the musketeer's seamstress

by Sarah D'almeida

  Fasset turned around. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “The reason you were being followed—and all of you were being followed—is that your friend Aramis left his mother’s estate sometime yesterday and the Cardinal was trying to intercept him and arrest him. Anyone could guess that the four inseparables would cleave together, so the fastest way to find him was to guard the three of you.”

  “Aramis left his mother’s estate?” Athos asked, shocked. And, to Fasset’s quick nod, he added, frowning. “But why try to kill me then? And you know that this was an attempt to kill me, nothing else. No one asked me where Aramis was. No one . . .”

  Fasset was shaking his head violently. “No. I could understand their following you. I could understand their apprehending your friend Aramis. What I couldn’t understand, nor could I accept or condone, was that they’d tried to kill you on such a slim excuse.”

  “Excuse?”

  “The . . . there was an object.”

  “The dagger!” Athos said.

  Fasset sighed. “Yes. The dagger. The one used to kill the woman. We’d been looking for it for some time, and today you were seen washing it in a fountain, presumably to rid it of blood. And then you went from shop to shop, to find out to whom it belonged.”

  “And it turned out it had been made for the King, for his wedding.”

  Fasset nodded. “The . . . man who was following you heard that conversation and thought you’d have to be killed.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Milord, surely you know better. What if you spoke to anyone of the King’s dagger being used for the murder?”

  Athos spread his hands, palm up, on his lap, as if to signify his helplessness in the face of oaths given and education received. “How could I?” he asked. “I am the King’s musketeer. Even if I thought his majesty—”

  “Of course,” Fasset said. “And that’s what I told them. But by the time I told them, the man who’d been following you had assembled a group, and they’d . . . You know how I found you. I only heard about it when I overheard them reporting to his eminence.”

  Athos got the impression that Fasset overheard a lot of things. Probably not all by accident. Not even most of them.

  “And then you resigned,” he said. “Seems excessive for the deeds of some guards.”

  “Oh,” Fasset said. “I told you I overheard them reporting to his eminence. Well. I also heard his eminence’s reply.”

  Athos felt as if his heart skipped a beat. There was an idea forming in his head, an idea that he really didn’t want to condone nor think about. But it was growing. He wasn’t quite sure what it was yet, except for a feeling of something looming over him, a feeling that he should be doing something. Aloud, he completed Fasset’s reply. “The Cardinal approved.”

  Fasset shrugged. “I could not work for someone who accepted unjustifiable murder.”

  Murder. Was there more to it than that? What if the King had given the dagger to the Cardinal? What if the Cardinal had then used it, via a minion, to kill the Duchess? What if he was afraid they’d discover this through the knife?

  If he hadn’t stolen the knife, Athos would have been able to present it to the King as proof.

  And then the idea, monstrous, immense, breathtaking, hit him like a clout to the head. “My friends,” he said, his mouth hurrying ahead of his brain and trying to explain his fear to Fasset ahead of his mind’s fully connecting the thoughts. “My friends. Does the Cardinal know . . . Does the Cardinal think they have seen the dagger and heard of it, they might find the same link to the dagger once I’m found dead?”

  He stood, on trembling legs. His thigh didn’t hurt nearly as badly. He could walk. He looked at Fasset who stood, eyes wide open, looking like he too had been hit hard, between the eyes.

  “Hurry, man, lend me a sword,” Athos said. “I must go help my friends.”

  Fasset shook his head. “Monsieur, you’re in your shirt. You’re not in the state to fight anyone, and you’re surely not going to fight the guards of the Cardinal in your shirt and bare bottomed.”

  Athos looked down impatiently. His breeches, lying on the floor by his feet, were useless. But his over breeches . . . He reached for them.

  “Catch,” Fasset said. And Athos turned, to catch a pair of breeches thrown in his general direction. They were the bloodred of the Cardinal’s guards, and loose venetians, but that hardly signified at the time.

  “They should fit you,” Fasset said. “Though they’ll be perhaps a tad short.”

  Before he’d stopped speaking, Athos had already fastened the breeches. His drying hair, he likewise tied back with a scrap of the same strip he’d used to bandage his thigh.

  “A sword or a dagger?” he told Fasset.

  “You cannot mean to go fight. You cannot get there in time. You cannot even walk the distance to the nearest of their houses, much less run it as you’d need to do if you wish to get there in time.”

  Athos ground his teeth. “Watch me,” he said.

  Fasset sighed. From a corner, he retrieved a sword, which he extended to Athos, pommel out, even as Athos finished fastening his sword belt. Athos sheathed the sword, then slipped his feet into boots. He pulled his doublet on, laced it tightly.

  He was aware, if he allowed himself to think about it, that his thigh hurt like the blazes. But it was properly bandaged, it had been treated and he refused to give it more attention than it deserved. He would go to D’Artagnan’s first. If he was careful he could follow an itinerary that hit each of his friends’ houses in turn, in a minimum of time. That way he could aid whoever needed aid.

  Opening the door, he rushed out. He was two flights down the rickety stairs, when he heard Fasset’s door slam and a rush of feet.

  Looking up, over his shoulder, he saw Fasset—fully attired and wearing his sword—following him.

  At the look, Fasset called out, “I’m sure there is a commandment that forbids someone who almost became a monk from letting a madman go alone to seek his death.”

  Where Porthos Discovers the Virtues of Recessed Doorways; The Guards of the Cardinal Get a Surprise; And Aramis Comes Back Home

  ARAMIS had stood in the recessed doorway so long that he must have dozed.

  He was fairly sure he knew where his foe was. Or at least, he had some inkling of where the Cardinal’s spy hid—in a doorway three doors down. He wondered if the spy had any idea he was there. He was fairly sure the man could have no idea of who Aramis actually was. If he did, he would long ago have walked down the street and arrested Aramis. No. His identity remained hidden. His presence might not, but then, the guard wouldn’t know anything but that someone else was spying on the same door.

  Aramis felt worn out. Exhausted by vigilance. He stared at Porthos’s doorway so much his eyes hurt. He wished for a glimpse of his friend and realized, with an almost physical pain, that he missed Porthos.

  Had anyone asked him before today, he would have said that of course, Porthos was one of his best friends. After all, he had allowed Aramis to escape sure death in that first duel. And he’d been so kind as to stand second in a duel to a seminarian who could have found no one else to stand with him. But he’d have said that he tolerated Porthos’s company. Barely. He would say Porthos was too uncouth, his education too deficient. And while Porthos’s mind left nothing to be desired, what came out of his mouth often bordered on incomprehensible gibberish.

  All that he would have said before this week. Now he realized that he’d grown used to Porthos. Oh, perhaps it was only that. Or perhaps it was that he and Porthos had long grown used to functioning as a unit, a complete person. Aramis supplied the philosophy, the ease of expression, the fluency. And Porthos supplied the strength, the solidity, the unswerving loyalty.

  Aramis would wager that of all the people in Paris and the many who called themselves his friends, Porthos was the only one who—not for a moment—would have never considered Aramis’s guilt in this. And he would not talk about it, nor would he dissect
it. The moment he saw Aramis, the only thing in Porthos’s mind would be to make everything as it had been before these horrible events. And that was all Aramis wanted. All he could hope for.

  So, where was Porthos? Why didn’t he come home?

  Aramis leaned against the door frame, and must have dozed. He must have dozed because he woke up to the sound of clashing swords, as well as the continuous stream of talk that was characteristic of Porthos when he dueled.

  “Five of you, is it?” Porthos said. “Five of you to take the one man. Ah. Watch as I fight all of you. Cowards. Canaille.”

  The shadow three doorways down detached from the building and ran, to join the guards. Six. Six against Porthos.

  Without thinking, Aramis’s hand went to where his sword normally hung, and he cursed at finding the scabbard gone from his belt. Blindly, he grabbed for his other scabbard, and pulled out his dagger, as he ran forward, a formless scream tearing his throat.

  At some level in his mind, he knew this was madness, he knew this was suicide. But he could say, with complete honesty, he’d have done the same had he seen any other single man being attacked by five armed men.

  “Ah, Aramis,” Porthos said, while he flashed and danced and parried the swords of all opponents, seeming to be in ten places at once, and to have eyes behind his back besides.

  It was only when seeing him do something like this that one remembered that Porthos was a fencing and dancing master.

  “Catch,” Porthos yelled, and as he did, he brought his sword up from below, catching an opponent’s sword at the tip, and sending it flying, in Aramis’s general direction.

  This was so much like a dozen duels they’d taken part in, that Aramis didn’t even think. At any rate, the worst thing you can do is think while a sword is headed for you, turning end over end.

  Instead, Aramis leapt forward and grabbed the sword handle, plucking the weapon out of midair as easily as if it had been handed to him. In the landing, he kicked his foot up, managing to hit the man who’d lost the sword just so, as he dove for it. The man went flying in turn, falling to the dirt, immobile.

  Aramis called, “A moi canaille. See how you fight when the odds are more even.”

  Half of Porthos’s opponents turned towards him.

  Aramis had come home.

  Evening the Odds; Two Gascons and a Musketeer

  EACH step Athos took, he thought might be the last. His leg hurt and threatened to buckle under him. But Athos had long experience in refusing to give in to his body.

  He had fought drunk, he had fought wounded, he had fought after he had spent nights without sleeping and his dreams, like waking phantoms, plagued his daytime vision. It would not change now. He would not give in to his pain, or his weakness now. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in sheer determination.

  He ran and every time he thought he would fall, he forced himself to run faster. Behind him, he could hear Fasset panting, trying to catch up.

  His pain spurred Athos on, faster and faster, till he heard the sound of swords clashing on swords, nearby. And then he stopped for a moment, catching a breath, as the thought caught up with his panicked mind.

  D’Artagnan. They’d already got to D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan was suffering through an onslaught like the one that Athos had endured.

  Oh, D’Artagnan was the devil himself with a sword. Ventre saint gris, the King himself had called him. But even so, D’Artagnan was young. And for all his theory, he was short on practice.

  And those men would be the Cardinal’s best, most merciless killers.

  If Athos had been running fast before, now he flew, his feet barely touching the ground, his borrowed sword somehow moving out of the scabbard and into his hand.

  “Athos,” D’Artagnan’s voice yelled, as Athos rounded the corner.

  Without ever slowing down, Athos took in the scene before him. There were five men fighting D’Artagnan. Only D’Artagnan was not on the same level with them, but was suspended from a trellis, heavily plaited with ivy, that ran up the side of D’Artagnan’s building. In a position only possible to someone as young and agile as D’Artagnan, the young man was hanging from the trellis with one hand, and keeping the guards at bay with feet and sword.

  At D’Artagnan’s call, some of the men turned, all of them looked. D’Artagnan took the opportunity to jump down from the trellis and engage the guards fully. Athos registered, without giving it much thought, that the young man was wearing only his shirt—white and knee long.

  “But it is impossible,” one of the guards said, facing Athos fully. “You are dead.”

  “No,” Athos said, jumping into the battle. “But you soon will be.”

  And then the battle plunged into what it always was for Athos—a red mist, and a craving for fight and death and blood. When he’d first come to Paris, when he’d first started his self-imposed exile, he was afraid he was possessed by some evil spirit. His dueling which, up till then, had been mannered and masterful but more art than anger, had become a screaming pit of rage after his wife’s death.

  He still wasn’t sure he was not possessed. And he didn’t care.

  He fought in the red, hot mist of his own rage, from which only his friends—D’Artagnan to his right and Fasset to his left—were protected.

  When the fury abated, and his heart, that had been threatening to break the bounds of his ribcage, slowed down enough for Athos to stop fighting, he found himself standing with his back against D’Artagnan’s wall. D’Artagnan was still to his right, and still in his nightshirt. Fasset was still to his left, bent double, clutching his sword, while breathing so hard that Athos thought the man must be wounded.

  But it didn’t matter if he was, because they’d carried the day. In front of them, in various positions of death, lay six guards of the Cardinal.

  “Are you wounded, Fasset?” Athos asked.

  Fasset shook his head, while still drawing deep, chest-straining breaths. “No, curse you, but I’m also not a demon, like you.”

  Athos nodded. He might be a demon, for all he knew. “We must go to Porthos’s place now,” he said, as much to D’Artagnan as to Fasset. “I don’t see any reason to go by Aramis’s lodging because he wouldn’t be so stupid as to go there and they must know it. But they’ll be at Porthos’s. Porthos will need our help.” He thought of his capable, giant friend, who bragged of being able to take three duelers at once, and usually could.

  But could he stand alone against determined killers who didn’t care for the rules of war?

  “Will you come with me?” he asked both of them.

  “Yes,” D’Artagnan said.

  “In your nightshirt?”

  D’Artagnan grinned, and kicked up his foot. “It’s warm and I have my boots on.”

  Athos nodded. “And you, Fasset?”

  Fasset shook his head. “I don’t think I could. The two of you aren’t human.”

  “Better, perhaps,” Athos said. “These six are dead, but we don’t need the guards, as a whole to know you’ve betrayed them. Thank you, my friend. I owe you my life.”

  Without delaying, Athos took off running, following D’Artagnan who ran like a demon, taking every possible shortcut between his house and Porthos’s.

  What To Do with a Fugitive; Where the Cardinal’s Guilt Is Agreed Upon, but Guilt of What Is Strenuously Argued

  D’ARTAGNAN arrived at Porthos’s house before Athos, just in time to join the melee.

  As he arrived, Porthos and Aramis were close to carrying the day, with three of their opponents lying dead. As D’Artagnan started fighting the fourth, he dropped his sword, turned and ran away.

  He was shortly followed by number five, while the sixth fell to the ground, Porthos’s sword having neatly speared him through the chest.

  Athos arrived just in time to see the three friends standing there, looking at their dead foes. With immediate and complete composure, Athos stopped and slid his sword into its scabbard. He looked down at the foes, and c
rossed his arms on his chest, while he frowned at them, as though holding them responsible for cutting his fun short.

  D’Artagnan became aware of being very informally attired. Even in the warm evening air, his legs felt naked and cold, as the breeze ruffled his nightshirt’s hem.

  And he became aware that Aramis was looking at him, and frowning vaguely in his direction.

  “I was in bed,” D’Artagnan said. “And I heard men talking, beneath my window. They were going to force the door open.”

  “So he jumped down from his window, scrambled down the trellis and gave battle,” Athos said.

  “And then Athos and . . . was that Fasset?” D’Artagnan asked, and Athos nodded. “Joined, and Athos killed three of them, I killed two, and Fasset killed one.”

  “But why?” Porthos asked. He cleaned his sword on the clothes of a fallen opponent, and slid it back into its scabbard. “Why were they trying to kill us? Because that was not a simple challenge for a duel. They wanted to kill us.”

  “They thought—” Athos started.

  “No,” D’Artagnan said. It occurred to him that in the dark, with darker doorways all around, there was a very good chance of being overheard if they stood here, in the middle of the street. And, D’Artagnan thought, looking at the corpses at their feet, if this was not secret matter, it should be. “Porthos, may we go inside?”

  The redhead’s face fell. He looked guilty, immediately, of lack of hospitality. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Do come in. I’m a boar. I should have invited you in sooner.” And, as he spoke, he started unlocking his door.

  “Hardly,” Aramis said, his voice dry and humorous. “If you had invited us inside sooner, we’d only have got blood all over your stairway.”

  Porthos’s stairway was very grand, as was indeed, his entire lodging. The rooms had been subdivided from a much larger, much grander home, and the vestiges of it remained in marble panels on the walls, and in columns separating the entrance from the area where they gathered.