by Stuart Gibbs
“Who else could they be?” Three days. He had only three days to save them.
“Try to remain calm. I’ll see what I can do.” Aramis returned his attention to Jacques. “I beg your pardon, but we have reason to believe these two people have been improperly accused of a crime.”
Jacques stiffened. “You dare accuse the Honorable Monsieur Richelieu of plotting against innocents?”
“I said no such thing,” Aramis replied evenly. “We suspect that one of his less honest underlings levied this charge in order to settle a personal score.”
“Accusing one of the king’s guard is the same as accusing Richelieu himself,” Jacques stated.
“The church doesn’t see it that way,” Aramis shot back. “Who can we petition for their freedom?”
Jacques shrugged. “No one. It’s not possible.”
Greg took a step forward, but Aramis gripped his arm. “What do you mean, ‘It’s not possible’?” the cleric asked. “There is no recourse at all for those unjustly accused?”
“No one in La Mort Triste is unjustly accused,” Jacques said with a wicked smile. “Richelieu speaks for the king, and the king does not make mistakes.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Greg shouted. He couldn’t help himself. “I know they’re innocent!”
Jacques’s eyes bored into Greg’s. “And how do you come by this information?”
“A witness came to us at the church and told us the truth,” Aramis cut in.
“And who might this witness be?” Jacques asked.
“Someone who fears retribution. She’s already witnessed two people placed in prison for something they didn’t do.” Aramis then faked a slight cringe, pretending to be ashamed for revealing that the supposed witness he’d just invented was a girl.
Greg held his breath. Aramis was a good liar. Would Jacques buy it?
The bureaucrat’s gaze flicked from Aramis to Greg. “Every prisoner in La Mort Triste claims that they shouldn’t be there. Would you have us free every one simply because someone is willing to vouch for them?”
“No,” Aramis answered, “but I would expect the state to at least listen to dissent. To investigate claims. Otherwise, how can you be sure there are no innocents in your prison?”
“Because there aren’t,” Jacques stated with an edge in his voice. “No one ends up in La Mort Triste without reason.”
“The people we’re talking about did!” Greg blurted out.
Jacques turned to him. “Were they inside the Louvre last night?”
“They were, but not to assassinate the king,” Greg said.
“Did they have permission to be there?” Jacques inquired.
Greg hesitated. The truth was they didn’t, but how could he explain how they’d ended up in the palace without sounding insane?
Jacques sneered. “Then they were trespassing! In the palace of the king, no less. Why would anyone do that, if not for sinister reasons?”
Greg started to protest, but Aramis seized his arm again. “I think we’ve done all we can here. We should go.”
“What?” Greg asked, aghast.
Aramis squeezed his arm tighter in response. “We should go,” he hissed. “Now.” Then he bowed to Jacques respectfully. “We’re sorry for wasting your time, Monsieur Boule.”
“You should be,” the boy snorted. “I’m a very busy man. My time is not to be wasted.” He was already laying his head back down on his desk to resume his nap before the boys had shut the door.
Aramis made a beeline for the stairs.
Greg chased after him. “What’s going on?” he whispered frantically.
“Keep your voice down and read this.” Aramis shoved the letter from Richelieu—which Jacques had apparently already forgotten about—into Greg’s hand.
There was a second page under the first. The wax seal had made them stick together, so the boy hadn’t noticed it at first.
There is a third assassin who remains at large. All members of the militia are advised to be on the lookout for an older boy. He will be easy to find. His skin is cleaner and whiter than most. His hair is dark and curly. His clothing is foreign, and his accent is strange. Once apprehended, he should be brought to the office of Dominic Richelieu at the palace of His Majesty King Louis XIII.
God Bless the King. Long Live France!
Greg gulped in fear.
“If that idiot had been doing his job, you would have been arrested already,” Aramis muttered. “You’re a wanted man.”
Chapter Eight
GREG AND ARAMIS EXITED THE HÔTEL DE VILLE TO FIND the Place de Grève crawling with soldiers.
Greg nearly froze in fear, but Aramis pulled him along. “Relax. They’re not looking for you. There has been much civil unrest here, so the king has posted them to keep the peace. Just keep your head down and act natural and we’ll get out of here.”
Act natural? That’s what had made him a marked man in the first place. Acting natural meant sticking out like Aramis would stick out in the twenty-first century.
“Who is Dominic Richelieu?” Greg did his best to mimic Aramis’s accent as they slipped through the market stalls. He tried to remember his French history. “Is he the cardinal?”
“Cardinal?” Aramis laughed, despite himself. “Dominic Richelieu is no man of God. That’s his brother, Armand . . . and he’s only a bishop. Dominic is in charge of the king’s guard.”
“Would he listen to us?” Greg whispered hopefully.
Aramis sniffed. “I doubt it. Dominic is a despicable man. He manipulates the king and uses the guard as his own personal army. Your parents wouldn’t be the first undeserving people he’d locked up in La Mort Triste. Anyone who crosses him is in grave danger.”
“But if no one will listen to us, how do we get them out?”
Aramis didn’t answer. He picked up his pace, his head down under his cowl.
“Stop that boy!” a voice shouted behind them.
Greg whirled around, panicked.
To his relief, the cry wasn’t directed at him, but at a boy his age being chased through the plaza by a group of soldiers. The boy was dressed like a soldier, too, but he seemed . . . healthier. He was bigger; he wasn’t as filthy as those pursuing him, and even though his blond hair was parted in the middle, it looked combed. Weirdest of all, he was smiling. And his teeth seemed fairly white. He reminded Greg of the captain of the Wellington Prep football team.
When it was clear he was cornered, the boy paused in the central courtyard—surrounded by at least twenty soldiers.
“This boy is to be arrested for mutinous behavior!” the voice cried again.
Greg flinched. His eyes zeroed in on Captain Valois, the mustached jerk who’d pursued him to Notre Dame the night before.
“All I did was prove that my commander had no business leading a brigade,” the boy replied. Then he grinned at a few girls watching the drama, who giggled and blushed.
“By attacking your commander?” Valois shot back. He glared at the girls. “And there is nothing funny here!”
“If a commander can’t defeat one of his own men in battle, then what qualifies him to lead?” the boy asked. He withdrew a gleaming silver sword from the sheath at his side.
Instead of answering, the soldiers lunged at him. The boy parried all their swords in a single sweeping stroke: clack-clack-clack-clack. Then he spun and slashed through a rope that bound several kegs of wine in a tall pyramid. The boy sprang away as the kegs rolled free, scattering his attackers. Greg found himself smiling as the boy scampered through the chaos, searching for an escape.
Aramis tugged at Greg’s sleeve. “Let’s leave while this fool diverts the militia.”
Greg didn’t budge. An idea came to him. The boy was the most incredible swordsman he’d ever seen, besting the soldiers without breaking a sweat. “We could use him,” Greg murmured.
“Him? He’s fighting an entire brigade! He’s insane!”
“Exactly the type of person I need,” Greg a
nswered.
The boy battled as valiantly as he could: bashing one soldier in the nose with a thigh from a butcher’s stall, clobbering another over the head with a fresh melon, jabbing an ox in the rear with his sword and startling it into stampeding toward three others. But he was greatly outnumbered. The remaining soldiers swarmed him next to a long table piled high with fish—stripping his sword from his grasp. One soldier held him tight. Within a second, Valois was there to point his own sword at the boy’s throat.
“Take him to La Mort,” the captain demanded with a sneer.
The boy suddenly whipped his head back into the nose of the soldier who held him. The soldier howled in pain and released the boy.
Valois attacked, but the boy snatched a swordfish off the table and defended himself with its spearlike nose—quickly disarming Valois. A cheer rose from the girls in the crowd. The boy somersaulted off the table and bent to snatch his own sword off the cobblestones.
As he did, another soldier lunged out of the crowd behind him, preparing to stab him in the back.
“Look out!” Greg yelled, before he could think better of it.
The boy spun and dodged the soldier’s sword—but Valois swung his attention toward Greg.
“You!” he gasped, then called to his men. “Forget the mutineer! That’s our assassin!”
Greg felt the color drain from his face. He and Aramis fled through the market toward the house-lined bridge that led back to Île de la Cité. Valois’s men raced after them.
“Nicely done,” Aramis chided Greg. “Now you’re going to end up in La Mort as well.”
Greg knew he was right. He cursed himself for being so foolish. He could hear the soldiers closing in from behind. . . .
The boy suddenly pulled up alongside him, close enough for Greg to see he had bright green eyes. “Keep going!” he ordered. “I’ll take care of them.” With that, he whirled around and upended a cart piled high with live eels. The fish spilled across the road. The soldiers slipped and skidded on the writhing mass of slippery bodies, going down like dominoes.
With their pursuers in disarray, the three boys raced across the bridge—not even pausing to look back. Greg’s lungs burned, but he kept running until the three of them had slipped behind the safety of the walls of Notre Dame.
Greg turned to the boy with gratitude; he could have escaped once the soldiers had been distracted, but instead he’d returned to the fray to save Greg and Aramis.
“Thank you,” Greg panted.
The boy shook his head. “No, it is I who owe you thanks. I wouldn’t have needed to save you if you hadn’t saved me first. I am forever indebted to you.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to help us with a mission, then?” Greg asked.
Aramis glared at Greg, but was too out of breath to protest.
The boy’s eyes lit up with excitement. “What sort of mission?”
Before Greg could answer, Aramis stepped between them. “This is a mistake,” he said. “We shouldn’t be consorting with a mutineer.”
“I’m no mutineer,” the boy responded. “All I did was challenge my superior officer to a swordfight.”
“And why would you do such a thing?” Aramis asked scornfully.
“My officer was a fool who had his position only because his family purchased it for him. He had no business commanding a platoon. I was simply trying to prove that. My officer agreed to step down if I won. Which I did. But instead of stepping down, he accused me of mutiny.”
“That makes two of us who’ve been falsely accused of something,” Greg said, looking at Aramis. “And my parents have been unfairly imprisoned in La Mort Triste. We’re looking for someone to help break them out.”
The boy stared at Greg, then broke into laughter. “La Mort Triste! You’re crazy!”
“See?” Aramis said to Greg. “Even he thinks it’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible,” the boy inserted, still chuckling. “Some things are just incredibly difficult. Luckily for you, I love a good challenge. And now, apparently, I am unemployed and in your debt.” The boy shook Greg’s hand and said something that Greg wasn’t entirely surprised to hear. “My name is Athos.”
Chapter Nine
“THAT IS THE UGLIEST BUILDING I HAVE EVER SEEN,” GREG announced.
“Of course it is,” Aramis replied.
“Ugliness is fear,” Athos added.
Greg decided not to ask what he meant. He realized now more than ever that it was best to focus on the positives—just as he’d been trying to do even before he’d been sucked through a giant painting back in time. And right now, things were looking up. For one, he had now befriended two of the Musketeers. For another, he was outside of the city. It was a beautiful afternoon. The three boys stood on the bank of the Seine a half mile east of Paris, in a pleasant countryside of rolling hills and serene fields. Upriver from the city, the water of the Seine was so clear Greg could see trout swimming along the bottom.
But La Mort Triste was a blight on the landscape: a dark, squat lump perched on an island in the middle of the river. To Greg, it looked like a giant cinder block with turrets.
“Any mason worth his salt is working on the Louvre,” Aramis explained. “Or a cathedral or a château for some noble. No one wants to build a prison. Though as you can see, the designer did incorporate the latest in prison technology into the design.”
“What’s that?” Greg asked.
Aramis turned to him, surprised. “Why, the river, of course! Even if someone managed to break out of their cell and scale the walls, they’d drown.”
“Unless they could swim,” Greg countered.
Both boys burst out laughing.
“What?” Greg mumbled, embarrassed.
“Who can swim, other than characters from Roman myths?” Athos asked.
Greg shrugged. “I can.”
Athos stared at Greg as though he’d said he could fly. “I’ve never met anyone who could swim. That’s why they built the prison on that godforsaken island in the first place. That’s why they put moats around castles! How on earth do you know how to swim?”
“Uh . . . everyone I know back home can do it.”
Aramis shook his head. “Artagnan must be some amazing place. You can all swim. You have more planets than we do. Next thing I know, you’ll tell me you can cook a meal in less than a day.”
Greg decided not to reply to that. “That’s really why they built the prison there?”
“One of the reasons,” Aramis said. “It’s also easier to get rid of all the dead bodies when you can just dump them in the river. And it keeps all the disease away from the city.”
Greg swallowed hard. “What disease?”
“The plague, mostly,” Aramis replied. “Leprosy, too. Just about everyone who goes in there gets sick. The Lord doesn’t care for sinners.”
“They’re not getting sick because God is angry at them,” Greg objected. “The conditions in the prison make them sick.”
“That’s what they say in Artagnan, is it?” Aramis asked.
Greg realized there was no point in arguing. It didn’t matter what anyone believed about disease: Consignment to La Mort was a death sentence. Worse, Greg could see why the prison had a reputation for being impenetrable. There were no windows and only one door: a huge slab of oak—right in front of the lone dock, flanked by two guards. Then there were the guards on the roof, shuttling along parapets between the turrets at each corner. With so many men on patrol, there was no way to approach the prison without being seen.
“If I had my own brigade, I could get in there,” Athos remarked wistfully.
Aramis sniffed. “Someone like you will never command a brigade.”
Greg turned from the prison and frowned. “What did you just say?”
“This Athos is from a lower class,” Aramis replied simply. “Not educated.”
“So what?” Greg heard himself snap. “Why shouldn’t Athos be able to lead a brigade? Shouldn’t th
e best soldier be given that job? What about that clown we found at the Hôtel de Ville? Is it better to have someone who just bought the position?”
“Exactly my point!” Athos chimed in. “My commander was a clown.”
“You don’t know that,” Aramis said to Greg, pointing at Athos. “You’re only taking his word for it.”
“My word has nothing to do with it,” Athos argued. “The man’s incompetence was a fact. He barely knew which end of a sword to hold.”
“I’m sure he was better than that,” Aramis said. “No nobleman could be that incompetent.”
“Why?” Athos challenged. “Simply because he’s a nobleman?”
“Yes,” Aramis replied.
Athos snorted. “So then, you actually believe that all nobles are simply better than we are because they happened to be born above us?”
“I didn’t create the world. The Lord did,” Aramis stated.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Athos taunted.
Aramis glared at him hotly. “This is a dangerous line of thought. Once you start questioning the right of anyone to be above you, when does it stop? Do you believe the king himself is no better than any one of us?”
Athos paused. “Perhaps he isn’t.”
Aramis gasped in shock, and then turned to Greg. “We shouldn’t be in league with this boy. He doesn’t think properly.”
Greg squinted in disbelief at the cleric. “You’ve honestly never asked yourself why the king gets to be king and not you?”
“Never,” Aramis said.
“Not even for a second?” Greg prodded.
Aramis didn’t answer right away. For a moment there appeared to be a flicker of doubt behind his eyes. But he took a deep breath and shook his head. “This is the way of the world. We are all born to our station in life. Can you imagine what would happen if we weren’t? If we could all simply do whatever we wanted? It would be chaos.”
“Not necessarily,” Greg said earnestly.
“It would,” Aramis said, as though it were a proven fact. “We all have our role to play. The king was born king. My brother was born first, not I. I can’t change either of those things any more than a cow can try to become a person.”
