He soon pushed open a door which, seen from the room within, merged seamlessly with the decorated wooden panels. This was the study where monsieur Charpentier, Richelieu's secretary, normally worked. Functionally but elegantly furnished, it was filled to the point of overflowing with papers. Daylight filtered in through the closed curtains, while a candle guttered weakly. It was not there to provide light, but its flame could be transferred to numerous other candles at hand, and thus, in an emergency, fully illuminate the study in the middle of the night if required. Just one of the many precautions taken by those in the service of His Eminence, who demanded readiness at all times of the day or night.

Laincourt set the log-book down.

He drew a key from the pocket of his doublet and opened a cupboard. He had to be quick, as every minute now counted. On a shelf, a box sat between two tidily bound ma.n.u.scripts. This was the object of his search. Another key, a tiny one, opened its secrets to him. Inside were letters waiting to be initialled and sealed by the cardinal. The ensign thumbed through them impatiently, and took out one which he perused more closely.

"That's it," he murmured.

Turning, he brought the letter closer to the candle and read it twice in order to memorise its every comma. But as he refolded the doc.u.ment, he heard a noise.

The squeak of a floorboard?

The ensign froze, heart thumping, with all his senses alert.

Long seconds pa.s.sed ...

Nothing happened. No one entered. And, almost as if it had never occurred, the sound was not repeated.

Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He a.s.sured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.

But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.

Charpentier.

Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a doc.u.ment which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.

10.

Having saddled his horse, La Fargue was strapping on the holsters of his pistols when Delormel joined him in the stable, amidst the warm smell of animals, hay, and dung.

"You'll come see us again soon?" asked the fencing master. "Or, at least, not wait another five years?"

"I don't know."

"You know you are always welcome in my home."

La Fargue patted his mount's neck and turned round.

"Thank you," he said.

"Here. You left this in your room."

Delormel held out a small locket on a broken chain. The old gentleman took it. Worn, marked, scratched, and tarnished, the piece of jewellery seemed worthless, lying there on his big gloved hand.

"I didn't know you still kept it after all this time," added the fencing master.

La Fargue shrugged.

"You can't give up your past."

"But yours continues to haunt you."

Rather than answer, the captain made to check his saddle.

"Perhaps she didn't deserve you," Delormel commented.

His back turned, La Fargue went rigid.

"Don't judge, Jean. You don't know the whole story."

It wasn't necessary to say anything more. Both men knew they were speaking of the woman whose chipped portrait was to be found inside the locket.

"That's true. But I know you well enough to know that something is eating at you. You should be delighted by the prospect of reuniting the Blades and serving the Crown once again. So I'd guess that you only accepted the cardinal's proposal under duress. You yielded to him, etienne. That's not like you. If you were one of those who yielded easily, you would already be carrying a marshal's baton-"

"My daughter may be in danger," La Fargue said suddenly.

Slowly, he turned to face Delormel, who looked stunned.

"You wanted to know the whole truth, didn't you? There, now you know."

"Your daughter ... ? You mean to say ..."

The fencing master made a hesitant gesture toward the locket which the captain still held in his fist. La Fargue nodded: "Yes."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty. Or thereabouts."

"What do you know of the danger she's in?"

"Nothing. The cardinal simply implied there was a threat against her."

"So he might have lied to you in order to secure your services!"

"No. I doubt he would have played this card with me without good reason. It is-"

"-despicable. And what will you say to your Blades? These men give you their blind trust. Some of them even look on you as a father!"

"I shall tell them the truth."

"All of it?"

Before mounting his horse, the old captain admitted, at some cost: "No."

11.

Fiddling distractedly with his steel signet ring before returning it to the third finger on his left hand, Saint-Lucq watched the everyday drama on display in the crowded tavern.

Located on a miserable-looking courtyard in the Marais neighbourhood, tucked away from the beautiful private mansions with their elegant facades being built in the nearby Place Royale, the Red ecu was a cellar tavern whose poor-quality candles gave off more soot than light, in an atmosphere already poisoned by sweaty bodies, bad wine-soaked breath, tobacco smoke, and a potent whiff of the muck picked up by shoes walking the streets of Paris. Here, everyone spoke loudly and forced others to raise their voices in turn, creating an infernal uproar. The wine being drunk had something to do with this. Loud laughter burst out, as did the occasional sharp quarrel. A hurdy-gurdy played songs on demand. From time to time, cheers and applause greeted a lucky throw of the dice, or the antics of a drunkard.

Saint-Lucq, without appearing to do so, kept a close eye on all.

He observed who entered and who left through the small door at the top of the stairs, who used that other door normally reserved to the tavern keeper and the serving girls, who joined someone else and who remained alone. He stared at no one, and his gaze slid away whenever it met that of another. But those present barely took any notice of him. And that was exactly as he liked it, in the shadowy corner where he had chosen to sit. He was constantly on the lookout, keeping track of any anomalies that might indicate a threat. It could be anything: a wink between two people who otherwise pretended not to know one another, an old coat concealing new weapons, a faked fight designed to distract attention. Saint-Lucq was always wary and watched for such things automatically, out of sheer force of habit. He knew that the world was a stage filled with deception, where death, disguised in everyday rags, could strike at any moment. He knew this all the more, for it was often he who delivered the mortal blow.

Upon his arrival, he had ordered a jug of wine, none of which he drank. The young woman who served him offered to keep him company, but he declined the offer with a calm, cold, definitive "No." She went off to talk with the other two serving girls, who had watched her approach the new customer. From their reaction, it was obvious that they found Saint-Lucq both attractive and intriguing. He was still young, well dressed, and a handsome man in a dark way which hinted at sinister and exciting secrets. Was he a gentleman? Perhaps. In any case, he wore his sword naturally, his doublet with elegance, and his hat with a quiet, gallant confidence. His hands were exquisite and his cheeks freshly shaven. Of course, his boots were muddied, but despite that they were made from excellent leather, and who could go unsullied by the disgusting muck of Paris, unless they travelled by coach? No, clearly, this cavalier dressed in black had plenty of pleasing a.s.sets. And then he had those curious spectacles with red lenses perched on his nose, which concealed his eyes and rendered him still more mysterious.

Since Saint-Lucq had turned away a slim brunette, a busty blonde tried her luck. And met with the same lack of success. The serving girl returned to her friends, irritated and disappointed, but she shrugged and said to them: "He just left a brothel. Or he has eyes only for his mistress."

"I think he prefers men," added the brunette, with a pout which betrayed her hurt feelings.

"Perhaps ..." the third trailed off. "But if he does not touch his gla.s.s and he is not seeking company, what does bring him here?"

The other two agreed, in any case, that there was little point in persisting with their advances, and Saint-Lucq-who was watching their debate out of the corner of his eye-was led to hope that they would now leave him in peace.

He returned to his surveillance.

A little after midday, the man Saint-Lucq had been expecting to appear entered the tavern.

He was tall and badly shaven, with long greasy hair, a sword at his side, and a surly air about him. He was called Tranchelard and, as was his habit, he was accompanied by two scoundrels, no doubt hired for their brawn rather than their brains. They picked a table-which emptied as they approached-and did not have to order the wine jugs the tavern keeper brought to them with an apprehensive look.

The third serving girl, whose eyes had remained fixed on Saint-Lucq, chose this moment to act.

She was redheaded and pale-skinned, very pretty, no more than seventeen and knew-from experience-the effect that her green eyes, rose-coloured lips, and young curves had on men. She wore a heavy skirt and, beneath her bustier, her open-necked blouse left her shoulders bare.

"You do not drink," she said, suddenly standing in front of Saint-Lucq.

He paused before replying: "No."

"No doubt because you don't care for the wine you have been served."

This time he said nothing.

"I could bring you our best."

Silence again.

"And at the same price."

"No thank you."

But the girl wasn't listening. Adolescent pride dictated that, after the unsuccessful attempts of her two colleagues, she could not fail.

"In return, I shall ask you only to tell me your name," she insisted with a smile full of promise. "And I shall give you mine."

Saint-Lucq held back a sigh.

Then, expressionless, he slid his red spectacles down his nose with an index finger and gazed back at the young girl ...

... who froze when she saw the reptilian eyes.

No one was unaware of dragons, of the fact that they had always existed, that they had adopted human form, and that they had been living among men for centuries. To the misfortune of all of Europe, a great number of them were now to be found within the royal court of Spain. And their distant racial cousins, the wyverns, served men as winged mounts, while the tiny dragonnets made valued pets and companions. Despite that, a half-blood always made a powerful impression. They were all born of the rare love between a dragon and a human woman, provoking a malaise which became hatred in certain people, horror in others, and in the case of a few men and women, an erotic fascination. Half-bloods were said to be cold, cruel, indifferent, and scornful of ordinary human beings.

"I- I'm sorry, monsieur ..." the serving girl stammered. "Forgive me...."

She turned on her heel, her lower lip trembling.

Saint-Lucq pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose and interested himself anew in Tranchelard and his bodyguards. As they had only come to drink a gla.s.s of wine and extort their protection fee from the tavern keeper, they soon left. The half-blood drained his gla.s.s, rose, left a coin on the table, and followed them out.

Tranchelard and his men moved steadily through the packed streets where their ill manner alone was enough to open a path for them. They chattered and laughed, unaware of any danger. The crowd protected them, although it also provided cover for Saint-Lucq as he tailed them discreetly. As luck would have it, they soon turned off into a winding alley, as rank as a sewer, which offered a shortcut to the old rue Pavee.

It was too good an opportunity to miss.

Suddenly pressing forward, Saint-Lucq caught up with them in a few strides and took them totally off guard. They barely had time to hear the sc.r.a.pe of the steel leaving its scabbard. The first man fell at once, knocked out by a blow from Saint-Lucq's elbow which also broke his nose, Tranchelard was held immobile by the caress of a dagger blade at his throat, and the third man had barely moved his hand toward his sword when a rapier point, an inch from his right eye, froze him in midgesture.

"Think twice," the half-blood advised in a quiet voice.

The man did not delay in taking to his heels, and Saint-Lucq found himself alone, face-to-face with Tranchelard. Continuing to threaten him with the dagger, Saint-Lucq pressed him back up against a grubby wall. They were so close that their breaths blended together; the street thug stank of fear.

"Look at me carefully, my friend. Do you recognise me?"

Tranchelard swallowed and nodded slightly to the man with red spectacles, sweat beading at his temples.

"Perfect," Saint-Lucq continued. "Now, open your ears and listen...."

12.