The attack had been well-planned, well-executed, and doomed to fail; a dozen highwaymen, no matter how well they did against local farmers and small-time merchants, could not hope to prevail against an equal number of Musketeers. Four of the cocky thieves lay dead, and at least another handful of wounded had been helped away by their fellows, disappearing into the undergrowth. The Musketeers had been ready to follow, but Captain Treville regrouped his soldiers with a long whistle and had them ride on. The mission was for La Rochelle, and they had to make the halfway point by sundown. They would be back, Treville assured them, for the others.

Two Musketeers had caught bullets in the first moments of the fray, and by the time they stopped to make camp, both were riding double with a friend. Half the men went about normal campsite activities—firewood, water, making dinner—while the other half, under Saint-Simon's direction, maneuvered the wounded men off horseback and onto bedrolls. Treville kept one eye on the bustle as he consulted a map and confirmed that they were, in fact, within a musket-shot of their intended stopping point. Rolling up the map again, his forearm twinged a reminder, and he scanned the men for two in particular. There they were - together, of course.

"Marsac, Aramis," he called. They came and stood at-ease in front of Treville.

Eagle-eyed Aramis noticed right away. "Sir," he said, "you're wounded. I'll fetch Saint-Simon..."

Treville interrupted. "Saint-Simon is busy. It's time you two had a living patient."

Aramis' eyebrows went up.

Marsac visibly blanched. "Sir—"

"In case I didn't make myself clear, that's an order." Treville started unlacing his doublet. As he pulled it off, he saw his newest Musketeers looking over his shoulder and followed their gaze to an amused Cornet, standing with his arms full of firewood and clearly enjoying the exchange. "Don't look at him, he's not going to help you."

"The captain's doing you a favor, lads," Cornet said brightly. "He's quiet and he's not particular about how the scar comes out."

"As you were," Treville growled without force. Cornet freed one hand enough to clap Marsac encouragingly on the shoulder and moved away. Treville started rolling up his left sleeve and said, "Get your kits."

Marsac and Aramis both saluted crisply and double-timed away in search of their saddle bags, gone before Treville could remind them they weren't in the army anymore. He shook his head. Let's hope they pick up new skills faster than they drop old habits. He'd had them, and several others, practicing their needlework the past few weeks on fresh pig- or goat-hide—whatever came attached to the stew-meat—and now was as good a time as any for them to make the leap to sewing up their comrades. Aramis in particular had a knack for it; he'd confessed, under duress, that his mother had made him do mending as a child, his punishment whenever he ran off to watch the soldiers.

Treville sat tailor-style on the ground and Marsac joined him, but Aramis lingered, peering into the large pot slung over the fire.

"Is it soup yet?" he asked nearby Vernier.

"What are you, a walking stomach?" Vernier grumbled. "Not yet. It will be."

"Then you won't mind if I..." Aramis pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and dunked it in the pot.

"Hey, that's not your wash-water, that's our dinner!"

Aramis grinned. "Not yet!" He joined Treville and Marsac where they sat, folding his sopping handkerchief into fourths.

Marsac gave him a long-suffering look. "Please tell me that was clean before you put it in the soup."

With an unconvincing shrug, Aramis passed Marsac the handkerchief. Marsac took it and held out a hand, and Treville offered up his wounded arm. It looked messy, with blood smeared almost up to his elbow and a thick trail drying down the back of his hand, but the slash itself was modest, starting on the outside edge of Treville's wrist and travelling diagonally over the back of his arm. He'd gotten too close to one of the highwaymen, correctly judging that he would have the advantage in a corps-a-corps, and incorrectly judging the man's supply of hidden knives, and the luck that would put that blade exactly in the space where his glove ended and his sleeve had ridden up.

Marsac worked around the periphery, ignoring the rivulets of bloody water that dripped onto his knee.

"Don't be so gentle," Treville instructed. "It's small, it's all right if it starts to bleed again. If you're going to sew it shut, you have to be able to see it."

Marsac obeyed. Blood began to well slowly where the knife had gone in deepest, but Treville ignored it, instead watching Aramis select a needle from the leather wallet and thread it with a single strand of horsehair.

"Make a plan," Treville prompted. "How many stitches?"

"Seven or eight?"

"Decide now."

"Eight."

Treville turned back to Marsac, who had finished cleaning the wound and was now pressing the cloth where it was bleeding. "Let's see."

Marsac took the handkerchief away. "I think it's stopped, sir." At Treville's nod, he wrung out the handkerchief onto the ground, tucked it into his belt, then braced Treville's arm with one hand above the wound and one below.

Aramis was looking at Treville's arm thoughtfully, with his head cocked to one side. "Sir, for a wound like this, couldn't we also just clean it and draw the edges together with a bandage?"

"We could," Treville allowed. "I see you've been talking to Saint-Simon and, yes, it can be wise to avoid needlework. But this time we will not."

Aramis nodded and lifted the needle, then hesitated for a long moment. He lowered it and said sheepishly, "I'm suppose I'm just used to hurting my enemies."

Treville had words of encouragement ready, but Marsac got there first: "Rubbish," he snorted. "You punched me in the face two days ago."

"You shouldn't have let me inside your guard."

"Well, I won't next time, so you punched me in the face but you may have also saved my life."

"Fair point." With half a smile, Aramis bent over Treville's arm and started to set the first stitch.

It hurt - it always hurt, usually more than the original wound - but Treville didn't show it, gave no grimace or intake of breath to distract his young surgeon. All he said was, "Keep it shallow." And then, when Aramis had gone about halfway, "Marsac?" Treville had not missed the glance that ran between them earlier, wordlessly arranging for Aramis to be the one sewing.

Aramis took Marsac's place bracing Treville's arm and Marsac reluctantly took the needle, saying, "It's not going to be as pretty. Aramis sews better than my sisters."

"I'm going to tell them you said that."

"As if I'd introduce you to my sisters."

Treville held up his good hand for silence. "Go on, Marsac."

The last four stitches were not as perfectly uniform, it was true, but they were at a good depth and none of them appeared to be pulling.

Treville looked up from his inspection into two nervous faces. "Well done, both of you. I'll clean and wrap it. Report to Saint-Simon and see if he needs any help."

"Now, sir?" Marsac seemed surprised.

"Why not now?"

"Thank you, sir."

Their hands flew up before Treville could remind them not to salute. Well, he thought as they jogged away, one step a time.