The Last Musketeer

by Stuart Gibbs

  They were in the huge central courtyard of the palace. Ahead, the scaffolding ended abruptly at a vast archway that led to the street. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos slid down a ladder to the ground and held it steady as Greg nimbly followed. Together, the four ripped the ladder from its moorings and shoved it away as the soldiers reached for it. It smashed to bits on the ground, stranding Dinicoeur’s men twenty feet above them. Dinicoeur himself was nowhere to be seen.

  For the briefest instant, Greg felt relief, until the soldiers started shouting for help.

  An entire platoon poured out of a door on the opposite end of the courtyard. Porthos led the way through the archway toward the front door, where their horses were still tethered, guarded by one of the sleepy-looking teenage soldiers. Athos slipped up behind him and snatched his sword from his scabbard. The young soldier took one look at the blade and fled.

  As the boys untied the reins and climbed astride the horses, Greg caught a glimpse of someone watching them from a window upstairs. Milady de Winter. Where has she been? he wondered. Had she fended off Valois and Dinicoeur for as long as possible . . . or had she led Greg and the others straight into a trap? He noticed the other boys staring at her as well. Athos’s and Porthos’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, while Aramis broke into a huge smile.

  “Forget her,” Athos hissed. “Before all her help is for naught.” He smacked Aramis’s horse on the rear, sending it charging into the city. Greg kicked at his own horse and leaned forward. The sudden speed nearly threw him from the saddle. The deafening thunder of hooves filled his ears as the wind whipped through his hair, his bones rattling with the rapid up-and-down motion.

  Greg clung tightly to the reins. He knew how to handle a steed at a full gallop, but always on a dirt track specifically tailored for riding. Now he found himself steering an unfamiliar horse through crowded and uneven cobblestone streets while mounted soldiers bore down on him.

  He had no idea where he was going. But Porthos and Athos seemed sure of themselves, so he just followed them. Nearby, Aramis looked as if he were having as tough a time as Greg. Then again, he was neither royalty nor militia, so he was unused to horseback riding.

  Greg fought the temptation to look back at the soldiers pursuing them. He couldn’t stop thinking about Michel Dinicoeur. How could the man from the future also be Dominic Richelieu? He’d only come back through time when Greg had, two nights before. He couldn’t have invented an entirely new identity . . . unless that wasn’t the first time Dinicoeur had visited the past. But that was impossible; Dinicoeur hadn’t been able to pass through time until he’d gotten his hands on Greg’s mother’s crystal. And what about his hand? How had it grown back?

  Upon hurtling around a corner, Greg spotted one of the city gates looming ahead: two thick stone towers with a narrow gap between them, spanned by a stone arch—and manned by four sentries. Two of the sentries readied their crossbows while the other two raced down the stairs toward the massive winch that controlled the iron portcullis. Greg gulped. Once the portcullis spikes hit the ground, his exit would be cut off. Or worse, he’d be impaled. . . .

  Up by the gates, Athos leaped off his horse while it was still moving, whipped out his sword, and fended off the guards. Porthos and Aramis began to rein their own mounts, but Athos waved them on and they thundered through the gate behind Athos’s steed.

  Greg allowed himself one tiny glance over his shoulder as his horse approached Athos. Bad idea. Valois was leading the charge and closing the gap. Greg could feel the ground trembling from the horses’ hooves. He faced forward, galloping faster. A crossbow from the sentries atop the gate whistled past his ear.

  Immediately ahead, Athos fended off the guards a final time, then whirled around and kicked the lever that locked the winch in place. The winch spun wildly, unspooling the chain around it and the portcullis hurtled toward the ground. In a fluid move, Athos grabbed the reins of Greg’s horse and leaped on its back, seating himself behind Greg. The horse never broke stride. It charged under the arch just as the gate thudded into place behind them.

  Valois’s horse whinnied in fear and skidded sideways, slamming the soldier into the iron bars.

  “Au revoir, Valois!” Athos taunted. “Once again, you have failed in your duties.”

  “Laugh now!” Valois spat back. “But this isn’t the last you’ve seen of me.”

  Up ahead, Porthos laughed. “The thought of seeing your face again is terrifying.”

  The boys spurred their horses and galloped away into the countryside. As thrilled as Greg felt that they’d escaped with their lives (for the time being), he didn’t find much humor in Porthos’s joke. Because Greg was terrified at the idea of seeing Valois again. And now that Dinicoeur had reappeared, Greg had a creeping suspicion he would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AS THE SUN SET OVER THE ROLLING HILLS AND FIELDS, Porthos led the way to his family’s “country residence.” Greg was a little more familiar with his surroundings by now . . . and he was almost able to laugh at the location. Four hundred years later, the palatial gardens and stables would be buried under several thousand tons of concrete to form the runways of Charles de Gaulle Airport. But in 1615, a turreted castle stood in place of a control tower.

  Porthos’s home wasn’t as massive as the Louvre, but it was less fortresslike. After stabling their horses, Porthos led the four boys through a back entrance into a vast kitchen. Several servants greeted him by an open hearth at its center. They informed Porthos his parents had left for a few days, touring the far-flung portions of their land, which extended, Greg learned, halfway to Belgium. Porthos shrugged this off as if it happened all the time, then led the boys through a narrow passageway. Greg soon found himself seated at a table with the others in front of a roaring fireplace—devouring fresh bread, cheese, and sausage.

  “Something’s not right here,” Porthos told Greg. “Richelieu knew you. I could tell when he entered the king’s chambers. He was surprised to see you, and he immediately demanded our arrest.”

  Greg nodded. “I know. But, even stranger, he recognized all of you, too.”

  The other boys exchanged confused looks.

  “That’s impossible,” Aramis stated. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Neither have I,” Porthos said.

  “I’ve spent a year in the militia trying to get Richelieu to recognize me,” Athos added. “But I never have. I can guarantee you: The man has no idea who I am.”

  Greg shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t before, but he does now. I saw it in his eyes. He knew who all of you were. He seemed even more surprised to see you than me.”

  “Nonsense,” Aramis argued. “He was looking at you the whole time. How is it that the head of the king’s guard knows a boy from Artagnan who arrived here only two days ago?”

  “Because Richelieu is also Michel Dinicoeur,” Greg replied.

  The boys gaped at him, trying to comprehend. Greg had expected this. He’d put a lot of thought into how much he could reveal about Dinicoeur—without revealing that he was from the future, too.

  “I don’t understand,” Porthos admitted.

  “He introduced himself to my family as Michel Dinicoeur,” Greg explained. “He’s the man who stole from us, who we followed to the palace, and who condemned my parents to death. But it wasn’t until he entered the king’s quarters that I discovered his true identity.”

  Aramis’s expression hardened. “D’Artagnan, I think it’s time you owned up about what he stole from you.”

  Greg bit his lip. He’d never heard Aramis sound so impatient or exasperated. “I told you . . . it’s a cherished family heirloom.”

  “Yes, but what is it?” Aramis demanded. “I’d like to know the full story.”

  “It’s a piece of jewelry. An extremely valuable necklace. In fact, it’s the most valuable thing my family owns.” Greg felt that wasn’t too much of a stretch. Even if the crystal wasn’t expensive, if it could get his family back to the twent
y-first century, it was worth more than all the gold in the world.

  Aramis furrowed his brow. “Even if Richelieu is a thief, why would he journey all the way out to Artagnan to steal a piece of jewelry? If he wanted to steal something, there are no doubt hundreds of jewels in the palace.”

  Greg frowned, unsure what to say. That was an excellent question. Thankfully, Athos answered for him.

  “Because if he stole from the palace and got caught, he’d end up on the gallows. But look what happens when Richelieu steals from some noble yokels no one in Paris knows: He has the clout to condemn them to death and no one bats an eye.”

  “Very clever, when you think about it,” Porthos chimed in. “He could be robbing the countryside blind. But because of his position here, no one can touch him.”

  “That’s right,” Greg said quickly. “That’s probably why he did it. I mean, that’s probably why he singled out my family, you know?”

  Athos and Porthos nodded.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Aramis said, though Greg could tell from his tone he still wasn’t convinced.

  “I think we should keep an eye on Richelieu,” Greg said.

  “And I think we should worry about one thing at a time,” Athos replied. “You don’t think freeing your parents from La Mort is enough to do? Richelieu and Valois have both seen all four of us. It won’t be hard to figure out we’re the ones who broke into Richelieu’s office, and once he realizes what’s missing . . .” Athos didn’t bother to finish.

  “Richelieu’s no fool,” Aramis said with a grimace. “He’s probably already figured out our plans for La Mort. To break into the prison now is suicide.”

  Greg felt himself go pale.

  “Not necessarily.” Porthos stared pensively into the roaring flames. “There are always ways to turn a man’s suspicions against him. Believe me. We won’t know how to play this game—or even if we need to play this game—until we know what Richelieu is up to. Which means D’Artagnan is right. We need to keep an eye on him.”

  “How?” Greg asked. “Aramis just said we have other things to do.”

  “Well, it will take all four of us to conduct the break-in, but perhaps not to plan it,” Porthos said. “Let’s see the architectural plans.”

  Greg pulled the parchment from the folds of his shirt and laid it on the table while servants cleared the dishes.

  Porthos smiled. “Now that we have this, we only need to combine Aramis’s brains with my knowledge of the prison. We can hatch the plan while you and Athos investigate Richelieu.”

  Aramis frowned. Greg could tell that he wasn’t excited about spending a lot of time alone with Porthos, whom he considered lazy and pampered. “You promise to actually help me?” Aramis asked dubiously. “You won’t just goof off while I do all the work?”

  “I swear it.” Porthos took a knife and pressed the blade against his hand. “I’ll even do it on a blood oath, if you’d like.”

  Aramis turned slightly green. “Thank you, no. Your word is good enough.”

  Porthos smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get to work.”

  The sun had set by the time Greg and Athos got back to Paris. Athos recommended that they tie their horses several hundred yards from the Bastille gate in order not to attract attention. Peasants arriving on such fine horses might have raised eyebrows among the guards. They’d also borrowed some of Porthos’s servants’ filthier and more ill-fitting clothes.

  The moon was high in the sky when the two boys reached a spot along the Seine where they could scope out the Louvre.

  Finding a place where a kid could just hang out and not look suspicious turned out to be harder than Greg had expected. There weren’t any benches or parks; there weren’t even any restaurants. As Greg recalled from his one semester of European history, the first restaurant wouldn’t be opened in Paris—or all of Europe, for that matter—for another fifty years. (And it would serve only one dish: sheep’s feet simmered in wine sauce. Gross.) There were a few pubs. Anyone of any age could drink alcohol, but neither boy had ever had so much as a sip of wine before . . . and it probably wasn’t smart to make this their first time.

  This particular stretch of riverside road was completely deserted, but Athos had an idea how to remain inconspicuous. He snapped two long branches off a tree and tied some string to the ends. Then he and Greg sat on the bank of the Seine, pretending to fish. Greg couldn’t imagine anyone would ever eat anything that came out of the putrid river, but Athos pointed out that beggars literally couldn’t be choosers.

  “But you’ve all turned the river into a cesspool!” Greg exclaimed.

  “Where else would you have us put our waste?” Athos asked. “In our homes?’

  Greg didn’t have an answer for that. Trying to explain a sewage treatment plant to Athos would bring up more questions than it answered—and to be honest, it wasn’t as if people in the future were doing a great job keeping rivers clean. Still, the river reeked. Athos appeared not to notice, but Greg’s stomach pitched queasily. He tried to breathe through his open mouth. It didn’t help. He could almost taste the filth.

  “You don’t like Paris, do you?” Athos asked.

  Greg blanched. “Sure I do. . . .”

  “You lie. I’ve seen the way you look at it, the way you wrinkle your nose in disgust. You believe the entire city is a cesspool, not only the river.”

  “It’s just . . . well, the city isn’t quite what I expected,” Greg admitted.

  “There are many who say it is the greatest city in the world,” Athos said.

  “I know. And it probably is. I guess I miss home.”

  Athos nodded. “That I can understand. Do you have a fiancée back there?”

  Greg nearly dropped his stick into the water. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Hardly. Remind me: How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” Greg answered.

  “Exactly. You’re getting on in years. The king is fourteen and he’s getting married.”

  Greg felt his face getting hot. He was glad they were far from the nearest torchlight. “I thought that was only for political reasons.”

  “It’s also the right time. What age do people get married in Artagnan?”

  “Uh, well, in their twenties, mostly. Sometimes even later than that.”

  “You mean, when they’re thirty? They’re almost dead by then!” Athos laughed. “What could everyone possibly be doing for all that time if they’re not raising a family?”

  Greg stared out over the river. The thing that bothered him most about time travel was the constant lying. He wanted to be honest, to tell Athos—or anyone—about the future. About all the things that were different: schools, cars, airplanes, restaurants, refrigerators, cell phones, computers, hospitals, flush toilets . . . The list went on and on. Maybe Athos would believe him; maybe he’d even be impressed. But not everyone would. Once the secret was out, he wouldn’t be able to control how people reacted.

  “Are you engaged?” Greg finally asked.

  Athos sighed with a sad smile. “Me? My family doesn’t have the means to arrange a wedding. We had hoped my military service would make me a better prospect, but . . . that seems to be over. I don’t know how I’ll tell my parents about it.”

  “Perhaps there’s still a way to get you reinstated,” Greg offered. All at once he felt terrible. He’d been so focused on rescuing his parents that he hadn’t stopped to consider all the havoc he’d been causing among the lives of his new friends . . . kids who’d risked everything to help a perfect stranger.

  “After what we did today?” Athos mused. “Not very likely.”

  “Then why are you helping me? If it’s ruining the prospects for your life—”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do. My father might not have had much, but he did give me a code of honor.” Athos absently tapped his fingers on his fishing pole. “Maybe it was foolish of me, but I thought someone in the military would respect that. Someone would
prize skill over birthright. I know it’s heretical to say it, but sometimes this whole class system just seems wrong to me.”

  Greg nodded. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”

  Athos mustered a tired grin. “You say things that are better left unsaid, D’Artagnan. Is everyone as plainspoken where you come from?”

  “Yes,” Greg said. He decided right then and there to tell the truth as much as he possibly could. “The class system is wrong. And it won’t be like this forever. Someday, people will be judged on their merits—how smart or talented they are—instead of who their parents are. They’ll be able to choose who they want to marry instead of having weddings arranged for them. And kings and queens won’t matter anymore. People will elect the real leaders. . . .” Greg trailed off, realizing Athos was staring at him in shock.

  “I had no idea,” Athos said. “You really don’t like the monarchy.”

  “Well, I . . . um, that’s not exactly true. The king seemed nice. You know, for someone who . . .” He wanted to say, Someone who has led a completely sheltered life and probably has no real friends. But that would definitely be a little too over the top.

  “Someone who was picked by God himself to rule France?” Athos finished for him. “Do you expect the people could pick someone better, D’Artagnan?”

  Greg swallowed, staring back out at the river. “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Athos continued. “It sounds . . . well, different. I’ve never heard such ideas before.”

  “Forget I mentioned them.”

  “Why? They’re very interesting. Especially this idea of choosing the girl you want to marry . . .” Athos shot a wistful glance at the stars.

  Greg smiled. “Athos? Is there a girl you like?”

  “Yes. But it could never happen. Maybe in your fantasy world, but not this one.”