('Tis a Disclaimer)

Through the mists of time Dumas dreams do inspire

Master of whit and adventure … willing hearts still do admire.

Hungry Minds truth desiring

Weaving words without selfishness miring

Sound accolades do I aspire … no other recompense I do require.

PAX…I continue within your vein.

In cyberspace canceled shows will still reign.

-+-

Ramon is abducted by the Dark Order; I must warn you this story is going to get a bit intense. This is a thread story where various things were going on with various people in various place where what happened with one group directly or indirectly effects the others...till things resolve themselves at the end. I also wanted to shed some light on Ramon's past. I hope you like it.

#1 Serious about Siroc, #2 Crisis Point
Now the third story in the series by Vigilanti
--TAKEN --

Chapter 2: Lost:

Chapter 1: Missing

France breathed a sigh of relief. The Revolution of 1648, now known as the Fronde, was finished…the treaty of Westphalia freed Prince le Condé's army to intervene in the uprising of Paris, besieging the capital. Little blood had been shed and the court was free to return from Rueil where they had fled the conflict. With them came young Louis XIV and his ill-starred brother, Philippe.

Queen Anne was overjoyed to have both boys at her side at last, but publicly she downplayed her emotion, making it seem that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. All in all, very little was said about the king's mysterious disappearance and prolonged absence. Captain Duval had stepped in to forestall any consternation during the interim, providing assurance that the young king was in good hands and had in fact been spirited away as a matter of state security prior to the uprising. As a result, returning the young king and Prince Philippe, to their mother, the Queen Regent, went much smoother than would have been the case had Duval not intervened on behalf of his men.

Still, Charles de Batz d'Artagnan was sore vexed that the young musketeers (and especially his son) had willingly left him out of the loop when it came to the young king's safety. When Privates, Del la Cruz, le Pont, Siroc, and d'Artagnan returned to the capital, the illustrious captain of the queen's guard had them summoned to his office. The senior d'Artagnan could not, in good faith, release them to return to their duties in the garrison without a thorough dressing down for presuming to remove the king from the palace precinct without first notifying him of the situation.

D'Artagnan, the younger, stood silently alongside his companions, recognizing that it was Captain de Batz and NOT his father that rebuked them. The wall of secrets and pain sprang up all too easily, dividing father and son once more. The young musketeer and his legendary sire had never had the best of relationships. Young Dart had thought he had finally come to terms with the fact that his father's duties to the crown came before his commitment to his family. Their relationship even improved since Dart became a musketeer himself. Then, on his latest adventure, the legend's son learned his illustrious Sire's commitment to the Queen was more than simply duty. There was a romance involved. D'Artagnan the younger was left feeling abandoned and lied to all over again. Any chance of rectifying the relationship would have to wait till a more opportune moment, when both men were ready to hear what the other had to say. For a time, it seemed life had settled back to normalcy.

And so it begins

The leather apron clad inventor sorted through the jumble concealed in the drawer under the astrolabe. Siroc knew the worn case that held his prisms and magnifying lenses had been here several days ago. No luck, the lenses were nowhere to be found.

One would think the contentious inventor would have learned to be more careful where he put such things. Ramón borrowed a lens several weeks earlier with disastrous effect: setting a pile of dung in the courtyard ablaze. Despite his knack for getting in trouble Ramón was a capable soldier. After the incident in the courtyard Captain Duval decided to have the Spaniard lead a patrol of green recruits along the north road to Picardy. It was not exactly a punishment. Still, Captain Duval suspected Ramón would likely have a rough time of it. His charges were wastrels, one-and-all, accustomed to the privilege of their upper-class families and not yet accustomed to the discipline of the corps.

Captain Duval suggested to Siroc that now, with the worst of the potential trouble-makers away from the garrison, would be a good time to find a better hiding place for his newest acquisition, a fine convex lens, where it could not inadvertently cause more mischief. The difficulty arose when the curious poet and his young charges were due back in a matter of days and Siroc still could not find where he left the lens case last time.

The young blond could close his eyes and see the tooled leather case. He could envision the lenses it contained, ground smooth of even the slightest imperfection. The inventor's supple mind had no difficulty recalling various uses he imagined for each lens. Why could he not remember where he had hidden that blasted case! Siroc reached up to search a box of test tubes, pipettes, flasks, and clamps of various shapes and sizes…

An instant later young d'Artagnan and Jacques le Pont, drawn by a horrendous crash, burst through the laboratory door to find their friend kneeling on the floor surrounded by shattered glassware.

"Are you all right?" Jacques asked. "You look quite pale."

"I…I…will be." Siroc said placing a trembling hand to his brow. "Jacques could you please… would you mind…." The blond faltered, barely able to think past the pain.

"Willow-bark tea lots of it—of course Siroc right away." She hurriedly found the kettle and box of herbs that usually gave him some measure of relief.

D'Artagnan swept the broken glass into a receptacle Siroc kept for that purpose and gently helped the stricken inventor to the nearby settee. "Is it just me, or are those headaches of yours getting more severe?"

"More persistent… not more severe," The inventor mumbled only half listening; the pain did not permit him to do more than that. He winced and tried to press his thumbs into his throbbing temples.

"You really ought to go to the infirmary and see if Philip Corman can help. He really IS a fine healer. If you believe the stories, he assisted Medic Julian when he brought my father back from the dead." The Gascon tried to convince his friend. "Besides, he gives sweets if you behave…lollipops he calls them."

"There is nothing to be done. It will pass… in time." Siroc explained quietly. The reserved scientist knew the cause of his pain was not one any physician, no matter how skilled, could help with. The truth was, his former Master demanded his presence. Eventually it would become apparent he was not coming. Then the painful calls would cease… or so the former slave hoped. In the meantime, such things must be endured. Siroc sipped the tea slowly… relishing the soothing warmth, closed his eyes and sighed. The pain dulled but it did not fade altogether. "I'm all right now." He whispered, "Thank you."

"If you were 'all right' we wouldn't find you periodically doubled over in pain." d'Artagnan frowned "This is… what… the third time this month?"

"We are worried about you Siroc." Jacques explained, "I don't think you should be alone tonight."

Truth-be-told, the inventor WAS shaken. This… attack had been more… sudden than the others. Always before, the call had come in midmorning when the Master was going over the reports from his spy network and something came up which might require his particular skills. Siroc could not imagine what would necessitate a call now… hours after dusk. If this kept up, he was not sure how long he could fight the urge to return, still he could not explain his fears to his friends, the risk of loosing them over it was just too great.

Siroc bit his lip. "You may be right." He conceded finally…which only served to make the others worry more. It was quite unlike the independent… and profoundly private inventor to admit that: "If it wouldn't be a bother… I don't think I'd mind if you stayed close and kept an eye on me over the next few days."

"I can have a bed made up in my room." d'Artagnan suggested.

Siroc winced… considering the ramifications of that… not that he was not grateful but…the legend's son might see….

"Frankly, I think he'd rather stay with me." Le Pont announced, taking note of the reluctance in the inventor's stormy eyes.

"Jacques!" D'Artagnan did not like that suggestion at all, and could not even imagine she would make it. He was not aware she was privy to certain things about the reclusive inventor that he was not.

"It's alright D'art, he knows." Jacques smiled confidently, recalling how she had surprised the inventor in the garrison bathhouse. Siroc used the facilities in the latest watches of the night just as she did…they both, for different reasons, felt the need to hide from prying eyes.

The Gascon's eyes grew wider. "As if that would make the situation better!" he stormed.

"Really… it doesn't matter; he'll be more comfortable with me." She explained lightly.

The legend's son growled under his breath. "I don't want HIM all that comfortable with YOU, Jacqueline."

She smiled and shoved his shoulder playfully, "Don't be petty d'Artagnan, you should trust us both better than that."

"How can I trust him with you when I wouldn't trust me?" her hapless suitor hissed under his breath.

"Be grateful he's not you." She smiled winningly. "He needs a bit of mothering just now, you're not as qualified as I am, that's all there is to it."

D'Artagnan hated it when she smiled like that. It made his knees weak, in his mind he could hear his father's voice echo 'boy you got it bad' and it was true, Jacques knew the moment the Gascon had been won-over and with a well-worn smirk, she added, "besides, you snore, how would that help his headache?"

D'Artagnan frowned, and bit the inside of his lip, defeated. "I'll find an extra cot."

Siroc remained quiet during the entire interchange, allowing them to work it out as much as praying his pain remained under control, but Jacqueline noted he seemed relieved at the outcome.

A single candle flame lit the room. Siroc lay on the small cot and gazed at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. Jacqueline's breathing betrayed the fact that she was not yet asleep. She was troubled, the inventor had little doubt he was the cause. "Ask," he said simply.

"It's your back isn't it? The reason you looked so frightened…you were afraid d'Artagnan would see the scars."

Siroc's instinctive 'male-ness' bristled at the thought of being characterized as 'afraid'…a sure sign that the pain was still impairing his reasoning capabilities. He bit back the snappish response and tried to be truthful. "I do not want my marks common knowledge, no."

"But d'Artagnan is your friend, he would understand." She pointed out.

"You three are dear to me… I never dreamed I could experience such camaraderie… which is precisely why I won't risk it. I do not see you budding with enthusiasm at the prospect of telling Ramón you are Jacqueline and not Jacques." The inventor explained darkly.

She had to admit he had her there, that particular bit of knowledge would surely change the way the Spaniard treated her and possibly make life in the garrison impossible. The two comrades lay in the darkened room in silence a while longer. Finally, Jacqueline asked the inevitable question Siroc dreaded most, "How did you get them?"

Should he lie? Siroc wondered. Abusive relatives are not uncommon in France: young bookish boys with eccentric tendencies would naturally be prime targets for such things. However, Jacqueline had proven trustworthy time and again. She deserved better. He could not explain everything of course—the weight of his secrets was his alone to bear. But she deserved what honesty he could give. Besides which, her people were farmers, tied to the land they worked; she should understand his lot better than most. "I was a slave." He explained, thoughts drifting momentarily. In Italian, 'Schiavo' is the word for Slave. It was the only name his Master gave him. The harsh word resounded still in his aching mind.

i Kneel Schiavo! Kneel before me. I am Master. You belong to me. Do not forget, it is I who has broken you. My exquisitely trained pet; you are what I have made you. You are MINE to deal with as I see fit. /i

"I escaped my Master," Siroc explained quietly. "He wants me back and doesn't seem to realize I'm free now and intend to do all in my power to stay that way" –truth.

"Understandable," Jacques nodded. "Any who would leave such an indelible impression, would hardly inspire loyalty," It was a weak attempt to make light of her friends revelation. She hoped he wouldn't take it wrong and continued on a more serious note. "D'Artagnan may be a noble but he would hardly expect anyone to accept such treatment meekly, slave or not. Does Ramón know?" Jacqueline asked.

"He hasn't asked. Similarly, I have never suggested he tell me what was so serious that he would rather live in exile in a foreign country than face his own family. We all have our secrets… All save d'Artagnan that is… his father may have secrets, but the life of the legend's son is an open book." Siroc scoffed.

Could it be… jealousy tingeing the sullen inventor's voice? Jacqueline mused; for once, she reasoned, Siroc's assessment was less than thorough. "You would not consider d'Artagnan's feelings for me a secret?" Jacqueline asked smugly, "Which, do you think, would create the greater scandal… that while in Berry he could be seen actively pursuing Jacques le Pont, fellow musketeer or Jacqueline Roget, cross-dressing fugitive?"

"I suppose there is that." Siroc smiled slowly. According to Ramón's ballads courtship was a trying situation even in the best of circumstances. Siroc admittedly was somewhat naive on the particulars of this topic and certainly had little experience of his own to-speak-of. Still he found it fascinating to watch Jacques and d'Artagnan tentatively circle one without giving anything away.

Strong emotion turned the ever confident d'Artagnan awkward as a schoolboy. He jabbered and preened all the while silently mourning that his attention was unrequited. Admittedly Jacques enjoyed the situation a bit more than she ought, Siroc noted. In all fairness, she should have informed the boy that he had won her heart months ago. Siroc thought to suggest that very thing on several occasions. But decided it wasn't his place to comment on something so personal.

His thought was diverted suddenly as the pain in his mind lifted as swiftly as it had begun…the inventor envisioned his former Master, fatigued from conjuring, had given up, frustrated, and gone to bed; freeing him do the same. Siroc would not have slept so soundly had he known the price of his Master's displeasure.

O

Elsewhere in the capital, dark Master was NOT sleeping. He was livid. He had sent dark energy lancing through the ether after his pet, time and again. Still the reaction was not as it should be. His mind still caressed the glossy black obelisk calling for more power from this miniature version of the artifact in his dark citadel. It was no use; his thoughts were too turbid to focus the relic's energy.

Mazarin had to admit that it had proven difficult; and at times unsafe, to contain his creation's voracious intellectual appetite in the citadel confines. It had seemed prudent to allow the creature ameasure of freedom to learn and grow. But Mazarin never imagined his pet could slip the psychic fetter that compelled him to obey. His predecessor, Richelieu, had left comprehensive notes on his mastery of the dark arts they all said such things were impossible. Once a subject was bound…it stayed bound, till death. Yet, the dark Cardinal could feel his i Schiavo /i was not dead. Neither was there any reasonable explanation for the creature's lack of response.

Almost two years ago, his pet had been far-distant when Mazarin reached out to him, the energy had been diluted but it still took hold. The Master sensed that even if the young slave were to set out immediately, he could never hope to arrive in time. On that occasion, the Master understood why there had been no immediate response to his summons, and had finally released his pet from the compulsion to return. It would have been unfortunate if i Schiavo /i hadtorn himself body from mind trying to obey. Especially after Mazarin spent so much time and energy training him.

This was something else altogether.

It seemed something altered the fundamental nature of hispet and the dark force no longer held him in sway. Any power capable of accomplishing such a miraculous feat was a clear and present threat, not only to Mazarin personally, but to the very foundation of the dark order.

The Master growled, eyes blazing, and paced the chamber like a wild beast. Something had to be done. Unfortunately, the Master had never thought to question his pet about the life he made for himself outside the citadel and could not guess what type of negative influences the slave might have been exposed to. Still, if the Master had learned one thing from his experiments with Schiavo,it is that knowledge is an important part of ones arsenal. Now, where should he obtain that knowledge? Mazarin smiled… and it was a chilling sight. He did not know that far to the south another mind caught the stirring of his power as well.

O

The moon shown bright and clear, bathing the wild wood in its mellow light. A figure clothed in shadow slipped soundlessly, wraithlike, through the night. The same could not be said for the three attempting to stalk her. Protector licked her lips and smiled. She could sense their nervousness in the cool night air as they approached. Etienne, Anton and Andy were young and inexperienced using their gifts, which was the reason for this outing in the first place.

Anton, the largest of the group had just had celebrated the dawn of his fourteenth year. Already his adolescent frame was taking on the size and prodigious proportions that went along with the Porthos' bloodline. He hunched, bear-like, in the shadows… his blond head bowed to examine the boot print she had left for them in a patch of sand. Etienne came next, skirting the edge of the glade. The young de Ruse was more mouse-like in his creeping. Quick witted and ready to smile, it seemed he shared none of his Uncle Aramis's intensity. The young cousins' night vision was certainly above average and their tracking skills were improving… still…

As Protector watched from hiding, she sensed something amiss… in the back of her mind the darkness seethed. She caught her breath, eyes widening in realization—one of her own was in trouble. This game was over. "Andy!" she called out her daughter.

"Awwwe, you caught us again." She moaned. The young blond had been carefully worming her way up the grass hill on her stomach toward her mother's hiding place while the others acted as a distraction. The lass had hoped to remain unnoticed long enough to pounce.

"There's going to be trouble. I'm needed in the capital," Protector announced.

"You're sending us back to Berry aren't you?" Etienne asked, crestfallen. Anton sighed sadly and kicked at a pile of leaves.

"Not this time. The bronze-haired huntress shook her head, "We've got work to do."

O

Ramón had been proud that Captain Duvall trusted him with the recruits patrolling Picardy, showing them the ropes as it were. It had been wearing. They had not liked camping out in the open and now that they were on the circuit headed back to the capital, Ramón hoped to still their complaining tongues by stopping at an inn for the night.

To soothe his frazzled nerves, the Spaniard left the young ones to their own devices and spent the evening in pleasant Rhapsody among witty company of local actors and word-smiths. In the morning, however, Ramón was his usual surly self. After a sending a scathing verbal barrage at the recruits attempting to rouse him with jeers and complaints… His charges decided to leave him to his rest till the landlady decided to turn him out. They decided that if Ramón would not act amiably … he could make his way to the capital on his own. One of the first lessons a musketeer learns is never to leave a comrade. Unfortunately these five had yet to learn that 'all for one and one for all' ought to included caffeine bereft Spaniards as well.

Theirs was a fateful decision as it turned out. Likewise Ramón's choice to recite his "Ballad of the Bully's Disgrace." the night before had been unfortunate as well. Though it had garnered much accolade the previous evening, the well-crafted lay drew the attention of unfriendly eyes as well.

Siroc had warned the overly enthusiastic poet that their recent adventure, whisking the king to safety as Paris burned, ought to stay their own secret for at least a season or two till they could investigate fully.

Ramón believed his latest lay artfully concealed the fact that his inspiration had been Tuileries fire. But these dread witnesses could not help but recognize the incident. They still smarted from the punishment the dark Master dealt them upon learning four young musketeer successfully spirited king out of the capital…directly under their soot stained noses.

0

It was nearly noon when the poet settled his bill… an almost un-heard of four livres for room, bed and board. Ramón was still a bit disgruntled as he knelt to tighten the girth on his fractious mount. Suddenly a foul smelling sack enveloped the musketeer's head. Whatever the cloth had been soaked in quickly sent his mind reeling. Ramón lunged for his attackers. His fists connected more than once with the one twisting the mouth of the bag tight around his neck, but to no avail. His movements grew sluggish and increasingly uncoordinated, till unconsciousness overwhelmed him.

O

Chapter 2: Lost