Mission to Vendôme: Her Majesty's Musketeers, Book 0

by R. A. Steffan

  One of the two chests at the foot of the low bed contained clothing for traveling. The other contained a motley collection of weapons, pouches, and bags. Aramis pulled out a set of saddlebags and opened them, rifling through the contents.

  “My, how interesting!” he said brightly. “This bag appears to contain the documents and agreements signed by Valois, the Comte du Maine, and our good selves over the past several days. Now, what earthly reason would a man have for taking these papers from safekeeping and packing them as if for travel?”

  The duc paled, looking from one of them to the other. His mouth opened, working soundlessly for a few seconds before he said, “I... I was threatened. Someone suspected me! I... I had to flee immediately or risk exposure! Surely you can understand that?”

  Porthos let his chest puff out, making himself look even bigger and more intimidating. “So of course, rather than—say—burning the evidence and informing your allies of the threat, you decided to gather all of these papers together and keep them on your person. That’s brilliant, that is. Aramis, we should have put this one in charge of military tactics!”

  “Sadly, life is littered with such lost opportunities,” Aramis replied.

  “Are all the papers accounted for? He hasn’t sent any ahead by messenger?” Porthos asked, hoping against hope that they weren’t too late to contain the threat.

  “Of course the papers are all here!” said the duc. “Of what do you accuse me, you mercenary brutes?”

  “Mercenary brutes, is it?” Aramis said with some amusement. “Careful, now—you’ll hurt my associate’s delicate feelings. And, of course, you must excuse me if I prefer to check the documents for myself.”

  Aramis took the saddlebag and seated himself at the desk, pulling out the sheaf of papers and smoothing them out. Porthos continued to train a gimlet eye on Alexandre, as Aramis sorted the documents into piles and examined them one by one, presumably rearranging them by date and tallying them with his memory of the previous several days’ discussions.

  “I do believe we’re in luck, Porthos,” he said when he was finished. “Everything appears to be accounted for.”

  Porthos quietly let out the breath he’d been holding. Aramis picked up the saddlebag and rummaged around in the bottom to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. After a moment, he froze, and slowly lifted an object out of the bag. From his position, Porthos couldn’t see what it was, but Aramis let out a bark of startled laughter.

  “What is it?” Porthos asked.

  Eyes still crinkling with mirth, Aramis held up his prize—a shining silver ingot.

  Chapter 3

  Fortunately, their mysterious colleague Valois seemed more than eager to deal with Alexandre de Vendôme after they dragged him back to face the others. This suited Porthos just fine. Not only did it save him and Aramis the fuss of dealing with a prisoner—it also saved them having to figure out where to take the man and what to do with him, since they couldn’t exactly bring a traitor back to the Mage Queen’s hideout in Blois.

  After questioning the duc at length, Valois and the Comte du Maine seemed convinced that the risk had been contained, and agreed to uphold their previous agreements. All in all, Porthos supposed it could have been far worse. The others having taken their leave, he and Aramis found themselves left alone in the back room of the tavern they had used for the meeting. The sun was already disappearing behind the close-crowded buildings of the town, leaving shadowed darkness outside the dingy window behind their table.

  “Are you going to let me look at that wound now?” Aramis asked, letting his tankard of weak ale fall to the table with a soft thump.

  “Told you, it’s just a scratch,” Porthos said dismissively. “Stop fussing.”

  Aramis made a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. So, back to Blois in the morning, then?”

  “S’pose so,” Porthos said. “This whole thing could’ve gone better, but at least it wasn’t a complete disaster, eh?”

  “Merely a near disaster,” Aramis agreed with a smile, “and those are far more enjoyable, as a rule. What is life without excitement, after all?”

  “Says the man who claims that he was destined for a quiet life in the priesthood,” Porthos teased, rising from his chair. “C’mon. I’m tired of drinking this swill, and I want some entertainment before I have to spend hours in the saddle.”

  His companion raised an eyebrow. “You intend we should visit Mademoiselle Narcisse as promised, I take it?”

  “Well, a gentleman’s word is his bond, and all that,” Porthos said. “Or so I’m told, anyway.”

  “Indeed it is, my friend,” Aramis said, rising to join him. “Indeed it is.”

  The walk to Mademoiselle Narcisse’s rooms was chilly, but pleasant—the spring warmth fading quickly once the sun went down. Unlike the previous visit when Narcisse herself had greeted them, this time a maid answered the door and bade them wait in the parlor. The girl made them comfortable and offered them refreshment. The two of them sat in companionable silence as they waited, sipping a passable vintage of wine from metal goblets and occasionally trading looks of amusement at the sounds of male pleasure emanating from the room beyond.

  Eventually, the grunts and moans subsided, replaced by quiet, indistinct conversation. A few minutes later, a young man entered from the hallway and walked sheepishly to the door without meeting their eyes. Porthos hid a smile at his obvious youth and discomfort, and saw Aramis doing the same. The maid showed the youngster to the door and secured it behind him. A moment later, Narcisse appeared, clad in a red corset and underdress with a loose dressing gown thrown over her shoulders.

  “Well, well,” she said, smiling her slow, rapier-sharp smile. “I do like men who keep their promises.”

  Porthos and Aramis both rose, doffing their hats.

  “Did you doubt us, mademoiselle?” Aramis asked, meeting her gaze with an assessing smile of his own.

  “Experience has taught me to retain a healthy level of skepticism in life,” Narcisse said easily. “Come back with me, both of you.” She ushered them into her boudoir, speaking over her shoulder as they entered. “So, tell me the news. Will I now have to give up my dreams of a future of wealth and leisure at my dear Alexandre’s side?”

  “Oh... he’s alive and well,” Aramis hedged.

  “But he’s found that he had to leave the area rather unexpectedly,” Porthos added. “Not sure I’d rely too much on his promises for the future, if you take my meaning.”

  Narcisse placed the back of her hand against her forehead dramatically. “Alas, all my hopes shattered. Ah, well—back to the life of a poor prostitute, living hand to mouth and with the wolves always at the door.” She paused, fluttering her eyelashes at them. “Perhaps you two brave soldiers could help with that?”

  Porthos rumbled a low laugh. “I would’ve thought we made a pretty good dent in that particular problem earlier,” he said, thinking of the gems that had bought the information they’d used to catch the duc.

  “Now, now, Porthos,” Aramis chided. “That was payment related to another matter entirely. Surely the lady’s witty companionship and charm also deserves some recompense?”

  “Well, when you put it like that...” Porthos said, and produced a small knife sheath from his doublet with a flourish. “Perhaps something like this?”

  The sheath was well made, and cunningly designed in such a way that it could be sewn into a woman’s skirts, making the knife itself nearly invisible. In the current climate, such a precaution was wise for any woman—and doubly so for a prostitute. Narcisse took the sheath from Porthos’ outstretched fingers and examined it, making a considering noise but not seeming overly impressed.

  “Ah, but how could I forget,” Aramis said, producing a small knife that fit into the sheath from his sleeve like a magician. “That is only half of the gift. The other half is here.”

  He offered the little dagger to Narcisse, hilt first, and a smile blossomed across her face.

 
“The two of you are far too practiced at this routine,” she said with a laugh, “but this will do very nicely indeed. Please, make yourselves comfortable while we discuss the details of the evening.”

  Aramis smiled his acquiescence and began to remove his weapons and outer layers. Porthos followed suit, only to hiss in surprise when his shirtsleeve pulled against the cut on his arm. The blood must have dried and stuck the fabric in place, he realized. Porthos immediately found himself the focus of two sets of eyes.

  “Perhaps a small diversion before the main course,” Aramis said, his expression brooking no quarter.

  “Are you injured, monsieur?” Narcisse asked, worry clouding her expression.

  “Honestly, it’s nothing,” Porthos said, his tone resigned. “A scratch.”

  “In which case, it will only take a moment to deal with it,” Aramis said. “Mademoiselle, do you perhaps have a rag and some spirits that I can use to clean the wound, and a length of cloth to bind it? And you, Porthos—shirt, off. Now.”

  Narcisse raised a perfect eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly a plan I can get behind,” she said. “But I daresay I have something better than brandy.”

  Knowing when he was defeated, Porthos eased the stiff fabric away from his arm with a grimace. Rather than producing a rag or bandage, however, Narcisse approached and examined the cut closely, leaning down to tip his arm closer to the light.

  “Told you,” Porthos muttered impatiently. “It’s not—”

  She placed her hand over the wound, and he covered a flinch at the unexpected sting. Before he could draw breath to protest, however, the pain moderated into deep itching.

  “Mademoiselle,” Aramis said rather sharply. “What are you—”

  Porthos cut him off with a shake of his head. “It’s all right.” He met Narcisse’s gaze when she straightened away and opened her eyes. “You have healing magic.”

  She snorted, and gestured to the wound. “Barely. But I like you, monsieur. This seemed like the least I could do in the face of your generosity.”

  “Thanks,” Porthos said, a bit blankly.

  “Also, it did allow me to speed the process of getting your shirt off,” she added, giving him an appreciative onceover.

  Aramis let out a huff of laughter, even as he lifted Porthos’ arm to inspect it. Porthos craned around to get a look, as well—only to find that the shallow slash had scabbed over as though it were days old, rather than hours.

  “Happy now?” he asked Aramis.

  “Ecstatic,” Aramis replied, and Porthos blew out a breath that was halfway between amusement and irritation. Aramis turned his attention to their hostess. “That’s a rather unexpected skill to encounter in such surroundings, mademoiselle.”

  “I am a rather unexpected woman, or so I’ve been told.” She met Porthos’ eyes and smiled. “Now, I trust the wound will not hinder your enjoyment of the evening, monsieur?” she asked.

  I told you—it’s not a wound, it’s a scratch,” Porthos said. He smiled back as he added, “And not even that, now.”

  “Excellent to hear. So, then, what is your pleasure tonight?” Narcisse asked, her grin growing wolfish.

  AFTER A VERY ENJOYABLE couple of hours, Narcisse allowed them to linger for a few minutes before gently but efficiently chivvying them along, with the offer that they should stop in and see her again if they ever found themselves back in Vendôme. After the day they’d had, Porthos was happy enough to return to the little room they shared at the inn over the tavern and fall into bed. He was even happier to see Aramis do the same, his friend sleeping like the dead, unbothered by his usual battles with insomnia.

  First light saw them back on the road to Blois, the distance unwinding slowly under the horses’ hooves as the morning progressed. Aramis spent the time complaining about having to sit in the saddle for half the day after the previous evening’s exertions, and Porthos spent the time trying not to laugh at him. Or trying not to laugh at him much, at any rate.

  Aramis’ saddlebags contained the agreements with Valois and the Comte du Maine, ready for de Tréville’s inspection. Porthos wasn’t looking forward to explaining about the duc’s attempt at treachery, but Aramis had been right that it could have been much worse. The Mage Queen was still safe—as safe as she ever was, at least—and Athos’s castle was still a secure haven for them.

  He was mulling over their present and future plans when his gelding, which had been gradually lagging behind Aramis’ horse over the past league or so, pulled up awkwardly.

  “Aramis!” he called, and the other man reined in his mare and turned to ride back to him.

  “What’s wrong?” Aramis asked. “We’re nearly there. Why have you stopped?”

  Porthos dismounted. “My horse. He’s been off on the right forefoot since mid-morning, but it’s just got worse. Looks like I’m walking the rest of the way.”

  “Hmm, well, at least the day is pleasant and it’s only another league or so,” Aramis said, making as if to dismount and join him.

  “No, no, stay on your horse,” Porthos said, waving him off. “You should ride ahead and get the papers to de Tréville. I’ll join you before too long.”

  “You’re certain?” Aramis said. “As you said yourself, it won’t take much longer on foot.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “You go on. The road’s practically deserted. I’ll be fine.”

  Aramis smirked at him. “And of course, this way, you won’t have to be there when I explain to de Tréville about the duc.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” Porthos said innocently. “Try to stay out of trouble, why don’t you, since I won’t be around to fish you out of it.”

  Aramis snorted in amusement. “Take your own advice then, my friend—I won’t be around to fish you out of trouble either.”

  Porthos made a rude gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding the reins, and Aramis touched the brim of his hat in ironic salute before reining his mare around and heading off toward Blois at an easy canter. Porthos sighed and looked up at the position of the sun before trudging down the road, leading his lame horse behind him.

  With luck, he could still be in Blois by noon, or perhaps a bit after.

  finis