangest thing was that the dragonnet understood her; a glow of intelligence would pass through its golden eyes before it flew off with a flap of its wings, usually on some nocturnal mission.

When the marquis de Gagniere entered the salon, the young and pretty vicomtesse set down the plate of meat, licking-delicately but with relish-the tips of her slim fingers. She did not accord much attention to the visitor, however, pretending to be interested only in her sated pet.

“Savelda has just returned from the little house in the orchard,” Gagniere announced.

“The refuge of the so-called chevalier d’Ireban?”

“Yes. Castilla finally talked.”

“And?”

“Our Spanish brothers were mistaken.”

The young woman’s glance shifted from the dragonnet to the elegant marquis. The news he had just delivered obviously delighted him: a satisfied smile caused his thin lips to quirk upward.

Among all the more or less well-intentioned individuals who served the Black Claw, rare were those who did so knowingly. Those who did were known as affiliates. But, generally unaware of the exact nature of their missions, they took their orders from initiates, who occupied the highest rank to which anyone without the blood of dragons running in their veins might aspire. An aristocratic adventurer without land or fortune, Castilla was one of these affiliates whose loyalty had not yet been firmly established. Therefore he had hitherto only been given missions that one wished not to see fail, but which did not require full knowledge of their purpose to be carried out. Intelligent, competent, and capable of taking initiatives, he had never given cause for complaint.

At least until he had suddenly gone missing.

“‘Mistaken,’ marquis? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that Castilla was not running away from the Black Claw.”

Castilla’s disappearance had been worrying. Had he betrayed them, and if so, had he taken with him enough secrets to harm the Black Claw? They needed to find him in order to shed light on this affair and, if need be, eliminate him. Their spies discovered that Castilla had left Spain by ship and that he had disembarked at Bordeaux in the company of a certain chevalier d’Ireban-or at least the latter had signed the ship’s register under that name. Had they met during the crossing or were they fleeing together? It mattered little in the short run, for the Black Claw then lost trace of them. From Bordeaux, they could just as easily have travelled by sea to another continent as gone by road to a neighbouring country. But they were soon seen again in Paris. Without delay, the Black Claw in Spain had demanded that madame de Malicorne do everything in her power to track them down. In a capital of five hundred thousand souls, that was all the more difficult as she had other business at hand. Nevertheless, she was in no position to refuse and, against all expectations, she had succeeded where some had perhaps hoped she would fail, her first exploits in France having already provoked jealousy in Madrid.

Castilla being too frequent a visitor to a certain Parisian gambling house, he was the first to be located. Then it was the turn of a young woman he often met, who proved to be none other than the dashing chevalier d’Ireban. No doubt in an effort to remain discreet, she still sometimes disguised herself as a cavalier. But whenever she wore a woman’s dress, she had invented for herself the identity of a modest orphan from Lyon. As soon as it was possible, Gagniere-who also had much else to do-organised the capture of the couple with the assistance of Savelda, a henchman recently arrived from Spain. But the young woman escaped, thanks to a miraculous rescue, while Castilla was taken and tortured.

“Come to the point, marquis. And tell me what secrets Savelda extorted from Castilla last night.”

“As we suspected, Castilla and the lady were lovers. However, it was not the Black Claw they wished to escape by fleeing Spain, but the demoiselle’s father.”

“Am I to understand that we have spent all this time and effort to find two eloping lovers?”

“Yes.”

“And that Castilla never sought to harm us?”

“Never. And perhaps not even to abandon us.”

The vicomtesse stifled a laugh.

“In other circumstances,” she said, “I would be furious. But here we have the means of putting our Spanish brethren in their place and, if necessary, teaching them a lesson in humility. Besides, they won’t be able to deny it when it is their own envoy, Savelda himself, who uncovered the full facts behind this story.”

“I doubt that the more jealous of our rivals will appreciate the irony when the news reaches Madrid,” said Gagniere in an amused tone.

“Henceforth, they will appreciate whatever we choose to serve them.”

Smiling with pleasure, the young vicomtesse de Malicorne dropped into an armchair.

“But who is this father that Castilla wanted to flee from so badly, even when it meant incurring the wrath of the Black Claw?”

“That’s the best part of the story, madame. The father is none other than the comte de Pontevedra.”

The young woman’s eyes sparked with sudden interest.

Pontevedra was a foreign aristocrat with a troubled past who, in less than two years after appearing at court, had become a friend of the comte d’Olivares and a favourite of King Felipe IV, thus winning both fortune and renown in Spain. The man was influential, powerful, and feared. And he was presently in Paris, on a mission as an ambassador extraordinary. For the past week he had been engaged in secret negotiations at the Louvre, no doubt with the aim of fostering a rapprochement between France and Spain.

A rapprochement that the Black Claw did not want at any price.

“Everything now becomes clear,” said the vicomtesse. “At least until the Cardinal’s Blades entered the scene…”

Gagniere forced himself to contain his skepticism on the subject.

His associate’s obstinate tendency to see Richelieu’s agents everywhere was becoming worrisome. Granted, her magic might be informing her of more than she was telling. But it was almost as if there were an old dispute between her and the Blades that obsessed and blinded her.

“Madame…” he started to say in a reasonable tone. “Nothing indicates that-”

“And just who, according to you, rescued Pontevedra’s daughter last night?” she interrupted. “Her saviour did not fall from the Moon, so far as I know.. And he was able enough to carry her off in the face of numerous opponents…! Courage, audacity, valour: the very mark of the Blades… What? You still have doubts…?”

She had become uselessly worked up, as the gentleman’s cautious silence made her realise. In order to calm and perhaps reassure herself, she opened a precious-looking casket set on a table beside her. It contained the Sphere d’Ame, which she caressed with the tips of her fingers, her eyelids half closed.

She drew in a breath and then carefully explained: “Do me the favour of thinking the matter through. You are the comte de Pontevedra and you know that your daughter has fled to Paris-where she is perhaps under threat from the Black Claw. Now, there is nothing that France would refuse you, given the importance of the negotiations that you are conducting with her. Would you not seek help from the cardinal? And would you not demand that he mobilise his very best men?”

“Yes,” Gagniere admitted reluctantly.

“The very best, meaning the Blades.”

“I believe you.”

“It’s about time…! But what a shame that Pontevedra’s daughter managed to evade us! What a lever she would have provided us against him!”

“All is perhaps not lost on that score. I sent Savelda to the girl’s house, in rue de la Fontaine. He may find something there and, if not, it will at least keep him busy.”

“Excellent initiative. We will thus have our hands free to prepare the ceremony this evening. Is everything ready at the castle?”

“We are applying ourselves to the task.”

“Nothing must disturb our very first initiations, marquis. The Grand Lodge will not forgive us if there is the slightest sour note.”

“I know that. However…”

Gagniere, hesitant, left his sentence unfinished.

But as the vicomtesse was looking at him with a frown on her face, he continued: “We need now to discuss a delicate case, madame.”

“Which is?

“Laincourt.”