The Cardinal's Blades

An hour later, she was asleep. As for Saint-Lucq, he had remained awake for a moment, looking at the stripped plaster ceiling. He had no preference for the company of prostitutes but their bought hospitality had its advantages—one being that, unlike hoteliers, they did not keep a guest register.

The scratching continued.

Saint-Lucq rose, put on his breeches and his shirt, listened carefully, and drew back the nasty brown rag which served as a curtain to the sole window. The sound was coming from there. Daylight entered, and the silhouette of a black dragonnet was clearly visible behind the pane of glass.

The half-blood was still for a moment.

"Is he yours?"

The young woman—she claimed to be called Madeleine, "like the other

Magdalene"—sat up and, squinting in the light, grumbled: "No. But it seems to think so. ... I made the mistake of feeding it two or three times. Now it won't stop coming here to beg for more."

Truly wild dragonnets had almost disappeared in France. But those that were lost, had escaped, or had been abandoned by their masters lived in the cities like stray cats.

"Find me something to feed him," ordered Saint-Lucq as he opened the window.

"Oh, no! I want to persuade him to go elsewhere. And it's not—"

"I'll pay for it as well. Surely you have something he'll eat?"

Madeleine rose, naked, while the half-blood watched the dragonnet and the dragonnet watched the half-blood, with equal wariness. The reptile's scales shone in the light of the waning sun.

"There," said Madeleine, bringing in a cloth tied together at the corners.

Saint-Lucq untied the linen and found a half-eaten dried-up sausage.

"That's all?"

"That's all," confirmed the young woman, already back in bed. "But there's a roast-meat seller on the street corner, if you like . . ."

Hand held flat, the half-blood presented a morsel of sausage to the dragonnet. The animal hesitated, sniffed, took the food in at the tip of its pointed muzzle, and seemed to chew it with some regret.

"You prefer your victims to be alive and fighting, don't you?" murmured Saint-Lucq. "Well, so do I. . . ."

"What are you saying?" asked Madeleine from the bed.

He didn't reply, and continued to feed the dragonnet.

A wyvern—which, ridden by a royal messenger, was returning to the Louvre—passed high above them, giving voice to a hollow cry from the skies. As though responding to the great reptile's call, the black dragonnet suddenly spread its leathery wings and was gone.

Saint-Lucq shut the window, swallowed the remains of the sausage, and finished getting dressed.

"You're leaving?" asked Madeleine.

"So it would seem."

"You have a meeting?"

"Yes."

"Who with?"

The half-blood hesitated, then offered a truth so incredible it might as well be a lie.

"With the Grand Coe'sre."

The prostitute laughed loudly.

"Oh, really! Say hello for me. And to the entire Court of Miracles, while you're at it... !"

Saint-Lucq simply smiled.

A minute later, he buttoned his doublet, hung his sheathed sword from his belt, and fitted his strange spectacles with their crimson lenses. Then, from the attic room's threshold, the door already half open, he turned and threw two pieces of silver on to the bed.

The gesture astonished Madeleine since she had already been paid for her services.

"That's a lot for a little bit of sausage," she teased him.

"The first coin is for you to feed the dragonnet if it returns."

"Done. And the second?"

"It's so you don't forget what the first is for."

19

Arnaud de Laincourt lived on rue de la Ferronnerie which ran between the neighbourhoods of Sainte-Opportune and Les Halles, extending rue Saint-Honore, skirting the Saints-Innocents cemetery, and linking up with rue des Lombards, thus creating one of the longest routes through the capital. Broad, at almost four metres across, and heavily used, it was a place of sad memories: it was here that Ravaillac had stabbed Henri IV when the royal coach was halted by the busy street traffic. But this detail aside, Laincourt's address was quite commonplace. He rented accommodation in a house similar to many others in Paris: tall and narrow, crammed in between its neighbours, with a small shop on the ground floor—a ribbon seller, as it happened. Next to this establishment, a door for residents opened onto a corridor which passed through the building and led to a lightless staircase. From there, the top floors could be reached by following a shaky wooden banister up through the fetid air well.

Laincourt had his foot on the first step when he heard the squeak of hinges behind him in the shadowy corridor.

"Good morning, officer."