Lace and Blade 2 Page 7

  Manon came towards him, slipping her handkerchief back into the bosom of her gown.

  “Now do you see why I call this man my teacher?” Her eyes glowed as they never had in the days when she swore that Claude was her dearest love. “Is he not wonderful?”

  “He impressed me greatly,” Claude replied with some truth. “But so do you. The dress becomes you, but I confess I had hoped to see you wear my emerald.”

  The color that rose in Manon’s cheeks made him realize how pale she had been. “I would have done so, but Master Zabadon says that the green vibrations are bad for my health just now, and I must only wear red jewels.” She took a small box from a mahogany table, and set it into his hand. “He says that you must take this. Soon I will be better,” she smiled winningly, “and then you may give it back to me!”

  Claude bit back the retort that there had been nothing wrong with green vibrations on the night of the masked ball. He had never heard of a courtesan refusing an expensive gift, especially Manon. She must be ill, or more bewitched than he had believed.

  “Then I must trade my emeralds for rubies,” he said, tucking the box into the pocket of his vest.

  “Oh yes!” she replied with a brittle laugh, coughed into her handkerchief and laughed again. “Yes, indeed!”

  ~o0o~

  In the nights that followed, Claude slept badly, haunted by dreams in which Manon fled toward some faceless terror. In an attempt to dispel those visions, he returned to the bookstore and persuaded Célie to walk with him and once or twice to have dinner in a café. She seemed a vision of health and sanity in comparison to the guests at Manon’s salon, but when the dream changed, it was Célie who was running down that dark tunnel, equally oblivious to her danger. He tried to warn her, but each night she seemed farther away.

  On the fourth night, he was wakened by stealthy movements in his dressing room. For a few moments he lay very still, wondering why the thief had not tried the desk or collected the silver in the sitting room. Perhaps he was looking for the cuff-links and jeweled stick-pins that were part of a gentlemen’s wardrobe. Or perhaps he had heard that the Baron Delorme had brought a fortune in emeralds back from Brazil.

  Claude heard the squeak as his steamer trunk was opened, and then the rustle of straw. With that, he guessed who had sent the thief, and what he had been told to steal.

  At the emerald mine, he had formed the habit of sleeping with a knife beneath his pillow. Now, without conscious thought, it was in his hand. Soft-footed on the carpet, he slipped across the room and eased open the door. The dressing room had one small window, through which a little moonlight showed him a dark figure. In the next moment, the thief leaped up to face him, the bag that held the cacique’s costume swinging. Claude ducked as a blade flashed in the other’s hand, then feinted with his own, the moves he had learned at the mine coming back to him.

  Steel clashed and scraped as they closed, stumbling over the clothing swept from shelves. The thief’s arm came around in a swirl of cloth, trying to catch Claude’s blade, but the sharp edge sliced free. Claude strove to grapple with his opponent, but the thief was serpent quick and serpent strong. The knife flickered; Claude ducked and drove beneath it, but his opponent evaded wth a quick twist, crashing into the wardrobe.

  Claude straightened, knife ready. The dark shape swayed, muttering in a thin high voice that made his skin crawl. He saw it grab the bag with the costume and felt his own arm move in slow motion as he tried to respond. The paralysis held him as the thief fled. The click of the front door released him, but by the time he reached it, the moonlight showed him only an empty road.

  ~o0o~

  “We apologise for asking you to meet us here,” said St. Cloud, indicating the wooden tables where laborers and tradesmen were drinking wine. Faded playbills were tacked to the walls. The establishment, clearly a place where the working class mingled with the demi-monde, was called Le Corbeau. Claude had found that amusing when he arrived. He was not amused now.

  “The bookstore is watched, you see.”

  “Monsieur Lévi’s lodgings have watchers as well,” added the artist, whose name, Claude recalled, was Lebrun. “Corporeal and astral, though his wardings have turned back any attempts to do more, and he knows how to veil his movements so they did not see him come here.” He turned to the older man. “I warned you not to fare out on the spirit road to spy on the Lys Noir. I told you how it would be.”

  Claude sighed. Strained muscles still reminded him of last night’s encounter. He had not thought he wounded the intruder, but in the morning, the floor of his dressing room had been splattered with red. He thought the thief had been too small and agile to be Zabadon—some boy, perhaps, whom he had hired for the deed.

  Lévi sighed. “It was my mistake. For so long I have opposed the forces of materialism and tyranny. I had forgotten that those who work evil in the world of the spirit can have great power.”

  Claude poured more wine from the carafe. It was a harsh country red, the color of Manon’s garnets. A waiter passed, bearing a flask of absinthe to a gentleman in black who sat in one of the darker corners. The liqueur glowed emerald green...like Manon’s eyes....

  “I have renewed the wardings on my own home,” the occultist went on. “I can do the same for you—”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Claude replied. “I saw no suspicious loiterers. And why should they bother? As I told you in my note, they already have what they wanted from me.”

  “But what do they want it for?” asked St.Cloud.

  “Power...” Lévi said heavily. “It is always Power that the Enemy seeks, whether to rule men’s bodies, or their minds, or their souls.”

  “Zabadon is like the man who will take whatever strange herb or liquor he can find, hoping for the inebriation that leades to inspiration,” Lebrun said then. “I was that way myself, until I learned that the Doors of the Infinite may only be opened by patience and discipline.”

  Sometimes, thought Claude, one has to kick them down. His nerves twitched with an itch that only action would relieve. He tried to tell himself that the cacique’s costume was no more than a souvenir of an interesting experience. Let it gather dust in some other man’s closet. And yet—

  “He might have a reason,” he said unwillingly. “When I wore it at the ball, my perceptions...changed.” And Manon had sensed a difference in him. He remembered once more the wiry energy of the person with whom he had grappled in the dark, and an unwelcome suspicion began to grow. If she had been the thief, then magic had surely been at work, to make her so strong.

  “So we may perhaps have pagan spirits to deal with as well?” Lévi sighed.

  “Perhaps,” Claude agreed, “but the costume comes from a very different world, and I think it might take time to understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not enough...” he said slowly. “But too much for my peace of mind.”

  “Do you still wish our help to save your friend?” the occultist asked then.

  “I do not know whether she is endangered or she is the danger,” Claude replied. “But I have been attacked, and so have you. I learned in Brazil that ignoring enemies will only encourage them.”

  “We have found out more about Zabadon’s associates, but we do not yet know where they meet. Before we can act we must gather our forces, we need to learn—” began St. Cloud.

  The door slammed open. Monsieur Rondelle stood in the entrance, cravat askew and a swelling bruise on his brow. As his wild gaze fixed on his friends, he staggered forward.

  St. Cloud eased him into a chair and thrust a glass of wine into his hand.

  “Célie!” Rondelle whispered when he could speak. “They took Célie!”

  “Who? Speak, man!” The artist gripped his hand.

  “Dourdonais, the young man that we saw with Zabadon, and two toughs. They knocked me down and took her away.”

  Claude gripped Lévi’s arm, his chair nearly crashing into the corner table behind him.

&
nbsp; “You talk so glibly of magic! What is all your learning good for if you cannot find Célie?”

  “Do you think we are living in some fairy tale?” growled the old man. “High Magic requires preparation and ritual. That cannot be done in a day.”

  “I’m not sure we have a day!” exclaimed Lebrun.

  “What will they do to my girl?” Rondelle covered his face with his hands.

  “Why not ask your lady friend? It is her fault that this has happened!” Lebrun turned on Claude. “You know where she lives—”

  “No need,” came a lazy voice from behind them. “I can show you where the black lily grows.”

  The gentleman in the corner had come forward. He was, Claude saw now, dressed quite correctly in a black tailcoat and pantaloons that strapped beneath his boots, though the red and yellow striped waistcoat was perhaps a little gaudy for afternoon wear. It was only the dark cloak that had reminded him of wings.

  While the others sat staring, Eliphas Lévi got to his feet and bowed. “Monsieur Marabô...”

  If Claude’s request for help had indeed led to Célie’s abduction, they ought to blame Marabô himself, who had told Claude about the Lys Noir, but meeting that sardonic gaze, no one ventured to say so.

  “Lead on, then,” Claude stood. “I will follow you.”

  ~o0o~

  In the end, all of them followed, in two carriages that deposited them in a decaying neighborhood near the Seine. Claude had his sword-stick, and the others had provided themselves with clubs, with the exception of Monsieur Lévi.

  “I am no man of my hands,” the occultist said solemnly. “There is no time to return to my temple and prepare for a battle on the spiritual plane in my accustomed way, but the time has come to test the disciplines by which I have lived for so many years. As above, so it shall be below, and without, as it is within. If you will deal with those threats that are visible, I will do what I may against the invisible world.”

  Night had fallen, and the street was deserted. The wind off the river felt dank and cold. But as their oddly assorted band marched toward the old warehouse, Claude found himself smiling, and only then realized that the life of a gentleman had become as constricting as the fine coat he wore. He laid it down outside and slipped the sheath from his swordstick. He had no doubt of his ability to handle the effete specimens he had seen in Manon’s drawing room with fists alone, but the bravos Monsieur Rondelle had described sounded more formidable.

  As they approached the doorway, Monsieur Marabô stepped aside. Claude recalled now that the man had promised only to show them the place, not to fight beside them, and wondered why he had expected more.

  “Many thanks for your guidance,” he said shortly. “I would ask only that you stay nearby so that someone may report our fate if we fail.”

  “But of course,” came the reply. “If you will take advice, go quietly through the door.”

  “Pray they have not locked it,” muttered the artist.

  Marabô laughed softly and leaned forward. Claude heard something click as he touched the lock.

  Inside, the sweet stink of incense lay heavy on the air. Lebrun crossed himself. Claude heard a whisper that must be Lévi, praying. Curtains of black velvet had been hung on frames to create a room within the warehouse. Moving softly forward, Claude separated the nearest and peered through.

  The space was uncertainly lit by black candles, set in a pentagram drawn in chalk upon the floor. Was it their smoke that made it so hard to make out the figures that moved within? A sonorous, dissonant chanting rose and fell, grim with purpose, even though he could make out no words.

  “They have raised a circle of power,” said Lévi at his ear. “It is meant to keep out alien spirits, but it may keep them from seeing us as well.” He pushed through the curtains, and the others followed him.

  Black-robed figures were posted by the candles at the five points of the star. Two dressed in white stood before an altar on which Claude could just make out a pale female form. The barely seen barrier kept him from moving forward, as if he forced himself against a wind.

  The chanting ceased.

  “The planets are aligned, the spirits satisfied. It is the hour of destiny!” the resonant voice of Master Zabadon rang out. “Come, my sister, and take this sacrifice. Her blood shall be your blood, her youth your youth, her life yours!” There was a pause, and then a murmur Claude could not make out. “My beloved, believe, this is the only way. Look at me and know that I speak truly. I was born when the Sun King ruled France, but I will never die! Strike, and you will reign forever at my side!”

  “On the table—that is Célie!” Rondelle’s hand closed painfully on Claude’s arm. At his cry, the nearest black-robe turned.

  “In the name of the High God and all His holy angels, be opened!” cried Lévi, drawing a complex sigil in the air. The air before them cleared, and they burst through.

  The artist, who was nearest, swung his club as the black-robe drew a dagger. As the others started toward them, Claude caught Rondelle’s arm and dragged him forward Lévi, still intoning invocations, puffing behind.

  The woman bound to the altar was indeed Célie. To one side stood Master Zabadon. Claude snarled as he realized that the magician was wearing the cacique’s leather poncho over his robes. Facing him stood Manon, nearly as pale as her white gown. An evil triangular knife wavered in her hand.

  “Get that blade away from her,” he hissed to Rondelle. “I will deal with the man!”

  Or try to, Claude thought as Zabadon turned to face him, raising the heavy ritual sword two-handed. I wonder if he knows how to use that thing? Against it the slender blade of Claude’s sword-stick seemed a wand. Behind him came the grunt and scuffle of a fight. Someone cried out, but he dared not look to see who had fallen, for Zabadon was advancing with the lithe tread of a jaguar, his lips drawing back in a feral smile.

  Claude feinted and lunged, disengaging as the heavy sword came round, and realized in consternation that the thing projected an aura of force that pushed his blade aside. He no longer feared his own weapon would be broken, but how could he strike when a single parry protected Zabadon’s entire torso?

  To draw the magician away from the altar was the only thing he could think to do.

  The light dimmed as first one, then another candle was knocked over. Two of the black-robes were down. Lebrun and St. Cloud stood back to back, flailing at the other three. The cacique’s poncho flapped as Zabadon swung, sending a ripple of light along the fringes. Had Zabadon learned to wake its magic? The images painted on the leather seemed limned in lines of light as well. Zabadon’s gaze shifted as sparks began to whirl around him, and the blow that would have taken off his opponent’s arm went awry.

  “You should not have stolen the poncho,” Claude cried, remembering where he had seen those lights before. “Behold the Encantados de Luz! The Beings of Light have come!”

  As Zabadon swung frantically at the little lights, Claude lunged once more. The slim steel slipped beneath the poncho to pierce the magician to the heart. The sparks spiraled around him like maddened butterflies as he crashed to the floor.

  Claude whirled, and a stab to the calf brought one of the bravos down. Leaving Lebrun and St. Cloud to finish the other two, he sprinted toward the altar.

  Rondelle sprawled across his daughter’s body, blood pouring from his side. Manon tried to pull him away so she could reach the girl, but with his last strength the old man held fast. Claude grabbed the courtesan’s arm and flung her to the floor, setting his heel on her knife as he used his own blade to sever Célie’s bonds. Lebrun had finished off his opponent. He hurried towards them, saw what had happened and helped the weeping girl to sit, cradling her father in her arms.

  Manon lay curled on the floor, coughing. As Claude bent over her, he realized with sick understanding that the blood staining her lips was her own. But even a wounded serpent could still strike. He knelt beside her, tossing her knife across the room before laying down hi
s sword.

  “Manon...” he said softly. “Is it the consumption? Why did you not tell me?”

  She shook her head. Her skin was too white. He should have recognized that pallor before. “He promised me life! He gave me the power to take the magic garments. He said her blood would cure me. He promised me....”

  “Zabadon is dead,” Claude said flatly.

  “Then I will die,” she whispered. “I have nothing now.”

  On the altar Rondelle lay still. Lebrun was holding Célie, murmuring softly, and she seemed to find comfort in his arms. It was just as well, Claude thought grimly. To Célie, he would always be the one who had brought her father to this doom.

  Heart wrenched by guilt and pity, he looked down at Manon. “You have me,” he said softly. “As long as you need me, I will take care of you.”

  Something dark moved on the other side of the room. Claude turned, fearing one of the black-robes had revived. Monsieur Marabô stood by Zabadon’s body with the cacique’s poncho in his hands. White teeth flashed in a swarthy face as he pulled it on.

  “Don’t touch—” Claude began, but the man was laughing. He stared. He had never noticed that the central image limned on the garment was a crow. Marabô was a younger version of the cacique who had given him the costume, with the look of a drummer in red and black whom he had last met at a crossroads in Brazil. Why had he not seen it before?

  “This power doesn’t belong here.” The soft, accented voice was clear. “Best I keep it, don’t you agree?”

  “Was all this no more than a way to bring it here?” A jerk of Claude’s head indicated Célie and Lebrun weeping over Rondelle, St. Cloud clutching a wounded arm, Eliphas Lévi gazing around him with tragic eyes, and the fainting woman who lay in his arms. “I would have given it to you, had you asked.”

  “You choose your roads,” replied Marabo. “I only open the door.”

  The folds of the black cloak lifted like wings as he settled it around him. For a moment his grin gleamed above it. He turned. For a moment Claude glimpsed the great shape of the crow, then there was only the dark.