Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(34)
“Arrack, please, Max,” he said—better the devil you know—and was surprised to see the dwarf’s eyes narrow in return.
“You knew my honored father, I see, se?or,” the dwarf said, putting the cup on the board. “It’s some time since you’ve been in Paris?”
“Pardonnez,” Rakoczy said, accepting it and tossing it back. If you could afford more than one cup, you didn’t let it linger on the tongue. “Your honored…late father? Max?”
“Maximiliano el Maximo,” the dwarf corrected him firmly.
“To be sure.” Rakoczy gestured for another drink. “And whom have I the honor to address?”
The Spaniard—though perhaps his accent wasn’t as strong as Max’s had been—drew himself up proudly. “Maxim Le Grand, a su servicio!”
Rakoczy saluted him gravely and threw back the second cup, motioning for a third and, with a gesture, inviting Maxim to join him.
“It has been some time since I was last here,” he said. No lie there. “I wonder if another old acquaintance might be still alive—Ma?tre Raymond, otherwise called the frog?”
There was a tiny quiver in the air, a barely perceptible flicker of attention, gone almost as soon as he’d sensed it—somewhere behind him?
“A frog,” Maxim said, meditatively pouring himself a drink. “I don’t know any frogs myself, but should I hear of one, who shall I say is asking for him?”
Should he give his name? No, not yet.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But word can be left with Madame Fabienne. You know the place? In the Rue Antoine?”
The dwarf’s sketchy brows rose, and his mouth turned up at one corner.
“I know it.”
Doubtless he did, Rakoczy thought. “El Maximo” hadn’t referred to Max’s stature, and probably “Le Grand” didn’t, either. God had a sense of justice, as well as a sense of humor.
“Bon.” He wiped his lips on his sleeve and put down a coin that would have bought the whole keg. “Merci.”
He stood up, the hot taste of the brandy bubbling at the back of his throat, and belched. Two more places to visit, maybe, before he went to Fabienne’s. He couldn’t visit more than that and stay upright; he was getting old.
“Good night.” He bowed to the company and gingerly pushed open the cracked wooden door; it was hanging by one leather hinge, and that looked ready to give way at any moment.
“Ribbit,” someone said very softly, just before the door closed behind him.
MADELEINE’S FACE LIGHTED when she saw him, and his heart warmed. She wasn’t very bright, poor creature, but she was pretty and amiable and had been a whore long enough to be grateful for small kindnesses.
“Monsieur Rakoczy!” She flung her arms about his neck, nuzzling affectionately.
“Madeleine, my dear.” He cupped her chin and kissed her gently on the lips, drawing her close so that her belly pressed against his. He held her long enough, kissing her eyelids, her forehead, her ears—so that she made high squeaks of pleasure—that he could feel his way inside her, hold the weight of her womb in his mind, evaluate her ripening.
It felt warm, the color in the heart of a dark crimson rose, the kind called sang de dragon. A week before, it had felt solid, compact as a folded fist; now it had begun to soften, to hollow slightly as she readied. Three more days? he wondered. Four?
He let her go, and when she pouted prettily at him, he laughed and raised her hand to his lips, feeling the same small thrill he had felt when he first found her, as the faint blue glow rose between her fingers in response to his touch. She couldn’t see it—he’d raised their linked hands to her face before and she had merely looked puzzled—but it was there.
“Go and fetch some wine, ma belle,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “I need to talk to Madame.”
Madame Fabienne was not a dwarf, but she was small, brown, and mottled as a toadstool—and as watchful as a toad, round yellow eyes seldom blinking, never closed.
“Monsieur le Comte,” she said graciously, nodding him to a damask chair in her salon. The air was scented with candle wax and flesh—flesh of a far better quality than that on offer in the court. Even so, Madame had come from that court and kept her connections there alive; she made no bones about that. She didn’t blink at his clothes, but her nostrils flared at him, as though she picked up the scent of the dives and alleys he had come from.
“Good evening, Madame,” he said, smiling at her, and lifted the burlap bag. “I brought a small present for Leopold. If he’s awake?”
“Awake and cranky,” she said, eyeing the bag with interest. “He’s just shed his skin—you don’t want to make any sudden moves.”
Leopold was a remarkably handsome—and remarkably large—python; an albino, quite rare. Opinion of his origins was divided; half of Madame Fabienne’s clientele held that she had been given the snake by a noble client—some said the late King himself—whom she had cured of impotence. Others said the snake had once been a noble client, who had refused to pay her for services rendered. Rakoczy had his own opinions on that one, but he liked Leopold, who was ordinarily tame as a cat and would sometimes come when called—as long as you had something he regarded as food in your hand when you called.