The Silver Blade Read Free Page A

of a chateau. The rain turned to icy sleet as they made their way up the stone steps. On either side of the front door stood statues of roaring lions, their mouths open, water dripping off their chiselled teeth.

    Yann looked back the way they’d come. It was then he heard her voice, caught on the wind’s breath.

    ‘ Run. The devil’s own is on your trail .’

    He knew that voice, a ghost calling to him on a soulless night.

    At that moment he saw it on the gravel drive - a liquid black shape of a great dog or wolfhound. It stayed watching him before moving into the shadow of the gardens. Balthazar, thought Yann, Kalliovski’s dog. But that was impossible for he, like his master, was dead, killed by the mob on the Pont Neuf.

    He shuddered as he remembered what Tetu had told him. That was the day the devil had gone walking, searching for one irredeemable soul to blow his fiery life into. There could be no man more deserving of the devil’s attention than Count Kalliovski. If he was alive then no one was safe.

    Sido was not safe.

Chapter Two

    T he Duc de Bourcy was a tall, thin man whose face had been etched grey by worry and fever. He was standing in a chamber of elegant proportions that was awash with furniture, as if a great tide had rushed through, gathering all in its wake. Sofas, chairs, tables, cabinets, screens and writing desks stood forlornly, and scattered in-between them was a collection of clocks, ticking loudly, hoping to keep time from running out, for the hour was fast approaching when all this would be swept away. The Duke hoped - no, his fervent prayer was - that he and his family would be saved before the National Guard arrived to arrest him.

    He’d been waiting over a week for Cordell’s man to turn up, but no one had come, and every day the situation seemed more hopeless. Like a drowning man he held fast to the belief that Charles Cordell would not abandon him, that he would, as promised, send his very best man.

    H is beloved chateau, unlike those of many of his acquaintance, had so far been spared the ravages of the Revolution. Not that attempts hadn’t been made. The worst had happened shortly after the storming of the Bastille.

    On a summer’s day the villagers, fired with revolutionary zeal, and armed with pitchforks, swords, old kitchen knives and axes, had marched up the long, slow, steep hill ready to storm the chateau. The Duke, on being told they were coming to destroy his property, had instructed that his cellars be emptied and wine, cheese and bread left in baskets outside the gates.

    When the villagers arrived hot and thirsty after their long, slow, steep march, they were delighted to see that their needs had been so well catered for. Having eaten and drunk their fill, they began to forget why they had come in the first place. One of the tenant farmers even started praising the Duke. As the sun went down, they drank the last of the wine and rolled back down to the village, singing songs as if they had spent the day at a country fete.

    A fter that the Duke had believed himself safe. It seemed a cruel twist of fate to find that a letter he had written to a friend abroad had been intercepted and found its way into Robespierre’s hands. A warrant for his arrest was issued and he’d wasted no time in asking for urgent help from his banker and good friend Charles Cordell.

    Now, pacing back and forth, his movements were constricted by the clutter of furniture. He looked up relieved when Didier and Yann entered the room, and went to greet Didier.

    ‘Monsieur, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you. There is no time to be lost.’

    Didier said politely but firmly, ‘This is the gentleman you are after.’

    The Duke turned to look at Yann and an expression of incredulity spread over his face.

    ‘You?’ he said, making it sound like an accusation. ‘You! Mon dieu , Lord above preserve us! Has Cordell lost his mind, sending me a young lad?’

    ‘My age shouldn’t