by Sarah Hoyt
“The fighting last night can’t have done you any good.”
He allowed his smile to widen, carefully disciplining his facial muscles to display no more than the ordinary. “Indeed, d’Emile, but that is what must one do when friends call.”
And then remembered there were those in the crowd of musketeers who had seen him at the de Montbelliards’ house last night. Someone—many—here had seen him completely naked—completely naked with Charlotte’s fangs and lips fastened onto his thigh.
They wouldn’t know he was a vampire, but what they thought he was doing there in that state, he didn’t know. His stomach lurched within him, the broth, which always felt heavy on it, seeking to explode through his lips. He wouldn’t allow it. By sheer force of will he kept his smile and betrayed his nervousness only by removing his gloves carefully and methodically. And even then you’d need to know him as only Grimaud did to know this was his favored method of giving his hands and thoughts something to do when worried. Likely they will think I am embarrassed, he thought. Which was true but also not, because he was, in fact mortified.
He forced himself to say, conscious of the constraint in his voice, “And I am sure they will return the favor another night.” His voice echoed too high and shaky, but he thought that was exactly how it sound if he were still mortal and had been found in such a case, even if he had no history with the lady. Even if she weren’t his wife. “I . . . I thank any of you who were in the raid that freed me from compulsion at the old De Montbelliard’s place.”
No one admitted to it, but several heads dipped, and Athos turned quickly away, feeling as if he were suffocating in his own embarrassment and rebelling against his own need to monitor his every word, almost his every thought.
Up the stairs—the play-duelists moved aside to let him pass—all the way up to the landing where Gervase, Monsieur de Tréville’s thin and worn-looking man servant bowed to him. “Monsieur!”
Like Grimaud, Gervase had the knack of being able to use one word and make it mean many, many things. What it meant, right now, was that he was pleased to see Athos and trusted Athos must be recovering nicely from his injury. And did he wish to see Monsieur de Tréville?
“If at all possible, Gervase, I would very much like to see the captain, as I must inform him in a matter of much importance.”
“Certainly, Monsieur,” Gervase said, and opening the door announced Athos, then stepped back to let him pass.
Monsieur de Tréville wasn’t alone. He rarely was. It was his habit to interrupt an audience when a petitioner with a great claim appeared, and to conduct several talks at the same time.
He stood, in full court dress—even if his royal-blue velvet doublet had started to look a little faded around the edges, the ornamental embroidery pulled in places—talking to a group of musketeers to whom he must have given their negative assignments for the night. He waved them aside and extended both hands to Athos, smiling. “Ah, my valiant Athos. I knew that you’d not long be able to stay away from your duty. You’ve come to report to me, have you not?”
Athos inclined his head. At all times it pained him to lie to his captain and now more than ever, since his very existence, his presence here was a lie. “Pardon me, Captain, but no, not yet. You see, the wound is paining me, and I thought—”
“Not a discharge!” the captain said, looking up at him, as though wondering if this was the same Athos he knew.
“No, sir. Of course not. When you did me the honor of accepting me into the regiment, I swore to you that I would serve as long as France needed me, as long as we were besieged by vampires. I would not withdraw my word now.”
Monsieur de Tréville’s features sagged with relief, but he said, “Well, then what is it you seek of me? I know you are on leave until you are recovered . . . ”
“Since my wound is paining me more than it should be, and because some miraculously beneficial waters have lately been found in Gascony, I’ve been persuaded partaking of these waters would speed my recovery.”
Monsieur de Tréville stepped away from Athos, his gaze still fixed on the musketeer. Athos tried not to even consider what the captain might be discerning that so alarmed him. “But,” Monsieur de Tréville said frowning, “surely to ride two or three days to Gascony could not possibly be good for a wound?”
Athos swallowed, “I believe the benefits will outweigh any ill effects of such travel,” he said.
Monsieur de Tréville scrutinized Athos as though hoping to distinguish some ominous sign. Athos wished he knew what it was so he could avoid it.
Of all the behaviors that vampirism had forced on him, he despised this prevarication most of all. He would endure ten times the craving for blood, fifteen times the fact that he had to drink what tasted like stagnant water, just to be able to talk to his captain—and, indeed, to everyone he admired or trusted without disguise.
“Well,” the Captain said at last. “I suppose Porthos and Aramis will be going with you?”
“In fact, sir, they—” he said, ready to explain he didn’t think it fair to demand that they should travel to Gascony, when it was his wound and his problem.
However, just at that moment, Gervase opened the door and called out, “Messieurs Porthos and Aramis,” and stepped aside, allowing Athos’ friends to enter.
Unfortunately Porthos liked lying even less than Athos. Even more unfortunately, Porthos was also less skilled at dissembling. He stepped in, saw Athos and said, “You here?” Then stopped at a glare from Aramis.
“I meant,” Porthos said, with the feel of having changed sentences mid-speech, “we went to your lodgings and you and Grimaud were absent.”
“Yes,” Athos said, tersely. “As you see, I was here, to—”
“I presume,” Monsieur de Tréville said, before Athos could think of words double-edged enough by which he could warn his friends of the story he’d just told the captain. “You two have come to volunteer to accompany Monsieur Athos to Gascony.”
“Indeed, sir,” Aramis said. But there was no disguising the look of shock that came over Porthos’ face, as he looked at Athos.
“I have come,” Athos said, trying to head off any possible uncomfortable revelations. “To request permission to take the waters at the newly discovered hot springs in Gascony.”
“Of course,” Aramis said smoothly. “in Tarbes.” Which would have been perfect, had not Porthos at the same time said, “In Pau.”
The captain looked from one to the other; inquiringly at Athos and even more so at Aramis and Porthos.
Were they about to get one of Monsieur de Tréville’s famous set-downs? He was quite capable of raking even the most respected and best of his musketeers over live coals when they displeased him. And now, from his narrowed eyes and his glare, it appeared he was about to do so. His cutting references and terrible put-downs would then be transmitted to the crowd downstairs by one of the observers in the office. After what some other musketeers had seen the night before, it seemed to Athos it would be easier and far less painful if the earth should open and swallow him whole. Even if the yellow and white tile floor of Monsieur de Tréville’s office could in no way be construed as earth.
Monsieur de Tréville was quiet a long time, and when he spoke at last, it was to say “Messieurs,” spoken with eerie, terrible calm.
Athos tried to look impassive. Bad enough when a scolding started with you men, but if it started with messieurs, it was guaranteed to be most vitriolic and memorable. The captain’s acidic barbs would repeated all over town for weeks.
But, instead, he said, mildly, “Messieurs, if you would leave me with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, we have matters of interest only to us and his majesty to discuss.”
Athos recognized Monsieur de Tréville was talking to the others in the office and that he had just spoken the only words that would give them privacy. In the old days, he’d heard, it was impossible for Monsieur de Tréville to have a private tête-à-tête. with any of his musketeers without oth
er musketeers listening outside the door. Whatever had been discussed was then spread far and wide. But these days, hemmed in between the treaty and the need to protect the helpless and fight the vampires, Monsieur de Tréville often required privacy to keep from falling into traps set by the cardinal.
The men filed out quietly. Monsieur de Tréville followed them as far as the door, which he closed. He then turned to Athos and said, “Speak. Why must the three of you go to Gascony, and why did you decide this independently from each other?” He waved his hand at Aramis, “Not you, Aramis. I know your glib tongue, and I know you’d give me a perfectly reasonable explanation that would even be the truth after a fashion. But I prefer the real story, as I have a sense that you gentlemen are in over your heads.”
He retreated behind his desk and sat down, which he only did when he expected a lengthy discussion.
If only you knew how far over my head, Athos thought. Aloud he said, “The truth is, it concerns the Gascon whom you met the other day.” And to Monsieur de Tréville’s blank look, he said, “D’Artagnan, the young man just arrived from Gascony.”
“Oh, him,” Monsieur de Tréville said. “I thought he might well be a Judas goat.”
“Yes, I did too, sir,” Aramis said, “and part of the cardinal’s plans to entrap us.”
“I see,” Monsieur de Tréville said. “Do go on.”
Athos went on. He told an edited version of their dealings with d’Artagnan which left out the reason the Gascon had followed them and pretended he had come upon them as they started the duel with the guards. From there he told the story until the Gascon was kidnapped.
“Kidnapped,” Monsieur de Tréville said, smoothing his beard in a pensive gesture. “Or ran away having discovered that he was getting too enmeshed in a deception he could not carry on?”
“I feel sure it was a kidnapping, Monsieur,” Athos said. “As does Madame Bonacieux.” He explained his reasoning much as he had to Aramis.
Monsieur de Tréville looked at him, long and hard. “What if,” he said, “it is the cardinal’s intention to have you go to Gascony on this fool’s errand, while he enacts some plan here in Paris which your presence would have destroyed.”
“You’ll still have the other musketeers, sir,” Athos said, soberly.
“And I no longer think the young man is a Judas goat,” Aramis said at last. “ Madame Bonacieux might be many things, intemperate being one of them.” As he spoke he lifted his face and Athos thought he could still distinguish a faint reddened mark where her hand had struck him. “But she is no fool. And she has . . . ” He opened his hands, palm out, as if to signify inability to explain. “Something else, which her faith and its practice gives her. She . . . senses people. Some she trusts and some she doesn’t, and I’ve never known her to be wrong. Remember last year, when she said Nazaire . . . ?”
“Ah, yes.” Monsieur de Tréville pursed his lips in distaste, recalling the one instance of betrayal in the corps. It still rankled even though a year had passed.
“Well,” Aramis said. “Madame de Bonacieux trusts d’Artagnan so much she said she was going to Gascony to rescue him herself.”
“Sangre Dieu,” Monsieur de Tréville said, sitting straighter. “Did she go?”
“I don’t know, sir, though she informed all our colleagues, Rabbi Isaac and Pastor Monfort and the others that she will be gone for some time as . . . as have I.”
“I see,” Monsieur de Tréville said. He looked at them a long time. “Of course, even if the boy is not a Judas goat, that does not exempt him from being used as bait in one of the cardinal’s games,” he said.
“It does not exempt any of us,” Athos said, quietly, thinking of himself and all the events of the last few days.
Monsieur de Tréville sighed. “I shall grant you gentlemen a fortnight leave of absence.” He took a leaf from his desk, dipped his quill and wrote rapidly, blotted, then folded the page. He then put pen to another page. “You will be going to Pau—unless Tarbes is more convenient” he permitted himself a smile at their expense, “to take the waters for your chest wound, Athos. Your comrades will escort you.” He extended the first folded page, which Athos took. “This gives you the ability to tell anyone you are on orders to go as soon as possible and to stay as long as you need to, and that Athos’ recovery is of great importance to me. This one,” he offered the second folded paper to Athos, “This states you are on urgent business for his majesty the king. I know in the countryside the king’s name doesn’t hold much sway. Still, it might serve you good stead.”
“Thank you, sir, I don’t know how to—”
“Do not bother,” Monsieur de Tréville interrupted Athos’ gratitude. “However,” he got up, and offered his hand to each of them in turn. “You will wish to be aware that I believe there is great trouble brewing. I’ve had intimations that there is something afoot. I do not know what, but I’ve learned to know when Richelieu is attempting something. Also . . . also he seems to be afraid of someone or something . . . ”
Perils of The Roads
THEY’D not gone very far, when they found the road blocked by a large log. Aramis rode up close to determine if they could force their horses to jump it, and came back to where Athos and Porthos waited—their servants and the boy Planchet, who refused to be left in Paris, at a distance—and said, “There are other logs beyond this.” His face was contorted with worry. “If we’d tried to jump this one, the horses would have been lamed on the other side,” he said.
“Then we move them,” Porthos said, and started to dismount.
Athos shook his head. “Do not, my friend,” he said. He walked his horse nearer his friends, so they could speak at little more than a whisper. “If many logs were felled together,” he said, “and laid across the road, that must mean it is a trap. If we dismount, chances are we will be set upon.” He looked up at the sky to determine the position of the moon. “One hour or two till dawn,” he said. “Aramis, where is the last place you saw that might be safe for us to take shelter?”
“An hour back,” Aramis said, wearily. “But if we are to make it to Agen, we must use this road. It is the only road passable enough for horses. There are, I believe, some goat-paths, beaten dirt only, which can be used to progress south, but we’d risk our horses being lamed or worse.”
Athos sighed. “Barring,” he said, “the ability of my lady wife to withstand daylight, then the people who felled these logs will be asleep come morning.”
Porthos frowned, “Why do you think they are vampires?” he asked.
“Because, Porthos, if the nearest safe place is an hour back, and this trap was set in the dark of night, that must mean that those who man the trap are not afraid of anyone. If they are not afraid of anyone, it must mean they are vampires. Who else in this desolate a place would be so confident?”
Aramis nodded. “So, we go back to the nearest village that had lights and which seemed to have people about at sunset and we find a place to bed down. And then?”
“I said nothing about finding a place to bed down,” Athos said, smiling. The cunning Aramis could, at times, seem as slow as Porthos, who at least had the excuse of being uncomfortable in company. “We will go back to the nearest village and see if they have something resembling a carriage.”
Aramis’ eyebrows flew up.
“Or, failing that, an oxcart. It will slow us but not stop us through the day. We shall pay some rustics to move these logs,” he waved a hand in dismissal. “Then we will progress as far as we can during the day, till we come to what looks to be a safe place to sleep. If we pause at late afternoon, no one will notice much if we depart again at nighttime.”
“But how will an oxcart fit your purpose?” Aramis asked.
“It will,” Athos said, “if it has an empty barrel on it, or perhaps a load of straw.” From anyone else, Aramis’ reaction would have bothered him, but he knew the sudden laughter bursting out of his friend was not intended to humiliate him. “Stop laughing, Aramis
. A pretty thing it is, indeed, for me to travel this way. Grimaud will be most displeased at such an affront to my dignity.”
Aramis’ face went grave. “None of us wishes to displease Grimaud,” he said. “We’ll play it according to your plan, but if we are going to compound with rustics, you must wear this.” From the depths of his sleeve he retrieved a plain—and old—silver cross on a chain. Looking at Athos, he added, “You said that the cross does not bother you.”
“No, it doesn’t. Only I have a great fear I might bother it,” Athos said, and to Aramis’ look of total incomprehension. “I am a vampire. Won’t it be sacrilege to wear the cross? Won’t it, by itself, damn me to lose my soul?”
A tight smile flew across Aramis’ lips. “Not if you are not disturbed by it. You can’t deem yourself unholy yet. Bide your time my friend. You might yet find a way to damnation.” And then, seriously, “Don’t reject yourself before you are rejected.”
He handed the cross to Athos, who held it in his hand a moment before slipping the chain around his neck. He felt he was somehow committing a dire offense, passing for a mortal when he was not. But he knew enough not to repine. Don’t reject before you are rejected. After all, for ten years he’d condemned himself for a murderer, when it seemed Charlotte had been a vampire all along. Perhaps he should forebear hasty conclusions.
“I think,” he said, “that we’ll have trouble leaving here.” He added, “One of us should go ahead of the servants and the others behind, since I think they’ll attack us from behind.”
“I was about to recommend that myself,” Porthos said, and went around the servants, pausing to convey instructions to Mousqueton. Athos saw the servants draw stakes from their cloaks. The musketeers drew their swords.
