Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “She’s a trendsetter, all right,” Dana said with a smile. If she was going to keep up this espionage thing, she might have to invest in gowns that weren’t Buck’s hand-me-downs. What a horrendous thought.

  “Well, I hope you’re having a better evening than I am,” said the Marquise, making for the door.

  Dana spotted the compact clamshell, where the Marquise had abandoned it near the sink. “You forgot this.”

  “Keep it,” said the darling of the fashion broadcasts with an airy wave. “And if that handsome, silver-tongued date of mine asks anyone if they’ve seen me, please don’t volunteer that I slipped out through the kitchens to avoid him.”

  The bathroom door swung closed behind her. Dana reached down and picked up the compact clamshell. It was unlikely that Milord would have put any evidence of Conrad Su’s latest kidnapping on this thing before presenting it to the Marquise de Wardes, but she could not afford to discard any possible clue.

  It occurred to her that if the Marquise de Wardes could escape this bloody hotel through the kitchens, then Dana could do exactly the same thing. She felt a brief prick of guilt about ditching Aramis and Porthos, but not for long.

  Dana put the clamshell in the tiny evening bag that Aramis had pressed on her because the stupid dress she was wearing was apparently too fancy to include pockets, and made a break for it.

  The hotel didn’t have a back entrance so much as a giant blank wall, but Dana managed to double back and leave the hotel by the main lobby without being spotted by either her friends or Milord de Winter.

  That didn’t mean that she made it out scot-free. A few steps from the hotel entrance, a strong pair of hands grabbed her around the shoulders and dragged her into the alleyway around the side.

  Dana was prepared to fight, but when she saw her assailant, she lowered her fists.

  “Hello, Lexie,” said the no-longer-friendly voice of Bianca “Bee” de Winter, the Countess of Clarick. “How perfectly lovely to see you again.”

  “Hello, Bee,” said Dana warily.

  “Or should I call you D’Artagnan?”

  Cover blown, then. Dana wrenched away from Bee’s grip, straightening her dress to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts. “It wasn’t personal, Bee,” she said calmly. “I was working. With a brother like yours, you should understand what that means.”

  Bee de Winter wore loose clothes, as if she had come here straight from a yoga class – or fencing training, Dana considered. Bee looked lethal here in the alleyway, a sword and gloves hanging on one side of her belt and an arc-ray on the other.

  Perhaps Dana wasn’t the only one who had been playing a role on that train.

  “Nothing personal,” repeated Bee. “And next you’re going to insist that you’re not stalking my brother-in-law.”

  Dana spluttered at that. “Are you serious right now?”

  “Vaniel has a lot of enemies,” Bee said. “I was hoping you weren’t one of them.”

  Dana saw red. The old familiar buzz of anger burned through her. “I serve the Crown,” she snapped, shoving Bee further away from her. “If that makes me Vaniel’s enemy, that’s his choice, not mine. I wasn’t even here because of him tonight. My friends tricked me into a stupidly fancy dinner I didn’t even get to eat, so -”

  “What is going on here?” broke in a sharp, beautiful voice. Milord de Winter stood at the mouth of the alley in his silver suit and brown hair, either exasperated or amused. Possibly both.

  “Vaniel, darling,” said Bee without taking her eyes off Dana. “Did you know that our friend from the train was actually a Musketeer spy called D’Artagnan?”

  Milord went very still. “I did not know that,” he said calmly. “How enterprising of her.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Bee demanded.

  “I’m not going to start a scuffle outside a five star hotel, sweetness. I’ll see you back at the ship later. Unless you’d rather walk with me now?”

  Bee looked confused. “I’m meeting friends,” she said.

  “I will bid you good night then, Bee. Good night, Dana.”

  “Good night, Vaniel,” said Dana. Apparently they were on first name terms now.

  Then it was just Dana and Bee, staring awkwardly at each other.

  “So what?” Dana said impatiently after a moment. “Are we going to fight, or are we going to make out against the wall for a while? Even better, we could go back to reading trashy magazines and painting each other’s nails, because that was a super good time.”

  “My family is everything to me,” Bee hissed. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to make sure you stay well away from us.”

  “Good luck with that,” Dana snapped back. “I’ve been trying to avoid your family all week but here I am getting hauled back in.”

  Bee’s eyes went dark, and then she pulled the padded gloves out of her belt and slapped Dana in the face.

  It kind of hurt, but Dana barely noticed because she was recovering from the fact that she had been hit with a pair of gloves, like something out of a vid drama. “Are you challenging me to a duel, or do you just like hitting people?”

  “Name the place and time,” Bee said in a steady, angry voice.

  Dana opened her mouth, but was interrupted by a chorus of aristocratic voices.

  “Bee, honey, there you are!”

  “Yo, Clarick!”

  Two men and a woman, all athletic and wearing the same kind of designer sports gear as Bee, crowded into the mouth of the alley.

  “We only have the practice rooms till 2200, what’s going on with you, love?”

  “I was busy,” Bee said between gritted teeth.

  Dana would now have to shove her way past three more people in order to get out of this damned alley. She hated it when there wasn’t a clear exit. “0600 behind the Luxembourg,” she said, keeping her gaze steady on Bee. “If you’re so keen to address your issues with me.”

  “Done,” snapped Bee.

  “Hang on,” said one of her friends. He was a head taller than Dana and his shoulders were crazy wide like he had been built out of lamb shanks and robot parts. His meaty hand slammed down on Dana’s shoulder. “A duel, Clarick? And you’re leaving us out of it?”

  “Take your hand off my shoulder,” said Dana calmly.

  The idiot ignored her, leaning more heavily as he continued speaking to Bee. “You know it’s been on our bucket list since we arrived here. Paris isn’t Paris without an illegal duel…”

  “Move your hand right now,” breathed Dana. “Or I’m going to make you move it.”

  “Doncaster,” Bee said, sounding exhausted and pissed off. “If you can’t find your own damned duel, I don’t see why I should share mine.”

  Dana stepped aside from the enormous New Aristocrat who had been using her as furniture, swung around neatly and punched him in the face. Pain shot through her hand all the way up to her elbow, but it was worth it.

  “0600 behind the Luxembourg, everyone’s welcome,” she announced, glaring at the other two New Aristocrats until they stepped quickly aside to let her out of the alley. “I have three friends, you have three friends, let’s have a party.” Dana gave Bee a lazy salute as she made her exit. “For future reference, if you want to fight duels over your brother-in-law’s honour, check he has some first.”

  34

  The New Aristocrats

  Athos answered the door with a drink in his hand. His eyes went to Dana’s knuckles, which were swollen and grazed. Without a word, he stepped back to allow her into the apartment.

  She sat at his kitchen bar and poured herself a glass of brandy from the open bottle while Athos raided his medical supplies.

  “The service at Hotel Coquenard isn’t what it used to be,” he ventured, as he cleaned her sore hands with a sonic wand.

  Dana winced at his touch. “The fight happened after I left the hotel.”

  Athos’ eyes sparkled with something like humour. “How was dinner
?”

  “Excruciating. I am never again going to trust any of you to take me anywhere that requires a dress, or prior knowledge of Porthos’ love life.”

  “Seems fair.”

  Dana’s right hand was tingling and sensitive as Athos slapped a medipatch across the back of it. “Ow.”

  “Fists,” he muttered. “You have a pilot’s slice and a pearl stunner, but you go straight for the fists.”

  “I’m good with my fists.”

  “You’re good with a sword.”

  Dana gave him a wary look. “I am?”

  “You are a promising pupil,” he admitted.

  Dana felt warm all over. “You’ve never said that before.”

  Athos rolled his eyes. “If you keep up this kind of mindless thuggery, one of these days that brain of yours will get so bruised you will never pilot another ship. And then what would we do?” He looked embarrassed to have said so much. Dana flung herself at him for a hug, and he bore it manfully for at least five seconds before shrugging her off. “That’s enough of that.”

  Dana grinned. “You’ll be pleased to know that I ended the fight by challenging them all to a duel.”

  His eyebrow twitched. “Goodness, how many were there?”

  “Four.”

  “The perfect number.”

  “I told them I had friends to even things up…” she added, almost shyly.

  Athos leaned back, pleased now. “Make my day,” he purred. “Tell me they were Red Hammers. I haven’t had a decent skirmish in weeks.”

  “Oh, better than that,” she assured him. “Tourists.”

  An odd light came into Athos’ eyes. “Tourists?”

  “New Aristocrats off the boat from Valour.”

  He hummed with delight. “Is it my birthday, D’Artagnan?”

  “I thought you’d like that,” she smirked back at him. “The Luxembourg, 0600.”

  “Ah,” Athos said, pushing the bottle away from them both. “We’ll need an early start. Should we warn Aramis and Porthos now, or surprise them with it in the morning?”

  Dana, who was not above a little petty revenge on her friends, pretended to think about it for a moment or so. “I like surprises,” she said finally. “Surprises are good.”

  Neither Porthos nor Aramis were delighted to be dragged out of bed early enough to make it to the Luxembourg for a 0600 duel. Porthos, at least, got into the spirit once she arrived, doing warm-up stretches and lunges.

  Aramis was far less amenable. “I only got to bed three hours ago,” she scowled, her hands wrapped around her second cup of coffee.

  “Poetry again?” Athos said unsympathetically. “It’s bad for your health.” He turned to Porthos. “How went your siege of Chef Coquenard?”

  “Mixed results,” said Porthos.

  “Ha!” said Aramis. “Like she didn’t take him home with her last night.”

  “He wasn’t there when I woke up,” Porthos shot at her. “He chose bread-baking and sous prep over me. But at least mine doesn’t require me to write poetry.”

  “You have no romance in your soul.”

  “I’m confused about why you’re putting so much effort into Dubois when she’s the one who broke it off – shouldn’t she be courting you?”

  Aramis smiled to herself. “I write better poetry.”

  “So you’re trying to win at relationship.”

  “It passes the time.”

  “Will you all shut up about your love lives?” complained Dana, sick of them both.

  Athos gave her an amused look. “That’s my line.”

  “Yes, darling,” said Aramis. “We all know D’Artagnan is your favourite. Will you shut up and let me finish this stanza before our playmates arrive?”

  The New Aristocrats were late, and made a swaggering entrance. Porthos and Dana matched their swagger with their own, while Aramis perched on the nearby Artifice rocks, scribbling notes in her poetry book. Athos hung back, looking bored, though Dana knew better.

  She saw his shoulders relax, as he took in each of their faces. Perhaps he had worried that they might recognise him from his own New Aristocrat days on Valour?

  The tourists wore formal fencing attire, each of them displaying the flag of Valour somewhere on their person. Athos rolled his eyes so hard they nearly rattled.

  Bee wore grey and white, matching her chilly expression. Even she was embarrassed when her large friend, the Earl of Doncaster, pronounced the Artifice field appropriate for an ‘authentic Parisian duel.’

  “Sightseers,” Aramis sighed.

  “They should put us in the guide book,” Porthos said, undaunted. “Can I have the big one? He looks fun. I bet he makes a loud noise when he hits the ground.”

  “Housekeeping before we begin,” said Athos, whose New Aristocrat accent was particularly pronounced today. He held out a tablet. “Your signatures, if you please.”

  Bee’s eyebrows almost hit her perfectly coiffed hairline. “A contract for an illegal duel? That sounds like the definition of a terrible idea.”

  “As you say, illegal,” said Athos. “And extremely dangerous. Amateurs –” and he let a beautiful sneer curl around the word “–have been known to get hurt in bouts such as these. By putting our names to the release, we free each other from liability should any of us be wounded.”

  Dana stepped closer to Porthos. “Why have I never heard of these releases before?”

  “We don’t bother against Hammers or Sabres,” Porthos whispered back. “They’re bastards all, but honourable duellists. Dirtsider tourists, you can’t trust as far as you can throw. We’ve lost good Musketeers to the service because some arsehole decided to sue over a scratched finger or a severed artery.”

  “All the more despicable, because duels between peers aren’t even illegal on Valour,” Aramis added. She laid her notebook and stylus aside, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Porthos.

  Athos collected the thumbprints and assent of Lady Moire of Normandie and the Earl of Doncaster, as well as Bianca, Countess of Clarick. The last of their party took one look at the tablet and scoffed. “These aren’t real names. Most of you haven’t put down more than one. What does ‘Aramis’ or ‘Porthos’ even mean?

  “Sheffield,” said Doncaster. “You’re ruining the duel for everyone. Stop being a prick and put your thumb on the tablet.”

  Sheffield –Dana was starting to revisit the idea that he was friends with the other New Aristocrats, as they all looked thoroughly sick of him – thrust the tablet rudely back at Athos. “I am a gentleman and I have standards,” he announced. “If you can’t produce an opponent worthy of the name Baron Sheffield, I shall not participate.”

  “I actually want to kill you right now,” said Bee between gritted teeth.

  “If he’s not playing, I volunteer to sit out,” said Aramis quickly. “On account of this poem that I would really prefer to be working on…”

  “I can solve this,” said Athos.

  Dana saw the look that Aramis and Porthos exchanged, and oh crap, she knew that look. It meant Athos was about to do something stupid and take the rest of them down with him. She lunged forward to grab the tablet from him, but it was too late.

  Athos stepped further into Sheffield’s personal space, crowding him with a dangerous smile. “I have another name,” he said, making his accent very, very obvious. Posh oozed from his veins. “I believe you will find it worthy of you, second son of a Baron that you are. Not quite in line for the title, not with all those pesky nieces and nephews your older sister keeps popping out, but I see why you feel the need to flash the title around since you’re far from home with hardly anyone to call you on your deception.”

  Sheffield looked at him, confused and angry but not moving away. “I say -”

  “Let’s play a game,” said Athos. “I’ll tell you my real name, and you can decide if I’m worthy of crossing swords with you.”

  “Athos,” warned Aramis.

  “But if I tell you,” Athos continued
. “You understand, it’s not something I want known in general circles, since I am believed by most to be dead. So I’m going to do my damnedest to kill you. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds bloody stupid,” said Bee with a huff.

  Dana silently agreed. Why couldn’t they get it over with? They could all be having a post-duel breakfast by now.

  Sheffield examined Athos from top to toe. It was obvious that he loved the idea of knowing something that should not be known, courting death at the hands of a Musketeer. “Tell me,” he breathed.

  Athos leaned in, his beard grazing the other man’s ear, and whispered for a moment. “Does that suffice?” he said finally, rocking back on his heels.

  Sheffield was flushed across the top of his cheeks. He looked as if he had been hit over the head. “Y-yes,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Perfectly acceptable.”

  “I’d like to make it clear that I don’t give a fuck who I fight as long as it happens sometime this century!” said Doncaster loudly.

  “What he said,” Porthos moaned.

  “Begin, then,” said Athos with a small smile on his face as if he was very much planning to enjoy this duel. “En garde.”

  Fencing Bee was no chore. This was enough to make Dana wish they had got in a few fencing bouts on that train back on Valour, instead of gossiping about clothes and boys. Bee was a competent, measured duellist, and the anger of their previous night’s encounter had bled out of both of them by the time they saluted and began.

  Dana won the first bout with a scratch to the side of Bee’s neck, and a ribbon reclaimed from her hair. Bee won the second, slicing a button from Dana’s sleeve, which was going to be annoying to hunt for in the Artifice grass.

  “I could say I’m sorry I lied to you and your brother, and we could call it a draw,” Dana offered.

  Bee gave her a confused look. “After all this?”

  Dana shrugged one shoulder. “Doncaster got his duel, at least. We Parisians like tourists to come away with the full experience.”