He retreated toward Cecile and the two-wheeled cart behind which she had sought shelter. Impassive, he waited as the first swordsman advanced and his two accomplices reached the second storey of the scaffold. Then suddenly, raising his rapier high with both hands, he struck with all his might at the stretched rope which, passing through rings rooted in the paving stones of the courtyard, kept the cart horizontal. Cut clean through, the rope cracked like a whip out of the rings. The cart leaned sharply, lifting its shafts into the air and freeing its pyramid of barrels, which rolled out like an avalanche.
The swordsman in the courtyard hastily backed up and was brought to bay beneath the scaffold, although he managed to avoid being crushed by the barrels. Some of them burst against the wall, releasing floods of wine. But others slammed into the unstable beams that propped up the enormous framework. These beams gave way and the entire three-storey structure collapsed with an incredible racket which drowned out the cries of the unfortunate souls doomed by the huge falling wooden beams. Pieces of masonry were torn off the facade along with wide plaques of plaster. Thick clouds of dust rose into the air, swallowing the entire courtyard and swelling until they climbed up past the surrounding roofs…
… and then they fell back onto a courtyard which was turned completely white with dust, and to silence.
Marciac was still for a moment, contemplating the disaster. As the neighbourhood began to fill with worried calls from its residents, he sheathed his sword and walked toward Cecile. Covered in dust like him, she was curled up in a corner.
He squatted, turning his back to the wreckage.
“It’s over, Cecile.”
“I… I… Those men,” stammered the young woman.
“All is well, Cecile…”
“Are they… dead?”
“Yes. Here, take my hand…”
She seemed to neither hear, nor comprehend.
He insisted in a gentle voice. “We need to leave, Cecile. Now…”
He was going to help her up when he read a sudden terror in her eyes and realised what it meant.
One of the swordsmen had survived.
He could feel the killer’s presence behind him, ready to strike. He knew he didn’t have time to stand and turn, and still less to unsheathe his rapier.
He looked deeply into the young woman’s eyes, praying that she would understand, even thought he saw her give a very slight nod… And then he dove to one side.
Cecile lifted her pistol with both hands and fired.
1
His legs dangling, the man’s entire weight hung from his bound wrists. He swayed gently and his toenails scraped the hard-earth floor. He was wearing only breeches and a torn, bloody shirt. More of the same blood-his own-soaked his tangled hair, spattered his swollen face, and glistened on his bruised torso beneath the torchlight. The man still lived, but was barely breathing: a hoarse rasp escaped from the painful depths of his chest and pink bubbles formed at the nostrils of his broken nose.
He was not alone in this cellar that had been converted into an antechamber of Hell. With him was the obese, sweating giant busy torturing him with heavy blows from a chain, delivered in a brutal but skillful manner. Then there was the one-eyed man who spoke to the prisoner, asking questions in Castilian. With olive skin and a sharp-featured face, he was dressed entirely in black leather, including his gloves and a hat which he never removed. A black patch with silver studs masked his left eye but failed to disguise the fact that it was eaten away by the ranse. Indeed, the disease had ravaged the entire area surrounding the socket and spread toward the man’s temple and cheek, the tumour extending in a star-shaped tracery of dark violet ridges.
The one-eyed man went by the name of Savelda and served the Black Claw. In a calm voice, he had promised his prisoner a thousand torments if he did not obtain the answers he was seeking.
He had not been lying.
Patient and determined, Savelda conducted the interrogation without ever becoming too concerned about his victim’s obstinate refusal to give up his secrets. He knew that time, pain, and despair were all working on his side. He knew that the prisoner would talk eventually, just as the most solid of castle walls will eventually crumble under a barrage of cannon balls. It would happen suddenly, with little or no warning. There would be one impact too many and then a great, liberating collapse.
With a gesture, he halted the rain of blows from the chain.
Then he said: “Do you know what never ceases to amaze me…? It is when I see the degree to which our bodies are attached to life.”
Inert but still conscious, the victim remained silent. His swollen lids were half shut over his glassy, bloodshot eyes. Seeping clots encrusted his ears. Threads of mixed drool, bile, and blood ran from between his cracked, puffed lips.
“Take you, for example,” continued Savelda. “At this very moment, your only desire is for death. You desire it with your entire will, with all your soul. If you could, you would devote your last remaining strength to dying. And yet it won’t happen. Life is there, within you, like a nail driven deep into a solid block of wood. Life doesn’t care what you might want. It doesn’t care what you’re suffering, or the service it would do you if it would just abandon your body. It’s stubborn, it persists, it finds secret refuges within you. It’s growing tired, to be sure. But it will still take some time to dislodge it from your entrails.”
Savelda tugged on his gloves to tighten them, making the leather creak as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“And that’s what I’m depending on, you see. Your life, the life instilled in you by the Creator, is my ally. Against it your courage and loyalty count for nothing. Unfortunately for you, you are young and vigorous. Your will to resist speaking will give up long before life decides to leave you and death carries you away. That’s just how things are.”
The victim made an effort to speak, murmuring something.
Savelda bent close and heard: “Hijo de puta!”
At that moment, a hired swordsman came down the stairs into the cellar. He halted on the steps and, leaning over the railing, announced in French: “The marquis is outside.”
“Gagniere?” the one-eyed man said in surprise, pronouncing the French name with a strong Spanish accent.
“Yes. He wants to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
“All right. I’m coming.”
“And me?” asked the torturer. “What should I do? Shall I continue?”
Shirt open over his wide torso which was streaming with sweat, he rattled the bloody chain. The victim stiffened on hearing the sound.
“No. Wait,” replied the one-eyed man as he went up the stairs.
After the damp warmth of the cellar Savelda welcomed the cool evening breeze that gently blew through the ground floor. He crossed a room where his men slept or idled away the time playing dice and went out into the night to breathe the fragrant air. A flowering orchard surrounded the house.
Extravagantly elegant as always, the handsome young marquis de Gagniere was waiting on horseback.
“He still hasn’t talked,” reported Savelda.
“That isn’t what brings me here.”
“A problem?”
“That’s one way to put it. Your men failed on rue de la Fontaine. The girl escaped.”
“Impossible.”
“Only one of your men returned, with a broken leg and jaw. From his mutterings, we understood that the girl was not alone. There was someone else with her. And this single person sufficed to rout your entire team.”
Disconcerted, Savelda was at a loss for words.