by Stuart Gibbs
Greg felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “So what do we do now? Send a pigeon back with the news?”
“I think that’d be wise …” Aramis began.
“No, it’d be a waste of a valuable pigeon,” Athos argued. “We’re merely guessing that’s what Dominic intends to do.”
“It’s a very educated guess,” Aramis countered.
“But a guess nonetheless,” Athos told him. “And even if we’re right, we don’t know how he plans to invade—or when. Or with what size force. Alerting the king before we know any of this serves no purpose.”
“He could seal the tunnels,” Aramis shot back.
“If we knew exactly where they were,” Athos said hotly. “But we don’t. We only know that Richelieu knows where they are.”
“Perhaps the king knows of them,” Aramis said. “Or one of his military advisors …”
“And what if we’re wrong?” Athos demanded. “Then the entrances will be sealed and of no use should we ever truly need them.”
“You’d rather have them be used against us?” Aramis asked accusingly.
“We are not sending a pigeon!” Athos roared, so loud that his voice echoed through the forest. “Not until we have found Dominic and Michel and determined once and for all, what they are truly up to! To do anything else would be rash and stupid!”
He spun on his heel and stormed off into the night, leaving everyone else stunned by his outburst.
Greg turned to Aramis. His fellow Musketeer was angrier than Greg had ever seen him, seething with rage over the way Athos had spoken to him. “Protecting the crown is not stupid,” he spat, then stormed off as well.
Greg watched him disappear into the darkness, feeling like he was teetering on an abyss himself. If the Musketeers were going to have such a big argument over merely sending a pigeon to the king, what would happen when the stakes were life and death?
To his surprise, Catherine was suddenly beside him. “Do you think it’s possible,” she whispered, “that Dominic could really be planning an attack on Paris?”
“I think anything is possible,” Greg replied sadly. It now seemed that Michel and Dominic were determined to alter the history of the world—and Greg feared that the Musketeers might not last as a team to stop it.
TEN
THREE DAYS LATER, THE MUSKETEERS ENCOUNTERED THE first hostile village.
It sat on the banks of the Saône River, a tributary that flowed to the Rhône and eventually to the south of France. At first, Greg was thrilled to see the town. After a week traveling in the forest, any sign of civilization was a sight for sore eyes. From a distance, it appeared picturesque as could be, straight out of a storybook.
As they grew closer, however, Greg found it far less attractive. The buildings were little more than hovels, with patchy roofs and collapsing walls. Unlike the cobblestone streets of Paris, the roads were rutted dirt tracks often reduced to mud.
The residents didn’t look much better. Gaunt and pale, their faces were caked with dirt, their hair was stringy and matted, and their clothes were more holes than fabric. Worst of all, many had small, bloated pustules on their bodies.
Greg had expected that, in a remote town like this, people would have been thrilled to have visitors. Instead, everyone glowered at them with their sunken eyes.
“What’s wrong with them?” Greg whispered to Aramis.
“You’ve never seen Black Death before?” Aramis responded.
The plague! Greg recoiled in his saddle, suddenly wanting to get as far from this town as possible. He knew from history class that the plague had wiped out millions of people in Europe in the 1300s, over half the population in some places. But he didn’t know that it had still been around after that. He clapped his hand over his mouth, afraid to even breathe the air. “Is this common in the countryside?”
“I have no idea,” Aramis admitted. “Luckily, Paris has been spared of late. We haven’t had an outbreak for almost a decade.”
Greg shuddered. Now, every prick at his skin made him quiver, fearful that it might be a plague-bearing flea. “Why do they seem so unhappy to see us?”
“Because they don’t trust outsiders. Many people suspect the plague was brought to them by travelers.”
Greg swallowed. For once, people of this time weren’t wrong about something scientific. At some point, some infected traveler probably had brought the plague to this town. “But we couldn’t possibly make them more sick,” Greg protested. “If anything, we could get infected by them.”
“They’re not taking any chances,” Aramis said. “No one knows what causes the plague, so people shun plenty of things: full moons, black cats, children born with strange birthmarks. You’ve remarked before that people of our time are overly superstitious? This is why. There is so much that is unknown, so much to fear in their lives.”
The town wasn’t large. It took only a few minutes to pass through the heart of it, although Greg, uneasy from the glares of the plague victims, felt like it took ten times as long. On the far side, a small, rickety dock with a few boats tied to it extended into the river—although only one boat actually appeared seaworthy. It was a small barge, wide and flat and completely open to the elements, but it was big enough for the entire party and it had a mast with a tattered sail.
Porthos pointed to it and addressed the entire town. “Who here owns that boat? We’d like to purchase it.”
There was silence. Finally, a young man stepped forward. “We have no desire to do business with representatives of the king. The last ones who came through here robbed us blind.”
Greg exchanged an intrigued look with the other Musketeers, all of them thinking the same thing at once. “Was this around two months ago?” Aramis asked. “Was one of the men very tall, with long black hair—and a missing hand?”
Many of the townsfolk reacted with surprise. “Yes,” the man admitted. “But there were two men like that. Twins, one with a hand and one without.”
“Those were not true representatives of the king,” Athos told the crowd. “They are imposters and enemies of France. In fact, we have been dispatched by the king to find them and dispense justice. What did they do to you?”
There were some murmurs through the crowd. Finally, another man stepped forward. He was healthier-looking than most of the others, his arms thick with muscles from a lifetime of hard work. “They stole my boat,” he said. “I’m a fisherman, and I had the finest craft in town. They asked me to sell it, but I refused. It was my livelihood. So they used black magic on me.”
“Black magic?” Greg asked, incredulous. “What happened?”
“The one without the hand put me to sleep,” the fisherman replied. “He got off his horse—I thought he was going to talk to me—but then he grabbed me and placed a magic cloth over my face. The next thing I knew, it was nighttime. I’d been asleep for hours and my boat was long gone.” He shot an angry glance at the rest of the townsfolk.
“The men threatened to do the same to all of us if we stood against them,” the young man explained defensively. “We didn’t know he was asleep. We thought he’d been killed by mere touch.”
“I did try to stop him,” a man with a scraggy beard said. “But he threw fire at me and made a pigsty explode!”
The Musketeers and the girls reacted with alarm. Aramis looked to Greg for help. “The guards at the Bastille said something similar after Dinicoeur freed Richelieu. That he could put men to sleep by touching them and make walls explode with a simple gesture. What do you make of it?”
“Where is this pigsty?” Greg asked.
The bearded man pointed to a spot a few yards away. There was a small blast crater in the ground.
Greg dismounted his horse and went to inspect it. He could feel the eyes of the entire town on him. The people seemed to be unsure if he were brave or foolish for entering a place where magic had been used. Apparently, no one else had dared approach this spot since the explosion; the charred remains of the
wooden sty were still scattered about.
Greg knelt by the crater. In the center of it was half of a metal casing, about the size of a baseball. It had apparently been blown in two. The other half was nowhere to be seen.
“He didn’t throw fire,” Greg told the Musketeers. “He threw a grenade.”
“A grenade?” Aramis asked.
“A small explosive,” Greg explained. “A metal casing filled with gunpowder. Dinicoeur just had to light it and throw it and it’d blow up whatever it hit. It’s definitely not magic.”
“How about the ability to put men to sleep?” Athos asked.
“Not magic either,” Greg replied. The fisherman’s mention of the “magic cloth” had helped him figure it out. “He used chloroform, a chemical that can be used to knock people unconscious.” Greg strained to remember a class lecture on chemistry the year before. “Dinicoeur must know how to make it. If you put a little on a cloth, and press that to someone’s face so that they’re forced to inhale it, they’ll fall asleep.”
“Sure sounds like black magic to me,” Porthos said.
Athos returned his attention to the townsfolk. “We are not like the others who passed through here before. We are honorable men who serve the crown. If you sell us your boat, we can find these traitors and avenge the terrible deeds they perpetrated here.”
To his surprise, the fisherman laughed derisively. “Do you take us for fools? You’ll never catch them. They have a two-month head start on you!”
“We have tracked them this far,” Aramis said. “And we have a good idea where they are going. Now, we need that boat. The fate of our country hangs in the balance.”
“The fate of your country, perhaps,” said a diseased-looking woman. “Our town has had nothing but ill fortune since Louis took the throne.”
“I assure you, your king is not responsible for any of your misfortune,” Milady announced. “He has only your best interests at heart.”
“Ha!” The woman spat on the ground. “He may be your king, but he’s not mine.”
The rest of the village responded in kind, with hoots and catcalls.
“If you do not respect the king, then perhaps you will respect a good deal,” Porthos said. “We will trade our horses for that boat.”
Silence fell over the crowd. The other Musketeers and the girls wheeled on Porthos, startled by his offer. “Are you insane?” Athos hissed angrily. “We’ll need these horses to get to Spain!”
“And how do you propose to get them on that boat?” Porthos replied.
Athos looked back at the boat and frowned, realizing Porthos had a point.
The young man stepped forth again. “No matter what you offer, we have no interest in selling that boat to the likes of you.”
The other villagers responded with hoots and catcalls again.
Except for one. A gnarled old man emerged from his home. “Speak for yourselves,” he snapped at the crowd. “That’s my boat, not yours.” Cautiously, he approached the Musketeers and examined the horses, running his hands over their bodies, feeling the muscles underneath. He took Greg’s horse by the reins, stared into its eyes and then checked its teeth. Finally he nodded with satisfaction. “These are good, healthy steeds, and I can always build another boat. I’ll take you up on your offer.”
“Excellent!” Porthos said. “Then six of them are yours.” He pointed to the fisherman. “The others are for you, as restitution for the boat that was stolen.”
The fisherman beamed. “Perhaps we have misjudged the crown,” he said.
Although Aramis and Athos were annoyed with Porthos for offering the horses, now that the deal had been offered, there was no rescinding it—and they needed the boat. The trade was made, and Greg and the others loaded their gear onto the barge and set off down the river.
As the plagued village faded into the distance, Milady turned to Porthos and asked, “Once we reach the end of the river, exactly how do you plan to get to Spain without horses?”
Porthos shrugged. “We’ll have to fall off that bridge when we come to it.”
“Don’t you mean ‘cross that bridge’?” Milady asked.
“Whatever.” Porthos propped his back on a sack of gear, stuck his arms behind his head and sighed contentedly. “I say we just enjoy this while we can. Beats the daylights out of sitting in a saddle all day.”
“You’re a fool,” Milady told him.
“Perhaps, but at least I’m a fool with a boat.” Porthos laughed, tipped his hat over his eyes, and soon fell asleep.
ELEVEN
GREG SNAPPED AWAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, FEELING as though he was freezing to death. His teeth were chattering and his fingers were numb. As he wrapped his arms around himself, he discovered that his clothes were soaking wet.
Greg’s fear quickly gave way to annoyance. He looked down at where he’d been sleeping. Sure enough, water had oozed through the planks in the barge, pooling around him while he’d slept. Now the night winds blowing down the river had combined with his damp clothes to chill him to the bone.
He fumbled around the barge, looking for a dry blanket. In the inky darkness of the moonless sky, he could barely make out the forms of the other five passengers. Everyone else was asleep. Which was a problem, given that Porthos was supposed to be on watch.
Now Greg felt himself growing angry. It wasn’t hard to pick Porthos out from the sleeping bodies; his snoring was as loud as a jet engine. Before Greg even realized he was doing it, he’d booted Porthos in the leg.
“Huh?” The portly Musketeer struggled to open his bleary eyes. “D’Artagnan? Is that you?”
“Yes,” Greg hissed. “You’re supposed to be on watch. Seeing as Valois and the assassins might be plotting to ambush us again.”
“I am?” Porthos wasn’t conscious enough to register concern. “Well, as long as you’re awake, why don’t you take over for me? I’m beat.” He closed his eyes, and, to Greg’s astonishment, was snoring again within seconds.
Another cold breeze made Greg shiver. He quickly peeled off his wet shirt and wrung it out. It seemed like half a gallon of water poured out of it. Greg realized he must have been pretty exhausted himself to sleep through a soaking that bad, but then, life on the river had been far more exhausting than anyone had expected.
They’d all expected it to be easy: The current and the wind would carry them downstream, and all they’d have to do was steer now and then. Unfortunately, the barge had been built for short trips and wasn’t nearly as seaworthy as everyone had hoped, and it didn’t steer well at all. In fact, it seemed to have a mind of its own, either heading for the most treacherous parts of the river, which could be terrifying, or the slowest. The Musketeers had spent two hours that day shoving the barge off a mud bank. Twice.
In addition, there was no shade on the barge. The days out on the open water, under the direct heat of the summer sun, were broiling and sapped everyone’s energy. By nightfall, everyone was usually worn out and desperate for bed—only, getting a full night’s sleep on the barge was virtually impossible. It pitched and yawed wildly, and as Greg had just learned for the umpteenth time, it also leaked.
Despite all this, however, the worst thing about traveling on the river was that it exacerbated everybody’s conflicts.
When all six of the travelers had been on horseback, they’d been free to spread apart at times. But that was impossible on the barge. Instead, arguments tended to start over the smallest issues and flare up into major blowouts. After three days on the river, everyone was testy and peevish.
The only respite came when food ran low. Every afternoon, when the sun was at its worst out on the open water, they would dock the barge on the side of the river and search for provisions. At these times, Athos and Porthos would head off to hunt while everyone else combed the woods for edible plants. After an hour, they would all return with what they’d found. Greg always hoped that everyone’s spirits would be refreshed after their time alone, but it was never long before
an argument broke out again. And so everyone had begun to keep to themselves, carving out their own personal spaces on the barge as it drifted downstream.
Greg finally came across a blanket that was, by some miracle, mostly dry. He wrapped it around himself and finally stopped shivering. Then he plunked himself on the deck and looked out at the riverbank, casing it for assassins.
Not that he’d even be able to see them. The riverbank was pitch-black, and the assassins weren’t going to be carrying torches. And yet everyone felt that they couldn’t drop their guard completely. Someone had to stand watch every night.
Greg found Aramis’s rucksack and dug around in it until he came across the map Milady had brought to them—Richelieu’s map of Paris—and made yet another attempt to decipher the strange runes on it. He’d done this before. In fact, he’d done it every time he’d had the night watch, to no avail. He couldn’t make any sense out of them. His first thought was that it had been a cryptogram, a simple code where one symbol stood for A, another stood for B, and so on, but two nights before, he’d tried every combination he could think of and nothing worked. So what did it mean? Why was it half letters and half weird symbols? To Greg’s frustration, he had a nagging sense that he’d seen some of these symbols before, but he couldn’t place where or when. If he could just remember that, it seemed, he could figure out what the inscription meant, but try as he might, he kept coming up blank.
The sound of a twig snapping echoed across the water.
Greg swiveled toward the riverbank, searching for whatever had made the sound, wondering if he should wake the others. To his surprise, day was beginning to break. Even though the sun was a good fifteen minutes from poking over the horizon, the sky to the east was lightening.
Greg couldn’t see anything moving on the riverbank, but twigs didn’t just snap, did they? Something must have been out there. He reached toward Athos, only to discover his fellow Musketeer already awake. His eyes were wide-open, riveted on the riverbank.
“Did you hear that?” Greg whispered to him.
