The Cardinal's Blades

The duel was speedily concluded. Brevaux took the initiative with assertive thrusts which Marciac nonchalantly parried before punctuating his own attack with a punch that cut his adversary's lip. Initially surprised, then enraged, the marquis returned to the fray. Once again, Marciac was content to merely defend, feigning inattentiveness and even, between two clashes of steel, stifling a yawn. This offhandedness left Brevaux crazed with anger. He howled, struck a foolish two-handed blow with his rapier, and, without understanding how, suddenly found himself both disarmed and wounded in the shoulder. Marciac pressed his advantage. With the point of his blade, he forced the marquis to retreat to his coach, and held him there.

Pale, breathless, and sweating, Brevaux clutched his shoulder.

"Very well," he said. "You win. I'll pay you."

"I am afraid, monsieur, that a promise is not enough. Pay me now."

"Monsieur! I give you my word!"

"You have already promised once, and you see where we are now. ..."

Marciac tensed his arm a little and the point of his rapier approached the marquis's throat. The gentlemen of Brevaux's retinue took a step closer. One of them even began to draw his sword while d'Orvand, worried, came forward and prepared to assist his friend if necessary.

There was a moment of indecisiveness on both sides, but then the marquis removed a ring he wore on his finger and gave it to Marciac.

"Are we now even?"

He took it and admired the stone.

"Yes," he said, before sheathing his sword.

"Damned Gascon!"

"I hold you in high esteem as well, monsieur. I look forward to seeing you again."

And as he turned toward d'Orvand, Marciac deliberately added: "Splendid day, isn't it?"

5

In a small study to which she alone possessed a key, the very young, very blonde, and very charming vicomtesse de Malicorne removed the black silk cloth protecting the oval mirror before which she sat. With only two candles burning, one to either side of the mirror, the room was shrouded in a half-light.

In a low voice, with her eyes closed, the vicomtesse chanted words in the ancient, dread language of the Ancestral Dragons, the language of magic. The surface of the precious silver mirror rippled, moving like a puddle of mercury disturbed by movement deep within it, then solidified again. A dragon's head appeared in the ensorcelled mirror—all bloodred scales, gleaming black eyes, a bony crest, and pale, large and prominent fangs.

"Greetings, my sister."

"Greetings, my brother."

Someone, thousands of leagues distant, had answered the vicomtesse's call. Wherever he was, he must have been human in outward form. But the mirror did not lie: the images it portrayed were an accurate reflection of the true nuture ol those who used it, so that the pretty young woman also pre-sented a draconic appearance to her faraway contact. For although neither of them were Ancestral Dragons, they were both descendants. In their veins ran the blood of a race which had evolved over centuries and millennia, a race which had given up the superior draconic form to become part of mankind. But their race was no less feared for having changed, and with good reason.

"There is some concern about your progress, my sister."

"Who is concerned?"

"I am, in the first instance. But there are others as well who, unlike me, are not favourably inclined toward you. Not everyone within the Black Claw is your ally."

"I would have thought the Black Claw would be delighted by the prospect of my forthcoming success. A success which shall also, incidentally, be theirs."

"Here, in Spain, there are brothers who are jealous of your foreseeable triumph. You will prevail where some of them have failed—"

"Should they not be reproached for that, rather than blaming me?"

The dragon in the mirror seemed to smile.

"Ah, my sister. You are not so naive—"

"Certainly not!"

"You're aware that failure shall noi be forgiven."

"I shall not fail!"

"Under the pretext of assuring themselves of this, certain Masters of the Grand Lodge have decided to assign one of their initiates of the first order to assist you. A certain Savelda. You know of him?"

"Enough to guess that his mission is less to help me than it is to keep count of every conceivable error. So that if I do fail, my enemies are as well armed as possible to denounce me. ..."

"At least you know what awaits you. Savelda is already on his way and shall present himself to you soon. His duplicity with respect to you is certain, but the man is capable and he has the interests of the Black Claw at heart. Politics is likely to be of no importance to him. Employ him advisedly."

"So be it."

A ripple crossed the surface of the mirror and, as the vicomtesse struggled to focus her will, the phantom dragon head facing her began to waver.

"You are tired, my sister. If you wish to continue this later—"

"No, no. It will pass. . . . Continue, please."

In the dark close room, the young woman nimbly wiped away the black droplet that had beaded on her nostril.