Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  They sat on the grass together for a while, watching the others fight. Aramis worked quickly, her mind on that poem of hers instead of the fight, and she finished off her second bout with Lady Moire with the same breathtaking efficiency she had used for the first; having won both, Aramis retired from the field and picked up her stylus again, though not before kissing Moire’s hand and (Dana could not help but notice) collecting her comm code.

  Doncaster and Porthos had fun. He had the reach on her, being taller and wider; she pulled out all her favourite fancy tricks and he matched them with some of his own. The two of them smirked at each other every time they added a different sword flourish or piece of fancy footwork. They could be at this for hours.

  Athos and Sheffield had an entirely different kind of duel. Athos fenced with as much calm and method as if he were teaching a class – indeed, he exhibited far more cool restraint than he ever had when training Dana.

  Sheffield was sweating, despite the regulated temperature of the field. It was clear he could see his own death spelled out with every stroke of Athos’ sword.

  “Is he going to kill him?” Bee asked.

  “He said he would,” said Dana. She shivered at the blank expression Athos wore. It was nothing like the usual manic energy he displayed when fighting with Sabres and Hammers.

  This was work, not play.

  “Tell me why you have been following us,” said Bee, as they watched Athos school Sheffield on fencing technique. What is your interest in Vaniel? It might have been a coincidence that you were at the hotel,” she added. “But you were definitely watching him – and I saw you follow the Marquise de Wardes in the restaurant. You’re up to something.”

  It was not Bee’s skill with a sword that made her dangerous, Dana reminded herself. She was aligned with Milord, and he had Conrad’s life in his hands.

  Time for Lexie Charlemagne to save the day. For once, Dana was not going to try to punch her way out of a problem. She was going to be smart about it.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Dana said, biting her lip to look younger and less threatening. “But it’s not a professional interest. I met you for the first time when I was working under another name, and I’m sorry about that, because it’s ruined everything, but –” She gave Bee a helpless look.

  Bee looked doubtful. “You’re not…”

  Dana summoned up all those odd feelings she had glimpsed on the train, when she realised how much she enjoyed Vaniel’s company. “I was watching him in the restaurant because I like him,” she sighed. “That’s it, no mystery. You can laugh at me now.”

  Bee did laugh, a delightful sound ringing out across the Artifice meadow. “Oh no,” she gasped.

  “I know nothing will come of it,” said Dana, avoiding Bee’s gaze for oh so many reasons. It sold the idea rather well. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Does this mean I challenged you to a duel over his love life?” Bee laughed. “Air and fire, he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

  Dana gave her a stricken look. “You mustn’t tell him.” The thought of Milord de Winter’s sister-in-law telling him that Dana D’Artagnan fancied him was genuinely excruciating. She didn’t have to fake her reaction at all.

  “You’d rather nurse your crush in secret and let him continue to throw himself uselessly at the Marquise de Wardes?” Bee challenged.

  Dana sighed. Athos had managed to slash both sleeves off his opponent. He drove him steadily closer and closer to the church, proving with every step that he was the stronger duellist.

  “Vaniel would make a terrible boyfriend,” Bee continued. “Really, he talks about politics all the time, and his work is everything to him. I love him dearly, but he was a dreadful husband to my sister.”

  “You care about him, don’t you?” said Dana. It was a mystery to her that Bee – who seemed like a genuine and open person – was so convinced that Milord was worth caring about.

  “Family stick together,” said Bee staunchly.

  “I like hearing him talk about politics,” Dana confessed, and managed a small laugh that she hoped came across as girlish and romantic. “It doesn’t matter. I know he’d never be interested in me.”

  “Give me your comm code,” said Bee in a thoughtful sort of voice.

  “You’re going to help me?” Dana said in surprise.

  “We’ll see.”

  Only after they had exchanged codes did Dana look up, to see Athos bearing his opponent roughly on to the grass, sword-first. “Oh, fuck, he has killed him,” she exclaimed, forgetting to be ‘Alix Charlemagne slightly embarrassed in love’ for a moment. She leapt to her feet and ran full pelt for the other Musketeers.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Bee shouted to her other friends. They fled the scene, skirting around the Luxembourg and away.

  Sheffield lay on the grass with a sword in his chest and a sucking sound coming out of his mouth.

  Aramis cast her notebook aside and approached the fallen man with a grim expression and a medikit. “Athos, I hate when you do this.”

  “I know,” said Athos, breathing hard from his duel. “But how could anyone be expected to meet a man like that and not put a sword in his chest?”

  “One of these days I’d like you to invest in some anger management techniques that don’t involve collapsing someone’s lung,” Aramis said primly. “Porthos, lift!”

  Porthos reached over and yanked the sword out of Sheffield’s chest. He yelled in pain and flapped his mouth uselessly for air as blood soaked the fine linen of his fencing jacket.

  Aramis ripped the jacket open and slapped a medipatch over the wound on Sheffield’s chest. He gasped, and then fell unconscious.

  “The thing about a collapsed lung,” said Athos, sounding almost cheerful. “It’s traumatic enough that the healing process keeps them comatose for hours, and you can almost guarantee twenty to forty minutes of memory loss.”

  Dana stared at him. “He won’t remember the duel.”

  “Or any words that might have been exchanged shortly before the duel. That’s right.” Athos bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. “Anyone fancy breakfast?”

  “I’m going to punch you now,” Dana informed him.

  “Give me a minute to finish this off and I’ll hold him down for you,” said Aramis. “Porthos, kindly drop Athos’ victim off at the nearest medibay before you all go for a victory breakfast, and leave me alone to finish my fucking poem.”

  35

  Is it Love or Just Paris?

  Later that day, once a certain poem had been put to bed, and long after a certain amnesiac Baron’s son had been delivered to a medibay, Dana threw herself on the mercy of her friends.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Porthos, sprawled on Aramis’ couch with her feet in Athos’ lap. “You got in a fist fight with the Countess of Clarick last night, we fought a duel with her friends before breakfast, and now you have a hot date with her brother?”

  “Brother-in-law,” Dana corrected, staring at her own image in the mirror. Aramis had taken the ‘God, no more dresses’ plea to heart, and dressed Dana in a sweeping black tunic with a neckline that could only be described as ‘dramatic,’ over figure-hugging bronze trousers.

  Since she wasn’t hiding her identity anymore, Dana wore metal Musketeer dog tags on a chain around her neck instead of society-styled jewellery. Treville had sent them around that morning – flying the Musketeer troop carrier, Dana was entitled to a tag and a blue flight uniform, though not the jacket yet.

  So close to being a real Musketeer. She would take it. She would take whatever she could get.

  “I’m impressed,” said Porthos, handing over the appropriate shade of lipstick. “I was a Musketeer for two years before I started setting my own honey traps.”

  “I am not a honey trap,” Dana said hotly.

  “So you’re not planning to seduce this Milord to find out what he knows about your missing Conrad?”

  Dana scowled. “I might be slightly a hon
ey trap.”

  “I disapprove,” Athos volunteered from his position on the couch.

  “No one asked you,” said Aramis. She encircled Dana’s wrists with bronze spiral bracelets. “This looks amazing. He won’t be able to resist.”

  “Not sure you should go in without backup,” Porthos said thoughtfully. “A fake date would make you look less obvious, and could help with extraction if it all goes pear-shaped. You should take Athos.”

  Dana and Athos exchanged appalled looks. “No,” they decided in unison.

  “I’ll be fine,” Dana added. The thought of trying to flirt with Milord while any of her Musketeer friends were in earshot was horrible.

  Athos pushed Porthos’ feet aside and came over to stare meaningfully at Dana. “You’re sure this is a good idea, D’Artagnan?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly at him. “Not all problems can be solved with wine and swords.”

  “That shows a distinct lack of imagination on your part,” he replied. “Is he pretty, this minister assassin kidnapper person?”

  “A bit,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “Pretty people are very untrustworthy. Just look at Aramis.”

  “Hey!” Aramis protested.

  “Pretty men who talk politics are the worst of all,” he went on.

  “You’re not actually trying to give me romantic advice, are you, Athos?” Dana asked in a very small voice.

  There was that appalled expression again. “God, no. I’m going to stop talking now. Have a good night. Don’t do anything Porthos would do.”

  “HEY!” Porthos protested, but then paused in reflection. “No, that’s fair.”

  So this was awkward. The gathering to which Dana had been invited included not only Milord Vaniel de Winter, who had his nose in a clamshell in a far corner of the room, but also that morning’s duellists: Lady Maure, the Earl of Doncaster, and “Baron” Sheffield who remembered nothing about the duel but was unsettled and cranky about the whole affair.

  In retrospect, Dana should have brought Porthos, if only because she and Doncaster had bonded over trying to wound each other in the most grandstanding way possible, and that could only translate to dinner party gold.

  Bee and Vaniel turned out to not be staying in Paris Satellite accommodation, but in a dagger-class scout ship called the Matagot. It looked like a plain black raven ship from the outside – for security purposes, Bee claimed, but inside was as beautifully furnished as a royal apartment.

  Dana was shown into a parlour (what kind of spaceship had a parlour?) by Miss Columbina (“Call me Kitty!”), Milord’s very pretty personal assistant. Kitty Columbina had hair that fell in soft purple curls around her round face, and she wore a dress that consisted mostly of silk butterflies.

  “How do you know the family?” she asked Dana.

  “Oh, I met Vaniel on a train, and then this morning I fought a duel with Bee and three of her friends,” Dana said lightly, hoping to see Kitty’s eyes widen in surprise.

  Instead, the other woman laughed. “That’s the tamest way they’ve ever befriended a new companion. No bear-wrestling, or pirates? For shame.”

  “I suppose you see a lot, with the de Winters as your employers,” said Dana, wondering if this girl might be a useful resource.

  “You’re certainly going to have to try harder if you want to shock me,” said Kitty, and she gave Dana a look which suggested she rather wanted her to try. “Let me get you a glass of champagne, Captain D’Artagnan…”

  “I’m –” Dana started to say, but Kitty had already flitted away towards the bar before Dana could wrap her mouth around the words ‘Arms-Sergeant’.

  “Dana.” Bee greeted her warmly, with a hint of humour in her eyes. She had to be encouraging this whole ‘set up Vaniel and Dana’ game out of mischief, rather than any genuine interest. Of course, Dana wasn’t in it for genuine reasons either.

  Flirting at this gathering was not the difficult part; any and all of the de Winters’ guests were more than happy to flirt with the mysterious Musketeer who was dressed to kill. But Vaniel de Winter was a harder nut to crack.

  So much for being a honey trap.

  Half an hour in, and Dana had entirely failed to be alluring and intriguing and all those other things that seemed like good ideas at the time. She had exchanged exactly three sentences with Milord, each polite and not especially interesting.

  “You look you want to run out of here,” said a soft, amused voice near her ear.

  Dana turned and saw Kitty the assistant, standing very close. “I don’t do well at these sorts of parties,” she admitted.

  The other girl smiled at her. She had glitter in her lipgloss, Dana noticed. “Fancy the grand tour?”

  This, this could be useful. “Absolutely!” Dana said.

  There was no spaceship more alluring or attractive than a musket-class dart. Dana’s loyalties were set in that regard. Okay, she had been slightly turned on by the Moth fighter, but she was only human. No one would kick a Moth out of bed.

  Matagot was a raven-class scout, and there was nothing remotely sexy about them. Dana had hated the idea of flying one of these when she was considering (not really considering) job options outside the Royal Fleet.

  This particular raven-class scout might be the exception to her rule. Never mind the glamorous decor, and the gym that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Paris Satellite rec hub. It was the flight deck that interested her, and the engine.

  Miss Kitty Columbina had to duck back to the party for a moment or two, to check that the champagne levels were still flowing, or whatever. While she was gone, Dana dropped herself into the flight seat at the helm. The console had been tricked out and customised, by the looks of it. No way the standard design for ravens involved this much chrome.

  Something beeped.

  Dana lifted her hands in the air, hoping she hadn’t set off any security alarms. The beep repeated, over and over.

  It was coming from the beaded evening bag that Aramis had pressed on her, because taking a military issue belt-pack to a cocktail party was “inappropriate”.

  There wasn’t much in the tiny bag – only lipstick and Dana’s pearl stunner. But then she remembered the compact clamshell she had been carrying around with her since the Marquise de Wardes passed it to her in Hotel Coquenard’s bathroom.

  Dana opened the clamshell slowly, checking that the camera setting was not on. It wasn’t an incoming call, but a text. The words Have you given any further thought to my suggestion? hung on the screen, waiting.

  Dana froze for a moment. What did Milord think he was doing? Why ignore her at a party only to – oh. He didn’t know that she had the clamshell. He had given it to the Marquise de Wardes.

  As she stared at it, a second text came in.

  I can tempt you, if you let me.

  Dana summoned up what she remembered of the Marquise, to reply:

  I would prefer it if you were after me for my looks. One gets so tired of being a political pin-up.

  Who says I’m not interested in everything you have to offer?

  Why, Milord de Winter. That was almost smooth.

  Perhaps you make me nervous in person.

  I refuse to believe you’ve ever been nervous in your life. That would require you to stop thinking about work for ten minutes, at least.

  I’ll have you know I spent fifteen minutes yesterday ignoring work altogether. Of course, I was asleep at the time…

  He sleeps. Not an android replica, then?

  Sorry to disappoint.

  I’ve always wanted to flirt with an android.

  My sister-in-law is hosting a gathering on our ship tonight. I don’t suppose you’d run away from whatever boring occasion you are stuck at, and join us instead?

  How do you know I’m stuck anywhere?

  You’re finally talking to me.

  I can’t get away.

  But you’re tempted?

  Go back to your party guests, Milord. Find someone t
o flirt with in person. I hear that practise makes perfect.

  If I do, will you be jealous?

  Dana smiled to herself, and then typed in – Desperately.

  So. Dana had successfully carried out a flirtation with Milord de Winter. Sure, it was under the wrong identity, but it still counted as a win, right? She had no idea whether this correspondence would turn out to be remotely useful, but she had to hope it was a crack in Milord’s forcefield.

  Dana returned to the parlour where the party was going on, and caught sight of Kitty who waved apologetically to her from behind the world’s largest tray of hors d’oeuvres. Obviously she had been caught slacking and put to work.

  “I’ve been neglecting you, Dana,” said a man behind her.

  Dana’s body betrayed her with a hum of excitement in response to that voice. “Milord de Winter. You’re not neglecting me any more than your other guests.” She smirked at him, thinking of his complaints to the imaginary Marquise. “On a scale of 1 to 10, exactly how much do you hate parties?”

  Vaniel returned her smile, and rubbed slightly at his messy brown hair, playing that distracted political obsessive whose company she had enjoyed on the train. “All the numbers,” he confessed.

  She shouldn’t like him – shouldn’t enjoy this chance to make a connection with him. He was the enemy. Wasn’t he? Dana was almost certain that he was the enemy. It wasn’t fair for the enemy to be this adorable.

  “I also hate parties,” she admitted.

  “I’m sure Miss Alix Charlemagne simply adored parties.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t convince as her for long, did I?” Dana said dryly.

  There was interest in Vaniel’s eyes. He kept looking at her like he wanted to see what was inside her brain, and it made her shiver in a not-entirely-good way. Milord, not Vaniel. This man is not your friend.

  “I’m not sure why I bother talking to you,” he said after a moment. “You’re too young to have anything intelligent to say, and you don’t know anyone worthwhile. You’re not useful at all.”