The Cardinal's Blades

The other nodded and, reins in hand, watched out of the corner of his eye as the marquis de Gagniere climbed the front steps with a quick and supple step.

Sporting a large felt hat with a huge plumed feather, he was dressed in the latest fashion, with such obvious care for his appearance that it bordered on preciousness: he wore a cloak thrown over his left shoulder and held in place beneath his right arm with a silk cord, a high-waisted doublet of grey linen with silver fastenings, matching hose decorated with buttons, cream lace at his collar and cuffs, beige suede gloves, and cavalier boots made of kid leather. The extreme stylishness of his manner and attire added to the androgynous character of his silhouette: slender, willowy, and almost juvenile. He was not yet twenty years old but seemed even younger, his face still bearing a childish charm and softness which would take a long time to mature, while the blond hair of his moustache and finely trimmed royale beard preserved a silky adolescent downiness.

An ancient maitre d'hotel greeted him at the top of the steps and, eyes lowered, accompanied him as far as a pretty antechamber where the marquis was asked to wait while he was announced to the vicomtesse. When the servant finally returned he held a door open and, with a bow, ushered the marquis through. Remaining by the door, he again avoided meeting the young man's gaze as though something dangerous and troubling emanated from him, his elegance and angelic beauty nothing but a facade disguising a poisonous soul. In that respect, the young marquis resembled the sword which hung from his baldric: a weapon whose guard and pommel had been worked in the most exquisite manner, but whose blade was of good sharp steel.

Gagniere entered and found himself alone when the maitre d'hotel closed the door behind him.

The luxuriously furnished room was plunged into shadow. Drawn cur-

tains shut out the daylight and the few scented candles that burned here and there created a permanent twilight. The room was a study for reading. Shelves full of books covered one wall. A comfortable armchair was installed next to a window, by a small side table which bore a candelabrum, a carafe of wine, and a small crystal glass. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantelpiece, looming over a table and an old leather-backed chair with a patina of age.

Upon the table in the middle of room, supported by a delicate red and gold stand, reposed a strange globe.

The gentleman approached it.

Black, gleaming, and hypnotic, it was as though the globe was filled with swirling ink. It seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. One's eye soon became lost in its deep spirals.

And with it, one's soul.

"Don't touch it."

Gagniere blinked and realised he was leaning over the table, his right hand stretched out toward the globe. He pulled himself back and turned, feeling perturbed.

A young woman dressed in black and purple had made her appearance through a concealed door. Elegant yet severe in a gown with a starched bodice, her low neckline was trimmed with lace and decorated with a grey mother-of-pearl brooch representing a unicorn. She was beautiful; blonde and slender, with a small sweet face that seemed to have been designed to be adorable. Her sparkling blue eyes, however, showed no sign of any warm emotions, any more than her pretty, but unsmiling, lips.

The vicomtesse de Malicorne took a slow but assured step toward the gentleman.

"I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "... I have no idea what—"

"There is no need to reproach yourself, monsieur de Gagniere. No one can resist it. Not even me."

"Is it ... is it what I think it is?"

"A Sphere d'Ame? Yes."

She spread a square of brocaded golden cloth over the ensorcelled globe, and it was as though an unhealthy presence had suddenly deserted the room.

"There. Isn't that better?"

Straightening up, she was about to continue when the marquis's worried expression stopped her.

"What is it?"

Embarrassed, Gagniere pointed a hesitant linger toward her, and then indicated his own nose: "You have . . . there . . ."

The young woman understood, touched her upper lip with her ring finger, and found its tip fouled by it blackish fluid that had leaked from her nostril. Untroubled, she took an already stained handkerchief from her sleeve and turned away to press it to her nose.

"Magic is an art which the Ancestral Dragons created for themselves alone," she said, as though that explained everything.

She faced the large mirror above the mantelpiece and, still dabbing at her lip, spoke in a conversational tone: "I recently charged you with intercepting a covert courier between Brussels and Paris. Have you done as I required?"

"Certainly. Malencontre and his men have undertaken the task."

"With what result?"

"As yet, I don't know." I