The Cardinal's Blades

"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 assets. 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 glass and he is not seeking company, what does bring him here?"