Man in the Iron Mask, Gen Fic 8: Debt of Honor

by Amadeus1

Philippe's uncertain trust in Aramis is put to the test when treachery threatens to expose them all. Louis' hopes of freedom seem destined to come true ...

Debt Of Honor

by Amadeus

r_amadeus@hotmail.com

If he'd said he had leprosy, they'd have been less shocked.

Outside the king's chambers, an autumn wind rustled dry leaves on the trees in the square. Inside, the only sound was the crackle of logs in the huge hearth, lit early against the chill. Philippe and Athos sat staring at Aramis in consternation. Any minute now, mouths would start dropping open; Porthos' already had. Not that Aramis could blame them, in the circumstances. He watched a beetle blunder trapped against the windowpanes and felt a surge of fellow feeling. He'd been prepared for trouble, for ridicule, even, but this silent disbelief was hard to take.

I lead; I don't petition. The reversal chaffed a little. He composed his features with an effort, suppressing an impulse to fidget with his cross, and reached up to massage his aching nose. A mistake. Pain shot through his face; he jerked his hand away. The recent break had barely begun to knit. Last week Philippe had sent him, unwilling, to the Bastille to report on his brother's condition. Louis had taken Aramis by surprise, butting him in the face with the heavy iron mask and breaking his nose. He'd won that round, though, he recalled with satisfaction; Louis had bruises of his own to remember.

Philippe recovered first. "I don't understand." The level voice belied the wary eyes. "You didn't want to see him in the first place. And then he broke your nose. Why do you want to go back?"

"It's hard to explain." He barely understood it himself; why should they? Louis was paying for what he'd done to Philippe, but Aramis, who'd carried out his orders, was free, in body if not in soul. His conscience was too strong not to feel the injustice. Ministering to the prisoner, however distasteful, might be a fitting penance.

Aramis looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. Elegant, sculptured hands. Beautiful, even; many an envious woman had said so. Six years ago they'd locked a sixteen-year-old boy's head in a cage of iron; last week they'd come within a heartbeat of choking the life from his brother. Almost of their own volition, his hands rose now and sought his cross. If only the boy wouldn't look at him like that.

"It wasn't just your nose he broke, by the sound of it," Porthos frowned. "Why waste more time on Louis? You'd be dead twice over if he'd had his way." Useless to look for understanding there; subtleties were lost on Porthos.

Aramis risked a glance at Athos, sitting silently beside Philippe. Nothing. No protest, no outcry. Only a question, stark in the brown eyes: why? Louis had murdered his son Raoul, and D'Artagnan. Athos would never understand. Suddenly stricken, Aramis half-started out of his chair towards his friend. But Athos frowned and turned abruptly to Philippe. "Philippe, you aren't ..."

A raised hand and a half-smile. "I'd like to hear the rest." The smile vanished as Philippe turned back to Aramis. His eyes, Aramis noted with the familiar mixture of regret and resignation that accompanied so many of his dealings with Philippe, had grown remote.

Aramis shifted slightly in his seat. How best to phrase it? "It's something I have to do. I'm a priest, after all." Let that be his shield. It wasn't enough, though; Philippe had needed a priest too. "If the king forbids it, I'll obey." Without question, he reminded himself sternly. He cleared his throat and made a last attempt. "He left you to rot alone. I don't believe you'll do the same to him."

Aramis saw Philippe shoot a questioning look at Athos before he responded. "I have ... considered the matter, you're right. What do you have in mind?"

"To go to the prison now and then, every week or two, perhaps." Porthos raised his eyebrows; Aramis hadn't been noted for his delight in the king's company before. Aramis ignored him. "Take him some books, something to occupy his mind ... I don't know. Just try to get through to him somehow." He heard how lame it sounded. Confusion was a novel feeling; it jarred on his nerves. Always before, the force of his arguments had carried the day. But always before, he'd known what he was doing. "God knows, I'm not looking forward to it. But I'm the only priest who knows he exists. I can't just abandon him without at least trying ..." Not as I abandoned you.

Philippe said nothing for a long moment. Aramis endured the silence. Then, Philippe said, a crisp note of decision in his voice, "All right." With each day that passed, he was growing more accustomed to being king, sometimes a little faster than Aramis had bargained for. "Ask for a new writ each time you go. And André will go with you as bodyguard, in case there's any repeat of last time." In other words, Aramis interpreted silently as he nodded in relief, no secret visits. And André can report on what happens.

Athos pushed back his chair. It screeched on the parquet floor. "André? Philippe, is that wise? You know he's been troubled about what we did. It could be dangerous to let him see Louis again." He threw out his hands in frustration. "You don't know your brother like we do. He could charm a snake ... and he can offer the world. He'd as like offer Aramis the papacy to let him out, then turn and rend him when he ..." He broke off, eyes riveted to the sudden ebb and flow of color in Aramis' face. "Aramis! Was that why ... you didn't ...?"

Old friends. At times they saw too much. Three pairs of eyes pinned Aramis to his chair. Odd, that an innocent man should feel so guilty. Philippe had stiffened into virtual immobility.

Aramis shot Athos an exasperated glare. "Of course not! Well ... he did." He didn't usually stammer. "But of course I didn't. You surely can't think for a moment that I ... What do you take me for?" At once he wished he hadn't asked. Philippe, it was clear, was not entirely sure of the answer. Aramis sighed inwardly. The boy was on the throne now; if all went well, he'd remain there. He had to win his trust somehow or Philippe would live all his life looking over his shoulder. And without Philippe's forgiveness, Aramis would always grieve for his own lost integrity, compromised years ago in a grim prison cell. Besides, a small unworthy part of his brain reminded him, any lasting chance of influence at court depended on winning Philippe's confidence. He pushed the thought away. It belonged to the dark hours of the night, when ambition's stealthy voice sometimes kept him from his sleep.

Still, of them all, he thought fleetingly with a wry acknowledgment of his own vanity, he - the diplomat, politician, strategist of the four - had most to offer Philippe as king. Athos was nobly born, honorable to the backbone and as polished as Aramis in his way, but he lacked the taste for intrigue. And Porthos ... Aramis glanced affectionately at the far end of the table, where Porthos had appropriated a bowl of nuts and was cracking the shells explosively between his knuckles as he listened. They could always count on Porthos. It wouldn't do to underestimate him. Subtlety might be beyond him, but in his own way he upheld them all.

A sudden flurry of raindrops on the casement, harbingers of an autumn storm, recalled him to the task at hand. Athos was returning his glare. "Of course we don't think you'd accept. But you didn't tell us he'd offered." There'd been plenty of time to do so. Athos drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"And can you wonder why?" Aramis snapped. He spread his hands out, palms up, on the table before him. His nose throbbed unbearably. He wished himself back in his rooms, anywhere but here. "He had to try, I suppose." How noble. "But I have to try too, with him. I don't expect you to understand. I only ask you to trust me," he said as calmly as he could.

Philippe was silent. Athos, shoulders stiff, stared down at the table. Porthos abandoned the nuts and leaned back in his chair, waiting. Even the beetle ceased its desperate buzzing and fell exhausted to the floor.

Eventually, Philippe spoke. "All right," he said again. Athos' shoulders slumped a fraction. "I'd not deny either of you the comfort, if that's what it is. Take Porthos with you for protection instead of André." Porthos pricked up his ears. "But report to me after each meeting. A detailed report, Aramis. You understand me?"

Only too well. Aramis felt like a junior novice at chapter. He mustered a faint, face-saving smile. "Of course. Except for those matters between a man and his priest."

"He's made his confession, then?" Philippe sounded doubtful. Devout himself, he'd confessed regularly in prison; he'd seen enough to know that Louis was an altogether different matter.

"No. But I can't hope he'll speak freely if he knows it goes back to you." His eyes sought Philippe's. "I'm a priest," he said again. "His soul is my concern. Will you trust me that far?" This time his voice held an outright plea.

Athos spoke into the strained silence that followed. "Put yourself in Philippe's place, Aramis. You knew where he was, too, but you left him there alone until you needed him. For six years." In all the hours they'd talked after Philippe's release, they'd never touched on this. Observing Aramis' suddenly lowered eyes, Athos made his voice gentle. "We could all see something was troubling you; we just didn't know what. But Philippe didn't know that. Now you talk of visiting Louis when it was your own idea to get rid of him. No wonder Philippe doesn't understand." He paused. "Neither do I."

It was the longest speech Athos had made in quite some time. Aramis looked at Philippe in despair. "Is that what you think? That I have some ulterior motive?"

"I don't know." Frankness, with its possible consequences, was the last thing Philippe wanted, from the tone of his voice. Although he grew daily in confidence, he wasn't yet able to stand on his own; he depended heavily on Aramis for his knowledge of the court and its politics. "It doesn't matter." He looked away and began to leaf through the papers spread out on the table, suddenly interested in their contents.

"It does matter, Philippe," Athos said. "Tell us." When Philippe didn't reply, he rose and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me," he urged, looking Philippe straight in the eye.

Philippe's chin went up suddenly. He put down the papers and looked across at Aramis. An unaccustomed edge entered his tone. "It did occur to me, yes. After all ..." He broke off.

"After all ...?" Aramis prompted. Pulling teeth would be easier.

Philippe continued steadily enough, but his knuckles were white on the edge of the table. "I've made some progress, but not enough, not yet. If I make a big enough mistake, you're all in real danger." He waved away Porthos' impulsive protest. The others said nothing, waiting. "But Louis knows it all. I can't help wondering if ..." a slight flush mounted in his cheeks, "if you might be regretting the bargain." Even to his own ears it sounded preposterous, Aramis guessed, but Philippe continued slowly. "I thought you might want to see him because ..." He couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

"What do you mean, Philippe?" Porthos asked, abandoning his pillage of the nut bowl. He cast a worried glance at Aramis' face.

Aramis had a sudden sick premonition of what was coming. "I know what he means." This time the pain that caught at him had nothing to do with his nose. Better to meet this on his feet. He rose to face Philippe. "Let's have it out in the open. It's better that way." If he knew the worst, he could plan. He wondered briefly what Athos was thinking. "Go on, Philippe. You think I want to keep an eye on Louis in case you don't work out. That's it, isn't it?"

Philippe had risen too. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll believe you."

Aramis looked at the young man before him. Half his age, less than half, but king of France, absolute ruler of all he surveyed. And looking back at him now with a gaze that sought out his soul. He tried to speak calmly through the clamor in his head, but his stomach churned with the effort. "You think I'd put Louis back on the throne? And you, what? back in prison?"

Philippe held his gaze. His voice was subdued but firm. "You've done that once before. As for Louis ... the threat of assassins would keep him in check. And besides, now you know whose son he is."

"Never!" Aramis barely recognized the appalled whisper as his own voice. Beside Philippe, Athos started towards him but checked himself at a sign from Philippe. Aramis, white as the marble mantle, shook his head and wished he hadn't. Grief for the past, for what he'd done to make Philippe fear this, rolled over him in a wave. The pity of it is, he's a king worth serving. Or he will be. "You think Athos," with a gesture in his friend's direction, "would let that happen? Or Porthos? Restore Louis ... we'd all be dead five minutes after he was out." He took a calming breath. "And then there's justice. God forgives us all, or so the church teaches. But that doesn't negate justice. Please, Philippe, you surely can't believe ..." He heard himself pleading again. It didn't matter now.

"Midnight horrors, that's all." Philippe sounded defensive, but the hint of steel was still there. "I'm sorry. You wanted to know." A moment's reflection. "Porthos can wait outside when you go."

Aramis waited until his breathing steadied before he spoke again. "It's all right." He glanced at Athos, who met his eyes dispassionately. No help there. "I understand, Philippe. I put you in the mask. I'll live with that for the rest of my life." And if I'd known you were D'Artagnan's son ... The old knife of guilt and sorrow twisted in his heart. I told you one day I'd ask your forgiveness. Not yet, though. When I've proved you can trust me, then I'll come to you. On my knees, if I have to. Silently, he renewed the vow he'd made the night D'Artagnan died, not to fail the son as he'd failed the father.

Philippe walked round the table to where Aramis stood. "You risked your life to put me here. You mustn't think I don't ..." He floundered a little, his voice contrite, but still with that tinge of reserve. "It was just a passing night fear, nothing more." But they both knew better.

"I understand." Aramis could bear no more; beneath his once more cool exterior he was bitterly hurt. But not deflected from his goal. He picked up his cloak and bowed formally. "Then with your permission, Philippe, I'll visit the prison again. Under whatever conditions you care to impose." He bowed again and left the room, careful not to look at the others. At a meaningful nod from Athos, Porthos followed him out, stowing a last handful of nuts in his capacious pocket as he went.

Philippe grimaced at the closing door. "Handled with the grace of an elephant," he said wryly to Athos. He sank into a chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I said too much; now he's hurt. And you were no help at all."

Athos shrugged. "Best for both of you to clear the air."

Philippe looked unconvinced. "Well ... God knows, I wouldn't hurt any of you for the world." He heaved a sigh and massaged his temples with his fingers, supporting his head on his hands.

"He'll survive," Athos said laconically, pouring them both a cup of wine from the ornate silver decanter on the table. "But Philippe ... he's on your side. One for all, remember? It's not just a pretty phrase. Aramis is a complex man." He smiled at some private memory. "He's many things, but traitor isn't one of them." The word sat uncomfortably between them as they considered recent events. "Depending whose side you look at it from, of course."

"My brother mightn't see it that way," Philippe agreed. He looked young and strained, his usual careful veneer of control slipping. Faint dark circles shadowed his eyes. Athos looked at him closely.

"You didn't mention this was on your mind?" he said carefully. Philippe gestured non-committally. He rose and went to pick up Porthos' bowl of nuts. Bringing it back to his place at the table, he sat down close to Athos.

"You've had enough to think about. I didn't want to add to it." He rolled a nut between his fingers. Athos had grieved deeply and silently for D'Artagnan as well as for Raoul. He'd never spoken of his losses since that first night, but the others had known. Philippe instinctively veered away from the subject now. Straightening his shoulders, he spoke more formally. "Don't misunderstand me, Athos. I'm grateful beyond measure to Aramis -- to all of you -- for what you did. If it hadn't been for him, I'd still be rotting in that cell. And I know he was only carrying out my brother's orders ... before. But," he sighed again, "I can't help wondering, that's all. If Louis had been a good king, I'd still be in prison now. Only the two of them knew I was there. If Aramis hadn't needed me ..."

Athos shook his head. "If Louis had been a good king you wouldn't have been in prison in the first place." True. Philippe took comfort from the thought. But the narrowness of his escape still chilled him in the predawn hours. He considered pursuing the point, but thought better of it. Aramis was one of the four; if Athos vouched for him, that was enough. Or it should be.

"It doesn't matter now, anyway. This request of his ... what do you make of it?" Philippe's face in the fading light was tired. Youthful resilience had carried him through since the first tense days, but the nights were a different matter. He hadn't slept well since the night D'Artagnan died; nor, he suspected, had Athos.

Athos snorted. " A waste of time. You can trust Aramis, though. He probably sees it as a penance; a way to make amends for what he did to you. He still feels the whole thing more than he lets us know. And he blames himself now for D'Artagnan's death as well." As they all blamed themselves in their different ways. Athos took another nut. "You'll really let him go?"

"I think I must. I won't leave Louis buried alive." Philippe looked searchingly at Athos. "I know you don't agree, but ..." His voice took on a new firmness. "I won't."

Athos nodded, his face unreadable. "You're king now, Philippe. It's your decision." Philippe was grateful for his forbearance. He had an inkling of what it cost Athos to hold his tongue.

"Dreams again?" Athos was looking him over. There wasn't much he missed, Philippe thought; he never had. The nightmares that had plagued Philippe's first days at the chateau had returned lately, it was true. Philippe could never tell, when he woke sweating, his blankets tangled and his eyes wild, what it was he'd run from. He only knew that some dark formless presence rendered his nights a misery.

Or so he'd told himself. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't really true either, he admitted silently to himself now. The hands that clawed in panic at the mask, the face suffocated by the unyielding metal, his own and not his own ... He knew what it was that stalked his dreams. He'd begged Louis not to return him to the mask; death would have been preferable, he'd said. Then in his grief and anger after Louis had killed D'Artagnan, he'd done the same thing to his brother. Much as he agreed that Louis deserved punishment, the knowledge ate at him sometimes, in the still of the night.

"Oh ... you know." He shrugged. "Nothing too bad. Just now and then." Briefly he considered sharing his greatest fear: that in the grip of some nightmare he would scream out the secret that would trap them all. The king was seldom really alone; someone was always within earshot, if not in sight, day and night. He put the thought from him. No point in worrying Athos about it; he would deal with it himself. If he only knew how.

Athos looked at him skeptically. He took advantage of their rare time alone to size Philippe up with a frown. "You're looking better than you did. But you could do with more meat on your bones yet. You're too skinny, like ... someone I knew once. A long time ago."

"Like my father, you mean?" Philippe was on it in a flash. "You knew him when he was young, didn't you. My age. Porthos told me. I wish ..." He let it drop. Picking up the bowl of nuts, he offered it to Athos. Athos took a nut and tried to crack it between his knuckles as Porthos had done, grimacing in frustration as the hard shell refused to yield.

"It looks so easy when Porthos does it," he complained in mock disgust. He tried again, with no success. "It's never worked for me."

Philippe grinned at him, a flash of mischievous delight. "You need to know the trick," he said. "Like this." He took up a nut and demonstrated, squeezing the shell hard between his knuckles and exerting pressure at a crucial point. The shell gave slightly, but the nut remained whole. After a moment Philippe gave up, ruefully returning it to the bowl. "It helps if you're built like an ox as well."

"He told you how he does it?" Athos was incredulous. "I've tried for years to get that out of him. How did you get him to tell you?" He looked almost put out.

"Oh," Philippe said, "he showed me one day at the chateau. We were out for a trek and he had some nuts in his pocket. I tried for ages, but I couldn't do it. Still can't." He let his mind drift back to the chateau. It was the day he'd first seen Therese, the laughing girl who'd been his first lover ...

"What was it you wished?" Athos' voice cut across his thoughts.

"What?" Startled, Philippe came back to the present.

"You said, 'I wish' ..."

"Oh, nothing. It wasn't important." Philippe avoided the topic of his father in Athos' presence wherever he could, despite his often painful longing to talk about the man he'd known for so short a time. He'd sometimes catch a look of utter desolation on Athos' face and guess what he was thinking. He wondered now if the time would ever come when ...

Athos brought it up himself. "You wish he were here, don't you."

"He would be, if it weren't for me." The words were out before he could stop them.

Athos laid a hand on his arm. "I know you've always blamed yourself for his death." Philippe winced. "But it wasn't your fault. None of us could have foreseen what happened." Athos' hand tightened involuntarily on Philippe's arm for a second before he continued, "D'Artagnan died as he'd always wished; you heard him say it yourself." He looked at Philippe shrewdly. "Is that what you dream about?"

"Not exactly. Well, sometimes. Other times ... I don't really know." Philippe sat up straighter and settled his gold-embroidered coat more firmly on his shoulders. "It's not important, anyway. Things are going well." That was true. He'd taken more quickly than he'd expected to the business of ruling, despite his fear of mistakes. "I just wish I knew what was really behind this business with Aramis."

"Visiting Louis?" Athos couldn't quite keep the hatred from his voice. "His honor demands it, I think. Who knows what goes on in that brain of his? But trust me, Philippe, you won't find Aramis in your nightmares again." He leaned forward to underscore the point.

Philippe held his gaze for a moment. Then he smiled at him, affection plain on his face. "I know, old man," he teased, to break the sudden tension. "Of course, you're a different matter." Laughing, he dodged a flying nut.

Athos stretched out his legs and relaxed in his chair. "About the wedding ... it's been brought forward?" Philippe had discovered on his first day at court that negotiations for a marriage to the Infanta of Spain were already well advanced. The news had come as something of a shock – somehow Aramis had left that out -- but the nuptial date had seemed too far away to worry about then. He'd resolved to concentrate on more immediate matters and discuss it later with Athos. But someone was always there; there'd been no chance to talk.

Philippe frowned. "So I'm told. The ministers want it sooner rather than later. They're worried about the peace with Spain. If the Dutch made overtures to the Spanish, we'd be caught between the two if it came to war." He stood up suddenly and began to pace restlessly back and forth. "Have you heard anything more about this Infanta? Anything at all?"

"I saw the same miniature you did, the one the ambassador brought back, that's all," Athos said. "But I've heard a bit around the court. She's sweet-natured and pious, from all accounts. Not a beauty, but kind. Good childbearing hips, they say." Philippe cast his eyes to the ceiling and came back and sat down. Athos looked at him enquiringly. "There wasn't time to talk about this at the chateau."

Philippe shrugged. "No. But there's nothing I can do about it, is there?"

"And ...?" Athos reached for another nut and the small silver hammer in the bowl.

"Why don't you just ask me what you want to know?" The smile in Philippe's eyes robbed the words of offense.

"How do you feel about it, then?"

"Do I have a choice?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands for a moment, rubbing his temples again as he often did lately. When he looked up, his face was almost drawn. "Louis was a prisoner too, wasn't he. It's just a different sort of cage."

Athos' head jerked up. He abandoned the nut. "Spare me! Louis did exactly as he pleased. If he wanted this marriage it was for his own reasons." Seeing Philippe's face, he relented. "Besides, kings have always made political marriages. It's the price they pay for all the rest of it. Louis knew that as well as I do. He wasn't in any kind of prison. Not like you. " His gaze softened as it rested on Philippe.

"You're right. Of course you're right." But Philippe looked far from sure.

The big doors opened suddenly and a footman announced the queen. Philippe had left standing orders to admit his mother to his private chambers at any time, another change the court had marveled at. Philippe and Athos rose as Anne approached, and kissed her hand in turn. Outside in the gallery they could hear the deep tones of a harp; musicians, setting up for tonight's court entertainment. Philippe would not be there.

"Do I disturb you?" the queen asked, settling herself on a brocaded sofa and smiling at them both. "I wanted to speak to you, Philippe, if you have the time." She nodded in Athos' direction. Philippe reflected with pleasure on the growing cordiality he'd noticed between the two in recent weeks.

Athos had not resumed his seat. He bowed to Anne and picked up his hat. "With Your Majesty's permission ..." He looked towards the door. Then he bowed to Philippe. "And with your permission, Sire, we'll speak of this again." At Philippe's nod, he turned and left the room. Philippe looked after him until the doors closed behind him. Then he turned with a smile to his mother.

* * *

The smoke from noonday cooking fires hung fragrant in the air as Porthos and Aramis swung down from their horses before the Bastille some days later. Porthos sniffed appreciatively and opened his mouth to complain.

Aramis forestalled him. "I know, you told me. Several times. You didn't get your breakfast. Don't sleep so late next time." Trust Porthos to be sidetracked by his stomach. Aramis was grateful for his company just the same. He patted Porthos' arm. "You'll have your feet under a table soon enough. You're here to keep me honest, remember?" Porthos scowled and followed him up the stairs. He was less than enthusiastic about their mission.

Governor de la Porte was waiting for them, his manner obsequious. André was right, Aramis thought, the man had no backbone. He'd been a political appointee, a cadet member of a powerful family. Louis himself had conferred on him the governor's position to reward his family for their service at court. De la Porte looked doubtfully at Porthos now. "Two of you, Father?"

"The King's orders." Aramis held out the royal writ. Together he and Porthos underwent the stringent search procedures that were standing orders for every visit. Porthos swore as he realised he'd have to leave his sword behind; Aramis hushed him with an irritable punch to the arm that earned him an injured stare. But Aramis had no time to care. The tension was rising within him as the time to open the cell drew closer. Prisons brought back memories he'd rather forget. Aware that the governor was covertly examining the still-visible bruises on his face, he seized the heavy bunch of keys and led the way out.

Their boots clattered on the old stone stairs as they descended to the level of Louis' cell. Important prisoners were usually housed in one of the Bastille's eight towers. Not this one. Aramis unlocked three successive gates, each one giving on to an untenanted corridor, until they stood outside the cell door. They'd made too much noise for any element of surprise, even if they'd wanted one.

"Wait here." Aramis prepared to open the door. Porthos' hand closed around his arm.

"Wait here? I know that's what we said, but what if he ..."

Aramis lowered his voice. "You're here for extra security, not to talk to Louis. I'm his only visitor, remember? He won't attack me again." Porthos suppressed what might have been a cough, might have been an incredulous snort. "But even if he does, or if he makes it out the door, you'll be right here waiting for him." Even unarmed, Porthos would be more than capable of stopping Louis in his tracks. And Louis would never speak freely with Porthos there, Aramis knew. He hated Porthos for his all too physical hand in the events of the last time they'd met. Porthos hadn't bothered with civilities, thrusting a gag into Louis' mouth and dumping him unceremoniously in the boat they'd planned to escape in.

"All right," Porthos ceded doubtfully. He looked as if he wished Louis would try. "But don't be too long. It's cold down here. Dark as hell, too." Aramis nodded and opened the door. He stepped inside and closed it as Porthos craned his neck to see inside.

Louis was waiting, tense and watchful, backed against the wall in a corner of the cell. His eyes, barely visible through the slits in the mask, were fixed intently on the door. Despite himself, Aramis shivered. Not with cold; it was more than that. The mask loomed obscene and threatening, its surface seeming to absorb what little light filtered into the cell from the barred ventilation shaft high up on one wall. Aramis moved away from the door.

Louis' stance lost some of its tension when he saw who it was. Odd that he was hunched in the corner like that. Afraid of the keeper? Aramis wondered. Louis stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, held a tinge of surprise. "Aramis! I didn't think you'd be back." Aramis noted the ring of dark bruises around his neck, their color almost exactly matching those around his own eyes and nose.

"Who else would it be? No-one else knows you're here." That seemed to be true, thank God. "Besides, I said I would be." His heart sank as he surveyed the prisoner. The chastened young man he'd left behind last time was nowhere in evidence today. Louis' head had gone up; his whole body bristled with arrogance. Aramis sensed doors deep within him, shut tight and bolted against Aramis like the massive door to the cell.

He drew a deep breath. A penance wasn't meant to be easy, he reminded himself sharply. An inner voice jeered at his own presumption: had he thought he'd worked a miracle? Shaking off the momentary depression, he looked at Louis again. Why had he really come? Christian charity, duty, yes, but – if he were honest – something else as well.

You like the power, he realized with sudden blinding clarity, every bit as much as Louis would in your place. More, perhaps. Louis shut his brother away and ignored him, but you – you want to study Louis like some insect, exploit his urge for company to satisfy your curiosity. You've never had an enemy so completely at your mercy before. Seductive, the urge to play God. The thought made him queasy. Crossing himself, he pushed it from him and tried to concentrate on nobler motives. Or less ignoble, anyway. But it crouched there, just the same, in a corner of his mind.

"I'm surprised they let you come," Louis said. "Aren't they afraid for your precious skin? Who's outside? Your watchdog?" He eyed the bruises on Aramis' face and laughed. Then his voice sharpened, became cunning, almost complicit. He took a step towards Aramis. "Or don't they know you're here?"

The carefully cool, mocking voice was the same as that night long ago when Aramis had listened aghast to the orders it issued. Orders that had taken him out to a country house, in his saddlebags an iron mask ... Aramis shook off the memories.

"The keeper ... he treats you well?" he asked curiously. Louis snorted and made no reply. Aramis could hear Porthos pacing impatiently the length of the passage outside. He strode to the table and sat down. "How far have you got with the Latin?" he asked briskly. "I've brought some other books." He crooked an imperious finger at Louis, who advanced grudgingly to the table and sat down opposite him.

"I've read a bit." Offhand. "A few pages." Louis looked towards the rough shelf on the wall. Aramis saw his Cicero there, lying on top of the other books he'd brought the week before. He got up and walked across to pick it up. The bookmark was where he'd left it. Carrying the book back to the table, he set it down in front of Louis, open at the first page.

"Show me." Aramis' finger indicated the first lines. "What did you make of this?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" A sweep of Louis' arm sent the book flying from the table. It landed with a thud on the stone floor not far away. "This isn't a schoolroom and you're not my tutor. I don't have to answer to you." Oh, but you will if you're wise, Aramis thought. And you know it. He schooled his face to hide his thoughts and bent quickly to pick up the book, noticing with regret a new scratch on its worn leather cover.

"Hot-tempered like your father," he said, straightening up. "It's your Gascon blood."

"Those tired lies about D'Artagnan again?" Louis said scornfully. "You tried that last time. You don't think I believed them? "

"You think they were lies?" Aramis' voice was dangerously soft.

Louis tensed, his fists clenching and unclenching on the tabletop; Aramis was instantly on guard. "Of course they were lies!" His voice rose to a shout. "It wasn't enough you tried to kill me, was it! You'd deny my right to rule as well. Well, it won't work! Do you hear me, you Jesuit bastard? It won't work." He leaped to his feet with a screech of wood on stone and stood glaring at Aramis. Outside, Porthos' pacing feet paused.

"You have courage, I'll give you that," Aramis remarked calmly. "You don't give in easily." Not surprising, given your father, he restrained himself from adding, with a silent apology to D'Artagnan.

Louis had himself back under control. He sat down and said again, more quietly, "It won't work. You wouldn't be supporting my fool brother if he didn't have royal blood. I'll hear no more of this treason." His hand rose irritably to push at the mask; Aramis sensed how it humiliated him to be seen in it. Louis had always been vain. "Tell me," Louis continued, his voice acid, "are you happy with the bargain you've made? How is my dear Philippe?"

"Doing well. He has the court eating out of his hand." It was only a slight exaggeration, after all. If Philippe were out and about yet, no doubt it would be true. Louis wasn't to know he spent most of his time in seclusion, ostensibly repenting his part in the deaths of both Christine and D'Artagnan. "We look to a marriage in the spring."

"A marriage ..." Louis seemed on the verge of some sudden retort, but clamped his lips shut. His mouth, what could be seen of it, twisted in a secretive smile. Aramis looked at him closely. Louis' air of knowing confidence gave him pause. Where was the rage he'd expected? He waited, but Louis only shrugged.

A large roach moved sluggishly up the wall, distracting Aramis' attention. Louis saw it too; his eyes slid sideways, then back to Aramis. The sardonic twist of his lips grew more pronounced, but he said nothing more.

Aramis wrenched his attention back to the purpose of his visit. The book lay untouched on the table between them. Little point in pursuing that avenue. He gestured at the box he'd brought with him, the one the governor had so ostentatiously searched, and said without much hope, "I've brought you the sacraments if you'll have them."

An abrasive laugh. Louis' hostility was a living presence in the cell. "The sacraments? You're not fit to offer them. You sold your soul to the devil, you and your order, when you put power before duty to me. God will judge us both." His tone left no doubt what the outcome would be. "And who'll absolve you then? You'll burn in hell for what you've done to me."

"You talk of God?" Aramis found his voice shaking with sudden passion. He banged his fist on the table. "Your only use for God was to justify your own excesses. And what have you done to others?" It was Louis' turn to blink. Aramis swept on, giving him no chance to speak. "You're absolutely right, He will be your judge. Remember that, and make your peace while you can. None of us knows when our hour will come." Only that week, cases of plague had been reported in outlying villages.

Aramis might not have spoken for all the attention Louis paid. "You presume to judge me, all of you. You usurp the place of God, but not one of you is my equal. I'll fight you as long as I have breath in my body. Though no doubt you'll take care of that some day, too." A sudden thought seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and all but hissed across the table at Aramis, "It was you, wasn't it! It was you who sent the assassin the day of the pig chase." The one Louis had finished off as he lay helpless at his feet, brought down by D'Artagnan's thrown sword.

Aramis shook his head. "That man acted alone." His anger evaporated as quickly as it had come, leaving in its place a weary resignation. "He was a Jesuit, yes. But he'd seen three of his brother's children starve to death the month before. Their father was injured on the cathedral scaffolds and couldn't work." He stared at Louis. "You don't understand, do you. Full-scale revolt was just around the corner. D'Artagnan only managed to quell a few of the riots." The name brought the familiar clutch at his heart. Louis felt it too, he saw to his surprise; it was mirrored in the sudden downward cast of his eyes. Aramis was suddenly sure that the key to unlocking the doors lay in D'Artagnan.

He tried again. "Your people were starving. Starving! Don't you understand what that means?" Of course he didn't; he'd never had to worry about food. "You've seen the cages they hung prisoners in to starve to death, not so long ago. Imagine it ... breaking your teeth on the iron, desperate for something to gnaw." Louis' face didn't change. Aramis gestured at the door of the cell. "What if this door never opened again and you were left with no food, no water, for the rest of your life? It wouldn't be that long; you'd only think it was. Think about that, then tell me your people were wrong."

Louis' gaze faltered and dropped momentarily. Then his shoulders stiffened defiantly as his head came up again. He made a sharp dismissive gesture with his hand. "I needed the food for my armies," he snapped. "France means more than a few citizens, not that you'd understand that. But they're well fed now, no doubt? My brother will have seen to that." The sneer stood plain in his voice. "There are things you don't understand, priest. A brother who's a threat to you is one of them."

I had a brother once. An old, half-buried pain stirred. His mother's face as his father carried in Pierre's lifeless body, river water still dripping from his hair. Why didn't you watch him? He'd said he would. God knows, he'd meant to. Pierre was the longed-for second son of his parents' middle age, so much younger than his adored older brother. Aramis had only looked away for a moment, that day by the river, as he practiced his swordsmanship to an admiring audience of farm girls while his brother splashed in the shallows. A moment was all it had taken.

His parents had never recovered. They hadn't blamed him for Pierre's death, after that first incredulous outburst; he'd done that for them. Not long afterwards, he'd set out for the capital to enter the seminary, where he'd stayed until he'd left to join the Musketeers. His skill with the sword had cost his brother's life; in the end, he'd redeemed it in service to the crown, to something greater than himself and his miserable memories. That road had led him in the end to another set of brothers. To this cell, this night. He stared with eyes suddenly gritty at the young man in front of him. "Why do you hate Philippe so? He'd done nothing to you."

"My father always said a king without brothers was a fortunate man. No danger of an early death, at least not from that. He used to tell me about the wars brothers fought for the same crown." Aramis tried to imagine how it had been for the child, the old king filling his head with horror stories of fratricide. He wondered suddenly: had Louis XIII known all along that the twins weren't his? Subtle revenge on their mother, perhaps, to drive her children apart even without their knowledge, or hers. It would be just like him to gloat in silence. Louis went on, "I didn't know I had a brother then. And when I found out ... And my mother, I thought if she knew, she'd ..." He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was vicious. "Well, I was right about that. One look at the whimpering fool and she took his part."

Any incipient sympathy was stifled at birth. Aramis wanted to strike him. He shifted suddenly, savagely in his chair. Louis laughed contemptuously and went on, "You've got him right where you want him, haven't you! You can always threaten to replace him with me if he doesn't toe the line." His voice grew persuasive. "You know I'd work with you?"

Aramis blinked. Philippe's own thoughts; now his brother too. How could both twins misjudge him so? "You're here for life, Louis. Till the end of it; we don't kill our prisoners. Or our friends' sons."

"Hold your tongue, priest!" The sudden shout was like a whiplash. Louis jumped up and began to pace agitatedly, his path bringing him close to Aramis and then away again. "Why do you persist with that ridiculous story? The mere fact I'm alive proves it's a lie. My brother doesn't dare kill me because my blood's royal, like his. Otherwise I'd be dead already. You wouldn't stick at it, would you, you and the others?"

"I've told you already, we don't kill ..." He was wasting his breath.

Louis wasn't listening anyway. He stopped pacing and leaned back against the wall, resting his head against it, his voice sinking as if he were talking to himself. "I'm right, though, I know I am. That's why you're keeping me alive. It has to be. I make a handy stick to beat my brother with, while you make him feed the people. Grateful people support the church, don't they. Jesuit self-interest to the core. And meanwhile," he swung back to Aramis, frustration sharpening his tone, "my army lacks the food it needs to fight the Dutch."

"It's not your army any more, and your people are more important than your wars." Exasperation made Aramis blunt. "D'Artagnan tried to tell you that; so did your ministers, but you wouldn't listen. You never do." He broke off momentarily, then continued more calmly, "And besides, the war is over. We've signed a treaty with the Dutch."

Louis stiffened in shock. He stared at Aramis in disbelief. "A treaty? On what terms?"

"That needn't concern you. Suffice it to say everyone's happy." Except for those who won't be coming back.

"Damn you!" Louis screamed. He started towards Aramis, then checked himself; the results of his last attack hadn't been pleasant. "Damn you! France's glory lost, the chance to expand gone ... you know nothing of what's good for France, nothing!" His hands clenched and unclenched convulsively.

"Your people are content, though," Aramis observed. "They have full stomachs again." They aren't real to him, he thought suddenly; nobody outside himself is real to him. He couldn't dismiss them so lightly if they were. A sudden wave of relief engulfed him; they'd been right to topple this king.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face, for Louis said with real passion, "You think you've solved it all, don't you. But you're wrong. You'll see. France will become the laughing stock of Europe."

"Possibly," Aramis said mildly. "But I doubt it. People want peace, not war, Only kings care about their glory." He put an ambiguous spin on the word.

"Hah!" Louis scoffed. "That's rich, coming from a churchman. And it's called diplomacy. Not that you'd know." He struck the chair away from the table in frustration; it clattered on the stone floor. Louis kicked it savagely against the wall. Outside, Porthos shouted a question. Aramis went to the hatch in the door to let him see he was safe.

He turned back to Louis with an inward groan. His head was beginning to ache with a dull pounding throb. No ordinary penance, this; more like a hairshirt. Scourging himself would have been easier. But he'd tried that already, years ago; it hadn't helped. Why had he thought this might work? For a moment they stared at each other in silence.

Aramis was suddenly sick of Louis. He'd been a fool to think he could bridge the gulf. If there was anything worth saving under the erstwhile brocade and glitter, he wouldn't be seeing it today. Disgust and a sense of shame at his own failure made him cruel. "But you'll never know what happens, will you," he said, rising to leave. "Locked up in here, where you can't do any more harm. Try to learn some humility. Look on this as a chance for spiritual growth." The words sounded hollow even to him.

For a moment he thought Louis would choke. "Growth? You call this growth? This ... this ... burial?" He stood rigid, hate radiating from him.

"It's no more than you deserve. Use it to find what you're made of. All you have here is yourself."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one in prison."

New guilt cuts as deep as old; Aramis had no answer. He stalked to the door and unlocked it. Outside he heard the jingle of Porthos' spurs as he approached. He turned to look at Louis, standing silent now in the center of the cell. "I'll leave the books. Do you want anything else?" Your freedom. Your life back. My head.

"What?"

"I said, do you want anything? Is there anything you need?"

For a moment, Aramis thought there'd be no answer. Then Louis muttered half to himself, "More water. To wash."

"All right. I'll see to it." Aramis made a mental note to speak to the governor on the way out. "Anything else?"

Louis thought for a moment. "A violin," he said unexpectedly. He couldn't quite hide the edge of hope in his voice. He was a fine musician. All the courtiers had said so; it was even true. Philippe shared the talent; before his imprisonment he'd played often for the old nurse and the priest. Till Louis had put an end to that.

Aramis looked at him in surprise. Music. Could that be his ally? D'Artagnan could make a violin sing, he thought, ambushed by the memory of warm nights of companionship when the four of them sat drinking ale together in their off-duty hours. One minute he'd have their feet tapping with a lusty jig; the next they'd be all but unmanned by the unbearable sweetness of some plaintive folk lament. He'd encouraged Athos' first clumsy efforts to learn to play as they sat around the table in his rooms. Athos had persevered, slowly at first, gradually building up some sort of skill, though he was never as good as D'Artagnan. Now he couldn't bear the sight of a violin.

D'Artagnan had surprised them, though, suddenly giving up playing eight or nine years ago pleading pressure of work. In hindsight, Aramis thought he knew why: Louis himself had begun to show evidence of unusual talent on the instrument around that time. His father, always afraid a resemblance of any sort might be remarked, had given up the music he loved.

Louis was watching him, waiting for his answer. Aramis shook his head reluctantly. "No," he said flatly. "Too much like a weapon. You'd use the bow to stab the keeper. I'm sorry."

Louis bit his lip in frustration. "Well, a flute's no good to me like this, is it," he snapped. Aramis shrugged and turned to leave. But Louis couldn't bring himself to let him go without one final question. Voice thick with humiliation, he asked, "Will you be back?" An ugly flush stained his neck. He clearly badly needed to know the answer.

Aramis swung the heavy door open. He was almost outside before he turned and said slowly, "Oh, I'll be back. One day." He locked the cell door behind him and walked away with Porthos down the corridor. Behind him, Louis' eyes closed briefly in relief even as he sank into a chair in despair.

* * *

Two days later, François de Pons stood scowling down from a window of the long palace gallery at the scene in the courtyard below. He picked irritably at a loose thread on his fine velvet doublet, chafing at his enforced inactivity.

"Here they come now," muttered the young man beside him. Gervaise d'Adespan looked little happier than his companion. "We should be down there with them." He glanced sideways at François. Once always at Louis' side, they'd found themselves virtually excluded from the royal presence in the aftermath of the ball, when the king had let it be known he wished to enter upon a period of spiritual retreat.

Today the king was making a rare public appearance in honor of his mother's birthday. They would ride along the top of the old city ramparts beside the Seine, enjoying the autumn foliage in the trees. François and Gervaise had hoped to be included in the party, but no invitation had been forthcoming. Save only when they were alone, as now, they nursed their pique in silence, bending in deep bows as the king and his retinue infrequently passed along the corridors and galleries of the palace. François still smarted as he remembered the short shrift he'd received from the old Musketeer, Athos, on the one occasion he'd tried to accost the king as he passed.

"The king looks somewhat better," he murmured now. Below them, the royal party was descending the great staircase to the courtyard. The king paused a moment on the landing, surrounded by chattering courtiers. Among them, François noticed, was Alain de Montelon, one of the new valets de chambre appointed by the king; François no longer enjoyed his former privileged access to Louis. He'd been obliged to endure the gibes of his friends, only half disguised as jokes; there'd been a certain gloating satisfaction over his loss of position. He'd laughed the whole thing off, hinting darkly at secrets behind the change, but it rankled. None of those appointed had come from Louis' old group of friends. Alain de Montelon was the son of the king's physician. Always pleasant and respectful, he'd nevertheless made no secret of his lack of interest in the gaming and drinking which occupied the greater part of their time.

Gervaise peered down at the king. "You're right, he does. For a while there he seemed to waste away a bit." On the few occasions the king had appeared in public, he'd seemed thinner and paler than before. "But he's ... more distant somehow. Always so formal and polite." Gervaise knew the bite of Louis' sarcasm too well not to be struck by this change.

François sighed impatiently. "Surely he's done penance enough by now. I never did know what he was so worried about, anyway." The mistress had been a nuisance, absorbing too much of Louis' attention, while D'Artagnan ... François had looked forward to a free hand with Louis without D'Artagnan's restraining presence. Instead, he'd been relegated to the sidelines. The influence Aramis and André had promised on the night of the ball had never materialized. He held it against them, as they'd known he would. Unknown to François, they'd kept a careful eye on him ever since.

"Look, there!" Gervaise had hold of his sleeve. He pointed down at the crowd. "The priest! I knew he'd be here somewhere." A tall, distinguished man, his black cassock in stark contrast to the finery around him, moved closer to the king and murmured something in his ear. The king inclined his head and took his mother's arm, guiding her down the rest of the stairs. Gervaise looked after the little group curiously. "Our prelate's broken nose is healing straight, it seems. His precious looks won't suffer after all. I didn't hear what happened, did you?"

"Well, it wasn't a jealous husband for once," François sniped. Since Louis' puzzling change of heart, Aramis was almost constantly at his side. Pushing the Jesuit cause, no doubt. François wasn't normally given to sharing information, but now malice prompted him to say, "He got it in prison. Visiting the Bastille, or so I heard. No doubt some prisoner didn't care for his attentions." The spy he'd set to watching Aramis had reported his return from the prison with a bloody nose and a temper to match. The king's own physician had been called to set the break. Few were so favored.

"The Bastille!" The eager curiosity in Gervaise's tone made François wish he hadn't spoken. "I'd have thought that'd be the last place he'd want to visit. It's where D'Artagnan died, after all." Even the young bloods of the court knew the legend of the four inseparables.

François changed the subject deftly. "Where are the others?" He leaned far out across the sill, scanning the crowd for Athos and Porthos, but found no sign of either. "They must be here somewhere, they always are ..." The king had inexplicably elevated them, along with Aramis, to membership of his royal council. François couldn't understand it. Resentment kept him awake nights.

A sudden crescendo in the noise from the crowd signaled the arrival of the horses. The two men craned their necks to see. The Master of Horse was leading forward Pollux, a white Andalusian ridden only by Louis. The king hadn't ridden since the night of the ball. He stepped forward and raised a gloved hand to stroke the horse's nose before mounting.

"Something's wrong!" Gervaise gasped. The horse wasn't leaning into the caress as it usually did; instead it snorted and shied away, ears flattening against its head. An errant hoof caught the gown of a young woman standing nearby, ripping it from waist to hem. At her scream, the horse reared in panic, tearing the leading rein from the Master's hands. François saw Porthos appear suddenly from behind a pillar and lead the woman away to the safety of the stairs.

A buzz of astonishment rose from the courtiers. The king once more attempted to approach, but the horse showed the whites of its eyes; it quickstepped sideways, almost trampling the two young grooms standing on its other side. De Montelon grabbed for the leading rein and brought the terrified animal under control before it could push further into the crowd. The king spoke quickly to the Master of Horse who took the rein and began to lead the horse away, motioning to the grooms to bring forward another. Within minutes, the king and his mother had mounted and moved off out through the gates with their attendants.

"Did you see that?" Gervaise was open-mouthed.

"Yes." François turned slowly from the window embrasure. He needed to think, alone. "He hasn't ridden for a while. That's probably why." The horse, a gift from the king of Spain, was notoriously temperamental. It had taken Louis weeks of patient training to master it. He'd spent part of each morning in the stables with the horse and its Spanish groom, and in the end he'd made it his own. Until today.

"But still ... it hardly seemed to know him. I thought he said it was his for life." Louis had been proud of imposing his will on the horse; he hadn't cared who'd known it.

"An off day, that's all. Horses have them too." A sudden commotion at the far edge of the courtyard made François turn again to the window. A rider, exhausted, dismounting unsteadily from a lathered horse. François' heart leaped as he recognized the livery. The rider unbuckled his saddlebags, refusing all offers of help, and started off across the courtyard in the direction of François' rooms. Behind him, grooms sprang to lead the almost foundered horse away to the stables.

François swung away from the window and hastily straightened his doublet. "I'll see you at the gaming table tonight, Gervaise," he said to his startled companion. Not waiting for a reply, he headed off down the gallery to his rooms. They'd been waiting impatiently for weeks for this messenger, he and the king. Now, at last, Louis would surely snap out of whatever trance he was in. François' exile was over. His heart exulted at the thought.

"The messenger has arrived, Sire." François could hardly suppress an expectant smirk. He'd requested an urgent private interview, confident the king would know why.

"The messenger?" The king stared at him. François felt a tinge of unease. Should he take it upon himself to break the lengthening silence? With Louis, it was hard to know. "From Spain, Your Majesty..."

Still no flicker of response in the gray eyes. "I sent no messenger."

François blinked. Of course he'd sent no messenger. He'd sent a spy instead, unknown to the French diplomats also in Spain negotiating his marriage, to ferret out information about his prospective in-laws. Louis was taking no chances. His marriage to the Spanish king's daughter almost certainly ensured France's safety from any hostile move on his father-in-law's part to trap her between Spain and the Spanish Netherlands. But alliances could weaken; princesses could die. Whatever nasty secrets the spy could unearth might prove valuable in any future power struggle. Louis wouldn't shrink from blackmail.

The messenger brought word that the spy, his identity unknown even to François, was on his way to a secret meeting prearranged with the king. He'd arrive late the next night, to stay only a few hours before returning posthaste to Spain. The king alone possessed the map showing the location of the meeting house. All François knew was that it was somewhere within the capital, not too far away, so that Louis could slip out of the palace under cover of darkness and be back well before dawn. The king should have been excited at the news. Instead, he seemed not to know or care.

François tried again. Louis was probably in one of his famous sulks, upset by the public embarrassment with the horse that morning. "The messenger from your spy in Spain, Sire. The ... er ... the special messenger."

"Oh!" He'd finally gotten through. The king's head came up and color mounted in his cheeks. He looked at François closely for the first time since he'd entered the room. But still he said nothing.

"He brings you this dispatch, Sire." François indicated the travel-stained satchel he held in his hand. The king glanced at it and back at François.

"Leave it with me. I'll attend to it."

François hid his disappointment. "Will you see the messenger, Sire?"

"No. Have him fed and let him rest." The messenger would need no urging. He'd ridden for days, spurring each exhausted post-horse on to the next inn where he'd stopped only for a quick drink and a hasty meal, eaten standing up as he waited for a fresh horse. He'd snatched no more than a few hours sleep a night, terrified that his master, no more than a day behind him, would overtake him on the road and find the king not informed of his impending arrival.

François handed over the satchel. He'd sneaked a look at the letter inside before he brought it to the king; it wasn't even sealed. It said only that the spy would be at the agreed rendezvous, nothing more. Nothing to indicate where that rendezvous might be. Louis was too keen to avoid discovery for that. Not even he could laugh off the scandal if this were made public.

The king placed the dispatch inside a drawer in a white and gold desk and turned to face François, his face inscrutable. "Thank you, François. And now I really mustn't keep you longer from your dinner. Goodnight." A group of servants began to file in, bearing fragrant dishes of food. The king had always liked to eat alone when in his private apartments; not any more, it seemed, from the four settings on the table.

"But Sire ..." François opened his mouth to protest, but the king was looking at him with that imperturbable politeness which marked all his doings of late. Bowing low, François left the room, his thoughts chaotic. He stormed through the palace corridors, leaving passing servants and groups of courtiers staring after him, until he reached his rooms. Entering, he banged the doors behind him and leaned back against them for a moment. When he was once more in command of himself, he called for wine, dismissed his manservant and slumped down in a chair, toying moodily with his goblet.

This was the last straw. No penance could explain it. Louis prided himself on the covert side of his diplomatic missions. He used the information his spies brought to control France's foreign relations in more ways than one. It had been a passion not even Christine could distract him from, François thought. Yet since the night of her death ....

The change in the king, the waning of François' own influence, seemed to date from that night. Aramis and Lieutenant André had told him of an attempt to substitute a traitorous Huguenot brother for the king, the ultimate aim the overthrow of the true Church in France. D'Artagnan and the others had forestalled the plot, at the cost of D'Artagnan's own life. The shock of that loss had driven the king to change his ways.

Or so it was said. François had wondered about it, though. He'd seen a scar that night on the king's back as he prepared for bed, an old one; he was almost sure it hadn't been there before. He hadn't really believed in the king's religious conversion. Louis was much too self-centered to be so easily shaken by the deaths of his favorites, even if it had temporarily depressed him. And then this morning, his favorite horse hadn't seemed to know him.

All at once, doubt began to crystallize into certainty. The other things might be explained away, but not the horse. Animals knew. The horse hadn't recognized the king because ... maybe it wasn't the king at all. And that would explain why "Louis" hadn't reacted to the messenger's arrival. He didn't know what it meant.

François sat hardly breathing as the idea took root in his mind. What if Aramis' story had been a lie? Or at best, a half-truth, the kind the Jesuits specialised in? What if the plot hadn't failed at all? That would explain everything. The king's coldness, his lack of knowledge, the horse's fright at the man with the same face but a different smell. A host of little things that had confused François in the last few weeks suddenly made frightening sense.

His eyes narrowing, he considered his next move. The consequences of action didn't bear thinking about, if he were wrong. But if he were right ... He had to find out for sure, without danger to himself. But how? The priest and his friends had the king, or whoever was passing for him, hemmed in. It would have to be some other way.

François thought for a moment, staring into his wine. His spy among the Musketeers ... that was the place to start. The man had said something the night of D'Artagnan's death about seeing a man in an iron mask, who'd been shut away in the Bastille. The prison ...

Sudden excitement jerked him upright. Aramis had returned from the Bastille just days ago with a broken nose. Did that mean anything? Perhaps not. But it was the best lead he had. He sat a few moments longer, turning over a plan in his mind. Then he rose decisively, threw on a cloak against the chill evening air and left his rooms. Outside, he turned in the direction of the barracks, more spring in his step than had been there for weeks.

* * *

The strains of the usual after-dinner concert began to filter in from a nearby salon as Aramis closed the door behind the last of the servants. Philippe sat hunched at the table, hands cradling his temples, studying the letter before him as if willing it to give up its secret. Athos paced nearby, his brow furrowed. Aramis sat down again beside Philippe; dark head and fair head bent over the document together.

At length Philippe roused himself. He stretched and cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. "It's no use. It gives no clue where the meeting place is. I thought there might be some kind of code hidden in it." He'd spent many of the endless hours in prison playing games with words and numbers; if anyone could break a code, it was probably him. But the letter meant just what it said. The spy would be at the rendezvous at midnight tomorrow. Expecting Louis. He'd wait until dawn. Philippe groaned. "If the king isn't there, he'll want to know why. Maybe he'll even come to find out ..." His face was somber in the candlelight as his eye fell on Athos. He wasn't the only one who'd suffer if they were discovered. His friends, his mother ... the muscles in his neck tightened at the thought.

The door opened. Aramis looked up in sudden hope as Porthos entered, his weathered face grave. But Porthos shook his head silently, and Aramis slumped back in his chair. "The Queen didn't know?"

"No. If Louis told anyone, it wasn't his mother."

It had been a vain hope, but the only one they'd had. Aramis clicked his tongue impatiently as he considered their options. Option, really. He stared unseeingly for a long moment at the portrait on the opposite wall. Then he heaved a sigh and turned resolutely to the others, already steeling himself for their reaction. "There's only one thing we can do, then. I'll have to ask Louis."

Nobody spoke. Would that name on his lips always produce this effect? Aramis wondered wryly. Then Athos stopped pacing long enough to growl, "Is that your best idea?"

"Do you have a better one?"

Athos shrugged and shook his head. "He'll spit in your face. You know that."

"Maybe." Aramis' voice took on a musing tone they knew well. It usually meant he'd had an idea. Whether they'd like it or not was another matter. "But if we offer him something, some improvement in how he lives ... it might work. It's worth a try, at least. And it's all we have."

"I know that look in your eye," Porthos said, alarmed. "You're planning again, aren't you! What are you thinking, Aramis?" Philippe sat silent, toying with the letter, waiting to hear what came next. His eyes never wavered from Aramis' face. Aramis could only guess at what was going through his mind. Whatever it was, it kept his spine rigid.

"I don't know yet," he said absently to Porthos. "But I'll think of something. I always do." He reached out suddenly and took Philippe's unresisting hand. It was ice cold. "Philippe ... will you trust me? And back up anything I promise?"

Philippe looked at him soberly. "I have no choice, do I. Promise him what you like. Anything but his freedom."

"Then let me go to him now." Philippe nodded slowly. He reached for quill and paper and wrote a short note which he rolled up and gave to Aramis, with a sideways nod to Porthos. Even now, Aramis thought, he doesn't trust me to go alone. Maybe especially now.

He was on his feet and heading for the door before the others could react. Athos grabbed at his shoulder as he passed, but Aramis was too quick for him. Porthos snatched up his hat and followed hastily. "Aramis, wait!" Athos shouted.

But Aramis was gone.

Aramis' stride faltered as he passed the chapel. The urgency which had propelled him forward at almost a run faded momentarily. He slowed and turned towards the doors.

"Where are you going?" Porthos puffed. "Aren't we going to the prison?" Events were unfolding faster than he liked.

Aramis smiled and clapped him on the arm with a nod at the chapel doors. "Ten minutes, Porthos, that's all I need. Come for me in ten minutes."

"You're going to pray?" Porthos crossed himself quickly. "God knows we need it tonight. I'd come with you, but you have more influence. Make it a good one, eh?" He headed off in the direction of his rooms to collect his cloak and his sword. Aramis slipped into the chapel, deserted at this time of day, and closed the door behind him. The echoing silence enfolded him in its familiar embrace as he sank to his knees before the altar rail and gave himself up to prayer.

A few minutes later, a rustle of clothing told him he was no longer alone. He knew who it was without looking, had expected him sooner. Opening his eyes, he looked up at the altar and crossed himself. Then he rose stiffly from his knees and turned to look behind him.

Athos sat in the first row of seats, head bent but eyes open, staring at the toes of his worn leather boots. Aramis walked back and sat beside him, fixing his eyes on the altar. They sat a few moments in silence. Then Athos said quietly, "He'll never tell you. You're wasting your time."

"Maybe. But I'm going to try." Aramis turned to look at his friend.

"There are other ways." Athos kept his head down, addressing his boots. Aramis had to strain to catch the words. His eyes widened.

"You know you don't mean that." He couldn't quite keep the repugnance from his voice. Athos' face closed over. He jerked to his feet and stood gazing restlessly about him at the banners hanging from the chapel walls, avoiding Aramis' eyes. His mouth set stubbornly. Aramis' heart sank; he knew that look.

"If it's the only way ..." Athos persisted. Something about the leaden way he said it worried Aramis. There wasn't much Athos wouldn't do to keep Philippe safe.

He shook his head and said with a confidence he was far from feeling, "We don't torture prisoners. No matter who they are." He hardly needed to say it; the idea went against all they believed in. "And Philippe would never allow it." The best card of all.

But Athos was ahead of him. As if the words were wrung from him, he said, "You wouldn't have to do it. You could just say you were going to. Mention the rack, show him the thumbscrews. Make him think you'd do it. And," with a defiant glance at Aramis, "Philippe would never have to know." He flung himself back on his seat, his face taut.

"No." Aramis took Athos' hand and squeezed it briefly. Athos didn't look at him. Instead, he returned to contemplating his boots. "No," Aramis said again, firmly. "I know what guilt can do. So do you. It eats you up in the end. Believe me, you don't want to travel that road again."

Athos closed his eyes on a long exhalation of breath. He sat unmoving for a few moments as if gathering strength. Then he mopped at the sweat on his brow. His eyes snapped open, no longer dull. He shot a quick shamefaced glance at Aramis. His tone took on new energy. "Then what about the papacy?" he asked abruptly. "Can you use that?"

"What?" Aramis blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change.

"He offered you a chance at the papacy. Tell him you'll take it."

"WHAT?!!" From anyone else, the words would have made sense. Not from Athos.

"Tell him you've changed your mind. You can do it. You lie like a whore when you want to." Aramis blinked. It was true; he just hadn't heard it put so bluntly before. "Then tell him you want the location as a token of good faith before you let him out."

Aramis gazed reflectively at the altar. "You think he'd believe that for a minute?" But he was tempted; he loved a challenge. Then his eyes focused on the cross shining dully in the candlelight and he remembered why he'd gone back to Louis' cell in the first place. That was challenge enough. Athos was watching him closely. Reluctantly, Aramis turned to him. "No. I can't do it." Because to trick him is to lose him forever. And with him part of myself. "He'd never trust me again." And any chance he had to hold faith with D'Artagnan would be gone.

"So what?" Athos' voice was raw with hatred. Cloaked most of the time by indifference, but consuming him just the same. For all Athos cared, Louis could die alone, preferably after a long and miserable life.

Aramis whispered, "Please ... just trust me." For the sake of our friendship. It was so hard to talk to Athos now. Since Raoul's death, something had died within Athos too. Aramis could only guess at his pain. His heart cried out to offer comfort, but there was no way around this. The lines on his face grew deeper. "I know you don't understand."

"You're right. I don't. Do good to them that hate you?" Athos gave a harsh bark that might have passed for laughter. "Much good he did to us. An eye for an eye sounds better to me." He looked intently into Aramis' face. "Why won't you do this? For me? For Philippe?"

Aramis drew a painful breath. "I'd chop Louis into little pieces before I'd let him hurt Philippe again. But I have to try the other way first. It's not enough to talk to him about what honor is; I have to show him too. For his father's sake. It's the only way to salvage whatever of D'Artagnan is in him." Aramis willed Athos to accept it.

A sound behind them. They turned to see Porthos, his own and Aramis' cloaks over his arm, swing open the chapel doors. He hesitated at the sight of their faces, then walked uncertainly towards them. An acolyte bearing fresh candles for the altar entered with him, inclining his head silently in their direction as he disappeared into the shadows at the side of the chapel. Athos nodded somberly at Aramis. "Forgive me. You're an honorable man." He clasped Aramis' hand roughly. Then he turned to speak to Porthos, leaving Aramis to collect himself as best he could. Aramis tried to put his fears from him by busying himself with action. Within minutes, he and Porthos had left the chapel on their way to the prison.

Athos stood gazing after his friends. He did understand, dimly, what was driving Aramis. He'd watched in silent pain the last six years as Aramis excoriated himself, not knowing why, powerless to help. Only at the chateau had he understood.

He'd tried to put aside his own feelings; he owed at least that to Aramis. But his misgivings would not be stifled. Louis was a creature of guile. He'd already tried to kill Aramis once. Aramis was no innocent himself; he'd ordinarily be more than a match for Louis. Athos cursed softly to himself. He feared Aramis wasn't seeing as clearly as he might in his present state. The guilt he felt not just over Philippe but over D'Artagnan's death might well lead him to offer misguided concessions. Athos made up his mind to see that it didn't.

* * *

The ten o'clock patrol was just finishing as Aramis and Porthos entered the prison. Governor de la Porte had been called away from a late supper. His mouth shone with residual grease, despite a hasty dab with a napkin.

"Father! I wasn't expecting you again so soon."

Aramis held out his writ in silence. The governor fumbled for his spectacles and inspected the paper closely; instinct told him not to skip the formalities. He raised his eyebrows at the flagon of wine Porthos carried, but tonight's instructions permitted its entry. The search punctiliously concluded, he handed over the keys and sent them on their way.

The prison looked different at night, even more forbidding. Aramis hadn't been there after dark since the night that ... Porthos felt it too, he saw; his uncharacteristic silence spoke louder than words. Aramis reached out and squeezed his companion's arm hard as they approached the cell.

Louis, roused from sleep, started up from the bed in the corner as Aramis entered. The mask gleamed dully in the flickering light of the lantern; his eyes reflected the flame. He swung his feet to the floor and staggered up, back to the wall. Aramis set the lantern on the table and gestured to one of the cell's two chairs.

Louis didn't move. "Why are you back at night?" Fear made his voice unsteady.

Aramis put down the wine. "Relax, you're in no danger. Besides, I have no weapons. I've come to ask you something, that's all." He took two cups from a pouch at his belt and poured a measure of wine into each.

Louis sat down at the table, arms propped up on elbows, eyeing the wine suspiciously. "At this hour? It must be something urgent." His eyes gleamed with a sudden unholy joy and he said before he could stop himself, "And I know what it is."

"Suppose you tell me, then." Aramis took a sip of his wine and pushed the other cup towards Louis. Louis pushed it back at him and stared defiantly until Aramis, not troubling to hide his amusement, held out his own cup and took the other. Louis took a cautious sip. It was better than anything he'd tasted since the night of the ball, Aramis had seen to that. Stronger, too. Aramis waited, one eyebrow cocked inquiringly.

Caution warred with triumph on Louis' face; triumph won. "A messenger's arrived. A messenger from Spain. I knew you'd need me sooner or later." He stopped abruptly; the need to crow had been too great. Aramis almost wished he could deny the messenger, to make Louis think he'd given away an advantage. He chided himself for his pettiness; anyway, he didn't have time. He nodded and poured more wine.

"You knew this would happen, then. You've been waiting for it, I suppose." Giving Louis no time to answer, he went on. "We need to know where the meeting is to be, and only you can tell us. I've come to ask you for the location."

Louis spluttered into his cup. "Give it to you? You come in the night with wine and ask me to give it to you? Did you think you'd get me drunk?" Words almost failed him. "Why should I help you?"

The inevitable question. Aramis had practiced many answers; he still didn't have a good one. Now that the moment had come, he wavered momentarily. They didn't have much time. Was Athos right? The threat of torture, if not the reality, might indeed loosen Louis' tongue more rapidly than any other approach. How far would Louis retreat before it, he wondered? All the way, probably; and then a little more. He'd proved surprisingly resilient so far, but he was bound to be terrified of physical violence, as who in his situation wouldn't be? Aramis found the idea surprisingly seductive, despite the clamor of his conscience. Pragmatism or principle? He hadn't always put principle first ...

Not this time. Not ever again, if he could help it. Louis was looking at him expectantly. Pushing the thought of torture from him, he squinted across the lantern at Louis and said quietly, "Because it's the right thing to do. The honorable thing." He stopped suddenly. Louis was laughing, almost silent chuckles which escalated quickly to an uncontrollable spasm of mirth. The sound echoed eerily in the shadows of the cell.

Aramis waited. Louis had himself back under control within moments, though his shoulders quivered still with the effort of holding back the laughter. He wiped a finger across the eye slits of the mask. But when he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard. "You speak to me of honor?"

"Yes," Aramis said simply. He made his voice low, persuasive. Years as a priest had taught him how. "Not telling me would satisfy your personal malice. And nothing might come of it. Your spy might just come to the Louvre if you didn't turn up; Philippe could handle that. But if things went wrong and we were exposed, France would be torn apart. Your mother would be hounded from the country, as your grandmother was after her trouble with Richelieu. You'd have your satisfaction, but it wouldn't do you any good. All those who know where you are would die with the secret." He studied his hands. "We'd offer you something in return, of course. A cell in one of the towers, a window." At the top of the highest tower, facing inwards. "You could have that violin. We might even dispense with the mask in time." He glanced up.

Louis weighed this up in silence, no hint of what he was thinking showing in his face. At last he pushed back his chair and stood up. He said bitterly, "Surely you can do better than that. All you want is the location. Once you have it, you'll leave me to rot. And if I don't give it to you," sullenly, "you'll be back to torture me till I do. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No," Aramis said coolly. "Far from it." Louis was intelligent, a worthy opponent in some ways. If the stakes hadn't been so high, Aramis would almost have enjoyed the war of nerves. Gambling was a vice they shared; Louis was known for his luck at the tables. King's luck, perhaps; few dared let him lose. But things were different tonight. Aramis held the upper hand.

Louis knew it too, and Aramis could see it made him nervous. He had little to gain, and feared what he might lose, if he withheld the information. He didn't mention torture again. Instead he sat down and eyed Aramis suspiciously. "And if I told you, what then? What guarantee would I have that I'd ever see you again? Let alone any of these 'improvements' you talk of?"

"You'd have to trust me, wouldn't you." Aramis held his gaze for a moment. Then he rose and began to pull on his gloves. Time to leave while he held the advantage.

Louis stared at him, taken aback. "You're leaving?" He'd clearly hoped to prolong the argument. Talking kept the silence at bay.

"I'll be back tomorrow night for your answer." Aramis eased the smooth leather more snugly over his fingers. "It's a question of trust in the end. We each have something the other wants. I have to trust you. And you, God help you, have to trust me. Think about it." With a nod, he strode briskly to the door.

Then he was gone, leaving Louis staring narrow-eyed after him in the dark.

* * *

Late afternoon shadows slanted across the prison walls the following afternoon as two men sat in the governor's quarters. One sat negligently at his ease; the other struggled with his conscience.

Governor de la Porte swallowed hard. The pouch held out towards him held a small fortune in jewels. And he had bills to pay, too many bills. A man of his station had to keep up appearances. His tailor alone ... He was paid a stipend for each prisoner in the Bastille, but he had trouble making ends meet. Sometimes he'd siphoned off money for his own use and fed the prisoners less. The prospect of easy money clearly tempted him now, but to take it could mean death if he were found out. This was no ordinary prisoner.

"I know you're worried," François drawled. "And rightly so. His Majesty's orders permit no visits, I'm sure." He put the pouch on the table between them and leaned forward confidentially. "But I don't ask to visit. Nor do I ask for information. I ask only that he receive this note. No-one will ever know." He took a folded paper sealed with wax from his doublet.

The governor licked dry lips. His eyes darted from François to the pouch. At length he came to a decision. He reached out and snatched the pouch from the table. Secreting it hastily in a pocket, he rang for an underling, who appeared within seconds. "Go and get Gomerz, and be quick about it." The man departed at a run.

"Good." François' voice was silky. "I'm glad you decided to cooperate. Otherwise I might have had to mention your little ... shall we say, indiscretion with the prison finances to the royal council." The governor started violently. François smiled benevolently and went on. "But if this prisoner is ... as I suspect, you'll be well rewarded in the end. None of the others must know. Not the priest, not Captain André." The governor nodded; he needed no warning. He fidgeted in awkward silence as they waited.

A few minutes later, the door opened and the keeper came in. François barely managed to suppress a recoil. The man was huge, twice his own size. A deaf-mute, the governor had said. The keeper kept his face averted after a first rapid glance at François, but the flicker of weary intelligence in his eyes gave François pause.

"You're sure he's safe?" Can he read what I give him to carry?

The governor divined his thought. "You don't have to worry about him, sir. He can't read or write. Used to shovel out the stables till we set him to guarding this prisoner. The king's orders." He paled a little at the last phrase.

Satisfied, François put down the note for a moment. He took off one elegant glove and slipped a ring off his finger, a fine emerald in a chased silver setting. Rolling up the note, he slipped it through the ring and held it out to the keeper. Gomerz looked at the governor inquiringly. De la Porte held out a ring of keys and jerked his head towards the door. With another sideways glance at François, Gomerz took the note, the ring and the keys and left the room. François could hear his heavy steps descending a stone staircase somewhere nearby. He settled back to wait.

Louis stiffened at the sound of the key in the lock. He'd made a run for the door on his first night in prison, and had paid a heavy price in bruises. Since then he'd kept a cautious distance. He needn't have bothered; Gomerz, locked in some private world of his own, had shown no further interest in his charge. He'd be bringing the evening meal now; he always did about this time.

But today the routine was broken. Gomerz banged down a tray as usual, then turned abruptly to Louis instead of leaving. Louis tensed. The man was holding out something he'd taken from the rough belt at his waist. A piece of paper, thrust through ... a ring? Louis' eyes widened. He snatched the ring from the keeper's hand and examined it. It was ... it couldn't be ... a fierce flame of exultation shot up within him. It was.

He'd last seen the ring on François' finger. He'd given it to François himself, five years ago, in recognition of some private service frowned upon by D'Artagnan but prized by Louis. François, in his usual extravagant manner, had bowed low and sworn never to remove it unless the king should require it. Louis had laughed; François was vain, his fingers bore an ever-changing cavalcade of rings. He'd expected to see his gift replaced eventually, after a period of dutiful ostentation. But it hadn't been. Whatever other rings had graced François' long, elegant fingers, he'd worn the emerald from that day forward. Now it gleamed in the flickering light from the lantern.

Louis unrolled the note with shaking hands. It read: "If you are who I think you are, send a sign with the keeper and help will soon be at hand." He swayed where he stood. The blood rushed in his ears. A great wave of relief washed over him, leaving him sick and trembling in its wake. He'd always known his brother wouldn't be able to carry it off. Not with François.

But what if it were a trap? The others might stick at killing him in cold blood; if he tried to escape, they'd have their excuse. Something like this ... it would be just like Aramis. Louis paused, the letter hanging forgotten in his hand. He sat down slowly, his thoughts darting this way and that.

If Aramis had the ring it could only mean François was ... not dead, not even they would dare to alienate his family, but in no position to help him. He scanned the paper again with hungry eyes. It bore the familiar whirls and loops of François' handwriting. A forgery? Perhaps. But if not ... A shock of indescribable longing took his breath away as he thought of all that could soon once again be his. Music. Light. Color. The sound of human voices. And revenge. Above all, revenge.

Automatically his hand sought a writing implement but found none. "Fool!" He spat at Gomerz. "You bring me nothing to write with?" Gomerz' eyes grew dangerous; deaf though he was, Louis' message had been clear enough. Louis looked away hastily. François must have assumed he'd have writing materials in his cell, but Aramis was much to clever to allow that. He looked about for something, anything, to scrawl a reply. The cell was swept clean, Gomerz saw to that - no pile of dirt in the corner to yield mud. No fire, no lump of charcoal. His own blood, perhaps? Only if all else failed.

His eye fell on the lamp. Its glass had not been cleaned for some time. It might just yield enough black ... He thrust his fingers in at the top, hissing at the pain as the flame licked at his skin. Once, twice around the inside yielded usefully black fingers. It would have to do. Carefully husbanding each precious trace of soot, he bent to the paper and began to trace a reply.

François started as the door opened. He turned from the governor's collection of miniatures as de la Porte came in with Gomerz. His heart beat faster, despite his outward calm; the next few moments might decide his future prospects.

Snatching the paper and the ring the keeper held out, he thrust them carelessly into his sash. Not in front of these yokels. From a pouch he took a coin and held it out to Gomerz, who took it and looked at the governor. De la Porte motioned him out of the room with a nod and waited till the door closed behind him before turning eagerly to François.

But François gave him no satisfaction. "If I may trespass on your kindness a little longer, Monsieur ... a moment alone ..."

The governor's face fell, but he carried off the rebuff with as much grace as he could muster. "You must take as long as you need, sir. I'll have some wine brought. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must see to my duties." He left the room reluctantly, shutting the door behind him with a half-resentful glance back at François.

François waited. Absently returning the ring to his finger, he looked carefully around the room, searching with practiced eyes for concealed spyholes. Satisfied there were none, he tore the note from his sash. A cursory glance showed a new row of black marks at the bottom. Carefully, he spread the paper out on the table and peered at it closely. Almost at once, he gasped and started back in his chair. For a few seconds he sat as if turned to stone. Then he thrust back the chair and reached for the candelabra standing on the sideboard, lit already against the autumn dusk. Placing it on the table for extra light, he stared once more at the paper.

He'd made no mistake. Below his own mannered handwriting, written in what appeared to be soot from a lamp, was the single word "Louis."

Sweating profusely, dizzy and sick, Gomerz steadied himself against the rough stone wall of the passage. A second time he'd been called back to the governor's rooms; a second time he'd been given a note to deliver. Gomerz shook his head and growled far down in his throat. Deep within him, a memory ruthlessly repressed, savage with agony and loss, was shaking itself awake.

He'd been a village schoolteacher. His wife Alys and her family had lived in the village for years; they came from over the border, not far away. He and Alys had met at the local abbey fair; they'd had eyes only for each other, and had married soon after. They'd been worried when the king declared war on her country, but the war had seemed far removed from the everyday concerns of their life. Despite the ever-nearing battlefront, they'd been idyllically happy until the day the soldiers came.

Gomerz jerked against the cold hard wall, oblivious of the pain from the graze, as he relived that day, that hour. The flames. Oh God, the flames. Where is she? He heard the guttural shouts of the soldiers dragging Alys away, her screams cut off abruptly by the crash of a cannon too close at hand. Then nothing; a pall of silence, the pain in his ears too great to bear. Behind him, their cottage, leveled by the cannon, burned fiercely. The baby had been asleep upstairs. The soldiers didn't care; they were the king's soldiers, rabble who'd been quartered in their village not far from the enemy border. Scum who'd defied their officers to make an example of the village school teacher who'd married ... a Dutch whore, they'd called her, his gentle Alys, whose only crime was to have been born on the other side of the border.

He'd come back to consciousness in the ruins of their house, his life shattered and his hearing gone. Alys and her family were dead. So was his baby son. The villagers turned against him, blaming him for the soldiers' destructive rampage through the streets after they'd burned his house. He'd wandered across the scarred countryside, not caring if he lived or died. A peasant family found him slumped against their hay stack one freezing night; only their kindness saved his life. For weeks he'd lain in a fever, his mind wandering, his life hanging in the balance. Later, on the mend, he'd been unable to hear or, it seemed, to speak. His hosts had asked him to stay, but the sight of their family life reminded him too much of what he'd lost. He'd wanted only to lose himself in anonymity, far from the scenes of his former happiness. The husband had taken him to the capital to look for work.

The prison stables had suited him. The husband had told them he was a deaf-mute. Nobody in Paris knew about his past; nobody had been curious. The grey blur of his days comforted him. To be thought an illiterate oaf, fit for nothing but menial work, grateful for the food it brought him ... that was all the part of him still capable of thought, the part that wouldn't let him slip away into the final darkness, had wanted. Other people left him alone, labeled him stupid, but he wasn't. He just didn't want to come out from the elemental place deep inside himself where he lived. It was less painful that way.

Then had come the order to tend this prisoner ... The prisoner. He slammed his fist against the wall. Traumatized as he was, Gomerz could still read and write. He'd been a schoolmaster, after all. From long-buried habit, he'd read the first note he'd delivered, and its one-word answer. The name had meant nothing to him, other than to stir a ripple of some dull insensate anger. Louis: the name of the king whose soldiers had killed his wife and child. He'd been sent again with a second note. No answer was expected this time; the condescending dandy who'd given it to him had left the governor's rooms at the same time Gomerz did, on his way out of the prison. He'd shown no more interest in Gomerz than in an insect. Gomerz had stopped in the first of the passages leading to the prisoner's cell. Holding up the lamp, he'd deciphered the scrawled message: "Hold fast, Sire. Help is on the way."

Sire. The word had jerked him back against the wall. Sire could mean only one thing. The king! But how could the king be the prisoner in the cell? Sire. Louis. Sire. Louis. The words coalesced in his mind. The screaming started up again in counterpoint. He clenched his fists and shook his head to keep the memories at bay. Then he entered the cell and held out the note to the prisoner.

Night had fallen as Governor de la Porte returned to his rooms and rang for his dinner. He turned a fork nervously between his fingers as he considered his position. Should he inform Aramis? If his own part in things came out, and the story of the missing money, he faced disgrace. But if the king were to hear of it some other way, disgrace might be the least of his worries. His head ached with the effort of deciding which way to jump.

Eventually he took a deep breath and nodded to himself. Reaching for a fresh piece of paper, he penned a hasty note. He sealed it with wax and called his servant. "Take this to the priest, Aramis, at the palace. Tell him it's urgent." The man bowed and hurried away. Relieved at having taken action, the governor sat back down and poured himself a draft of wine. He hoped he'd made the right decision.

Aramis took the note from the servant and retired to a window embrasure to read it. He started, then stood for a moment in thought, tapping the paper against his palm. Then he turned and hurried in the direction of the council chamber.

* * *

"De Pons knows about Louis," Aramis burst out. He'd waited with ill-concealed impatience while other council members completed their business with the king and bowed themselves out. Philippe had known something was wrong; he'd bade the others remain, and had also sent for André -- Captain of the Musketeers since D'Artagnan's death -- on the pretext of discussing security arrangements for the following week's court reception. It would be the first grand occasion he'd presided over, marking an end to his period of seclusion; they'll all agreed it was time.

"What?" Four voices spoke in unison.

Aramis brandished the note. "From Governor de la Porte. De Pons was there a couple of hours ago. He sent a note to the prisoner. Apparently he liked the reply."

"The devil he did! How did he find out?" André was on his feet at once, heading for the door. Aramis caught him by the arm as he drew level and turned him back with a jerk of his head.

Athos' face was pale, and his hands fidgeted restlessly about his belt for his missing sword, but the gaze he turned on Aramis was steady enough. "Our security was breached so easily, then? How came de la Porte to permit this?" Something in his tone boded ill for the governor. He rose and walked around the table to stand behind Philippe.

Aramis handed him the note. "De la Porte's been siphoning off prison money to pay his own expenses. De Pons found out and threatened to expose him." His stomach growled. Eight o'clock and he hadn't yet eaten. He was too keyed up to care.

"Blackmail." André snorted. "That's about his standard." André had no time for François; this confirmed his worst suspicions.

"It gets worse," Aramis continued. "De Pons is due back at the prison tonight at eleven. The governor's to let him in to see the prisoner and the keeper will lead them out through the sewers." His hearers contemplated this calamity in silence.

"What made the governor tell you?" Porthos asked finally. "He's put his own neck out too far."

Athos scanned the note. "He begs His Majesty's indulgence - says the threat to the king's security seemed to outweigh his own difficulty; asks that this be taken into account in his favor." He crushed the note in his fist suddenly and threw it on the table. Aramis prudently retrieved it and put it in a pocket in his cassock.

"We'll sort all that out later. The question is, how did de Pons find out?"

"He knew earlier today, I think," Philippe said slowly. He turned suddenly in his chair and looked up at Athos behind him. "He must have seen I didn't know anything about the messenger." He swung round again to face Aramis. "He probably followed you to the prison last night."

Aramis scowled. "That damned messenger." Could Louis even now bring them down? The thought was insupportable. Athos must have felt it too; he moved away from Philippe and began to pace the room silently.

"No." Philippe's voice was firm, though he clearly blamed himself for their danger. "The messenger was just the last clue. I think he's suspected from the start. He never did accept the penance story; he knows Louis too well for that. He's been waiting, I think, watching until he was sure. Then the messenger ... He probably knows the location himself, but he wanted to make sure I didn't before he moved."

"Oh, I doubt Louis would have trusted him with it," Aramis mused. "He always played things close to his chest. It wouldn't be like him to talk to anyone else, except perhaps D'Artagnan."

"I'm not so sure." André spoke up. "The king had other sources of information besides D'Artagnan. The day you tried to kill him," a nod in Athos' direction, "he talked to D'Artagnan that night. I was in the next room, with the door open; I heard it all. He knew the three of you had disappeared, even before D'Artagnan did. He had to have heard it from other sources and De Pons was probably one of them. They spent a lot of time together."

"If you're right," Athos said slowly, "then de Pons may actually know where the meeting's to be. If Louis won't tell us, we could get it from him. One way or the other."

"What do you mean, one way or the other?" Philippe twisted in his chair. He eyed Athos uneasily. Aramis tensed in anticipation of what was coming. He'd glimpsed the slippery slope himself too recently to condemn Athos' reasoning, but he didn't want to hear it all again. He opened his mouth to speak.

Too late. "Either we get it from him or we get rid of him. If he knows where Louis is, or even that Philippe isn't Louis, he's too dangerous to let live. I say we kill him now," Athos said bluntly. "And if we can get the location out of him first, so much the better." Porthos nodded approvingly.

To Aramis' relief, Philippe responded at once. "No!" he shook his head vehemently. "Too many people have died already. Just one more, then another, and another ... there'll always be some good excuse. Where do we stop? I don't want more blood on my hands." He stood and faced Athos. "There must be another way."

"'I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er'" Aramis murmured.

"What?" Porthos squinted at him. "I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

"It's from an English play. About a Scottish king. Just one murder, he thought, to take the throne. It didn't end there, though." Philippe looked at him and nodded.

"Hah!" Athos brushed the comment aside. He fixed his eyes insistently on Philippe's, as if willing him to agree. "English drama and fancy philosophy aside, de Pons is on to the secret. He'll try to get Louis out by himself, unless I miss my guess; won't say anything in case he has to share the glory. I still say we kill him. Or," he took a deep breath, "kill Louis. That way there'd be no proof." He ignored André's outraged exclamation.

"Athos, no!" Philippe whispered, his eyes sick. Athos' words hung ugly in the air. No matter that they sounded so reasonable. Kill the prisoner. Hide the evidence. "I know you'd ... no." His voice dropped away to nothing as he stared back at Athos, their eyes locked. André glanced at Philippe appraisingly and nodded, half to himself, as if to confirm a private impression. Then Philippe spoke again, his voice strengthening. "No. No!" It was his turn to take a deep breath. "I forbid it!" He said again, less stridently, "I forbid it."

The room was utterly silent. Aramis held his breath, waiting for Athos' reaction. Then Porthos spoke up loudly, oblivious of the sudden tension. "Well, why not? It'd solve a lot of problems. It's not as if ..." Just in time, he remembered André's presence. "What's the use of keeping him alive down there? Better to put him out of his misery, if you ask me." Nobody had. Nor did they reply. He peered around defensively, then subsided, frowning, with his glass of wine.

Athos dropped his eyes at last. But he wouldn't let it go. He turned and strode suddenly to lean over Aramis where he sat at the table. "Porthos has a point. Why not? Why should we keep him alive? Give me one good reason." The words, spoken to Aramis, were meant for Philippe.

"Because the king commands it," Aramis said softly but with steel in his voice. "And we obey the king." A heartbeat of silence. Another, and another. Then Athos drew back and nodded slowly. Aramis leaned back in his chair and looked up at Athos compassionately. "I know you want him dead. You have good reason." He laid a restraining hand on Athos' sleeve when Athos would have turned away. "And I know you'd do anything to keep Philippe safe. Oh, don't hide it," as Athos this time wrenched away, "I know. But if we go down that road ... We'll be no better than what we've replaced." He stood up suddenly, urgently, and took Athos by the shoulders. "You must see that."

Athos' reply was lost as André, white-faced, let his pent-up feelings spill over into words. "I can't listen to any more of this!" His eyes flashed. Not for the first time, Aramis wished he could harness the young captain's conscience more firmly to their cause. "I helped you because he killed D'Artagnan." André's voice faltered slightly at the memory. "And because I thought it was for the good of France. It has been. But the king ... but Louis has royal blood, just like Philippe. That's not just murder; it's worse treason than we've already committed. If you want to kill him, you'll have to fight me to do it."

"Calm yourself, Captain." They'd almost forgotten Philippe. It wouldn't do to underestimate him, Aramis realized with a sudden flash of surprised respect. "Nobody's going to kill my brother," with a meaningful glance at Athos, which yet managed to carry appeal, "nobody. We'll find a way out of this, I know we will. And in the meantime, Athos, I want you to stay away from the Chevalier." He softened the order with a faint smile.

Athos bowed stiffly. "As you command. Sire." Then he issued one last statement. "But remember this, Philippe: if de Pons puts you in danger and he comes under my hand, I'll bring him to you on his knees. Weeping and begging to be killed." The matter-of-fact way he said it chilled them all.

Philippe's eyes widened and he paled slightly. But he said nothing, only gestured at the table. Athos came stiffly back, not looking at Philippe, and sat down beside Aramis; André, mollified, resumed his seat beside Porthos. Only when they were all seated did Philippe move back to his own place. They began to discuss their next move as, outside, the fog began to rise from the river.

* * *

"Why's de la Porte going along with this? They'll know the king's gone the next time the priest visits."

François looked up from the ring on his finger. Seated across the table from him in his rooms was Guillaume de Retz, a Musketeer of several years standing. Always ready to believe himself slighted by his superiors and always living beyond his means, he'd been an informer in François' pay for several months now. "Because what I know about his little sideline would put him in a cell himself if he didn't. The prospect didn't seem to please him." He smiled at the memory of the governor's panic.

"Even so ... this is dangerous work. They won't let him go if they find out he helped."

François brushed this aside. "He'll be all right. Aramis visits once a week, and he's only just been." He knew nothing of Aramis' visit the night before; he'd pulled his spy off watching Aramis yesterday to keep a closer eye on the impostor king. "By the time he finds out, it'll be too late. The king will be back in power and the governor will have nothing to worry about. It's all under control." François leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, steepling his fingers across his lean belly. De Retz leaned back likewise and gazed at him with grudging admiration.

"You've thought of everything," he conceded. "His Majesty's going to be very grateful indeed." Loosening his blue tunic a little, he rubbed his shoulder pensively. His wound had healed, but an ache remained to remind him of the day Athos had stabbed him in his rush to kill the king. Something else to be avenged.

François hadn't noticed. "As is only fitting. Without me he'd stay in there forever. But that's all over now, or it soon will be." What form might Louis' gratitude take? He'd be bound to make François his right-hand man. Access to the royal chambers at any time, a privilege till now enjoyed only by the Captain of Musketeers. D'Artagnan had made full use of it, François remembered sourly. Pushing his way in whenever he felt like it, through those secret passages Aramis had mentioned the night of the ball. He'd looked for them since then, discreetly, without success.

"You're sure?" De Retz' voice jolted him from his reverie. The Musketeer was looking at him speculatively. Whatever rewards Louis might dispense, very little would flow on to him. François would see to that.

"Sure of what?" François frowned, irritated by the interruption.

"Sure he'll be grateful? Maybe he'll pretend it never happened. As far as the court knows, it never did. You know his pride. He might just have them bundled away overnight and keep the whole thing secret."

François made an impatient gesture of dismissal, but a sudden chill struck him. Could de Retz be right? Louis' pride was legendary. The humiliation of imprisonment might well be something he wanted to hide. In which case, what was in store for François? Why, he might even find himself ... Unnerved, he suppressed a superstitious shiver. For an instant he'd glimpsed his own body floating drowned in a canal, fetid water stopping his mouth, ensuring his silence. Stupid nonsense. But he couldn't quite shake the vision.

"You see?" De Retz was watching him closely. "If the king wants it all forgotten ..."

François considered this scenario. Louis was unpredictable, true. But what was the alternative? Leave the puppet on the throne, but let them know he knew? Hint at an unnamed other -- even better, group of others -- who knew the secret too. Then -- blackmail was such an ugly word -- convince the traitors to restore him to favor. His eyes narrowed. Almost as good a route to power as the other way, perhaps. Each had its dangers; which would be more profitable? Briefly he savored the power now his. The king's life in his hands. The future of the realm, perhaps of Europe, even, if it came to that ... His fancies took flight.

He'd get rid of de Retz first, then think about it properly. François looked across at the Musketeer and said repressively, "Nonsense. He'll be beside himself with rage. There'll be an almighty reckoning, and it'll be as public as possible. Nobody could blame him for executing a brother like that." Ah, yes, the brother. Soon enough he'd pay for shutting François out. Louis would have his head. All their heads. The thought warmed him.

He stood up and said briskly, "We're agreed, then? You'll have a closed carriage at the corner near the river at eleven." He pulled an enameled watch from his pocket and consulted it. "That's two hours from now. With luck the fog will last. Once we're out, we'll go straight to my father's country estate."

De Retz stood too. "Agreed. I only hope you're right." They clasped hands across the table. "Until eleven, then."

Alone again, François moved to a chair by the fire and warmed his feet at the hearth. An unaccustomed frisson of excitement shivered his belly. A few more days and the semi-banishment of the last few weeks would be a thing of the past; he'd become a force to be reckoned with at court. Those who hadn't bothered to hide their pleasure at his fall from grace would regret it. He gave himself up to the pleasure of contemplating their discomfiture.

The door opened suddenly and his servant appeared. "You have a visitor, my lord." A man pushed past him into the room before he could announce the name.

"Athos!" The last person François would have expected. He'd kept a wary distance from Athos since the old Musketeer's mysterious reappearance at court. The man was dangerous. François had heard how he'd tried to get to the king through a courtyard full of Musketeers after his son's death, the morning he'd stabbed de Retz. The gossip had taken days to die down.

Which made Athos' present standing with the king all the more mysterious. Day or night, he was usually somewhere nearby. Now, of course, François knew why. It wasn't Louis at all who'd taken Athos into his council. It was the impostor.

He realized with a start that his visitor was standing much too close for comfort. Athos had shut the door behind the servant and moved swiftly across the room. François was about to protest when he felt his arm taken in a grip that startled him with its unexpected strength. A sudden prickle of fear lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He jumped as a log crackled in the fire.

Athos came straight to the point. "You've been meddling where you have no right," he rasped. His eyes were disturbingly intense. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now?"

"I ... I don't know what you mean." François' customary hauteur deserted him entirely. He pulled himself together with an effort and attempted a glare.

"Don't play games with me, Chevalier. I have a disconcerting habit of winning. We both know what I'm talking about."

A reviving rush of anger brought color to François' cheeks and propped up his flagging courage. This antiquated soldier proposed to barge in here and overturn his carefully laid plans? "I don't know what you're talking about, Monsieur. But even supposing I did ... you presume to threaten me?"

Athos thrust his face close to François'. His voice dropped in a way that made François shift uncomfortably. "Where the king's safety is concerned ... I'd do anything. Anything at all. Have no doubt of that." He released François' arm with a contemptuous shake.

"The king!" François gave a snort of laughter. He was tired of pretending, tired of being bullied by this elderly bore. Unwisely, he burst out, "Your puppet, you mean. Did you think you could fool me for long with that story about the penance? The king only cares about religion when it suits his purpose." Anger made him careless. "I know him much better than you."

"So you do." Athos' voice was suddenly silky. François felt more hairs rise, on his forearms this time. "So you do. We didn't manage to fool you, did we? You were too smart for us." François smirked despite himself. "You think you're very clever, Chevalier. But there's one thing you've forgotten."

"What's that?" Not just the hairs; his stomach tightened too.

"If Louis died, what could you ever prove?" The menace was out in the open now. François stared in undisguised horror, his mouth dropping open.

"Not even you'd dare spill royal blood!" For the first time he realized how quiet his rooms were. No comforting rustle of movement from the anteroom. His servant must have gone to his room to wait for the visitor to leave. He'd never been protective of his master.

"You don't know what I'd dare, Chevalier." The quiet repetition of his title jarred on François' nerves. He tried to recall what else he'd heard about this man in the past. He hadn't bothered to listen closely; now he wished he had.

The look in Athos' eye would have given a wiser man pause, but François went for bravado. "And if I went out now and shouted the truth to the palace?"

"It's a long way to the door." François measured the distance. Athos stood balanced on the balls of his feet, hands swinging free. He wasn't wearing a sword, but a nasty-looking knife was thrust through his sash. As François watched, Athos removed it and ran his thumb along the razor-sharp edge in exploratory fashion. Apparently satisfied, he returned the knife to his sash.

Casual. Too casual. François sensed mortal peril in the room. Panic spurred his speech. "My father's a powerful man. Too powerful for the likes of you."

"But he isn't here, is he?" the silken voice replied. "He'll be grief-stricken, I'm sure. A terrible accident. So dangerous, the Paris streets at night ... no lamps. A footpad's paradise. It could happen to anyone."

Time to play his ace. "You wouldn't get away with it. I'm not the only one who knows where the king is. There are others here at court. If anything happened to me, they'd see it through."

"Why don't you tell me their names?" The knife was out again, seemingly for another inspection. Its edge flashed and gleamed in the candlelight. Athos' eyes rose suddenly to François' and locked with them. François had seen a wolf once, in a traveling circus. Its eyes had had the same banked ferocity.

"I ... I ..." For a terrified moment he thought his bladder would betray him. Athos took a step closer. François flinched and tensed himself to jump backwards, sideways, anywhere out of range of the knife.

A sudden thunderous knocking at the outer door startled them both. A drunken shout. "François! Are you there? Open up!" Gervaise. François had been known to deplore his friend's habit of banging at doors like any common shopkeeper; now he gave heartfelt thanks for the interruption.

He heard his servant shuffle to the door and open it. "The Chevalier's inside, sir. But he has a visitor."

The voice grew louder as Gervaise, undeterred, approached through the anteroom. "A visitor? Oho! A beautiful visitor, I'll be bound. François, you dog ..." He pushed open the door and tailed off in surprise. Athos, knife back in sash, acknowledged him with a brief nod. He turned to leave, but not without one final word for François. "Remember, Chevalier." With a curt bow, he shouldered past Gervaise, leaving François weak-kneed under Gervaise's uncomprehending gaze.

"What's the matter?" Gervaise inquired. François tottered to the table and sat down.

"Nothing." He wiped a hand across his brow. "Nothing at all. I'm just tired, that's all." It took all his self-control not to blurt out everything to Gervaise. The incident had almost unnerved him.

He stood up suddenly. Had Athos meant what he said? There was no time to be lost. Better leave early, now in fact, and get to the prison at once. Even if Athos managed to get into the Bastille, he wouldn't find there what he sought. François and Louis would be gone, waiting in the safety of the darkness for de Retz and the carriage. The keeper looked strong; he'd be their defense in case of trouble. François snatched up his hat and cloak and hurried from the room, leaving Gervaise staring after him in bleary surprise.

* * *

"Where's Athos?" Aramis, already cloaked and booted, glanced up from the writ Philippe had just handed him. They were alone in Philippe's rooms. Porthos stood waiting outside, laughing at something with the guard in the corridor. It was nearly ten o'clock.

"He said he was going out. I thought he meant to walk as far as the prison with you and Porthos, for protection." Philippe glanced at the windows, black now but dripping with fog. "This fog makes things more dangerous."

A chill ran through Aramis. Could Athos have decided to act alone? "I haven't seen him." He tried to sound casual. "He's probably waiting in my rooms. I'll pick him up on the way."

Philippe handed him the writ. "I'm going to sit a while with my mother. Come to me as soon as you have Louis' answer. There isn't much time left." He looked suddenly downcast.

Aramis bowed. "We know what Louis' answer will be. But I'll come." He gripped Philippe's outstretched hand firmly. "Depend upon it." He turned and left the room.

Porthos grunted as Aramis hurried him along. The night was cold; fog made the narrow streets clammy. Their lamp gave little more than a halo of misty light. "What's your hurry? Louis isn't going anywhere. Not with us guarding the sewers." Porthos and André had been detailed to see no one escaped that way. André was there already. Aramis had debated the wisdom of allowing him to see Louis again, let alone prevent his escape, but there'd been no one else. Porthos would watch him. So would the four Jesuit brothers concealed nearby on Aramis' orders, in case of trouble.

"I know. But Athos is. We have to catch him."

"Catch him? What do you mean?" Porthos caught at Aramis' sleeve, slowing him down.

"He's on his way to kill Louis, I'm almost sure of it."

Porthos whistled. Not altogether unhappy at the prospect, Aramis guessed. Then Porthos' brows drew together. "But how will he get in? He can't without that writ you're carrying. Philippe would never let him go by himself, after what he said before."

"He always said it wasn't hard to get into prison, remember? Only to get out again. And you know Athos. Once he's made up his mind ..." Aramis kept his tone light, but dread settled heavier on his chest. He clutched Porthos' arm suddenly. "Look! There he is!" Ahead of them, dimly visible in the fog, Athos was approaching the outer wall of the Bastille with its heavy iron gate. He walked along steadily in the middle of the road, his eyes fixed on the battlements. In his hand he carried a lantern shuttered so that only a chink of light showed.

"Athos!" Aramis hurried to catch him up. At his call, Athos started and stood stock still. Then he turned resignedly towards them.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" The lantern's fuzzy light showed Aramis moisture glinting on Athos' cheeks. Athos carried himself stiffly, as if a great weight sat on his shoulders. His eyes had a faraway look that Aramis didn't like. He'd seen it before, once or twice, always with bad results.

"Why are you here so soon?" Athos asked. "You said you'd be here at half past ten."

"I changed my mind," Aramis told him. "And it's as well I did, by the look of things. You were going to the prison?" Its ramparts loomed above them. "You were going to see Louis. And not to talk." Porthos stood silent, at last understanding.

"I can't let it happen." Athos looked away. "I can't let Louis win. Not after all we've been through. There's only one way to make sure ..." He might have been speaking to himself. "I'm right, I know I am."

Aramis reached out and gently traced the tracks of the tears on Athos' face. "Then what are these?"

Athos jerked away. "The fog, that's all."

"Athos, for God's sake!" Concern made Aramis' voice sharp. "You come to do murder with tears on your face?" Porthos gestured for silence; he lowered his voice again. "We talked about this! What in God's name are you doing?" He shook Athos' sleeve urgently.

Athos' voice was steady when he answered. Steady and stubborn, the tone Aramis knew so well; dumb misery in action. "If Louis is dead, nobody can prove there ever was a twin, or set him free. Philippe will be safe." He said it like an incantation, as if to repeat it often enough would make it true. Or make it right. Athos would happily fight Louis to the death, Aramis knew. But Louis was alone, unarmed, unable to defend himself. Inconceivable that Athos should thus go against everything they believed in. Only his fear for Philippe could have made him consider it.

Aramis grabbed at Athos' arm again and swung him round, facing him squarely. "I know you want to kill him. But this ..." He broke off. Behind him Porthos turned sharply and braced at a sudden rustle. Only a cat scouting in the midden heap, not far from where they stood. Aramis relaxed with an audible sigh.

"It isn't just revenge," Athos said. "De Pons is on the scent. Philippe's in danger every minute Louis breathes. He has to die. Now. Tonight." His breath was a white plume on the chill air. Porthos stamped his feet to keep warm.

"And when Philippe asks tomorrow why you ignored his express command?" Aramis asked. Athos' face closed over. Aramis thrust his own face nearer, until only a few inches separated them. "What will you say to him then?" No reply. "He's king, Athos, have you forgotten? You think of him as a second son, but we made him king. Kill Louis and you risk losing Philippe."

The look on Athos' face made him almost sorry he'd spoken. "I'll tell him. Do you think I could hide it from him? I know he'll never forgive me." He grabbed suddenly at Aramis' cloak. "But he'll be safe, Aramis. Safe. Not like Raoul. I won't lose Philippe while there's something I can do about it. As for Louis ... he doesn't deserve to live." His face was wrenched with misery, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. He released his hold on Aramis.

"If you do this thing ... you'll regret it the rest of your life. I know you." More urgently, "I know you! And he's D'Artagnan's son. Think how this would have killed his father." Athos groaned but stood his ground. Real frustration pinched Aramis' face. "Athos! Don't shut me out. For God's sake, tell me what you're thinking!" Porthos hovered worriedly nearby, alarmed by the anguish on his friends' faces.

Athos turned away. He said tonelessly, "That Philippe may never speak to me again. That by killing a prisoner I forfeit your respect, you and Porthos. And that by killing the son he tried to protect, I spit on D'Artagnan's grave. If that's the price, I'll pay it." He kicked viciously at a rat scuttling by.

"No, you won't," Aramis said coolly, above the hammering of his heart. "I won't let you." He reached out for Athos and spun him, unresisting, into a rough embrace. His pectoral cross dug into his chest. "I won't let you lose it all, do you hear me? I'll fight you myself first." Beside them, Porthos tensed momentarily at the mention of fighting; then his face relaxed and he patted Athos softly on the shoulder. Aramis released Athos and pushed him gently away.

Athos stood rigid for a long moment, his hand on his knife, as the fog swirled thicker around them. Aramis held his breath. Then, with a groan, Athos relaxed, his knees almost sagging as he drew back from the edge of the abyss. He raised his head and met Aramis' eyes. In the feeble light from the lantern he looked suddenly old and tired.

"Go back to the palace," Aramis said softly, "and wait for us there. Leave Louis to me. Wait with Philippe. He needs you near him."

Athos' brows drew together. He gave what might have been a half-nod. Then, moving stiffly, he turned slowly back in the direction they'd come. Aramis sighed with relief. He stood frowning after Athos as the fog closed round him like a glove. Then, with a word to Porthos, who veered away around the walls to where André waited at the sewers, he turned and took the prison steps three at a time. Ten minutes later, he was inside the cell.

* * *

"All right. I'll tell you." The tone struck Aramis as theatrical.

Louis' bearing was subtly different from the evening before. He seemed ... not excited, exactly, he was far too cunning to show anything so obvious ... expectant somehow, more poised than he had a right to be under the circumstances. He knows François is coming. Even if Aramis himself hadn't known, his priest's intuition would have picked up the change.

Aramis looked at him quizzically. "You've changed your mind? Why?" He moved no closer.

Louis looked around him in the darkness of the cell. Roaches scuttled near the bucket in the corner. "Anything would be better than this. Assuming you keep your word, of course. Besides ..." His hand rose to fidget with the neck of his shirt.

Aramis shivered a little; something of the fog outside seemed to be with them in the cell. He found himself wishing for Porthos' comforting solidity outside the door. "Besides?"

"I've been ... thinking. About what you said. About ... honor." Louis stared defiantly at Aramis. "And," he took a deep breath, "about D'Artagnan."

The one thing Aramis hadn't expected. He froze where he stood. Then he said carefully, "What about D'Artagnan?"

Louis seemed to be having trouble with the words; Aramis had to strain to hear him. "D'Artagnan used to talk a lot about honor. He told me to make sure I was a good king. I didn't really know what he meant ... not then."

"And now you do?" The edge of cynicism was hard to hide.

"I ... think so. I'm not ready to talk about it yet." Louis raised his head and looked across at Aramis. The flickering light of the lantern picked up the sheen of tears in his eyes. "But when I am ..." he gulped, "I hope you'll be there to listen."

A bravura performance. But for the governor's note, Aramis might have taken it seriously. As it was, he determined to push ahead with getting the information they needed, since Louis seemed willing to give it. Just why was a mystery he hadn't yet fathomed.

"And the meeting?" Louis nodded. He sat down at the table. Aramis sank on to the chair opposite him.

"I don't know exactly where it is." Aramis' flare of hope died as suddenly as it was born. "I've never been there. The house belongs to one of my envoy's ... contacts. But he gave me a map. It's in my bedroom."

"In your bedroom?" Aramis raised a skeptical eyebrow. He and Philippe had searched everywhere they thought Louis might have hidden something. To no avail. They'd grown increasingly frantic as the day wore on. All they'd turned up was a cache of old letters from the wife of an Austrian diplomat, begging to know why the king no longer favored her with his smile.

Louis' voice lost its diffidence. "When I was a child, D'Artagnan made a hiding place for me. I used to keep things there, secret things I didn't want anyone else to see. It's still there." He leaned forward. "That's where the map is."

"Don't toy with me, Louis!" Aramis snapped. "You know as well as I do, you moved to new apartments when you became king. The old ones were torn apart for renovation." Someone else lived there now.

"Yes, I did." Louis smiled, his tone patronizing. "And when I did, my bed moved with me. The map's in one of the bedposts."

Aramis looked at him soberly, his mind reaching back. It could be true. D'Artagnan had been good with his hands; he was often to be found whittling in his off-duty hours. Aramis had a couple of little figures, lifelike carvings of himself and his horse, given to him by D'Artagnan years ago. And he remembered palace jokes about the Dauphin's bed, barely concealed gibes about a king so young he'd wanted his childhood bed in his new rooms.

Louis went on smoothly. "Look closely at the left hand post at the top of the bed. You'll see a little face. It's from when I was having nightmares about D'Aguilar." When Louis was six, an assassin had stalked the royal family, determined to avenge some past wrong. He'd attacked the king one wintry night; only the vigilance of D'Artagnan and the others had saved the king's life and ended the assassin's. It hadn't been pretty. The child Louis had watched it all, crouched in terror on the stairs. "I was afraid to go to bed. D'Artagnan hadn't long been made Captain; he took over the Dauphin's security, stayed with me day and night until they were sure D'Aguilar was working alone. He carved it; he said it meant he'd be watching over me even in my sleep, after the crisis was over." For a moment his voice faltered. " Turn the carved vine on the post above the face to the right until it clicks. Then you can slide a little panel open. You'll find what you're looking for inside it."

"And if it's not there?"

"It'll be there." He was utterly confident. "Nobody knew about the hiding place except D'Artagnan and me. And you, now."

It sounded plausible. It was what Aramis wanted to hear. But he hadn't expected Louis to give up the information at all, let alone so easily. It wasn't like him to cooperate. Unless the prospect of a new cell really meant so much to him ... He wished he could see Louis' face. The irony wasn't lost on him.

Louis was watching him in turn. He seemed almost casual now, indifferent to Aramis' reaction. He thinks it won't make any difference, Aramis realized with a sudden flash of insight. He knows François is coming tonight. He can keep things going his way by telling us where the meeting is. By the time it matters, he'll be back in control and Philippe will be dead. He's using Philippe as his ... his messenger boy. Still pulling the strings, even in here. The cynical contempt behind the action took Aramis' breath away.

And he'd used D'Artagnan. A dull anger began to burn somewhere deep inside Aramis as the realization struck home. All Louis's talk of honor and of D'Artagnan was nothing but a sham, a sop to keep him happy while Louis waited for François. And worse – Louis, sensing Aramis' other motives in visiting him, had amused himself by toying with him, making him think he might reform. As mortification mixed with rage, Aramis' breathing grew ragged with the effort to control himself. He wanted to smash the cool, assured voice into the dust, silence it forever. He'd heard that voice before, persuasive, charming, the day it had ordered him to kill the Jesuit general. For God and for France.

But Philippe needed the map, and now. His first duty was to return to the palace and see if Louis' story was true. Time enough later to consider what to do if it wasn't. "I hope for all our sakes you're telling the truth." With a nod at Louis, he picked up the lantern and turned to leave.

Behind him, in the dank cell, Louis began to cough.

* * *

François pulled his cloak more tightly around him and shivered. He looked nervously over his shoulder. Fog, eddying in corners, gave the illusion of life where none existed. A stray cat shot across his path with an indignant screech, disturbed at its foraging in a tavern rubbish heap.

He turned into the dark alley along the Seine that led to the prison's lower courtyard. The governor would be waiting for him by the gate if he knew what was good for him, no matter that François was early. Fool; François would see that news of de la Porte's misbehavior reached the proper authorities at the earliest possible opportunity.

It was folly to be out alone in the unlit streets of Paris; he knew that. Nearly every day the court buzzed with stories of the latest outrage. Footpads and worse roamed the streets of the capital when law-abiding citizens were abed.

But tonight the stakes were high; he'd taken the risk. Earlier that day he'd told Gervaise and the others he had an assignation, had hinted at a married woman when they'd said they'd go with him. François couldn't, wouldn't share his knowledge with any but de Retz, and only with him because he had to have help. None but they would earn the king's gratitude. Then he'd find some way to get rid of de Retz before he got ideas above his station.

A clatter nearby; a loose cobblestone, dislodged by a careless foot. François, lost in his plans, took no notice; the cats of Paris were legendary. Too late he heard the footsteps behind him in the fog and turned, to see a muffled shape almost upon him. He had no chance at all of evading the savage, silent attack. François didn't feel the knife as it slid between his ribs. All he felt was a rush of astonished fury as the light of his future went out.

An hour later, Athos, drained and weary, turned in at the palace gates as the Musketeers changed shifts in the courtyard. Lifting an apologetic hand to the duty officer, who started towards him as though to speak, he turned and staggered towards the steps and the haven of his rooms.

In a dark corner of the prison stables Gomerz crouched rocking back and forth, keening ceaselessly as the relentless flames crackled once more in his head.

* * *

The fog had given way to a bright, crisp day as Aramis entered the prison the next morning. Louis started forward eagerly as the cell door swung open, then fell back when he saw who it was. His posture spoke of disappointment.

"Good morning, Louis." Aramis was at his most urbane. "You seem surprised to see me."

Louis recovered himself almost at once. He suppressed a yawn, awkward in the mask. "You plan to visit every day?"

Aramis laughed. "No. You don't warrant that sort of time." He let that sink in. "You seem tired. You didn't sleep?"

"I'm all right." But Louis seemed off-balance; his hands shook slightly, and he licked compulsively at dry lips.

"You were expecting someone last night?"

Louis tensed. "Who would I be expecting?"

"Why, me, of course. Who else? But I thought I'd leave it till this morning." Aramis eyed Louis curiously. "I came to thank you. We found the map. Philippe made it to the meeting on time; we got the information your spy brought." He remembered the mad ride back to the palace and Philippe's hurried departure for the meeting. André had accompanied him, dressed as a servant. They'd found the place a mere twenty minutes ride away. "And of course, we've burned it."

"Burned it!" Louis started. He passed a hand across his iron-clad brow. A flash of resigned anger lit his eyes. "Then you've got what you wanted, haven't you!" he said sullenly. He seemed less upset than might have been expected, his sourness somehow forced.

Aramis inclined his head. "As you say."

"You've come to move me? I didn't expect it so soon. Will the keeper be the same?" The question seemed to cause him some anxiety.

"All in good time. It's too dangerous just now. Some of your friends have been asking questions, it seems; they may be watching us. We can't afford to attract extra attention just yet." The driver of the carriage which had appeared near the sewer outlet the night before had been too quick for them; he'd made his escape before they could find out who he was.

Aramis had expected an angry response or a triumphant curiosity, but Louis only nodded. He brushed irritably at his face again and leaned back against the wall, hands behind him for support. He seemed subdued, somehow, muted. He was still expecting François, of course. Aramis was disinclined to string this out.

Louis rallied momentarily. "So much for your talk of honor," he snapped. "I might have known I couldn't trust you. Just like D'Artagnan let me down in the end."

Suddenly the strain of the last days overcame Aramis; the gibe enraged him. He crossed the cell in a few huge strides and grasped the front of Louis' shirt in his fist, pulling him close to his face, heedless of any danger from the mask.

"Don't talk to me of D'Artagnan! You used D'Artagnan's name last night, used him as you always used him, with no thought of anyone but yourself." Louis flinched and would have shrunk back against the wall, but Aramis held him fast. "You didn't deserve him. You don't deserve me, now."

Louis' skin felt hot and clammy. Aramis released him with a grunt of scorn and turned to leave the cell. Louis said nothing, only leaned back against the wall, supporting himself on his hands, watching Aramis with glittering eyes. Seeing his head on the block, perhaps.

Aramis paused in the doorway. He took something from his pocket and held it out to Louis. "I almost forgot. Perhaps you'd like to keep this?" Louis took a step away from the wall and peered at what he held. François' ring gleamed up at him from Aramis' palm. "Sad news at court this morning, I'm afraid. The Chevalier de Pons was found dead in the river. Stabbed to death and thrown in. He really should have known better than to be out alone so late. What on earth can he have been thinking of?" Aramis shrugged. "We'll never know now, of course. I'm sorry. I know he was a friend of yours."

For a moment Aramis thought Louis would collapse. He swayed on his feet, grasping wildly at the back of a chair to steady himself. "You bastard! You filthy bastard! You've known all along, haven't you!" A stream of invective followed. His voice had a bruised sound to it.

"Well, well." Aramis hoisted an eyebrow. "One may scratch a king and find a sailor, it seems." He turned to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced meaningfully across at the shelf where his Cicero lay and said, "I'll be back next week. Try to make some progress."

Louis' self-control was deserting him rapidly; its last traces now crumbled. He stared wild-eyed at Aramis as the import of the words sank in. Then he launched himself, seconds too late, at the closing door. Aramis, safely outside, turned to face him through the barred hatch. "Get used to it, Louis," he said tiredly. "I told you, you're here for life. However long or short that may be." He slammed the sliding cover shut and turned away gratefully towards Porthos and the light as the ragged shouts of abuse followed him down the corridor.

* * *

Philippe nodded as Aramis finished his report. "That's an end to it, then." The spy had left that morning. In the hollowed-out bedpost Philippe had found not only the map to their meeting place but also a copy of a detailed list of instructions to Louis' envoys in Spain. Future negotiations would present him no threat. And he'd been warmed to find out that his father's carving remained close to him, secret, unremarkable, but there.

"Where's Porthos?" Aramis asked. He hadn't seen him in some time, not since they'd returned from the prison. They'd arranged to meet with Philippe after a brief midday meal in Aramis' rooms.

"He went to find Athos," Philippe said. "I wanted them both to be here."

A shadow crossed Aramis' face. "Did you see him last night?"

"Athos? No." Athos hadn't been present when Aramis rushed back from the prison, though he'd hoped to find him waiting with Philippe; nor had anyone seen him since. Aramis had searched for him in vain that morning when word of the discovery of François' body had reached the Louvre, desperate to hear from Athos' own lips that he'd had nothing to do with the murder.

Philippe opened his mouth to speak but stopped as the door swung open and Porthos came in, Athos in his wake. Aramis strode over to Athos. "You've heard what happened?" His eyes searched Athos' face. Was it you?

Athos' eyes met his openly; that was a good sign. "I have." Just the two terse words.

"I looked for you this morning?"

"I wasn't far away." He'd been to visit D'Artagnan's grave. Philippe had seen him there; he'd been about to say so when the others came in.

"And ... last night?" Aramis wasn't aware he was holding his breath until he tried to speak. He'd said nothing to Philippe of their encounter in the fog.

Athos looked back at him meaningfully. "I went out for a walk and got lost in the fog." Whatever demons had had him in their grip last night were quiet today. Or were they merely slaked?

Aramis hoped he knew the answer, but he had to ask, "You didn't meet anyone on the way? The Chevalier de Pons, perhaps?"

"As well for him that I didn't." Athos' eyes were sardonically amused by the drift of the questions. "I only met a couple of drunkards. One was a priest. They looked dangerous, so I went home to bed." He glanced at Philippe, who was watching them with a puzzled frown. "Not that it matters about the Chevalier now, it seems. You've told Louis the news?"

"This morning." Aramis could be unforthcoming too. But relief swept over him in a tide. Athos, innately honest, was a poor liar; if he said he hadn't killed François, Aramis knew, he hadn't.

"He didn't take it well," Philippe interjected quietly. He'd signed the third writ in as many days without demur. Aramis took that as a good sign. Philippe was looking at Athos now with barely-disguised relief. The shadow that had haunted his eyes since the news of François' death reached them was gone. Athos looked steadily back at him and touched his palm lightly to his chest, so fleetingly that Aramis almost missed it. But it had been there, the age-old gesture of fealty.

Aramis turned to Philippe himself. "The Queen expects me. Her Majesty requested I say Mass in the garden chapel this afternoon." Aramis never missed a chance to meet the queen's wishes in this respect. He looked around for the missal he'd left on a side table when he came in.

Philippe stopped him. "Aramis!"

"Sire?" The word fell naturally from his lips. No hint of pretense. He saw Philippe register that.

"I'd like to speak with you a moment." At a sign from Philippe, the others withdrew to the gallery outside. Philippe came toward him round the table. The sun came out from behind a cloud and spilled through the tall windows as he approached, striking answering gleams from his brocaded coat and his hair. A sun king, Aramis thought suddenly, half-embarrassed at his own fancy. Somehow the sobriquet seemed apt.

Philippe reached out a hand to Aramis' shoulder. "You've done me a great service. Without you we might have been undone," he said softly. "I'm in your debt again." His grip tightened. "Thank you." Unspoken between them lay the knowledge: you could have got him out and blamed François. If you'd wanted to.

"Your Majesty." Aramis took Philippe's hand from his shoulder and bowed formally over it. He felt rather than saw Philippe's smile.

"Philippe." Aramis straightened but kept hold of Philippe's hand. His voice seemed to stick in his throat. "I told you once I'd ..." Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. He would have knelt, but Philippe prevented him with a pressure of his hand.

"Ask my forgiveness? I remember," Philippe helped him. His hand turned and clasped Aramis' firmly. "Your actions speak for your heart, Aramis. You have no need to ask."

"I ask it nonetheless."

"Then I forgive you, freely," Philippe said gently. "Don't punish yourself any more. Our days in prison are over."

Aramis suppressed a sob. He reached for Philippe, who returned the hard embrace. At last Aramis broke free and stood back, the heel of his hand scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. Philippe was looking at him dry-eyed. The compassion in his gaze reminded Aramis forcefully of another pair of eyes that had smiled at him with just such understanding so many times over the years. The likeness took his breath away. How had he not seen it before?

"One thing more," Philippe said impulsively. "I've been thinking, I want to ... legitimize this somehow, before God. To swear to serve the people in His name, perhaps in the chapel one night, before all of you and my mother. I'd like it if you'd hear my vows."

"Sire." The word came straight from his heart. Aramis bowed as low as he was able and walked to the door, six years of misery gone from his step. Smiling, the king watched him go.

* * *

The gate clanged behind Gomerz as he approached the cell, tray in hand. Getting rid of the dandy had been easy; now the field was clear. He opened the door of the cell, murder in his heart, and approached the inert body on the bed.

He shook the prisoner's shoulder. Louis didn't wake. Instead, he shifted restlessly on the bed and muttered some incoherent phrase. Gomerz frowned. Something was wrong. Further shaking produced no response. The heat of the prisoner's skin, evident even through the rough shirt, spoke of fever and illness. The prisoner wasn't asleep; he was unconscious.

Gomerz reconsidered his plan. He would kill the king, that much was certain. But not today. Not until he could let him know why he was dying, who it was that ended his life. He would wait. If Louis died of his illness, it was out of his hands. If he lived, it wouldn't be for long. Gomerz would wait. He had all the time in the world.