by Stuart Gibbs
“I notice it’s always the people on the top of the class system who say that,” Athos mused. “Not the people on the bottom.”
“I’m not on the top of the class system,” Aramis protested.
“Well, you’re higher up than me,” Athos snapped.
Greg stood between them. “Enough! We’ll never save my parents if we can’t work as a team.”
The boys glared at each other over Greg’s shoulder, but remained silent.
“I fear this is a hopeless mission,” Aramis said with a sigh, turning back to the prison. “It’s protected by at least twenty men.”
“I can defeat twenty men,” Athos said with a smile. “I did it before lunch today.”
“In a crowded marketplace,” Aramis countered. “These soldiers have the advantage of high ground and open water. They could kill you a hundred times before you even got to the island.”
“Then we’ll just have to figure out a way for me to get to that island without being seen,” Athos said.
“And what then?” Aramis asked. “How will you find Greg’s parents? The prison is rumored to be a labyrinth inside.”
Athos considered this, then said, “We’ll have to talk to someone who has been inside La Mort.”
“Ha!” Aramis barked. “Good luck with that. Anyone who goes inside La Mort either comes out to be hanged or comes out as a corpse.”
“I wasn’t thinking of a prisoner,” said Athos.
“Fine, but its guards have all sworn not to reveal details of the prison’s construction under penalty of death,” Aramis stated.
Athos shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking of a guard, either.”
“Then who?” Greg asked.
Athos’s green eyes danced. “Someone I haven’t met but have heard of more than once. His name is Porthos. He’s not only been inside La Mort, he’s lived to tell the tale.”
Chapter Ten
ARAMIS SUGGESTED THAT IT MIGHT BE BEST IF HE TRACKED down Porthos while Greg and Athos hid in his room in Notre Dame. Aramis was the only one who wasn’t a wanted man, after all. But the real truth, Greg suspected, was that Aramis could tell Greg was exhausted. Not for the first time, Greg thought how lucky he was to have met Aramis, someone who looked out for others to such a degree. There was no doubt that Aramis lent him legitimacy and had probably contributed to Athos’s decision to join the quest. Greg found himself looking up gratefully to both new friends, as if to a pair of wildly different older brothers.
Both Greg and Athos fell asleep on the straw pallet, Greg too bone-tired to think for long about the way the future Musketeers were all coming together.
The room was dark when Aramis shook Greg and Athos awake. “I’ve found Porthos,” he whispered. “It wasn’t hard.”
Greg was too groggy to ask any questions. He shambled into a borrowed cloak and followed Aramis and Athos out into the Parisian night, across the house-lined bridge. Only this time, they headed away from the Hôtel de Ville, toward an area of town that was nicer than the ones Greg had seen before. Stone homes lined the streets. Horse-drawn carriages rattled over cobblestones, and Athos stole resentful glances at the passengers. All were decked out in finery, with silk robes and glittering jewels. Their perfume reeked. But at least it was better than the smell of body odor.
“Just one of those gems could feed my neighbors for a year,” Athos muttered.
The farther they plodded along, the clearer it became that every carriage was headed to the same place: a massive château that loomed at a dead end. Athos pointed toward a wobbly figure standing in the shadows at one side.
Greg’s eyes narrowed. The boy was . . . peeing.
“That’s Porthos,” Aramis whispered irritably.
The boy buttoned his pants, then turned and staggered back into the moonlight. Two teenage girls appeared from seemingly out of nowhere and looped their arms around his. The boy cackled with laughter. Greg wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh himself. Porthos wore foppish clothes: a velvet jacket and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather. He was also slightly overweight, which made him the fattest person Greg had seen so far in 1615. Most people were borderline emaciated. So Porthos was clearly rich. No wonder he was carefree and happy and relieving himself where he wanted.
“He’s a ne’er-do-well,” Aramis spat.
“If there was ever an argument against the class system, he’s it,” Athos snorted.
“Come along, Porthos!” one of the girls cried, her bouffant hairdo swaying in the night breeze. “Let’s get back to the party.”
“The party is me,” Porthos joked. “I am the party.”
Both girls tittered in response.
Greg stepped forward and tapped Porthos on the shoulder. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “My friends and I would like to ask you some questions about a particular area of expertise you have.”
Porthos considered him curiously. “I wasn’t aware I had an area of expertise,” he finally replied.
“We hear you’ve been inside La Mort,” Athos chimed in.
Porthos’s ruddy face brightened. “Ah! Yes, I have. Though if you’re looking for a story, I have many that are better. I could start with the time the Lord of Buckingham challenged me to a duel. But I’m sure you’ve heard that one.”
The girls giggled, as if on cue.
“It’s La Mort that interests us,” Aramis said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Well. This sounds terribly serious.” Porthos turned to the girls. “Don’t worry, ladies. It’s not a bad tale either. Come inside, everyone.” He hooked an arm around each of the girls’ waists and headed for the door.
Greg started after him, but Aramis seized his arm.
“We can’t go in there!” Aramis hissed. “That’s a nobleman’s house!”
Porthos turned and laughed. “First of all, you’re with me, so you can come. Second, it’s a party. No one will even notice you.” With that, he marched up the front steps and puffed out his chest toward the servants who flanked the open door: two anxious-looking older boys in red coats. Voices, laughter, and the faint strains of tinny classical music trickled outside—carried on the scent of a delicious roast. Greg’s mouth watered.
“Lord Porthos of Tremblay returning with his entourage,” Porthos announced.
The servants bowed graciously to him and allowed the entire group inside, though Greg caught them both frowning at him and Aramis and Athos. Greg kept his head down and hurried after Porthos and his two girlfriends.
For the first time since Greg had arrived in the past, he found himself in a somewhat familiar setting. A party for rich kids in 1615 looked a lot like a party for rich kids four centuries later—only the music was softer (a mandolin trio accompanied by a harpsichord), the makeup was a lot thicker . . . and the fashion was so over the top that Greg had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
“What’s with the huge wigs?” Greg heard himself ask.
“Fleas. Lice.” Aramis whispered back. “Maybe in Artagnan, they’ve found a way to rid the world of them. But here in Paris, shaving one’s head is a sign of nobility.”
Some guests wore wigs so tall that the owners had to duck under the candlelit chandeliers. On the dance floor, couples simply moved in prearranged patterns. It looked like an old-time American square dance, but slower and a lot less fun.
“This is unbelievable,” Athos muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
“It is,” Aramis answered serenely. “I’ve never seen so much food in my life.”
Greg followed their eyes. Three roast pigs sat in the center of a massive wooden table near the musicians— surrounded by a cornucopia of fruits, vegetables, soups, sauces, cheeses, charcuterie, nuts, spices, and platters of flaky pastries. Without thinking, Greg ravenously descended on the feast, followed by Athos and Aramis. He tried to ignore the fact that several guests were frowning at them as they stuffed their faces.
Luckily, Porthos swept in and began shoving roast pig into his mouth along with them.
He also tucked a few extra pastries into the folds of his shirt. Greg reached for a tiny silver bowl.
“What are you doing?” Porthos asked curiously.
“Just getting some cinnamon.”
“It costs more per ounce than gold,” Porthos whispered.
Greg swallowed. Now that his hunger had been partially sated, he realized that there were only two other silver bowls on the table, each atop a small pedestal. One held salt and one held pepper. “Sorry. Cinnamon isn’t valuable where I come from.”
Porthos’s bushy eyebrows wrinkled. “Where is that? The East Indies?”
“He’s from Artagnan, my lord,” Aramis explained.
“Ahh.” Porthos smiled again. “That explains the strange accent, too. So why are you so interested in La Mort?” he asked, his mouth crammed full.
“My parents have been sent there,” Greg answered.
“Bad news for them. What’d they do?”
“Nothing,” Greg said anxiously. “They were accused unjustly.”
“Just like me!” Porthos exclaimed.
Athos laughed. “I heard you stole a horse from the Lord of Bordeaux.”
“Pfft.” Porthos sniffed. “His son lost that horse in a card game to me but didn’t want to admit it to his father. He said it was stolen, and I got nabbed for riding it.”
“And they put you in La Mort?” Aramis asked.
Porthos wiped his mouth with his velvet coat sleeve. “I didn’t look noble when they caught me.”
“What do you mean?” Greg asked, confused.
“I fell off the horse,” Porthos admitted. “Into the Seine.” He laughed. “I’m not the best rider. And it was a very spirited horse. I got soaked and it was a cold day, so I procured clothes from some peasants. When the militia caught up to me, I looked like a peasant. I had no way to prove my name, so they tossed me into La Mort. Fortunately, when Bordeaux’s son heard what had happened, he notified my parents. They notified Dominic Richelieu of the mistake. He released me.”
“How long were you inside?” Greg asked.
“A day.” Porthos turned away with a shudder and grabbed a handful of dried fruit. “Worst day of my life . . .”
Athos leaned forward. “Could you describe what the inside of the prison was like?”
Porthos smirked. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather hear about my duel with Buckingham?”
Greg suppressed a smile. He found himself liking Porthos more and more by the minute. “Later. For now, we want to hear about the prison.”
Porthos sighed, disappointed.
“If you can, tell us everything you can remember,” Aramis said. “How it’s laid out. How the door works. The number of guards posted inside—”
Porthos’s smile faded. He shot a wary glance among the three of them. “Why do you want this information? You all almost sound like you’re planning a prison break. . . .”
Greg jerked involuntarily. They had been too obvious. His face reddened.
But Porthos’s eyes went wide with excitement. So far, it seemed he’d been indulging them as a diversion, keeping one eye on the party in case someone more interesting came along. But now, for the first time, he stared at Greg with a peculiar intensity. “You are, aren’t you? And people say I’m crazy!”
Greg met his gaze. “These are my parents. And like you, they were unjustly accused. We have no other option.”
“With only two clerics and one soldier?” Porthos laughed. “You can’t possibly expect to succeed.”
“I’m a very good soldier,” Athos stated.
“And he’s very smart,” Greg said, pointing to Aramis.
“And what do you bring to the party, D’Artagnan?” Porthos demanded of Greg.
Greg withered under his gaze, finally admitting, “Not much. But they’re my parents. I can’t just let them die.”
“Of course not.” Porthos suddenly grew solemn. “I had a cellmate in La Mort. He claimed he was innocent, that Richelieu had falsely accused him of a crime. I thought this man was a liar. Everyone in prison says they’re innocent, right? But then, a few months later, I met the man’s brother at a dice game. The brother confirmed the truth: This man had been imprisoned on Richelieu’s whim—and died inside La Mort.” Porthos frowned. For the first time, his jolly demeanor faded. “I’ve never done anything important—anything that really mattered, I mean. No one’s ever asked me to. And now you’re being too shy to ask. But if your parents are truly innocent . . . I would like to help you.”
“You would?” Greg asked, excited. “You mean—”
“Stop!” Aramis interrupted. “Porthos. You want to join us? Didn’t you just say we couldn’t expect to succeed?”
“Three people couldn’t,” Porthos countered. “But with my help . . .”
“Help?” Athos spat. “Everyone in Paris knows who you are! Just tell us about La Mort. That’s all the help we need from you.”
Porthos straightened, clumsily attempting to unsheathe his sword. “Perhaps you’d like to step outside and see how good a swordsman I am.”
Athos simply stepped forward and shoved Porthos down on an ornate sofa. A hushed murmur rose from the crowd, and the music seemed to skip a beat, but Porthos waved to everyone with a grin. In an instant, everything returned to normal.
“All right, I’m not the best swordsman,” he said. “But I do have other skills. Like getting people to do what I want. Or what we want.” He looked at Greg.
Athos and Aramis both turned to Greg as well.
Greg shrugged. “Porthos is right. This is going to be hard enough with only three people. We can use all the help we can get.” He returned his attention to Porthos. “If we get you into La Mort, could you find my parents and help get them out?”
“I very much doubt it,” Porthos admitted. “But—”
“Then what good are you?” Athos demanded.
“You didn’t let me finish!” Porthos snapped. “I was trying to say, ‘But we need a map.’ La Mort is a maze that is dark as the stormiest night.”
“So where do they keep the map?” Aramis asked. “Inside the guards’ quarters?”
“Oh no,” Porthos replied. “Then anyone who broke in would be able to use it.”
“Then how do the guards find their way around?” Athos inquired.
“They have to memorize the place,” Porthos said. “And good luck getting any of them to tell you anything. The penalty for that is death.”
“So . . . there isn’t any map?” Greg asked.
“No, there is. But it’s not at La Mort,” Porthos said. “From what I understand, Dominic Richelieu keeps a copy in his office.”
“Inside the Louvre?” Aramis replied, looking queasy.
Porthos nodded and turned to Greg. “If you want to rescue your parents, we’re going to need it.”
Greg slumped beside Porthos on the couch, feeling exhausted again. “So you’re saying that we now also have to break into the king’s palace?”
Porthos threw a friendly arm around Greg’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t only know my way around La Mort. I also know my way around the Louvre.”
Chapter Eleven
PORTHOS INVITED GREG, ATHOS, AND ARAMIS TO SPEND the night in his own family’s city home: a smaller château in the same neighborhood. Greg was thrilled. Anything besides straw was an improvement, and in Porthos’s house he was shown by servants to a soft mattress stuffed with feathers. He fell asleep in an instant.
Porthos himself shook Greg awake, shoving an apple into his face. “Eat this. We’ve got planning to do.”
Greg sat up and rubbed his eyes, squinting around the room. Aramis and Athos were already up and alert. The sun glared through the window. Greg took a bite of the apple and mustered his thoughts.
“Look,” he began, “I have no money to repay you . . . and I know this quest has only a slim chance of succeeding. I guess I just wanted to say . . . thank you. I don’t know why the three of you would go to such lengths to help me, a st
ranger. But I am truly—”
“By now you’re not a stranger,” Aramis interrupted. “You’re a friend.”
“Besides, this is about right and wrong, and defending honor,” Athos added.
“And it’s so much more interesting than anything else I’ve got going on,” Porthos concluded with a wink.
Greg found himself grinning. The dread that had been sitting heavy in his heart seemed to lighten, even if only slightly. “Then let’s do this!” he said.
“Porthos has a plan,” Aramis said, turning to the chubby boy.
“I’ve been invited to plenty of parties at the palace, so I can find my way around inside,” Porthos began. “Once we get in, we’ll work our way over to Richelieu’s office, which is in the military wing. I assume you’ve been there . . . ?” He looked to Athos.
“Only once,” Athos said. “I had to register there when I joined the militia.”
“Ah, yes. The militia.” Porthos smiled. “That’s where you come in, Athos—”
“Wait,” Greg interjected. “How do we get into the palace in the first place?”
“Through the front door.” Porthos stared at him as if he were an idiot. “How else would you enter a palace?”
“But how?” Greg asked. “Isn’t the door guarded?”
“Of course. There are two soldiers posted there,” Porthos said.
“And we’re just supposed to walk right past them?” Greg asked.
“Certainly not,” Porthos replied. “They lead us in.”
Greg opened his mouth but decided not to argue. After all, he and Aramis had marched right into the Hôtel de Ville without any advance warning, and they’d gotten every piece of information they’d needed. Security was a joke in 1615. It wasn’t as if there were ID cards or retinal scans or fingerprints . . . or even signatures. People relied on words and appearance—period.
Porthos went on to explain that official delegations from all over the civilized world often arrived at the palace, but the guards rarely ever knew who was coming until they got there. In fact, more delegations than usual had been arriving recently as His Majesty King Louis XIII was preparing to marry Princess Anne of Austria. The best any visitor could provide was an official letter from whoever had sent them, marked with an official wax seal.