The Cardinal's Blades

Leprat sized him up. He snapped out a sharp movement with his rapier which spattered the floor with red droplets, drew a dagger from its sheath over his kidney with his left hand, and resumed the en garde position. The drac seemed to smile. In his turn, he crossed his arms before him and simultaneously drew a straight sabre and a dagger.

He would also fight with two weapons.

The duel was furious from the very first exchange. Tense and concentrated, the drac and Leprat exchanged attacks, parries, counterattacks, and ripostes without holding back. The reptilian understood who he was fighting and the chevalier quickly realised the worthiness of his opponent. Neither seemed to have the upper hand. When one of them retreated a few paces, he was quick to reclaim the advantage. And when the other was forced to parry a flurry of blows, he always managed to take the initiative with his next attack. Leprat was an experienced and talented swordsman, but the drac had greater strength and endurance: his arm seemed indefatigable. Steel against ivory, ivory against steel, the blades spun and clashed together faster than the eye could see. Leprat was sweating, and could feel himself tiring.

He had to finish it quickly.

Finally daggers and swords crossed at the guards. Pushing one against the other the drac and Leprat found themselves nose to nose, their arms extended above them like a steeple. With a mighty bellow, the drac spat a mouthful of acid into the chevalier's face, who replied with a powerful head butt. He managed to stun his opponent and, seizing the moment, wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve, but the drac was already rushing at him with foaming mouth and bloody nostrils. It was a weakness of dracs: they were impulsive and quick to abandon themselves to blind rage.

Leprat saw an opportunity that wouldn't present itself a second time.

With one foot, he slid a stool into the drac's path. The reptilian stumbled but continued his charge, half running, half falling as he came. His attack was fierce but inaccurate. Leprat stepped aside and pivoted toward the left as the reptilian passed him on the right. He managed to turn and slash, arm extended horizontally.

The ivory rapier sliced neatly through its target.

A scaly head spun and, at the end of a bloody arc, bounced against the floor and rolled a considerable distance. The decapitated drac's body fell, releasing a thick jet of liquid from its neck.

Leprat immediately looked for Malencontre. He didn't find him, but heard cries and the sound of hoofbeats out in the courtyard. He rushed to the

door in time to see the man escaping at a gallop, watched by those who had remained outside and were only now emerging from their hiding places.

Stained with the blood of his victims, the remains of the acidic reptilian spit still clinging to his cheeks, Leprat went back inside the inn. He was the focus of attention of all those present, whose reactions wavered between horror and relief. So far no one was inclined to move, and certainly not to talk. The soles of nervous feet scraped against the raw wooden floor.

Weapons in hand, Leprat Contemplated the carnage and disorder with a tranquil air. Amidst the upturned furniture, the broken plates, and the trampled food, three bodies lay in thick pools of blood, while the fourth continued to burn in the hearth, the greasy flesh of his face crackling in contact with the flames. The smell, a mixture of blood, bile, and fear, was appalling.

A door creaked open and the innkeeper came out of the kitchen brandishing an antique arquebus before him. The fat man wore a ridiculous-looking helmet on his head and a breastplate whose straps he was unable to fasten. And due to the trembling of his limbs, the barrel of his weapon— gaping open like an incredulous mouth—seemed to be following the erratic path of an invisible fly.

Leprat almost laughed, but succeeded only in smiling wearily.

It was then he saw the blood running from his right hand and realised that he had been wounded.

"All's well," he said. "In the king's service."

17

"What?" exclaimed a merchant. "That Amazon with the flying hair who galloped past us this morning? A baronne?"

"God's truth!" confirmed the old soldier. "Just as I told you!"

"It's beyond belief!" blurted another merchant.

"And yet," added a pedlar who knew the region well. "Nothing could be truer."

"And since when did baronnes carry swords, around here?

"Why, since it pleased them to—"

"It's simply extraordinary!"

"The baronne Agnes de Vaudreuil ..." sighed the first merchant dreamily.

"It's said she's of excellent birth," said the second.

"Old nobility of the sword," declared the veteran of the Wars of Religion. "The best. The true. . . . Her ancestors went on the crusades and her father fought beside King Henri."