Olivier Armand d’Autevielle, the Comte de La Fere, executed his husband on a beautiful sunny afternoon on the village green of Foilles, on his family estate. In attendance were: a planetary marshal, a Servant of the Elements, and several members of local government as well as local villagers.
Auden’s body was ritually burned in the Elemental fashion, in two separate locations.
Ten minutes later, his body reassembled itself in a bright beam of burning light, beside the beacon in the snow. He gave his report methodically, taking in all relevant data gathered in the last year, and providing particular account of the human response to his unveiling as an alien spy.
He brimmed with power and unspilled energy, glowing in his own skin after the – what should he call it? Restoration? Extraction?
Rebirth.
As soon as the report had been uploaded into the sky, Auden (not Auden anymore) summoned every mote of energy he had, and blasted the beacon into dust.
Now he was truly alone.
The body he shaped for himself next should have been completely different. It was a dangerous luxury, to keep any feature that resembled Auden d’Autevielle. But that face, those limbs, those feet – he had designed them personally. They felt more like himself than his original bright red body of flexible, mutable limbs.
He liked his cheekbones. He could rule the world with cheekbones like these.
In the end, he shaped his body into a man who could well have been Auden’s more stable older brother. He let his hair grow brown rather than silver, widened his nose, added wear and tear to the face, and width to the shoulders and ribcage.
He travelled south, far south, because there was no need to linger near that damned beacon any longer. He went from city to city, acquiring clothes and funds and political gossip: building a platform from which to launch Vaniel Stonewater.
Milord was an excellent spy, above all things. He built up different faces and bodies, variations on a theme: he became the Raven Slate and the bureaucrat Linton Gray as well as Vaniel. They all had different faces, but the same excellent cheekbones.
Auden and Oliver had adored political theory – but their world had been small, confined to their university and then to Olivier’s rural estate. Here in the south, cities ate and drank New Aristocrat politics. Vaniel Stonewater found a game that he could win all the time without growing bored; the rules were always changing.
One night, in a salon filled with beautiful people looking for sex and attachment as much as intellectual stimulation, Vaniel Stonewater met a quiet young woman with laughter in her eyes, whose elder sister was desperate to marry her off so she could start making babies for the family line.
“Milady Delia de Winter,” she told him when he asked for an introduction.
“Winter,” Vaniel said with an inscrutable smile. “What an evocative name.”
“You don’t think it makes me sound chilly?” she ventured, flirting a little.
“Quite the opposite, sweetness. Quite the opposite.”
Marrying Olivier had been his greatest mistake; marrying Delia was precisely the opposite. As Milord de Winter, he finally became his truest self. Such a shame that Delia had to die, for him to truly profit from the marriage…
Now, in the tower on the island at the end of the world, it was Vaniel de Winter’s turn to die. Bee ruthlessly guarded his safety when he was a part of her family. Now that she saw him as her enemy, she would not hesitate to end him.
It was only a surprise she had not done it already. But she had orders, or a request, at least, from someone with the authority to stay her hand.
It was too much to hope that her Eminence the Cardinal might ride to his rescue. Theirs had been a partnership of convenience, and Milord was well aware that he had ceased to be convenient.
Still, the death of the Duchess of Buckingham would go some way towards repairing their professional relationship. He had a professional reputation to uphold.
Committing a murder remotely while locked in a tower, far from the victim… oh yes, that would remind people of what Milord de Winter was capable.
Even if he would not be de Winter after tonight.
Marshal Felton came to him at midnight, when everyone else in this wretched tower was asleep. Milord sat with his feet up on the window seat as the chime of the security system indicated that someone was punching in a code.
He had already taken a dose of vision, a clever psychic drug once used by air commanders to see into the minds of their pilots during battle. Combined with the Winter implant, it made for a whole different kind of weapon.
When he closed his eyes, Milord saw through the eyes of Winter: a barefoot, silver-haired creature. Winter was a flirt, a dangerous weapon, and a spy. All of Milord’s selves were spies, of course, but Winter was the wickedest of them.
He had built Winter himself, based on a set of programmable micro-studs he bought on the black market from Mendaki traders: he was pretty sure they used them as some kind of long distance interstellar sex toy.
The micro-studs looked like grains of pepper and could be added to any food or drink. Once lodged inside the victim’s skin, they implanted the program directly into their brain.
Milord had no control of Winter once the program was activated. It played out its own games of mockery and subversion.
The Winter he had dosed the Duchess of Buckingham with months ago was a law unto itself. It had certainly performed the necessary tasks – pushing her towards the adultery she already desperately wanted to commit, nudging her to keep the coat that the Prince Consort had been foolish enough to wrap around her shoulders.
The true value of Winter was in the information it provided. Milord could check in with the implant – with everything it had seen and done in the presence of the Duchess of Buckingham – through his use of vision.
Tonight, he learned that Buck had a house-guest: a young man who had thwarted Milord more than once, and had an intimate connection to Dana D’Artagnan. Killing Buck was a matter of duty. Killing Conrad Su would be a delicious treat: something to look forward to, when duty was done.
Milord relaxed, wriggling his bare feet against the cool stone of the tower wall.
Felton stepped into the tower. “Milord,” she said in a low whisper.
He had her now. He had manipulated her to make her move against the Countess of Clarick. That was an excellent start. If Milord was to use Felton, really use her, then she must want to be used.
“Did you come here to pray?” he asked now, stretching out along the ledge.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” said Felton, her voice trembling.
“It’s all right,” said Milord. “It’s not your fault. You have been caught up in a conspiracy not of your making. You are on the wrong side. But you don’t have to be.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you,” said Felton.
Milord exulted. He had cracked her open using only words and ideas. It was the best kind of seduction.
“Here,” he said, crossing the tower floor, his warm soles stinging with the cold of the flagstones. “Share my wine, and we’ll talk. I will answer any question you have about the crimes my sister-in-law has committed against Valour justice – all the name of friendship with those Musketeers.”
He could not resist a sneer at ‘Musketeers’ and he saw that Felton subconsciously mimicked him. Of course she had an ingrained dislike and distrust of the Regence’s own. She had been one of the Red Hammers on Paris Satellite not so long ago.
Felton wet her mouth with the wine, and licked her lips, though it was more of a nervous habit than any particular thirst. Not enough. She must drink deeper.
Milord continued. “It is Buckingham behind it, of course. Buckingham and her ambitions for this planet.”
“This planet,” said Felton, taking another swallow of wine. There was something about the twist of her mouth as she repeated the words…
The best tool for a seduction was knowledge. “What i
s it you most want, Marshal Felton? What is it that you need?”
“Want, need,” said Felton, waving the wine glass as if it offended her. “My whole life collapsed because of want and need. I lost Paris because of want and need. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Oh,” breathed Milord. He took the glass from her and pretended to sip, then passed it back to watch her take a longer swallow. “It is Paris you want. To return there.”
That was enough to break the dam. “I hate this planet, with its New Aristocrats and its politics and its rain, and Elementals everywhere,” confessed Felton. “I was happy as a Red Hammer, happy on Paris Satellite.”
“What happened? Who took it away from you?”
“I fell in love with a Musketeer,” she said sourly. “With a woman who did not care enough for me. I broke the fidelity clause of my marriage contract for three nights in the arms of the Musketeer Aramis. When we were caught out, she moved on to another affair, while I was ruined. Everyone on Paris is an oathbreaker, one way or another, but no one can afford to be caught, especially those who work in service to the Church.”
I see,” said Milord, watching the long, milky throat of Felton work around the wine that remained in the glass. He could not be sure yet if the implant had taken hold. “What do you want most? Revenge, or Paris?”
“Both, I want both. Even if the Cardinal forgave me my sins, I cannot return to Paris while she is there…”
There it was. Swimming with the heightened senses provided by vision, Milord gasped as a wave of heat roiled around the tower room, and the illusion of his younger, charming silver-haired self flickered into existence between them.
Felton staggered back, seeing double. She swayed as the implant took hold, and her eyes focused on a single figure – on the image of Winter.
Milord captured the glass and set it aside. Felton barely even glanced in his direction.
Winter moved towards her, his hips swaying and his smile blazing with heat. “We’re going to do such marvellous work together, Jan,” he promised her. “We’re going to kill a traitor. And when the Duchess of Buckingham is in the ground… I promise you, the Church will welcome you back with open arms Aramis will never return to Paris Satellite alive.”
Milord, meanwhile, would reshape himself anew, into someone that none of the damned Musketeers would never suspect. All he had to do to beat them was to die one more time…
54
Mission to Valour
This was embarrassing.
For Dana it had been an entire week of embarrassment, thanks to the reports she and Athos had been required to lodge, detailing their intimate knowledge of the Sun-kissed agent known variously as Slate, Winter, Milord, Milord Vaniel de Winter, Linton Gray, Vaniel Stonewater, Auden Snow and the Honourable Auden d’Autevielle.
Then there had been the discovery, after a week or more of intense diplomacy and attempts at translating an alien language formed mostly from light and colour, that Milord was wanted by his own people for crimes so grave that they would be willing to pull their troops out of Truth Space in exchange for his living body.
The question as to whether the invasion had been intended for the specific purpose of reclaiming Milord or whatever he was called in his own language – Sparkle Flash Shimmering Sunbeam or something equally untranslatable – had literally been keeping Athos up at nights.
The Regence, Amiral Treville and the Cardinal all agreed that reclaiming Milord from Valour was now of the utmost importance to the war effort. Special Agent Rosnay Cho had been put in charge of a mixed unit made up of Sabres and Musketeers. Porthos and Aramis were both included in the mission. Athos and Dana were not.
Another stinging humiliation, piled on top of so many others that Dana barely felt it.
Athos refused to accept that when it came to Milord de Winter, he and Dana were hopelessly compromised. He argued that they were both needed on the mission, precisely because of their experience with the diabolically ruthless agent. He was not prepared to leave Treville’s office until she agreed with him. Treville dug her heels in so hard that there were skid marks on the carpet.
Their fight had been going for two hours and counting.
Dana had missed lunch.
Finally, Treville threw up her arms and bellowed. “He’s in custody of the Countess of Clarick’s personal guards, and a Planetary Marshal! All this team have to do is collect him from detention and bring him back here – a simple operation. What the hell insight do the two of you think you can provide?”
“For a start,” said Athos flatly. “There is no risk of either of us looking at this mission as a simple operation. There is no such thing, with this man.”
He and Treville stared each other down, silently.
Dana became aware of a frantic buzz of conversation outside the office. “Amiral Treville,” she said hesitantly.
Treville held up a hand to silence her, then strode out of the office.
Athos gave Dana a dirty look. She rolled her eyes at him, and followed Treville.
“Have they started shooting again?” Treville barked at her comms officer.
“No, boss,” said Comms. “It’s just – there’s something come through on the interplanetary wire. From Gossipnode and a bunch of other sources…”
“I wasn’t aware that Gossipnode was one of the sources we prioritise.”
“Not usually, boss,” said Comms, blushing. “But they’re saying on Valour that the Duchess of Buckingham has been assassinated.”
Dana felt cold spread through her body, starting from her neck. Buck, she thought helplessly. And then, with a burst of inner selfishness: what about Conrad?
Conrad Su’s last message to her had been flippant and ordinary. This house is too small for me AND Buck’s terrible shoe collection. I was looking for the games room, fell into her shoe cupboard & was lost for hours. Send a ball of yarn!
That was yesterday.
“You should have sent us days ago,” accused Athos, in a voice low enough that no one but Treville and Dana could hear him.
Treville gave Athos a sour look. “Head down to Chaillot Station and inform Agent Cho to make room for two more. If you come back to Paris in a body bag, I’ll blow up that green eyesore of a ship myself.”
“They burn bodies on Valour,” was all Athos said before he walked away.
Dana offered Treville an apologetic smile. “We’ll end this war,” she said with all the fervour of a newly minted Musketeer.
“Yes,” Treville sighed. “But with Athos involved, you’ll have started three more by the time I see you again.”
Rosnay Cho had a new Moth fighter. Not the same Moth fighter as before, but one even newer. This one had a name – the Ryan Mac – and it was beautiful, gleaming silver like a beetle. A beetle made out of stars.
Life, Dana D’Artagnan decided, was entirely unfair.
Ro looked singularly unsurprised to find Athos and Dana joining her for the final briefing at the dock on Chaillot Station while their ships were detailed by a group of dedicated and highly caffeinated engies.
Planchet’s transfer from the Frenzy Kenzie had come through three days after Dana’s promotion. She waved cheerfully at Dana from the fin of the Buttercup before sliding all the way under to check the couplings on the power spheres.
“Is it true?” was the first thing Athos asked Rosnay Cho. The two of them had bonded during the hellish week of translation.
“We think so,” said Ro. “All we’re getting is from the media at this point – we haven’t been able to make contact with Villiers House or with local law enforcement for formal confirmation.”
“Was it him?” Dana asked. She could be as streamlined and efficient as the rest of them.
Ro gave her a steady look. “Our sources assure us that the agent known as Milord is still under guard, on private land on the far north of the continent. It looks like he wasn’t involved.”
Porthos blew out an unbelieving breath, and even the two Sabres
who made up the party muttered ‘ha’ to each other.
“Our mission is the same,” said Ro. “We collect the target from his detention, and we bring him here to the Bastion. It’s not our job to investigate the assassination of Buckingham, however tempted we might be.”
Dana raised her eyebrows, silently calling bullshit on that one. “But?” she invited.
“But,” said Ro, giving her a smirk. “Turns out we have more personnel than we originally planned on, so I’ll make that call when we hit Valour orbit. Saddle up, buttercup. A lot of space miles between here and there.”
Her first mission as a Musketeer. Dana was playing it as cool as she could. Still, she was excited as they all went to their individual ships, even though she caught Aramis mouthing the words ‘saddle up, buttercup’ in silent delight.
“Ready to go, Cap,” said Planchet as Dana stepped into the cockpit. The pigtailed engie came forward to help her with the helm and harness.
Wish me luck, Papa, Dana thought as they flew in formation out into space.
The Buttercup was delighted to be flying again. Space space! Here we go! he sang.
The look on Planchet’s face – joy that they were finally doing this, both of them, together – mirrored Dana’s own. If it helped to distract Dana from the fact that Conrad Su had not replied to her recent messages, then all the better.
After several days of jumping and recharging their way across the Solar System, they were only a few hours out from Valour when a message chimed into the Morningstar.
Aramis blinked at the user info. PRIORITY ONE CALL FROM LUNAR PALAIS, followed by a series of ominous looking security codes.
“Captain-lieutenant Aramis,” said Bazin from where he stood plugged into the wall of the cockpit. “There is a priority one…”
“Yes, Bazin, thanks, I can see it.” Aramis hesitated only a moment before stabbing at a button to bring up the call. “Morningstar.”
It was not a surprise to see a business-like Chevreuse filling her screen – the surprise was the origin of the call.
Musketeer Space Page 50