"What do you want from me, then?"
"I want your memory." D'Artagnan shook him again, then, while the man was still rattled, dropped him and held the lantern up close to his face. "I know who you are, André Marro. I know that you were once seneschal to the family LeVlanc, as your father and grandfather had been before you. It is for that reason that I've come looking for you, that I want your memory."
At the mention of his name Marro's eye's shot open. If it were possible, his face went paler than it had been.
"I . . . I . . . I . . ."
"Don't deny it. That will only make things worse. I know all about what happened to the LeVlancs and why it happened. You do as well, since you were there. I've tracked down the other servants who survived the purge. They didn't know the name of the man that the LeVlancs trusted to organize the whole thing, but they all agreed on one point. You knew who it was."
Marro groaned. D'Artagnan slapped him twice. Finally he muttered a name, a name that D'Artagnan recognized.
"If you have lied to me, I will find you, no matter where you run or hide."
Marro curled into a ball and tried to shrink into the floor. D'Artagnan walked away and slammed the door.
∞ ∞ ∞
D'Artagnan came awake with a start and pulled himself up almost completely out of bed before he was fully aware. He struggled for each breath, every one coming as a hard won victory, while cold, clammy, beads of sweat rolled down his face.
Images cascaded though his mind: blood, the edges of swords, screams, the smell of burnt gunpowder, all rolling over and over and over. Intermixed with them was a single face, one that brought him a feeling of warmth, yet cut into the very fiber of his being.
"Charles, what is the matter?" Charlotte's voice was a distant sound for him.
"I'll be all right," he gasped. "Everything is all right."
"Right. You have nightmares like this all the time." Charlotte pulled the covers up around his shoulders to warm him, her arms wrapped tightly to hold it in place.
"This will pass." He knew the reason for the dream--the reason had followed him for more than twenty years. "It is not the first time I have had to face demons in my dreams."
"I don't understand."
D'Artagnan drew the blanket tighter around himself but let his arm slide out to put around Charlotte. "It's complicated," he said, finally. "I must face someone, someone I have been searching for a long time. I know where he is, but I have never been able to find him alone."
"Who is this person?"
When he told her, Charlotte's reaction was not what D'Artagnan expected.
"I think I might be able to help, my dearest," she said with the hint of a smile.
∞ ∞ ∞
"Please, Monsieur, is this the act of a gentleman?" Charlotte giggled.
"I hardly think a gentleman is what you want right now." The man who had been nuzzling her neck for the last few minutes laughed.
They were standing in a garden to one side of the Hotel Transylvania, where a ball had been going on for many hours. Charlotte wasn't even certain who was throwing this ball; she had the feeling that a great many of the guests felt the same way though most would sooner die than admit it.
Manuel Zarubin had been standing near one of the windows when Charlotte spotted him. He was not openly circulating among the guests but remained in one place, letting others come to him. It had taken nearly an hour for Charlotte to gain his attention and finally lead him into the darkness of the garden.
"It would all depend on what the gentleman in question might be offering. So what are you offering, my good sir?" Charlotte drew her words out so each one was a breathy echo.
Zarubin was fully twenty years her senior but still muscled like a soldier. His neatly trimmed beard was streaked with grey, but in a manner that made him seem exotic rather than ancient. A few streaks of graying hair had snaked out from beneath the perfectly coiffed wig he wore.
"Perhaps I can show you." He pushed her back into the shadowed area between two large trees. His hands moved quickly into the opening presented by her cleavage; the staves of her corset screamed as they were pushed out of shape.
"Sir, I beg you, do not do that. I am, after all, a lady." Charlotte tried to pull back. Her action threw her up against the fork in a tree just behind them, lodging her where she could not move.
"You are no lady, tart," Zarubin said, pushing his hand further down.
"My good sir, I believe that lady said she was not interested in what you had in mind." D'Artagnan moved toward the couple from behind a gazebo, where he had been waiting.
Zarubin twisted his head, his face showing surprise and anger at being interrupted. "Begone, sir! This is none of your affair."
"On that matter—" D'Artagnan laughed. "—I would say that you are definitely wrong. This is mostly definitely my affair."
He grabbed Zarubin and yanked him away from Charlotte. That the man managed to stay on his feet was a surprise, though his wig did go flying off onto the ground.
"You are a dead man, assassin." The Spaniard's voice was quiet and cold.
"We all die, sometime. Perhaps it is my time, perhaps not. Personally, I would put money on my walking away from here alive."
Zarubin pulled a rather fancily decorated sword from the sheath at his side. "Then you would lose your money, just as you are going to lose your life. I suggest, instead of boasting, that you put steel into your hand."
"My name is D'Artagnan," he said, and brought his own weapon free. "Prepare to die."
Zarubin made the first blow with a driving lunge meant to end the fight immediately. D'Artagnan parried the thrust and responded with several of his own.
"Enjoy this, dear Charlotte." Zarubin didn't take his eyes off his opponent. "You obviously know this young upstart. I hope you had a chance to say goodbye to him. Once I am finished with him, we can resume our little tête-à-tête."
D'Artagnan said nothing. He struck for Zarubin's chest with three quick jabs, which the man parried with ease, his battle hardened reflexes obvious with every move. As he parried Zarubin's counter strikes, D'Artagnan stepped to one side, his foot hit an uneven patch of ground and he went down, his sword slipping out of his grasp and out of reach.
"Now you are mine." Zarubin closed the distance, looming over his foe, intent on finishing the fight as quickly as possible.
D'Artagnan's dagger came into his hand as he rolled to one side. Striking blindly, D'Artagnan drove the blade hard into Zarubin's heart. The man trembled for a heartbeat and then fell, the light fading from his eyes.
"Fight, don't talk," D'Artagnan muttered.
"Monsieur, do not move or we will be forced to shoot!"
The command came from two men in Musketeer's uniforms with pistols in their hands. They had come from the direction of the hotel. Others were coming behind them to find the source of the disturbance.
"Charles, would you please settle this whole matter," said someone from behind D'Artagnan.
Startled, he turned to see a small man, dressed in brown, who was stroking his thin moustache as he spoke, walking forward from behind a statue of the Greek god Prometheus.
"I must say, it is rather cold out here, and I think that Mademoiselle Blackson would definitely like us to escort her home," said the stranger.
The small man stood looming over D'Artagnan for a moment, just staring at him, before he offered him his hand. Once D'Artagnan was back on his feet, the newcomer's small fingers slid into the pocket on the right side of D'Artagnan's vest, producing a small folded sheet of paper, one that D'Artagnan knew for certain had not been there earlier.
"There are times, my old friend, when you get so centered on your task I suspect that you would lose your way in your own home." The little man turned to the Musketeers and offered the paper. "I believe that you will find that my friend had a full and proper warrant for what he did this evening."
∞ ∞ ∞
"The bearer has done what he has done by my
order and for the good of the state," intoned D'Artagnan as he stared at Cardinal Richelieu.
The cleric said nothing, just cocked his head slightly and waited. D'Artagnan wasn't sure just what he had expected to happen. From the moment his blade had plunged into Manuel Zarubin he had expected to wind up in the Bastille, not standing in front of the king's chief minister.
"I know what is on that warrant, young man, since I wrote it," Richelieu said finally.
Once the Musketeers had read the warrant, D'Artagnan and his companions had been released. After escorting Charlotte home, the small man, who refused to even give his name, led him to Richelieu.
That the cardinal had been awake and working in his office fit his reputation for having a hand in everything that happened in Paris and all of France every minute of the day and night.
"Then I suppose I have you to thank for my freedom, Your Eminence?"
"Indeed, you do," Richelieu agreed. "And how do you propose to repay me for that favor?"
"What would you call fair payment? You seem to have some interest in me. This fellow," he gestured toward Montaigne, "obviously works for you, and I would guess has been following me for some time."
"That he does, Charles de Gatz-Casthenese." Richelieu smiled. "Don't look so surprised, I know who you are. The question is, what I do with you? You have obviously been planning the death of Señor Zarubin for some time. So let me ask you the next question. Why?"
D'Artagnan didn't know whether to smile or be worried at this latest turn of events. "Justice, Your Eminence, justice."
"I thought the king and I were the dispensers of justice in the realm."
"You are, but sometimes that task falls into the hands of others. In the case of Zarubin, it fell to me. I had no choice in the matter. If you will recall, the year before he was murdered our current king's father, Henry IV, was the victim of another assassination attempt.
"Most of the conspirators were captured and executed, as they should have been, but not the man who organized it. My father was killed while still searching for him, although it took a long time. My mother was convinced that he must have gotten too close to the ring leader and was murdered for it. I have searched for most of my life to find out who that was. Three weeks ago I found out that it was Zarubin."
"You were duty bound to avenge the attack on his late majesty?" Richelieu steepled his fingers.
"Duty bound, yes, but not for that reason. If you will recall, the king was unhurt. My father, however . . . I have known all my life that for my father's soul to rest there must be justice. It was a matter of the honor of my family."
Richelieu was silent for some time. "There will be consequences for his death, political problems that I really did not need at this time."
"I regret nothing that I have done. I am prepared to accept whatever penalty I have earned for my action."
Richelieu pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his desk. It bore both his personal seal and the seal of his office. It had obviously been prepared some time ago. He passed it to D'Artagnan.
He could feel his jaw hanging open as he read the document. "I do not understand, Your Eminence."
"What is there to understand? That is a commission as a lieutenant in my personal guard. If you accept this, know that while your loyalty must always be to myself—and that means to France—I will, from time to time, call on you, for shall we say, special duties."
The man in brown chuckled. "Do you think Dumas would approve, Your Eminence?"
"Dumas?" asked D'Artagnan, but Richelieu waved the question away. "What of the consequences for the death of Zarubin?" he continued. "If I recall your statement not minutes ago, you said that you didn't need the political problems that might come from it."
"True, but there are ways to turn them to the advantage of France." Richelieu's smile was cold. "That is where a statesman can be as deadly as a swordsman. As for you, Charles D'Artagnan, I feel that your skills can be of use to me, and in turn to France, in these most unsettled times."
"How did you know of me?" asked D'Artagnan.
Richelieu hesitated for a moment and then smiled. "Let us say that you came to my attention because of a man named Charlton Heston."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "I have never heard of this person."
"It is highly unlikely and completely unnecessary that you have. Perhaps one day I may explain who he is." Richelieu took a bag of coins and tossed them toward D'Artagnan. "Consider this an enlistment bonus."
"Why do I have a feeling that my life has just become quite interesting?"
"Because it has," said Montaigne. "Personally, I think that a celebration is in order." D'Artagnan had almost forgotten the little man's presence.
"It is late, gentlemen, and I am tired. I will leave the celebrations to you young men." Richelieu turned and left the room.
"I, for one, could use a drink," said the small man to D'Artagnan. "I also know an excellent tavern not a stone's throw from here."
"Lead on. I think I am going to need several drinks," said D'Artagnan. "By the way, it occurs to me that you still have not told me your name. I have no idea who you are."
He grinned and flamboyantly traced the line of his moustache. "I have many names. Why don't you call me Aramis?"
To End The Evening
By
Bradley H. Sinor
Barnabas Marcoli gingerly ran his fingers up along the side if his head. Dried blood had already matted his hair into clumps around a lump half the size of a small goose egg.
This was definitely not the way he planned to end his first evening free in nearly two weeks.
Barnabas sagged back against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes. From the far end of the room he could hear voices speaking a variety of languages—Italian, mixed in with a flurry of German and something that sounded vaguely Eastern European – the sort of mixture that could be found in most places like this in Venice.
Someone pressed a mug into Barnabas’s left hand; his fingers closed around the pewter surface automatically. He hesitated for a moment and then downed the contents in two quick swallows. The wine was sharp and bitter, not the kind that he normally preferred to drink, but at that moment he didn’t care.
“Easy, lad, take a few deep breaths and see if you can get your wits about you before you tear into any more of this miserable excuse for wine.”
Barnabas found himself looking at a tall, lanky man, several years his elder, dressed in plain, slightly worn clothing, with a sword hanging at his waist. The stranger had a had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. From his accent there was no doubt that he was French: his Italian was good, but not quite good enough to hide his origins.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” said Barnabas. “What in the hell happened to me?”
“Oh, that.” His companion chuckled. “Seems a pair of ruffians wanted to relieve you of your purse and weren’t too picky in the way they did it. I’m glad I happened along at the right time.”
Barnabas nodded. He remembered how he had been cutting through a narrow alley just east of the American Embassy when a man had appeared in front of him and demanded money. Before Barnabas could react, someone else struck him from behind. Everything after that, until this stranger had guided him into the tavern, remained something of a blur.
“Damn,” Barnabas muttered as he reached inside of his shirt but found nothing there.
“Would this be what you might be looking for?” A small burgundy coin bag slid across the table.
Barnabas left out long sigh. It was true that there wasn’t much money in it; apprentice metal workers weren’t rich, but it was his money. Not to mention the fact that Barnabas knew full well that his cousins would not let him forget it if they discovered that he had been robbed.
“I thank you, sir. My name is Marcoli, Barnabas Marcoli. I owe you not only my life, but my dignity. I will pray for you at mass,” he said. “And who might I name as my Good Samaritan?”
“D’Artagnan, Charl
es D’Artagnan.”
Barnabas stared at the man for a time.
“I have the feeling that I know of you, sir.” Something about that name was familiar, but the throbbing in Barnabas’s head didn’t help his concentration. He repeated it over and over in his mind. The memory was there, and close, infuriatingly close, but he could not bring it to the surface.
“I think not. I am new come to Venice. Before the little altercation with those ruffians, had you dined?” When Barnabas shook his head, D’Artagnan smiled and motioned for the tavern girl. “Good. Neither have I.”
A few minutes later they had plates of chicken, cheese and bread set in front of them.
“I hope you ordered enough for three.”
Barnabas turned with a start and found a small man dressed in brown sitting next to him. The newcomer looked like he could be only five foot one or two. He had an ordinary-looking face with nothing on it that would have distinguished him from anyone else on the streets of Venice.
“I wondered when you were going to show up,” said D’Artagnan.
The small man shrugged, motioning for the serving girl to bring him something to drink. “I was working. After all, we do have a reason for being here besides wenching and drinking.”
“Pity,” laughed D’Artagnan. “Barnabas, let me introduce you to my traveling companion, Aramis.”
“Aramis? D’Artagnan?” Barnabas cocked his head at both men, suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. “So where are the other two?”
“Other two?” said D’Artagnan.
“Obviously, he’s read the book,” said the small man called Aramis, switching from Italian to English.
“Indeed I have,” Barnabas responded, somewhat unsure of his English but wanting to use it now, nonetheless. “The Three Musketeers was only one of several novels that Frank Stone, that young man my cousin Giovanna has been making eyes at, lent me. He said they would help me learn American faster. So, are you really the one in the book?”
“I suppose I really should go get a copy of the book some time,” muttered D‘Artagnan. “Yes, I am the one that book was about.”
The Hunt for The Red Cardinal Page 2
