Musketeer Space
Page 44
“Musketeers,” said Cardinal Richelieu. “How fascinating.”
There was a strangled pause. Athos moved first, one hand curling around the neck of the nearest wine bottle. “Your Eminence. May I offer you a drink?”
Dana thought for a horrified moment that she might burst into laughter, but she managed to swallow it down.
“Too kind,” said the Cardinal. “I am here for a meeting, but I seem to have been shown to the wrong room. A glass of wine would be most hospitable.” She came forward to take the empty seat at the table, the one that Dana had not taken for herself.
Aramis scrabbled the cards and coins out of the Cardinal’s way. Athos poured a glass of wine and handed it to their visitor with the aristocratic manners that he dusted off for special occasions.
The Cardinal sipped,. “It’s the Comte de la Fere, is it not?” she said, eyes on Athos and his bright blue jacket.
“I prefer Athos,” he said flatly. “That other fellow died a long time ago.”
“Of course, Athos. A simple name for a simple man.”
“I like to think so, your Eminence.”
Her eyes flicked around the room. “And young D’Artagnan, I see you there. Are you enjoying your work on the supply line?”
“It keeps me busy, your Eminence,” Dana said, keeping her tone even and polite.
“I suppose you all know each other,” said the Cardinal, waving a hand at her stony-faced Red Hammers. Two of them wore the uniforms of Sabre pilots, while the others were grunts.
“Paris may be the greatest city in the Solar System, but those of us in the same line of work do tend to find each other,” said Athos, with a charming smile that Dana had never seen him use before. “Your man Boisne there had a friendly altercation with Aramis only a fortnight ago. Not with blades, of course, because duelling is illegal. Arm-wrestling is a time-honoured way of settling grievances while keeping things friendly.”
“How thrilling,” said the Cardinal. “Who won?”
“It was a draw, your Eminence,” said Aramis with a smile that matched the one Athos still wore. “I took a cut in the arm which was easily fixed, and I believe that Boisne regained the full use of his legs within 24 hours.”
“Thank goodness for today’s medical marvels,” said the Cardinal. “Really, Boisne, you know I disapprove of fighting between the ranks. We’re a Fleet United now. Even arm wrestling has its dangers.”
The Red Hammer in question was well aware that this conversation was a trap, but managed to say “Yes, your Eminence,” without shifting his steady gaze from the Musketeers.
“All in the name of friendly rivalry,” Athos went on. “You wouldn’t want your guards to be lacking in fighting spirit, would you, your Eminence?”
The Cardinal’s eyes darkened. “I’ve never heard it put so succinctly before,” she said. “Of course, we also value restraint.”
“Your pilots are paragons of restraint,” Athos agreed. “Why, last time Captain Hardoin and I had an informal sparring session, we didn’t even try to draw our swords, did we, Yvonne?”
One of the Sabres, a muscular woman with the shape of two crossed knifes shaved into the side of her scalp, gave Athos a grin that was all teeth. “Nope,” she said. “You threw me out a window instead, baby.”
“I paid for the damages,” he shot back. “And dinner.”
“And dinner,” Yvonne agreed.
Oh, God, were they flirting? Dana could have done without this insight into Athos’ love life. There was no way this conversation could end without extreme violence, and multiple arrests. It was all so civilised, and yet the tension was unbearable.
“And you, Captain-lieutenant Porthos?” said the Cardinal. “Surely you have never come to blows with any of my guards?”
Porthos ran her eye along the line of them, considering. She lingered on the smallest Red Hammer, a man who had to be younger than Dana. He blushed under her gaze. “There may have been an incident involving a tavern bench, but the guidelines on duelling with furniture are more of a grey area.”
The Cardinal laughed, a bright and happy sound. “You are all such entertaining company. I can see why D’Artagnan is so attached to you.”
Athos’ grip tightened on his wine glass.
Another knock sounded on the door. Everyone flinched except Athos and the Cardinal.
One of the bar staff opened the door, looking mortified. “Your Eminence, I am sorry, I believe your appointment is – waiting for you upstairs.”
“I thought it must be something like that.” The Cardinal drained the last of her wine glass and set it on the table. “I apologise for intruding on your evening, my dears.”
“It was a pleasure and an honour,” said Athos, rising with her. The Cardinal held her hand out to him. He bent over her ring, kissing it.
“Good evening all,” said the most powerful religious leader in the Solar System, and made her graceful exit.
The Hammers and Sabres filed out behind her. The door closed.
Dana let out a shaking breath. Aramis and Porthos did the same.
“What was that?” Aramis said incredulously, and then swung around to point an accusing finger at Athos. “Who are you? With the manners and the charm and the…”
“The smiling,” said Porthos with a shudder.
Dana said nothing. Like the others, she was staring at Athos. She had seen that manic gleam in him before, usually when he was about to throw the first chair or stab the first attacker in a bar brawl. He glowed all over.
“Ladies,” said Athos, purring his words. “This war just got interesting.”
47
Athos in the Walls
Dovecote Red was Athos’ idea of hell. He had never been one for nightclubs: all that noise and movement. Even in his university days, he had not been the one who dragged them out to ‘paint the town,’ it had been…
No, he would not think of Auden here and now. He was on a mission.
Athos liked having a mission. The best thing about being on duty as a Musketeer was having a straightforward task to achieve, even if it was as simple as ‘fly in a straight line from Station A to Satellite B’ or ‘keep the royal family alive during a public appearance.’
Athos liked being given orders, and he lived in a constant state of background dread that Treville would make one allowance too many for his extracurricular shenanigans, and put him in a position where he was the one giving those orders.
He preferred to be as far as possible from his former self – that young Comte who bore too much responsibility on his shoulders, and screwed up his life so thoroughly that there was nothing but ash and rubble left behind.
The best thing about a war was that you were technically on duty all the time. You had constant purpose.
Tonight, Athos could see his mission parameters as clearly as if Treville had written them out for him in calligraphed longhand on the back of his arm.
His mission was to find out whom Cardinal Richelieu was meeting in an upstairs room of this dive of a nightclub. His duty was to keep his friends safe.
“Wait here for Treville,” he said abruptly. “I won’t be long.” Before Aramis or Porthos or D’Artagnan could protest, he was out the door and striding through the club.
A dark-eyed boy with silver eyeliner – too damn young for Athos, that was for sure – lurched out of the noise and the lights, covered in glitter. “I like your jacket,” he said, eyeing Athos up and down.
All his instincts told him to brush this kid off before he got too close – Athos’ usual method of getting laid involved arguments or swordplay, and he saved it for opponents who didn’t expect him to be kind. He drew the line at flirting with anyone D’Artagnan’s age (possibly younger, God, it was hard to tell under all that glitter).
But this was a mission, and he’d look less suspicious going upstairs if he had company. Athos offered the easy, charming smile he had so recently been practicing on the Cardinal. The d’Autevielle smile: a family heirloom.
Huh. Flirting was easier than picking fights. That was a thought to be examined at a later date.
Ten minutes later, Athos were upstairs with a keycard, arm slung around the glittery boy. It hadn’t taken much to convince the club manager – who had served with Treville in the previous war – to hire him a room near (but not suspiciously close) to the Cardinal’s rendezvous.
It had been embarrassingly easy to convince the beautiful young man who now owned Athos’ Musketeer jacket to come upstairs with him. Charm was a dangerous tool.
The Cardinal’s honour guard were positioned along the way, two of them at the top of the stairs, two more in the corridor and the last pair playing cards outside the hired room. None of them paid much attention to the glitter-smeared couple that went past, though Athos was pretty sure at least one of the Sabres gave him a wink.
Inside their room, Athos peeled the young man off him and made for the wall vents. He’d spent a few nights in this club years ago, on a protection detail for the Regence’s hen party, and had pulled at least three would-be assassins out of the walls.
Dovecote Red had terrible lighting, awful music and a drinks menu that priced itself far too highly, but its ventilation system was spacious and comfortable.
The glitter-strewn boy threw himself on the bed, watching Athos with a calculating gaze. “This is a spy thing rather than a hookup thing, yeah?”
Couldn’t argue that, already busy removing the grate. “Sorry,” said Athos. “There’s a war on,” he added.
“Doesn’t bother me, mate, makes for a better story tomorrow,” the boy smirked. “I get to keep the jacket, right?”
Athos rolled his eyes, and hauled himself up into the vent. It was more difficult than it had been three years ago. Maybe it was time to cut down on the wine. “Yes,” he drawled. “You can keep the jacket.”
Athos made good time crawling down towards the room where the Cardinal and her guest were meeting. All he could hope was that her appointment was a spy thing and not a hookup thing, or he had wasted everyone’s night.
“… Seems to me that your time on Paris Satellite has been entirely wasted.” The Cardinal’s voice came clearly through the vent. Athos stopped moving. She was angry. “The Marquise de Wardes continued her loyalist sympathies regardless of your involvement – and the Valour government has all but washed their hands of us. What was the point in making it possible for my own agent to take an influential position as Secretary for the Interior if you wield so little of that influence in my favour?”
Athos stilled when he heard ‘Secretary for the Interior,’ because that answered his question as to the Cardinal’s companion in the worst possible way.
Milord. He must think of him as Milord, because if he even began to think of that man as Auden d’Autevielle, he would not get through this.
A warm mouth on his neck, a sly smile in the sunlight, bare feet padding across the ancient floors of the house of his ancestors… Blood, so much blood spilling out across the grass.
“Your Eminence,” said a voice that chilled Athos to the bone, “There is a fine line between influence and the ability to steer an entire planetary policy in the opposite direction.”
Athos leaned his head against the cool wall and listened to the voice, to the inflection of every word. He had known about this ever since Dana spilled her secrets but there was a difference between believing it, and hearing it with his own ears.
How are you still alive?
“Your so-called influence has been entirely toxic!” the Cardinal exclaimed. “First Minister Beautru was previously neutral on the matter of Valour independence, and never once failed to commit troops and ships to the Crown when requested.”
Milord scoffed. “First Minister Beautru is four months away from retirement after three terms of inactivity. His Fleet is controlled by the New Aristocrats who fund each individual regiment. They all see Beautru as a relic of the past, and take their cues from the electoral candidates. While the Marquise de Wardes has indeed managed to spark some of the younger New Aristocrats to her royalist sympathies, the most powerful tastemaker is still the Duchess of Buckingham with her Independence Faction.”
Ugh, politics. Valour politics. Athos had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure he never had to care about New Aristocrat posturing bullshit. Now he had to listen to it in his dead husband’s voice?
“Buckingham and the rest are obliged to put ships into the air and join this war,” the Cardinal hissed, all but vibrating with fury. “They are not independent yet”
“True enough,” said Milord, sounding arch and amused. Did nothing faze the man? “The defence of our solar system is a trending topic, and I might well have been able to convince the charming Buck to join the party as a final gift to the Crown before she rips Valour out of the alliance. Unfortunately, she recently suffered a personal setback culminating in weeks of rehab. Hardly a development that I could have prevented. In Buck’s absence from the Gossipnode, it has been assumed that she doesn’t give a damn about the war against the Sun-kissed, and therefore the rest of the New Aristocrats of Valour don’t have to either.”
Cardinal Richelieu was unimpressed. “I am hearing excuses, Milord, when I want solutions. I need fifty new ships at the battle zone by the end of the week, and I want Valour to be the one who provides them.”
“We have two obvious options,” Milord said, sounding delighted by the challenge. “Either the Duchess of Buckingham must be convinced to lead an armada to war – or the other New Aristocrats must be inspired to do so, by some dramatic event. Nothing like a tragedy to bring people together, don’t you think?”
Athos sucked a breath in. He had known for years that his husband was a murderer and a criminal – not to mention an alien spy. Was he really about to hear him plot an assassination?
“Now you’re thinking creatively,” said the Cardinal. “The Duchess of Buckingham has proved herself a diplomatic liability.”
“Are you asking me to kill her, your Eminence?” God, it sounded like Milord was flirting with the woman –a cat offering a dead mouse to his mistress.
“I ask you to use your own judgement,” the Cardinal replied.
She couldn’t know. Cardinal Richelieu was working with the military needs of the Crown and Solar System as her main priority. She could not possibly know that the agent she had hired was one of the Sun-kissed himself.
If she knew she would never give him this opportunity to control the reinforcements for the Fleet.
“I will not use my own judgement, your Eminence,” said Milord – Auden – Milord, a sharpness in his voice. “Given the high profile of the target, I shall require personal protection to ensure I don’t find myself reclassified as ‘a diplomatic liability’ in the future.”
The Cardinal spoke as if words were being physically dragged from her: “Tell me what you have in mind, so that we do not speak at cross purposes.”
“I am, as you know, a devout follower of the Church of All, your Eminence,” said Milord. “I’d like you to sign a contract.”
During the pause that followed, Athos heard his own breathing loudly in his ears.
“Milord de Winter,” said the Cardinal, on the verge of laughter. “Do you think it would be appropriate for me to sign a contract ordering the assassination of a popular politician from a planet on the verge of declaring independence?”
“Nothing so specific,” said Milord. Clearly he was going to get exactly what he wanted. “But I do require your protection, should I be caught. A sealed stud declaring that the bearer has done whatever they have done in your name and for the good of the Solar System – that should be enough.”
“Only that?” the Cardinal said. She did laugh this time. “Why, you could commit any murder you liked and be assured of a pardon.”
“Yes,” purred the man that Athos ha
d once loved more than life itself. “I could, couldn’t I? I think I’ll start with Dana D’Artagnan.”
When Athos returned to the hired room, the boy was gone, leaving only a rumpled bedcover and a pillow covered in a fine film of glitter. That saved him from one awkward conversation.
Athos replaced the vent, washed dust from his hands and face, and checked his messages. There were a series of emoticons on his comm stud from Porthos and Aramis, conveying surprise, impatience, concern, and their mutual belief that he was a dickhead.
From Dana D’Artagnan, he only had a single message: ??
Athos typed ‘a little longer’ to all three of them, and stepped out into the corridor in time to see the backs of the Cardinal and her guards as she swept out of the premises. There was no sign of Milord.
One moment Athos was standing in the corridor, considering what to do next, and then he was standing before the other door, one hand raised and the sound of his knock still in his ears.
So they were doing this.
His husband opened the door.
Athos could no longer pretend that he was facing political mastermind and murderous secret agent Milord de Winter, not when the tired and sullen man with the silver hair standing before him was quite obviously the snarky troublemaker he had fallen in love with at university.
He had one moment, one breath in and out to feel glad about it, in a terrible sort of way. Then the anger took over, burning a hole through his chest and propelling him forward, into the room before Auden could shut him out.
“You’re here,” his husband said, falling back with his eyes wide and troubled. “Olivier…”
“That’s not my name,” Athos said in a harsh snap. “Believe me, I know the names you’re going by these days, Milord.” Slate. Athos had not put it together before, but he remembered a compelling, quiet man in service to the Duchess of Buckingham when she first visited Paris as Ambassador as far back as Joyeux. ‘Mr Gray.’ He had taken the fall for sabotage of the station, gone to prison… but a shapechanger could escape anything, they knew that. How long had Milord been playing the villain under a variety of faces?