"Before a duel? It's madness!"

"Don't alarm yourself. Have I ever lost before?"

"No, but-"

"All will be well."

By the other coach, the marquis de Brevaux was already in his shirtsleeves and executing a few feints.

"Good, let us finish it," Marciac declared.

He removed his doublet, threw it on the vicomte's coach, greeted the coachman and asked after his health, was delighted to learn it was excellent, caught d'Orvand's gaze, adjusted his shirt, unsheathed his sword, and set out toward Brevaux, who was already walking to meet him.

Then, after a few steps, he changed his mind, turned on his heel without fear of further exasperating the marquis, and pitched his words for his friend's ear alone: "Tell me just one thing...."

"Yes?" sighed d'Orvand.

"Promise me you will not be angry."

"So be it."

"Well then, I have guessed that I am to fight the man in his shirtsleeves who is watching me with that rough gaze. But could you give me some idea as to why?"

"What?" the vicomte exclaimed, rather louder than he had intended.

"If I kill him, I should know the reason for our quarrel, don't you think?"

D'Orvand was initially lost for words, then pulled himself together and announced: "A gambling debt."

"What? I owe him money? Him too?"

"Of course not! Him! ... It's he who ... Fine. Enough. I shall cancel this madness. I shall tell them you are unwell. Or that you-"

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much does he owe me?"

"Fifteen hundred livres."

"Good G.o.d! And I was going to kill him ... !"

Light-heartedly, Marciac continued to walk toward the furious marquis. He a.s.sumed a wobbly en garde en garde stance and declared: "I am at your disposal, monsieur le marquis." stance and declared: "I am at your disposal, monsieur le marquis."

The duel was speedily concluded. Brevaux took the initiative with a.s.sertive thrusts which Marciac nonchalantly parried before punctuating his own attack with a punch that cut his adversary's lip. Initially surprised, then enraged, the marquis returned to the fray. Once again, Marciac was content to merely defend, feigning inattentiveness and even, between two clashes of steel, stifling a yawn. This offhandedness left Brevaux crazed with anger. He howled, struck a foolish two-handed blow with his rapier, and, without understanding how, suddenly found himself both disarmed and wounded in the shoulder. Marciac pressed his advantage. With the point of his blade, he forced the marquis to retreat to his coach, and held him there.

Pale, breathless, and sweating, Brevaux clutched his shoulder.

"Very well," he said. "You win. I'll pay you."

"I am afraid, monsieur, that a promise is not enough. Pay me now."

"Monsieur! I give you my word!"

"You have already promised once, and you see where we are now...."

Marciac tensed his arm a little and the point of his rapier approached the marquis's throat. The gentlemen of Brevaux's retinue took a step closer. One of them even began to draw his sword while d'Orvand, worried, came forward and prepared to a.s.sist his friend if necessary.

There was a moment of indecisiveness on both sides, but then the marquis removed a ring he wore on his finger and gave it to Marciac.

"Are we now even?"

He took it and admired the stone.

"Yes," he said, before sheathing his sword.

"d.a.m.ned 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 naive-"

"Certainly not!"

"You're aware that failure shall not be forgiven."

"I shall not fail!"

"Under the pretext of a.s.suring themselves of this, certain Masters of the Grand Lodge have decided to a.s.sign one of their initiates of the first order to a.s.sist 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 pa.s.s.... 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 Cordieres, 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 pa.s.sage 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 a.s.surance 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 Cite. La Fargue also greeted her as he approached, this time doffing his hat.

"h.e.l.lo, 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.