"I came to speak with you."

The musketeer swept his ivory rapier back, crouched before Malencontre and set the lantern down between them.

"Do you know what awaits you?" he asked.

"I wager that I will soon be asked lots of questions."

"And will you answer them?"

"If that can save my life."

"Then talk to me. If you talk to me, I will help you."

Malencontre stifled a small chuckle and made a grimacing smile that highlighted the scar at the corner of his thin lips.

"I doubt that you have anything to offer me, chevalier."

"You're wrong. Those who will come after me will ask you the same questions, but in a different manner. Le Chatelet has no lack of torturers...."

"The cardinal will not send me a torturer right away. He will first seek to learn if I am disposed to talk. I will reply that I am and I will be treated well. I am no hero, Leprat. I am quite ready to collaborate and only ask for some small consideration."

His crouching position becoming too uncomfortable due to his wounded thigh, Leprat stood up and, spying a stool in a corner, sat down on it, leaving the lantern where it was.

"You work for the Black Claw," he said.

"Not really, no. I work for a gentleman who may, perhaps, work for them.... You serve one master, I serve another."

"Except that I happen to be free to come and go...."

"True."

"Which gentleman?"

"A very good question."

"The cardinal's agents will not make the distinction. For them, you belong to the Black Claw."

"That only increases the value of my modest person, wouldn't you say?"

"You will never see the light of day again."

"That remains to be seen."

The musketeer sighed, searching for some means of gaining the upper hand with a man who had already lost everything and to whom he had nothing to offer. If he failed to make Malencontre speak of his own free will, the only solution that remained revolted him.

But the life of Agnes was at stake.

"The cardinal knows nothing of your visit to me, is that not so?" the prisoner remarked. "So tell me, what brings you here?"

"I am going to offer you a deal that you cannot refuse."

Outside, in front of Le Chatelet, La Fargue and Almades were waiting. They were on foot, the other Blades guarding the horses a short distance away at the entrance to rue Saint-Denis.

"Do you think Leprat will succeed?"

"Let us hope so."

Those were the only words they exchanged, both of them anxious as they remained there, keeping track of the time and observing who was coming out of the enormous, sinister-looking building.

As the half hour tolled, they saw the large felt hat and cape of a limping musketeer appear at last.

"He's favouring the wrong leg," noticed Almades.

"What does it matter?"

They hastened to flank Malencontre as closely as possible on either side, without attracting attention.

"You will not be set free until you have told us everything we wish to know," La Fargue told him in a firm voice.

"And who says that you won't do me an evil turn afterward?"

"I do. But if you try anything at all ..."

"I understand."

They moved quickly toward the other Blades and their horses, fearing that at any moment someone would call after them from the doors of Le Chatelet.

"Who are you?" asked Malencontre. "And how did you manage this?"

"We took advantage of the changing of the guards," explained La Fargue taking a discreet look all around them. "Those who saw Leprat enter were not the guards who let you leave. The hat, the musketeer's cape, the pa.s.s from Treville, and the white rapier did the rest. You will return that rapier to me, by the way."

"And Leprat? Aren't you worried about him?"

"Yes."

"How will he be freed?"

"It's possible he never will be."

19.

It must have been around eight o'clock in the evening and night was falling.

Still held prisoner, Agnes had seen enough to understand what was going on in the great fortified castle. The preparations were now complete. On either side of the open-air stage, the three tiers of benches had been erected and covered with black cloth. On the stage itself, an altar had been placed before a thick velvet cushion. Tall banners had been raised that now floated in the wind, bearing a single golden draconic rune. Torches already illuminated the scene and bonfires waited to be lit. The men and dracs who had installed everything were not workers but hired swordsmen commanded by Savelda and under the direction of a very young and very elegant blond cavalier whom Agnes did not know but who was addressed as marquis: Gagniere. Their task finished, the swordsmen who were not on watch were now gathered around campfires, away from the stage they had set up, near the makeshift stable and the enclosure for the wyverns, and at the foot of the partly collapsed ramparts.

For the past hour, the places along the benches had been filling with men and a few women, most of them sumptuously dressed, whose horses and coaches had been left by the main castle gates. They wore black eye masks embellished with veils of red lace covering their mouths and chins. They waited, visibly anxious and saying little to one another.

Agnes realised why.

She had never taken part in the ceremony that was about to occur, but she had learned something of its nature during her years as a novice with the White Ladies, the religious order devoted to preserving the French kingdom from the draconic contagion. The Black Claw-whose sinister emblem decorated the banners and was even carved into the wood of the altar-was no mere secret society. Led by dragon sorcerers, its power was founded upon ancient rituals that ensured the unfailing loyalty of its initiates by spiritually uniting them with a superior awareness: that of an Ancestral Dragon who came to impregnate their being. A Black Claw lodge was much more than a meeting of conspirators avid for wealth and power. It was the product of a rite that permitted a fanatical a.s.sembly to offer itself as the instrument and receptacle of an Ancestral Dragon's soul-thus bringing the dragon back to life through those who had sacrificed a part of themselves, and allowing it to once again exercise power over a land it had been driven from in the distant past. The ceremony could only be performed by a dragon-one who was thoroughly adept in the higher arcana of draconic magic. In addition, it required an extremely rare relic, a Sphere d'ame, from which the Ancestral Dragon's soul would be freed at the most propitious moment.

A little while before, Agnes had seen a black coach arrive. An elegant woman in a veil, wearing a red-and-grey gown, had descended from it in the company of a gentleman. The latter had paused for a moment to adjust his mask and Agnes, incredulous, had the time to catch a glimpse of his face. It was Saint-Georges, the captain of the Cardinal's Guards. He and the woman had watched the completion of preparations before being joined by Gagniere and Savelda, with whom they exchanged a few words before turning toward the ruin in whose cellar Agnes was being held captive. The prisoner quickly withdrew from the window where she was spying on them and feared for a moment that they would come to see her, but the coach left with all of them except Savelda, driving off in the direction of the keep, which it entered by means of a drawbridge over a ditch filled with bushes.

As she knew that the ceremony would not take place until night, Agnes had resolved to wait until dusk before acting, and thus take advantage of the evening shadows.

The moment had come.

In the now darkened cellar, she turned toward the dirty obese woman charged with keeping watch over her, but who in fact almost never lifted her nose from her knitting. The fat woman was the first obstacle Agnes needed to overcome. The next was the closed door and the sentry that Savelda had prudently left behind it.

"I'm thirsty," she complained, having noticed her guard's red nose, a clear sign of a fondness for drink.

The fat woman shrugged her shoulders.

"Can't we even have a pitcher of wine?" Agnes wheedled in an innocent voice.

The other woman reflected, hesitated, thought about the pitcher, and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, eyes filled with longing.

"I'd give anything for a cool gla.s.s of wine. Here, this is for you if you want it...."

Agnes removed one of her rings and held it out. In the fat woman's eyes, greed was now combined with longing. But still she hesitated.

"We deserve a little wine, don't you think? After all, we've been shut away down here for hours now."

Narrowing her eyes, the fat woman licked her lips, her mouth dry. Then she set down her knitting, murmured something that sounded like a.s.sent, stood up, and went to knock on the door.

"What is it?" ask the sentry on the other side.

"We're thirsty," grumbled the woman.

"So what!"

"Go find us a bottle."

"Out of the question."

"Then let me go find one."

"No."

Although furious, the fat woman was about to give up when Agnes approached and showed her the ring again.

"The girl can pay."

"With what?"

"A ring. Made of gold."

After a short instant, Agnes heard the bar blocking the door being removed.

And smiled to herself.

"Let me see," said the man as he opened up.

A few minutes later, Agnes came out beneath a sky of ink and fire, wearing the sentry's clothes and equipped with his weapons. Their owner was lying in the cellar, a knitting needle planted in his eye as far as his brain. The fat woman was stretched out nearby, a second needle sticking out of the back of her neck.

Agnes carefully surveyed the surroundings, pulled the hat down on her skull, and, keeping her head slightly lowered, moved away praying that no one would hail her. She saw a masked rider approach who spoke with Savelda without descending from his mount and then spurred the horse toward the keep.

She went in the same direction.

20.

Arriving as night fell, Laincourt discovered the old castle lit by torchlight and lanterns. He observed the stage where the first initiation ceremony would take place, had a look at the future initiates-wearing masks like him-waiting there, saw Savelda, and directed his horse toward him.

"You're late," said the Spaniard upon recognising him.

"They must be waiting for me."

"Yes, I know. Over there."

Savelda pointed at the impressive keep and Laincourt thanked him with a nod of the head before continuing on his way, not noticing that he was being followed.

If he was late it was because he had, after presenting the conditions set by the Black Claw to the amba.s.sador of Spain, waited in vain for his contact to show up. The hurdy-gurdy player had not appeared at the miserable tavern in the oldest part of Paris where they ordinarily met and, running short of time, Laincourt had been finally forced to leave. Consequently, no one at the Palais-Cardinal knew where he was at present.

The castle keep was in fact made up of three ma.s.sive towers, joined by ramparts as high as they were and enclosing a steep-sided, triangular courtyard. It was a castle within a castle, to which one gained access by means of a drawbridge, and where there was an immediate feeling of oppression.

Leaving his horse in the courtyard near a harnessed black coach, Laincourt entered the only tower whose embrasures and openings were illuminated. The marquis de Gagniere was waiting for him.

"So the grand evening is here at last," he said. "Someone wishes to see you."

Laincourt still did not know whether or not he was going to be initiated in accordance with his demands.

He nodded before following Gagniere up a spiral staircase that rose up into the tower, its bare walls illuminated by the flames of a few torches. They climbed three storeys filled with flickering shadows and silence to arrive in a small windowless room lit by two large candelabras standing on the floor. The marquis knocked on a door, opened it without waiting, and entered ahead of Laincourt. Located at the very top of the tower, the hall within had two other doors and three arched windows looking out over the inner courtyard far below. A curtain closed off an alcove to one side and on a chair in front of more large candelabras sat a young blonde woman, wearing a mask and a red-and-grey gown. She had a superb black dragonnet with golden eyes with her, sitting on the back of her chair. Richly attired, Captain Saint-Georges was standing to her right and Gagniere placed himself to her left, while Laincourt instinctively remained near the closed door at his back, between the two swordsmen on duty as sentries.