“No visitors in the last 48 hours,” said House precisely. “A stranger tested our security twelve hours ago but failed the visual scan and fingerprint test, and went away.”
Athos swallowed, because the door was so damned big and heavy and he didn’t want to open it, not at all. “Is there anyone in residence besides myself and my guests, House?”
“Mr Auden is in the iris library,” said House. “He arrived ten hours and fourteen minutes ago.”
“That’s good,” Athos said with a very dry mouth. “Good house. You’ve done well.”
“He’s actually here,” D’Artagnan said quietly.
“Too much to hope that the iris library is on the ground floor zone?” Aramis said pointedly. She never missed much.
“Open,” said Athos, and stepped forward into a blinding pattern of black and white tiles that swept across the floor of the foyer. A huge staircase sprawled up one wall, leading to the upper floors. Even the goddamned pot plants were green and leafy as ever.
He had expected to return to a ruin, to something dust-caked, looted and neglected that represented the conflicted feelings he had about his former home.
House, of course, had other ideas. Athos should have known.
His father would approve that House had held up so well. He would not approve of Athos’ failure to meet his responsibilities over the last five years.
Time to make up for that by addressing the one responsibility he had failed most thoroughly to accomplish, all those years ago. It was time to rid the estate of a monster.
“The iris library,” Porthos growled. “Where is it?”
“Third floor,” said Athos, and didn’t even smile.
“You’re not going up there alone.”
“You’re not,” D’Artagnan added. “I want him, Athos. You can’t keep me down here and out of the way. I don’t need to be protected.”
“Of course you do,” said Athos calmly. He glanced at Aramis, the only one not currently furious with him. On the contrary, she was calm and unsurprised. “I can handle this, D’Artagnan. Trust me.”
“You’re not trusting us,” she complained. “We’re a team now. You don't have to run around playing lord and master and lone hero and all those stupid things from the holo-channels. You need backup.”
“I brought backup,” said Athos, and nodded briefly to the red mother. “I brought all of you. If he gets past me and House, you’re here to stop him getting away.”
“That’s not comforting if he kills you, Athos!” D’Artagnan protested, her fists curled into tight balls.
He felt bad for a moment, but not as bad as if she was bleeding on the ground, because of course Auden – Milord would go for her first. D’Artagnan was the youngest and the least experienced, and Milord hated her.
“I’ll see you soon,” Athos said, and turned to make his way up the enormous staircase. As soon as he reached the lowest step, his friends were unable to stop him.
Hot anger pricked at Dana’s eyes and that was so similar to crying that she wasn’t sure why she even held back.
“Tea,” said the red mother serenely, and led the way to a kitchen roughly the size of the Stellar Concourse.
“You speak,” said Aramis deferentially, as the Musketeers trooped in after her. “I wasn’t sure that you did.”
“There are times for sacred silence,” said the Elemental priest, slipping her hood from her shoulders and pushing her mask up to her hairline. She was young, barely forty if she was a day, and wore a streak of dark lipstick across her mouth. “There are times when it is appropriate to speak. Tea is one of those times.”
“We should be with him,” Dana grumbled. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
Porthos gave her a reassuring thump of a hip against hers. “Chin up,” she said. “Athos has done a lot of things over the last five years that were practically guaranteed to get himself killed. He hasn’t managed it yet.”
“Athos the Musketeer,” said the priest, trying out the name in her mouth. “Is that what our Olivier calls himself now?”
“He’s good at it,” said Aramis. “We’re not leaving without him,” she added.
“Then we had better make sure he does not lose his way while he is here,” said the priest with a smile. “House, we will have the chrysanthemum tea. If Mr Auden makes any violent move against his Grace the Comte, or if anyone is hurt, please allow Emergency Privilege 3 to apply to all of his guests.”
“Certainly, mother,” said the House. A fat teapot appeared in a nearby food hatch, steaming.
Dana stared at the priest. She swished her red cloak a little as she crossed the kitchen, to collect the teapot. “I feel that his Grace the Comte rather underestimated the extent to which his father trusted my predecessor,” she explained.
And then she poured the tea into four tiny porcelain cups.
Going home after five years – the place should feel small. But after so many years living in a shoebox apartment in Paris Satellite, it was Athos who felt small amid all this grandeur.
Who needed all these rooms? When it was over, he should give the manor up for good. Donate it to the town: make them turn it into a museum or something practical like a school.
Or burn it to the ground. Either way.
There were three libraries on the third floor. This, Athos considered for the first time in his life, was excessive. There was the library of the elements, which housed his grandfather’s thorough collection of religious and theological texts pertinent not only to the local religion, but also to the history of the Church of All.
He must never let Aramis know that the library of the elements existed, or they would never get her off this fucking planet.
The second library was more of a study, the proper place for the Comte de la Fere to deal with estate matters, paperwork and the like. It had been his father’s hideout for most of Athos’ childhood, an excuse for the man to smoke cigars away from his wife, and to meet with a parade of serious gentlemen over business decisions and port, not necessarily in that order.
The books that lined those walls were decorative rather than part of a specific collection. Once Athos had taken on the title, he attempted to work in here as his father had done, but found it oppressive and lonely. The library of the elements had a more comfortable couch, and a better view of the mountains.
At the far end of the sprawling central gallery on this floor was the iris library, which had been the domain of Athos’ Maman. It held very few good memories. She was a cool, elegant woman who wore the title of Comtessa better than any other name, but had little time for children.
Athos remembered how the Comtessa would sit him in a corner of that library as a child, correcting his stance and posture and knowledge of the history of Valour with that critical tongue of hers.
When she was not critiquing him, she had very little to say.
Olivier had always hated this room, and Auden knew that.
For the first year of Olivier and Auden’s marriage, the Comtessa de La Fere had remained in the house, as she had always done, sleeping in the same suite of rooms, inhabiting this library like a scathing ghost who had opinions about how everything was wrong. She demonstrated neither approval nor disapproval over Auden, though Athos knew he had disappointed her in not choosing a wife (and the preferred option would have been a wife) from one of the rare families on Valour she considered equal to the Autevilles or her own bloodline, the Demorrows.
On his first wedding anniversary, Athos awoke to discover that his mother, along with her retinue of three personal assistants and one live-in hairstylist, had moved out of the house and returned to the Demorrow family estate, along with her widowed sister the Marchioness de Lourde.
They did not write, though they exchanged formal cards on the more significant religious holidays for a few years at least.
It had not occurred to him until now that she might be still alive out there.
Auden knew how much Athos – Olivier – hated
this library, and so he took it as his own space, once the Comtessa withdrew. He liked to hide here when they had an argument, knowing Athos would never follow him inside.
It was strangely wounding to have the man falling back on those habits now, as if nothing had happened. As if the sword had never fallen on his neck, as if they were not two different people: Athos the Musketeer, and Milord the murderer.
Athos stepped inside. For a moment, he fancied that he could still smell his mother’s perfume. Then all thoughts of her fell out of his head, because he was faced with his husband.
Milord sprawled on the antique couch, beneath a wall of watercolour irises and a window that looked out over the violet garden.
He had reverted to the version of himself that lived in Athos’ memory – all youth and cheekbones, his silver hair falling long around his shoulders and his feet wriggling bare against the embroidered cushions.
A sword (a genuine sword, not a pilot’s slice, Athos recognised it as a family heirloom) lay carelessly across Milord’s lap.
“I see you’re not a nun anymore,” Athos drawled. “I’m surprised you gave up on the new look so quickly. Sister Snow sounds like a peach.”
Milord looked at him through his eyelashes. “Sometimes it’s best to stick to the classics.”
“Yes, and you got murder all over the hands of the last body you wore, so…” Athos gave him a flat smile. “I’m not going to insult you by asking how you survived your execution, this time around.”
“Wouldn’t tell you if you asked. I have to keep some secrets. Imagine if you got bored of me.” After everything, he was still flirting.
Athos shook his head in disbelief. “What is it you think is going to happen here? Do you imagine I will take pity on you because of what we once shared?”
Milord gave him a frosty look. “I know better than to expect pity of you, Olivier. No, I think you’re going to let me go – more than that, you are going to help me escape because everyone you love is under this roof.”
Athos laughed shortly. “Everyone I love? You mean the Musketeers who all want to shoot you in the head? Yes, I can see where that gives you an advantage.”
“We’re going to escape,” Milord repeated, calmly. “You will call that engie of yours to bring your ship across to the edge of the security field. You are going to walk me out of here, safely, and hand control of your ship over to me.”
“You want the Pistachio?” Athos said, not sure he had heard correctly.
“I want everything,” Milord said sweetly. “I learned a lesson with Sister Snow. Creating a new identity from scratch is too hard, too fraught with extra stress I don’t need. But a body I know well – at least as well I knew Auden all those years – that could be useful.”
He began to change, silver hair melting into short blond stubble, his body broadening, even his clothes shifting into blue and white. “I’m going to be you, sweetness. That should be good enough to get me halfway across the solar system. You are going to let me leave this house as Athos the Musketeer, or I’m going to leave Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan in pieces.”
Athos could not look at him now – at this strange parody of himself. He turned his back on Milord and went to the window, to the view of the garden that his Maman had always been so proud of.
It was beginning to rain, because Valour. Grey streaked across the sky, matching his mood.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said, refusing to let anger take over. He pressed his fury into his hands, and pushed his hands against the cold glass.
Real glass, not plexi-glass. The Comtessa de La Fere had prized authenticity over practicality.
“You didn’t think I came here only to mock you?” asked Milord.
“I have no idea why you do any of the things you have done,” Athos grated, still refusing to look. His hands flexed hard against the window, as if he could claw his own way out through the glass. “But you will not hurt my friends.”
“I won’t have to,” said Milord. “If they think I’m you, they will fall over themselves to help me. And if I can’t fool them – well, House always was so compliant when it came to family members.”
The panes gave way under Athos’ palms, and the glass shattered out across the lawn below. Blood burst from his hands, from a dozen different cuts. He turned to face his opponent, blood smeared across the bright white window ledge.
“No,” said the Comte de la Fere. “I think not.”
The lights flickered in the kitchen, alerting Dana and the others to the emergency. “Mother,” said the House in that creepy formal tone it employed. “I have to inform you that his Grace has been injured.”
Aramis and Porthos leaped to their feet, teacups flying.
“So we can go upstairs?” Aramis demanded breathlessly.
“Yes – I am so instructed –” but House’s voice dissolved into static. “No,” it said when it spoke again. “His Grace has given the order that no one must interrupt them.”
“Them?” inquired the red mother, looking as unflappable as ever. “You mean his Grace, and Mr Auden.”
“No – I – his Grace has two voices,” House said plaintively. “They have given conflicting orders.”
“I’m going up,” Porthos said, and made a run for the foyer.
Aramis chased after her. “Be careful! We don’t know how many more of those forcefields there are.”
“I’m sick of seeing Athos go through hell for that asshole,” Porthos growled. “Let me at them both.”
“House,” the red mother said. “What was the last order that his Grace gave you?”
“It concerns the guest D’Artagnan,” said the House.
Dana had been about to follow the others out of the kitchen. “What about me?”
“His Grace the Comte de La Fere has decreed that D’Artagnan must die,” said House.
60
Judges, Jury and Executioners
Athos had taken part in countless duels over the years – against Hammers and Sabres, against New Aristocrats drunk and sober, against his fellow Musketeers. He had never fought a duel against himself.
But Milord was not Athos, despite wearing a semblance of his face and body. Milord’s fencing style (which had developed significantly since their days of casual sparring) was formal and vicious, Valour from hilt to tip. He had not conducted a study of drunken Parisian back alley brawls in between all his marriages, political machinations and espionage.
His loss.
Athos pressed his advantage, taking a fierce joy in being the Comte in this moment, and not the Musketeer. His honour belonged to himself and not to the Crown, and if that meant he was justified in using his free hand to seize anything within reach (a book, a cup, a vase he especially hated) and hurl it at his opponent, then so be it.
“Get out of my house,” he growled.
Milord (still wearing Athos’ face) raised his eyebrows in a parody of sarcasm. “Get out of my house,” he replied sweetly.
Athos batted the other man’s blade out of his way and stepped in, too close. “This isn’t a game.”
“On the contrary, sweetness,” breathed his husband. “This is the best game we’ve ever played.”
Athos punched him in the face with a bloodstained fist.
Of all the ways that Dana had imagined she might die, it was not at the hands of kitchen implements, ordered to kill her by her best friend.
She didn’t know what half these things did, but they were metal and plastic and whirring, and House was about to use them in ways that would make a genuine chef blanch.
Dana backed up into a corner of the kitchen. The red mother’s voice soothing and reassuring as she told the House that the order must have been mistaken, that the real Comte de La Fere would not want his friend dead.
House was audibly struggling against his programming. “The Comte has two voices,” he conceded.
“One of those voices is false,” the red mother assured him. “Mr Auden is your ma
ster’s enemy. He has stolen his Grace’s voice to trick you.”
“Does not – that is not logical,” House said, sounding genuinely distressed. “Mr Auden is family by marriage. I am to treat him as – I am to protect him as I protect his Grace.”
A buzzing, rotating knife blade twitched in the direction of Dana’s throat. “His Grace has a new family now,” she blurted out, and looked at the red mother, worried she had said something wrong.
The priest nodded, and smiled. “His Grace is now Athos the Musketeer,” she said. “He told you that these are his friends: his personal guests. One does not murder personal guests, House.”
Dana heard a crash and a yell from further into the house. “He’s in trouble, House!” she said desperately. “Please, let me help him. You can kill me later if you’re really sure that’s what he wants, but let me save him first.”
The buzzing kitchen implements hung in the air, considering.
Dana didn’t wait. She flew out to the main foyer, where she found Porthos and Aramis battling with the staircase. Porthos was several steps up, and Aramis behind her, but they were both stuck.
“This damned House keeps changing its mind about letting us past the forcefields,” Porthos howled.
“He’s confused,” said Dana. She hesitated, and ran up the stairs and past them both. “He’s especially confused about me.”
She kept running until she found the third floor, following the sound of a fight. She had no idea which door led to the iris library, but she didn’t have to find it, because Athos himself staggered out of a nearby door. He had blood smeared on his white shirt, and across his battered face. No obvious damage.
His Grace has been injured.
“Dana,” Athos said, his hand tightening on the hilt of what an antique sword, not his usual pilot’s slice. “We have to get out of here, now, before he…”
Dana punched him in the face.
He went down with a roar, completely surprised by the force of her fist, and before he could get up again, she shot him with the bright gleam of her pearl stunner.
Musketeer Space Page 55