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  "I tell you, he is the man!" Le Grâce twisted away from Saint Sebastien, only to find that the fine, long hand on the back of the sofa had grasped his collar and was twisting cruelly.

  "What must I do to convince you, Le Grâce? I cannot allow you to continue this way." The pressure on the sorcerer's neck increased as Saint Sebastien turned his hand delicately. "I am not a patient man, Le Grâce. I warn you that you are only increasing my anger with this foolish persistence."

  Le Grâce's face had turned an unhealthy mottled color, and he tugged frantically at his neck cloth. "But it's him!" he insisted, gasping.

  Saint Sebastien sighed resignedly. "Very well, Le Grâce. Since you are unwilling to tell me..." He stood back, releasing his hold on Le Grâce's neck cloth.

  Pleasantly surprised by this turn of events, Le Grâce was about to rise when he heard that smooth, hated voice behind him. "Do not move, Le Grâce." Saint Sebastien said icily. "I have not given you permission to move."

  "But surely—"

  "Nor have I given you permission to speak." He spoke with silken charm as he walked around the corner of the sofa into Le Grâce's range of vision. "I am not finished, Le Grâce. I must beg you to stay with me yet a while." He fingered the long, thin whip he carried lovingly, and the whip twitched in his fingers as if it were alive.

  Le Grâce felt himself grow cold. "Ah, Baron..." He shifted on the sofa, trying to block the blow he feared. "I tell you, I didn't lie."

  "But I don't believe you." He had moved closer now, relishing the fear in the sorcerer's eyes and the sudden stink of his sweat.

  "I know you don't. It's not my fault you don't know about Ragoczy." He cowered away from the tall, lean figure hovering ever nearer, his hands caressing the whip.

  "Poor Le Grâce," Saint Sebastien purred. "You are a bungling liar and a fool, but you have your uses." He stepped back to give his arm play. The motion was so quick that Le Grâce had not realized what it meant when the sjambok fell against his jaw, opening his flesh to the bone.

  With a cry made up of pain, betrayal, and desperation, Le Grâce clapped his hand to his bleeding face as he lunged at his tormentor.

  "I had this whip from a man who had been a slaver," Saint Sebastien informed Le Grâce as he stood back, waiting for his next opportunity. "It is made from the rhinoceros, from the pizzle, to be precise. It is oiled and stretched, oiled and stretched, until it cuts more deeply than steel. But you have found that out, have you not?" He played with the heavy whip, letting it writhe on the floor as he held it easily. Somewhat dreamily, he went on, "When he gave it to me, he demonstrated it." The whip coiled on the floor. "He had a reluctant slave of his own, and he amused himself for an afternoon with this. At times I think the slave's blood still stains the lash." On the last word, he brought the whip into play again, this time letting it fall full force across Le Grâce's shoulders.

  Le Grâce bellowed and tried to roll away from the whip, but it fell again, this time tearing open the flesh of his back and bringing bile into his mouth. "No! No!" He tried to push away from Saint Sebastien and the next assault, and succeeded in turning the sofa onto its back.

  The loud crash of furniture brought swift results, for the door to the library flew open, and Tite, Saint Sebastien's personal servant, came into the room. "Master?" he asked anxiously.

  Saint Sebastien shrugged. "No, Tite, it is not I who is hurt. It is poor Le Grâce, there. You must take him away for a while, and be sure that his wounds are looked to. I have not finished with him yet. He has not given me the answers I want." Le Baron was flushed and speaking in a jerky, excited way. He still held the whip, but now the long, ominous strand of leather was quiet, sated.

  Tite grunted as he went to Le Grâce, who had staggered into a corner of the room, where he crouched, one arm up to deflect more blows. His face and back were spattered with blood now, and from the deep cut on his jaw more blood welled. The sorcerer whimpered, all the while trying to press closer to the wall as Tite approached him. His progress left a swath of red on the fine wall-covering.

  "Take him to the stables. You know the room." Saint Sebastien had regained a little of his grand manner. He wiped his face with a heavy silk handkerchief and dropped the handle of his whip to the floor. "I will want to talk to him within the hour. Remember that."

  Tite had grabbed for Le Grâce, his big arms holding the terrified sorcerer in an easy grasp. "The stables. As you wish, master." He started toward the door, his face impassive, apparently unaware of the groans of pain Le Grâce made every time he moved at all.

  "Yes, I think I want to use him myself. The Circle may have others, but I think this one is for me." He neatened his lace jabot and fixed a beatific smile on Le Grâce. "You may he to me. You may cheat me. It does not matter. You may also die for me, Le Grâce." He reached out and flicked the edge of the wound on Le Grâce's face. "It is said that the face gives the greatest hurt, after the loss of manhood. I wonder."

  Le Grâce was too cold now to say much, and he could not bring himself to open his mouth.

  "Go out by the terrace," Saint Sebastien ordered Tite. "I don't think it would be wise to have the other servants see him."

  Tite nodded as he went to the wide french doors that filled one wall of the library. Beyond them a gray veil of rain had dropped over the world, leaching the color out of it. When Tite pulled the door open, a cold breeze chilled the room. "The room in the stables," he repeated as he stepped out into the rain.

  "It was such a promising morning," Saint Sebastien lamented as he went to close the door behind Tite. He stared meditatively out at the drowned afternoon, his mind on nothing in particular. There was a faint, predatory smile on his mouth.

  He was pulled from this contemplation by the sudden rattle of wheels on the flagged sweep of drive that curved around the hôtel Saint Sebastien. He looked up, and the smile broadened, for in the mist he could just make out the outline of Chenu-Tourelle's ridiculous new coach. Filled with energy now, as if the sight of the coach had revived him, Saint Sebastien turned back into the library, shut the french door behind him, and pulled on the bell rope to summon a lackey.

  Almost immediately the library door opened and a young lackey in Saint Sebastien's red-laced deep-blue livery came in and bowed respectfully. He did not lift his head as he waited for orders.

  "I gather we have company, Maurice," Saint Sebastien said pleasantly. "I believe I saw le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle arrive just now. I trust, I do trust that he has been welcomed?"

  "He has, master, and his guests."

  "He does have guests? How charming." Saint Sebastien nodded, then waved his hand negligently. "I will want a note to be delivered. Not immediately. It must arrive at hôtel d'Argenlac no earlier than nine tonight. I will give it to you now. I might be busy later."

  "The message will be delivered as you say, master."

  "Of course it will. Life is much easier when you obey me implicitly, is it not, Maurice?" He bent to pick up the sjambok, and let the lash curl lazily through his fingers. "No, not today, Maurice. Today I have other things on my mind. But it would be unwise of you to forget this." He fingered the end of the whip and watched Maurice turn pale. With a sigh he abandoned this sport, and strode to the secretaire near the wall. "I will not take long, Maurice. Then you may take me to my guests. Where have you put them?"

  Maurice stammered his answer. "One of them... one was... in a swoon... But le Marquis... he... he... said to take her to your private study." The last words came out in a panicky rush.

  Saint Sebastien interrupted himself in trimming his writing quill. "My private study. How thoughtful. Is anyone else with them?"

  "No. No. Le Marquis, the young lady, and her companion, who is distraught."

  "Indeed?" Saint Sebastien said solicitously. "How unfortunate. We must remedy this situation. In a moment I will attend to it. But this note, first, I think. Yes." He had finished trimming the quill, and now pulled out the standish and two sheets of hot-pressed paper. Saint Sebas
tien smiled at the bold embossed crest at the head of each sheet. It was an old, old patent-of-arms, granted to his many-times-great-uncle in the days when the Inquisition destroyed the Knights Templar. In memory of that occasion, the arms showed a cinq-foil, each branch of which contained allegorical figures: topmost was a goat seated on a throne, then a skull inverted to make a cup, next a candle burning upside down, followed by a mandrake root, and last the tall, fearful hat of the Inquisition.

  Saint Sebastien's gaze lingered on this device lovingly, and he wondered if that Inquisitor ancestor of his would be surprised to discover that the heretical, blasphemous practices he had so rigorously stamped out were being used by his own blood. Recalling some of that worthy priest's painstaking records describing the Question of suspected heretics, Saint Sebastien thought he saw in the meticulous details of torture a dim echo of the delight he himself found in giving suffering.

  His mind strayed again to Madelaine. He knew exactly the use he would make of her, and it pleased him to think of the agony her death would bring not only to her but also to Robert de Montalia. Saint Sebastien nodded. He found the idea attractive. He had not intended to tell de Montalia much more than he had Madelaine, but he reflected on the matter, and realized that if he detailed his intentions, Madelaine's father would be driven to frenzy.

  He caressed his wooden-faced lackey with hot eyes, assuring himself that his servant was thoroughly frightened before drawing the paper forward. His smile broadening, he began to write.

  Text of a letter from Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien to le Marquis de Montalia, delivered by hand shortly after nine on the night of November 4, 1743:

  My very dear and long-absent friend, Robert, Marquis de Montalia, I send you greetings and my most cordial wishes for your welfare along with my compliments.

  How sad I was not to have known earlier that you would once again return to Paris. When I think of the many hours we spent together, twenty years ago, I am desolated to think that you would forget to tell me of your visit, so that I could arrange some appropriate entertainment for you.

  But fortune has favored me, dearest Robert. At last I have found a way to tender my respects in a manner befitting our long years of friendship, the protestations of which have endured through our separation. The obligations of our association are not easily forgotten, Robert.

  By now I would imagine that you are cherishing fond hope for your daughter's future as la Marquise Chenu-Tourelle. No doubt you think that she dines tonight with the family of le Marquis.

  I regret my lamentable duty to inform you that I have reclaimed my property, which you have been so tardy in making available to me. Surely you did not think to escape that obligation. Particularly when Madelaine is so much admired and her manners so charming. As much as the young men, I find her to be utterly entrancing. It could hardly be otherwise, she is so lovely. I will admit that I will find it difficult to wait the necessary number of days before we offer her in sacrifice. But in that time, of course, she will have a service to perform for us all, and a way to prepare herself for the Winter Solstice. I am certain I will find ways to amuse her, my dear Robert. Tite, for example. You do remember my manservant, do you not? He still is best pleased when he is feared, and I know he can be very terrible. I will take her virginity, of course, but Tïte should be next, don't you think? It will be so much easier for the others when he is through with her. I have never known anyone to resist Tite for long.

  Think of it: your daughter, my property, on the altar, bound, naked. She will lie there every night for forty days, Robert, and every night she will be used. When I have had her, Tite will enjoy himself for one night, and he will use his own methods to bend her to our will. When this is done, the rest of the Circle will be given access to her, for their pleasure as it suits them. There are quite a few of us, and some of that number have longed for this opportunity.

  No doubt you remember Beauvrai's tastes still. What will Madelaine think, I wonder, when she is used by three at once? It is a pity that Beauvrai is so rough, for I am certain he will not be able to contain his passions when he is given his time with Madelaine. He will probably ask de la Sept-Nuit to join him, for Donatien also enjoys roughness. Do you remember that ingenious device that Beauvrai was working on, that allows him to penetrate front with his flesh, and back with the heated Devil's Member? He has done quite a lot of work with it these last few years. I gather by the reactions of other offerings that the process is quite painful.

  By the time we pull her living heart from her, she will be happy to die, Robert. We will have defiled her in every way we know. However our fancy inspires us, that will we do, short of killing her. We will violate her, assault her, disfigure her, torture her, so that her death will be pleasing in the Eye of Satan.

  If you had given her to us at the beginning, this need not have happened. She would then be one of us, and would participate with us rather than be our offering. For her degradation and death you have none to blame but yourself. Think of that while you search for her in vain.

  This I promise you: I have found a new place for the Circle to make its sacrifice. No one will suspect us. You may torment yourself with that thought, and with the thought that every moment your child suffers adds to my power.

  I do not forgive you for betraying your oath. I do not forgive you for taking my property out of my reach. I do not forgive you for raising her in the manner of the Sisters. In short, I hold you to blame, and I warn you now that with the new year, you will be marked by the Circle, and your life will be of no value.

  Let me warn you further that if you attempt to find us and we snare you, that will not save Madelaine. It will only mean that your death will happen all the sooner. Two sacrifices will be better than one. I beg you to consider this before attempting any fruitless rescue or futile petitioning of the King. His Glorious Majesty Louis XV could not issue orders in time to save your daughter. At the first hint that you have attempted such a ploy, Madelaine will die, my friend.

  Should you find someone foolhardy enough to aid you in your search for your daughter, do not place too much dependence on any victory. There are enough of us to take care of twenty more like you. And anyone assisting you would, of course, be subject to the same penalty as you are. Isn't it enough to lose your daughter? Let your friends live, Robert.

  Until our reunion, late or early, it is my pleasure to be

  Saint Sebastien

  Chapter 6

  Even as he woke on his monastically comfortless bed, Saint-Germain felt himself possessed of deep foreboding. His eyes searched his sleeping alcove, as if trying to read the cause of his alarm in the gathering dusk. He put his hands to his eyes, and a frown clouded his brow. The frown deepened, and then he nodded as if giving himself a signal. With a quick movement he had slipped to the floor, his loose robe of dark Egyptian cotton brushing the floor as he pushed aside the curtain masking his alcove, and walked into his sitting room.

  This was the same room he had brought Madelaine to not so many days ago. For a few moments he thought he could see her garnets shining on the floor, and Madelaine blocking the door, her face filled with yearning. He smiled at the memory but it faded, to be replaced with worried malaise.

  One candle burned on the mantel, and Saint-Germain used this to light the others in the tall branches. The room glowed, but its warmth did not communicate itself to its occupant. Saint-Germain tugged at the bell rope, his mind still probing restlessly to discover the source of his alarm. He touched the astrolabe, as if seeking answers from it.

  "Master?" Roger said with a curt nod for form's sake as he came into the room.

  "Um?" Saint-Germain turned, saying, "Close the door, Roger. What I have to say is private."

  Roger did as he was told, waiting patiently for his instructions. He carried a towel over one arm and held a basin in the other hand. These he set down as he watched Saint-Germain move quickly about the room.

  "I think it had better be a bath," he said slowly as he
paused by the fireplace. "A bath, and then simple clothes. I think the linen breeches, or wool. And that shirt I was given in Persia, the one with the signs worked in Russian embroidery. And the wide-cuffed boots. Make sure that the heels and soles are well-filled. I sense I will have need of that protection tonight."

  "As you wish," Roger said.

  "Prepare my elk-leather riding coat, too. I will be leaving as soon as I have the bath." He stopped as he saw the note from Beverly Sattin propped against the mantel. He pulled the two crossed sheets open, reading swiftly, his face growing grim. "Le Grâce has seen Domingo y Roxas," Saint-Germain said as a brusque explanation as he burned the letter, holding the paper until he was sure the message would leave no trace in the ashes.

  "When?"

  "This morning. Sattin does not think he knows the Guild's present location, but that is scant comfort. If Le Grâce knows that the Guild is still in Paris, he will find a way to follow them, and then there will be a great deal of trouble." He untied his cotton robe. "That is all for the moment," he said, then changed his mind. "On second thought, Roger, send Hercule to me. I have some instructions to give him before I bathe."

  He knelt to build up the fire in the grate, and found himself staring into the flames, held by the thought that they were vast, all-consuming. He felt as if he would find Madelaine in the flames, and in spite of the heat, he leaned farther forward, almost scorching the cotton of his open robe.

  The door opened again, and Hercule came into the room. He stood just inside the door, still somewhat awkward with the braces he wore, but no longer using crutches. "Master?" he said when Saint-Germain did not turn.

  "Hercule," le Comte said dreamily, still looking into the fire. "I have need of you, either tonight or tomorrow."