The Cardinal's Blades

An old woman dressed entirely in black kept him company. Sitting in her corner she nibbled on a wafer like a rabbit chewing a chicory leaf, clasping it between the fingers of her emaciated hands, her eyes lost and vague. Tranchelard was there too, the thug Saint-Lucq had threatened earlier. The man endeavoured to make the atmosphere as unpleasant as possible with a heavy silence and a fixed black glare directed against the visitor, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Back turned, Saint-Lucq was unaffected. Minutes passed in this room, where the mottled and stained appearance of the floor, the walls, and the door frames contrasted with the motley collection of luxurious furniture and carpets stolen from some mansion or wealthy bourgeois house. Nothing but the old woman's chewing disturbed the silence.

Eventually, preceded by a severe-looking individual with a noticeably receding hairline, the Grand Coesre arrived.

Slender and blond, the Grand Coesre was no more than seventeen years old, an age when one was already reckoned an adult in these times, but he seemed rather young to be leader of some of the toughest and most frightening members of the Parisian underworld. He nevertheless displayed all the self-assurance of a feared and respected monarch, whose authority was never disputed without blood and tears flowing from the challenge. His right cheek carried the scar from a badly healed gash. His clear eyes shone with cynicism and intelligence. He was unarmed, certain that no harm would befall him in his own stronghold where a mere glance on his part could condemn another to death.

While the Grand Coesre settled himself comfortably on the high-backed armchair reserved for his use, the man who had held the door for him moved to his side, standing straight and expressionless. Saint-Lucq knew him. His name was Grangier and he was an archisuppot. Within the strict hierarchical organisation of the Cour des Miracles, archisuppots ranked just below the Grand Coesre, along with the cagoux. The latter were responsible for organising the troops and training new recruits in the arts of picking pockets and eliciting compassion—and money—from strangers. The archisuppots, in contrast, were often highly educated judges and advisors. A defrocked priest, Grangier had his master's ear due to his formidable perspicacity.

Saint-Lucq bowed his head, but did not remove his hat.

"I must admit you're not lacking in courage," the Grand Coesre observed without preamble. "If anyone but you behaved like this, I would think I was dealing with a cretin."

The half-blood didn't respond.

"To come here after having manhandled two of my men and threatened to cut poor Tranchelard's throat—"

"I had to be sure he would not forget to pass on my message."

"You realise that he now speaks of nothing but disembowelling you?"

"He's of no importance."

Tranchelard bristled, visibly itching to draw his sword. As for his undisputed master, he burst out laughing.

"Well! You can always boast later of how you piqued my curiosity. Speak, I'm listening."

"It concerns the Corbins gang."

At hearing these words, the Grand Coesre's face darkened.

"And?"

"Recently, the Corbins have seized certain goods. Precious, fragile merchandise. Merchandise of a kind which, up until now, had never interested them. Do you know what I am referring to?"

"Perhaps."

"I would like to find out where they stash their goods. I know the place is not in Paris, but nothing more than that. You, on the other hand . . ."

The master of the Cour des Miracles paused for a moment without speaking. Then he leaned toward Grangier and said a few words to him in narquois, a language which was incomprehensible to the uninitiated. The archisuppot replied in the same idiom. Without reacting, Saint-Lucq waited for their secretive discussion to end. It was brief.

"Supposing I have the information you seek," the Grand Coesre said to him. "Why should I tell you?"

"It's information for which I'm willing to pay full price."

"I'm already rich."

"You're also a bastard without faith or morality. But above all, you are a shrewd man."

"Which is to say?"

"The Corbins are making inroads into your territory. Because of them, your influence and your business revenues are shrinking. But, in particular, they don't take their orders from you."

"This problem will soon be resolved."

"Really? I can resolve it for you now. Tell me what I want to know, and I will deliver the Corbins a blow from which they will have trouble recovering. You can even take the credit if you want. . . . We don't like one

another, Grand Coesre. And no doubt, one day or anotlicr, blood will be spilt between us. But in this matter our interests coincide."

The other stroked his well-trimmed moustache and goatee thoughtfully, although they were still not so much hair as down.

"This merchandise is precious to you, then?"

"To you, it's worth nothing."

"And for the Corbins?"