Free The Cardinal's Blades by Pierre Pevel, Tom Translated by Clegg

dismounting outside. Inside the inn, there was some surprise at being suddenly pitched into shadow. But seeing who had made this request to the serving girl, all those present held their tongues.
    “There, monsieur.”
    “Now, do you see the woman with the white bonnet? The one with the little girl on her knee?”
    “Yes.”
    “Take them both out of here, without delay. Whisper in the mother’s ear that they are in danger, and tell her she must leave for her own safety and that of the child.”
    “Excuse me? But, monsieur—”
    “Do it.”
    The young woman obeyed, looking worried. Leprat watched while she spoke quietly with the woman in the white bonnet. The woman frowned, and although she displayed some signs of concern, she seemed disinclined to move …
    … at least, not until the door opened.
    On seeing who it was, she hurried ahead of the serving girl into the kitchen, her little girl in her arms.
    Relieved, Leprat edged his chair back without rising.
    The freebooters entered with a swagger, as thugs everywhere enter a room when they are certain they are danger personified. Armed with rapiers and wearing thick leather doublets, they were grubby, sweaty, and stank of the stable. A tall thin man with long flaxen hair was in the lead—he wore a leather hat and had a scar across the corner of his lips which drew them into a strange, smiling rictus. The other three, each with a sinister bearing, escorted him closely and had the almost ordinary faces of conscienceless mercenaries who would cut a throat for a mouthful of bread. And then the last of the riders entered, and with his appearance alone managed to congeal the already apprehensive silence. He was a drac: a member of a race spawned by the dragons in order to serve them, known for its cruelty and violence. A grey drac, as it happened. Fine slate-coloured scales covered his jowled face, and his clawed hands had four fingers. He, too, was dressed as a hired killer.
    Dumbstruck, the patrons in the inn made a show of paying no attention to the freebooters, as if this ploy could somehow dispel their menacing presence. The innkeeper hesitated over whether or not to go up to them, hoping against all odds that they would desire neither food nor drink. In the end, his courage deserted him entirely and he decided to remain close by the door leading to the kitchen.
    The mercenaries slowly swept the room with inquisitorial gazes as their eyes adjusted to the half-light. When they saw Leprat, sitting with his back to the window and its closed curtains, they knew that they had found their man.
    They approached him without crowding one another and took up position before his table. The drac remained by the door, and when customers tried to rise discreetly in order to leave, he was content to simply turn his head toward them. His vertical, membranous eyelids closed briefly over his expressionless reptilian eyes. Everyone resumed their seats.
    The flaxen-haired man settled himself at Leprat’s table, sitting opposite him, without provoking any reaction.
    “May I?” he asked, pointing a finger at the chicken Leprat had been eating
    Without waiting for permission, he tore a wing from the plump carcass, bit into it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
    “This is truly an honour,” he said conversationally. “Now I can say I have shared a meal with the famous Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil.… Because that’s who you are, are you not? No, no, don’t answer. Seeing that is proof enough.”
    With his chin he indicated the white rapier lying, in its scabbard, on the table.
    “Is it true that it was carved in one piece from the fang of an ancient dragon?”
    “From the point to the pommel.”
    “How many others like that do you think there are in the world?”
    “I don’t know. Perhaps none.”
    The mercenary chief put on an admiring expression that might have been quite sincere. Half turning, he called out: “Innkeeper! Wine for the chevalier and I. Be sure it’s