by Simon Hawke
"And that's that," said Finn.
D'Artagnan started to get up. His mouth was bloody.
"I thought you said that was that," said Lucas.
"Stubborn little bastard, isn't he?" said Finn.
D'Artagnan came at him again. Finn blocked his punch and gave him a right cross. D'Artagnan fell again.
"That ought to satisfy his honor," Finn said.
Slowly, D'Artagnan rose to his feet.
"I think you're losing your touch," said Lucas. "He keeps getting up."
"We'll fix that," said Finn.
D'Artagnan swung again, only this time it was a feint and he caught Finn off guard. As a result, Finn caught a left hook and fell back into a table.
"You fixed that real good," said Lucas.
"All right, enough's enough," said Finn. This time, when D'Artagnan came at him, Finn used karate. He stopped him cold with a front kick to the chest, then dropped him with a side kick and a roundhouse to the temple, both delivered off the same foot with lightning speed.
"That wasn't really fair," said Lucas.
"Screw fairness. This kid's built like an ox." He sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. "Hits well, too." He rubbed his jaw.
Lucas tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. D'Artagnan was getting up again.
"I seem to recall that we agreed upon fists, not feet," he said. His words were slurred and he was unsteady on his feet.
"He's got a point," said Lucas.
The innkeeper had ventured forth from beneath the table and he now watched with interest.
Finn got up again. "Feel free to use whatever works," he said. He put his fists up. D'Artagnan, moving faster than he looked able to, hit Finn with a chair. The chair broke and Finn fell to the floor, unconscious.
"That worked very well," D'Artagnan said. He turned to Lucas. "Now, Monsieur, it is your turn."
Lucas raised his hands. "Not I. We have no quarrel, Monsieur. If honor has been satisfied, will you allow me to share our wine with you while my friend gets some much-needed rest?"
D'Artagnan pondered this invitation for a moment. "Honor is satisfied," he said, "though I do not think that this is what my father meant when he urged me to fight duels. Besides, I welcome the chance to rest myself. Your friend has the strength of ten." He sat down at Lucas's table.
Lucas poured him a glass of wine, which he drank quickly.
"Finn may have the strength of ten," he said, "but I notice that he's the one who's on the floor and not you. Allow me to congratulate you. It's the first time I've ever seen him lose a fight."
"Finn? What sort of name is that?"
"Irish," said Lucas.
"Ah. And you are Irish, as well?"
"No, I'm ... a Gascon."
"I would not have known it! We are countrymen! I, too, am a Gascon! You have, perhaps, heard of my father? He was a well-known soldier."
"Indeed I have," said Lucas. "Which is why I advised my friend to refrain from crossing swords with you. We have gone through much together and I would have hated to lose a friend to a swordsman who was the son of the famous D'Artagnan. If you are half the man your father is, my friend would not have stood a chance. And it was only a misunderstanding, after all."
"Well, to tell the truth, I sought to provoke a duel," D'Artagnan said, rather sheepishly.
"Because your father advised you to."
"Indeed. He said that it is necessary to fight duels in order to gain respect and a reputation. You have my apologies, Monsieur. I would have hated to deprive a fellow Gascon of a friend."
"I understand," said Lucas. "One must respect a father's wishes, after all."
"What is your name, Monsieur, so I may know whom I have the honor of addressing?"
Lucas thought quickly. Priest was an English name and England was the enemy of France. "Dumas," he said. "Alexandre Dumas."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Dumas. And I hope that your friend will not be ill-disposed toward me when he regains his senses."
Finn groaned. He started to sit up slowly. The innkeeper brought him a bowl of water and a wet cloth. D'Artagnan went to help him to his feet.
"I trust you are not injured, sir, and that there remains no ill will between us. Monsieur Dumas has explained everything to me and I see that it was a misunderstanding, after all."
"Who?" said Finn.
"He is still a little dazed," said Lucas. "Surely you remember me, my friend—Alexandre Dumas? I hope that blow did not addle your senses. It seems that Monsieur D'Artagnan and I are countrymen. We are both from Gascony."
"You are, eh? What did you say your name was?"
"Dumas."
"That's what I thought you said. I just wasn't sure I heard right."
"I fear I have damaged him," D'Artagnan said, with genuine concern.
"Oh, no, he'll be all right," said Lucas. "The Irish are a hardheaded people."
As D'Artagnan was helping Delaney to his feet, the door to the inn opened and a party of men entered, laughing boisterously.
"Did you ever see such an animal in your whole life?" said one of them, a tall, dark-haired cavalier with a scar upon his cheek. "An orange horse! A fit steed for a pumpkin!"
D'Artagnan straightened suddenly, and Finn, deprived of his support, slipped to the floor again.
"Forgive me," said D'Artagnan, helping Delaney up again. "I think that man is laughing at my horse."
"Who laughs at a horse laughs at its master," Lucas said, remembering that it was at this very tavern that D'Artagnan first met the Count de Rochefort, and that the man who had just entered with the group of guards could be no other.
"Do you think so?" said D'Artagnan.
"Well, don't you?"
"Perhaps," D'Artagnan said. "But I would not wish to have yet another misunderstanding. No doubt the man means nothing by it."
"How, nothing?" Lucas said. "Clearly, he was making fun of you."
"Indeed? Well, you may be right. Still, it would not do to be too hasty. See, we sit here as friends and moments ago, I would have crossed swords with you."
"That was quite another matter," Lucas said. "This man is insolent and should be chastised."
"You may be right," D'Artagnan said. "Still, I would not wish to leap to the wrong conclusion. And my horse is, I am afraid, a somewhat amusing-looking steed."
"Well, I will not sit here and suffer a countryman of mine to be insulted," Lucas said. "You, sir! You with the scar!"
De Rochefort looked up.
"Yes, you! What are you laughing at?"
"I do not see that as being any concern of yours, Monsieur," said de Rochefort.
"I think it is," said Lucas, standing. "I heard what you said!"
"I was not speaking to you, Monsieur."
"Well, I am speaking to you! I do not like your laughter."
"I do not laugh often, sir," said de Rochefort, "but I retain the privilege of laughing when I please."
"And I, Monsieur, will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me," said Lucas. "Nor will I permit my friends to be the butt of jokes!"
"Please, Dumas," D'Artagnan said, "you do not need to stand up for me; this is my affair."
"Well, when you gentlemen settle it between yourselves, perhaps you will enlighten me as to what this affair may be," said de Rochefort.
"The horse tied up outside, which you were laughing at, is mine," D'Artagnan said. "And it does not suit me to be called a pumpkin!"
"I do not care about what suits you, Monsieur," said de Rochefort. "There are more important matters on my mind and you have already distracted me enough."
"I fear that I will prove to be much more than just a mere distraction, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said. He drew his rapier.
"You must be mad," said de Rochefort, turning away.
"Turn, sir! Turn or I will strike you down!"
"This is annoying," de Rochefort said to his men. "Do something about this insolent boy."
"Insolent, am I?" said D'Ar
tagnan, striding forward. He pushed past one of the guards and reached for de Rochefort's shoulder. "I am not done with you, Monsieur! I—"
The guard he had brushed past picked up a chair and, with a swing that seemed almost nonchalant, he smashed it over D'Artagnan from behind. The Gascon crumpled to the floor. The innkeeper moaned over the loss of the second chair of the afternoon.
The guard turned back to face Lucas and Delaney. With a hand on the hilt of his sword, he approached them belligerently.
"You gentlemen don't have anything to add, do you?" he said; then, in the same breath, he whispered, "Mongoose."
Finn's eyebrows rose. "No, we don't have anything to add," he said. "In fact, we hardly even know that fellow."
"It appears to me that your friend has had too much to drink," the guard said, indicating Lucas. "I would strongly advise you to be on your way, before his drunkenness gets you into any more trouble."
"Certainly, Monsieur," said Finn. "The last thing that we want is trouble."
"Then be on your way," said the agent, adding in a quick whisper, "Moreau's Tavern on the Rue Ferou. Say Legault sent you." He raised his voice. "Out with you! Now! And make it quick!"
4
Something was wrong.
No one had seen Jacques Benoit for days. In anyone else's case, this would not have been particularly noteworthy, but Doctor Jacques was well known to be a creature of scrupulous habit. For the past week, Hunter had been making all the rounds, but ex-army surgeon Jack Bennett, known to his Parisian friends as Doctor Jacques Benoit, was nowhere to be found.
He wasn't at his home on the Rue St.-Honore. His servants, Marie and Old Pierre, had found it necessary to turn away his patients, as they did not know where Doctor Jacques had gone or when he would return. This gave them cause for much concern, since their master never went anywhere without leaving them some word.
Moreau's Tavern, on the Rue Ferou, where Doctor Jacques could be found every evening enjoying a bottle of wine and playing a game or two of chess, had not been graced by his presence for over a week. This upset Moreau somewhat, as Benoit was something of an attraction at the tavern. It was the way that he played chess. He would sit with his back to the board, at another table, carrying on idle conversation with onlookers. His opponent would announce his move, and then Benoit would announce his, "Knight to King's Bishop four" or whatever, all without looking at the board. He had yet to lose a game. These casual, friendly matches brought in customers and these customers frequently bet upon the outcome —at least, those who had not seen Benoit play before would bet.
Moreau knew Hunter as "Monsieur Laporte," an old friend of Jacques Benoit's from Reims. Insofar as Moreau knew, Monsieur Laporte was a gentleman, a man who liked to live quietly and who did not often come to Paris, but when he did, he always made a point of it to visit his old friend and to stop in to see Moreau.
"It is not like Doctor Jacques," Moreau was saying, as he poured both himself and Hunter some red wine. "He never goes anywhere without at least telling Marie and Old Pierre. He has always been considerate of his friends and especially his patients."
"He didn't say anything the last time you saw him?" Hunter said. "He did not say he was going to the country for some rest?"
Anytime Jack Bennett made a trip to Plus Time, he always said that he was "going to the country." Members of the underground who kept in frequent touch with one another had various code phrases such as that to pass on messages. "He didn't say anything at all?"
"No, Monsieur," Moreau said. "If he had said anything, I would most assuredly have remembered."
"I hope nothing has happened to him," Hunter said. "Paris can be dangerous at times, especially these days."
"Who would hurt Doctor Jacques?" Moreau said. He shook his head. "He hasn't an enemy in Paris. He has his peculiarities, true, but who can argue with his results? I, myself, have never understood why he looks down on bleeding, for example. He insists that it does more harm than good. Still, he has helped many people hereabouts, and he even extends himself to those who cannot afford to pay. He may ask some little service or, as in the case of Marcel's ailing father, take payment in a chicken or two, but... no, I cannot imagine anyone who would wish him harm. He is the soul of compassion. And well-liked and respected."
"Then what could have become of him?" said Hunter.
Moreau shrugged. "Perhaps he had some business with those friends of his, from Flanders."
Hunter frowned. "Friends from Flanders?"
"Yes, five of them," Moreau said. "They were with him the last time he was here. And the time before that, too."
"Can you tell me anything about them?" Hunter said. "It could be important."
"They were a rough lot," Moreau said. He shrugged again. "Still, Doctor Jacques has friends from all walks of life, no? Not my sort, though. Not my sort at all. They would all grow silent whenever I approached their table, as though afraid that I would overhear their conversation."
"What did they look like? Perhaps I know them."
"They were all large men," Moreau said. "All except one, who was very slight and thin. About like so," Moreau said, indicating his own chest level. "Three of them were dark, rough-looking, as I said. One was bald. Him I remember very well. He was a bull, that one, a giant of a man. They didn't speak much, at least, not to me, but they were not French, that much was certain."
"They did not know the language," Hunter said.
"Oh, no, they knew the language very well," Moreau said, "but they learned it elsewhere. They had some sort of accent, but I could not place it."
"What about the fifth man?" Hunter said. "The slight one?"
"Ah, yes, him. I thought he was a girl, at first." Moreau chuckled. "It was a bit embarrassing. I called him 'mademoiselle' and it seemed to amuse the others and it was only then that I saw he was a man. A very young man, no more than a boy, really. Some boys, in their youthfulness, well...."
"Yes, I understand," said Hunter. "And some young girls look like young boys sometimes, especially if they are not wearing dresses."
"Quite so," Moreau said, visibly relieved. "Still, this one ... he wore his hair quite long, much longer than is the fashion. And it was like spun gold, Monsieur. Most unsettling. His French, now, was flawless. A real gentleman, that one. I heard Doctor Jacques call him 'Adrian.' " Moreau lowered his voice. "An English name, no?"
"Could be," said Hunter. "I know no one by that name. This all sounds very mysterious, Moreau."
Moreau looked around, then leaned closer to Hunter. "Tell me, Monsieur," he said, "Doctor Jacques. ... I have never known him to, that is, he has no . . . political leanings, has he?"
"I don't know," said Hunter. "What makes you say a thing like that?"
Moreau shrugged again. "One learns a thing or two in this business, Monsieur. After all, you must admit, it does look strange. Five strangers, four of whom are decidedly not French and the fifth with an English-sounding name, all speaking in low voices in the corner...."
"I see what you mean," said Hunter. "But political intrigue? That does not sound like the Jacques Benoit I know."
"One never knows for sure, Monsieur," Moreau said. "Intrigue seems to be the watchword of the day. I would hate to learn that Doctor Jacques was in some sort of trouble."
"So would I, Moreau. So would I. Listen, if you should see him before I do, tell him that I'm staying at the Luxembourg. Ask him to come and see me on a matter of some importance."
"I will, Monsieur Laporte. And if you should see him first, you tell him that he has friends who will stand by him, eh? If there is trouble, you tell him to come to old Moreau."
Hunter looked at Moreau and smiled. The burly Frenchman had a face that looked like old leather and broad shoulders that suggested a previous trade more strenuous than being a tavernkeeper. If there would be trouble, Jack would do well to have someone like Moreau beside him.
"I'll tell him," Hunter said.
He left the tavern feeling very worried. Somethin
g was definitely wrong. Jack Bennett had disappeared without leaving behind any message whatsoever. With Jack, that sort of thing simply didn't happen, unless those men had something to do with it and he had not had time to leave a message. But then, according to Moreau, those men had been with Jack for at least a week and they would not have known the signals that Hunter and Jack had arranged between themselves. Jack should have been able to leave word if something out of the ordinary had occurred. But he hadn't.
Those "friends from Flanders" made Hunter nervous. Jack didn't have any friends in Flanders that he knew of. Then there was Moreau's description of them. Large. Spoke French excellently, but with an accent that Moreau, an ex-seaman, could not place. Perhaps it was because it was an accent unknown to this time.
""Where are you, Doc?" Hunter mumbled. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
He was so preoccupied, he didn't notice that he was being followed.
* * * *
Andre realized that she owed Hunter a great deal, but there was a limit to any obligation. She had promised Hunter that she would learn to act like a lady, but she had never promised him to play that role continuously. Nor had she promised him to, as he had said it, "stay put" in their apartments.
He had brought her to another time, to another world, and he expected her to stay in their hotel unless told otherwise. Yes, she owed him a great deal, but she did not owe him blind, unquestioning obedience. He had developed a tendency to order her around and she didn't like it. She understood that he was only being protective, because he knew much and she knew little of this time, because he was in his element and she was in an alien environment. Still, that did not make her confinement easier to bear. She felt herself dependent upon Hunter and she didn't like having to depend on anyone. She never had. She liked feeling caged up even less.
In the 12th century, at least, she had known the rules. In England, she had been able to make her way alone. Hunter had spent many hours with her, teaching her to speak 17th-century French. The task was made easier by her knowledge of the Norman tongue, but it had proved bothersome when Hunter would not speak to her in any other language. He had explained that they would be in 17th-century Paris for an indefinite amount of time and that it was of paramount importance for her to know the language. Surprisingly, even though the constant repetition and the boring drills were tiresome, she had discovered that learning a new language came easily to her, far more easily than learning "the gentle art of acting like a lady," and only slightly less easily than learning how to use a rapier. Already, Hunter was no match for her. Her progress had astonished even him. Yet what was the point in knowing all these things if she was to be denied the opportunity to put them into practice? What was the use in learning how to act like a 17th-century Parisienne if she remained constantly within the walls of the Luxembourg Hotel, seeing no one, going nowhere?
