Chapter Two

The four men dressed in civilian garb went unnoticed as they walked into the third tavern that very same day. Looking like a simple group of friends seeking peace from the bottle, the musketeers arrived causally without arousing suspicion from the locals. As they were meant to.

Kept from prying eyes, their cloaks provided the means to hide the weapons at their sides now strictly condensed from the normal amount that they would carry. Porthos had complained earlier about not having enough protection if the killers were to pounce, but the men all knew that with his expertise art in hand to hand combat he had no reason to complain. The man could fight off an army with the strength of his bare hands.

The gossip in this tavern revolved around the very same talk from the others. The same discussions that included: "If the king's bodyguards cannot protect themselves, how can they be trusted to protect the king," or even the personal favorite, "They got what they deserved, for drinking more than carrying out their duties," which was highly untrue.

There was no one who better understood that the power of the drink would never supersede the musketeer's loyalty to the king, then Athos himself. A man sometimes needed to numb his sorrows, making the pain vanish even for a little while. It seemed to be the only escape for a man with many a burden. As the four men sat down, they let the swarm of the gossip fill their ears, listening for some sort of a clue on where their friends last were.

The other two taverns they had stepped in earlier had claimed to have never served the two men a bottle of drink. Whether they were lying in order to stay away from wrongful rumors, or it was the honest truth, the musketeers with no avail, walked out of both establishments a few coins shorter, and with no more information then they had that very same morning.

Even the deceased men's rooms gave no evidence of their whereabouts, or any hints that lead up to their murder. Based on personal experience, Athos had already known that both his deceased comrades never stepped in the same establishment as he, so certain taverns needed not to be questioned for the time being. The killer, or killers at the moment were ten steps in front of the musketeers who possessed no knowledge of the incident; except the outcome.

The bar tender at a tavern -only a few blocks north of the garrison- noticed the four men enter his establishment and approached their table after dismissing himself from a overly-chatty local. He smiled to them being thankful for their patience and welcoming then with his small gesture.

"And what can I get for you gentlemen?" He asked while throwing a cloth over his shoulder then wiping his hands on his grimy shirt.

Athos pulled out a bag of money from behind his back, and then tossing a couple coins in the hands of the scruffy tavern owner he replied, "Information."

The man rubbing his thumb over the coins in his hand, quietly decided whether or not to trust the group of men in front of him. The coins jumped in his hand as if he was judging the weight of it, then sticking it into a pouch around his waist, he looked up at the four cloaked figures sitting down in front of him.

"What sort of information would you like?" His voice became quieter than his normal outlandish tone.

"The musketeer called Elloy, was he a former patron of yours?" Athos placed the bag of coins behind his back, shortly revealing the rapier at his side to the owner.

The man swallowed hard noticing that these men were on serious business and took his time before answering. Observing the bar around him then realizing it was clear, he then took a seat next to the men.

"He came in here often. Yes," He started nervously. "A few days back at the last, the same night the stink about his dead friend was rumored around. Oh what was his name? Goread, no Giff-Gifford. I'm sure of it. He hasn't been in here since."

"Did 'e talk to anyone while 'ere on that last visit?" Porthos asked.

"No, neither did he come to drink, which was far from normal. He only sat down in the corner booth behind us, pulled out a note from under the table, and then walked out the door."

Athos stared at his comrades then back at the man. "How did you know he pulled a note from under that table?" He questioned him suspiciously. "I would like to think he would of been discreet about a matter like that."

The man instantly became mentally shaken up and reached for Athos' cloak pleading for his life. "I beg of you. I had nothing to do with the matter. Don't kill me."

The foursome almost wanted to laugh at the crazed man.

"Why would we want kill you?" d'Artagnan asked slowly, amazed at how quick the guilt spread across the man's face.

"I only did what I was asked to do. Nothing more. I placed that note under the table, but I didn't know that it would lead to his death. I swear it."

"Do you know what the letter spoke of?" Aramis added.

"Not a word. I promise."

"And the one that asked you to deliver it?" Porthos chimed in.

"A cloaked man in a dark alleyway. I couldn't point him out if I tried."

"This Gifford you mentioned...you've mentioned he was a friend of this Elloy. Were they together often?" Athos spoke while finally releasing himself from the man gripping his cloak.

"Constantly, but Gifford had not been in here recently for the past week before his death. He's been going to that inn near the Whitman's estate. Drinking his bottle there instead I assume. I believed their friendship came to an end recently due to their separate ways."

"Was there a fight between the two on that last day?" D'Artagnan inserted himself in the conversation.

"Ohhhhh," The man let out a long breath, "You know how it goes when a man's lips touches the bottle."

"That doesn't answer our question," Athos said slowly while blinking his eyes and looking rather annoyed at the man.

The tavern owner started to stand up from his seat. "I answered enough of your questions. Drinks are on the house for you all, if you leave me be. Please, I have a business to run."

When owner stood up fully from his seat, the musketeers of four stood up as one along with him.

"Thank you for your time Monsieur, but we politely decline your offer," Athos spoke on account for his friends who looked as if they were willing to accept the sir's kind gesture.

Their faces told him that they quietly wished that their designated leader would say yes after the long morning they endured already, but Athos' face didn't change as the decision he made still took preeminence. Without a word, his eyes told them to step outside. And they obeyed without question. He waited for his men to excuse themselves fully from the table and exit the tavern's walls, before reaching again behind his back for more of his coins in the small purse he carried. Athos then placed another portion in the hands of the tavern keeper.

"Keep silent," He spoke quietly, but forcefully hoping that the man knew just how serious he really was. "I trust that you completely understand not to speak of this affair to anyone else, or I WILL take the opportunity to kill you for your participation."

The man took of the coins and nodded quickly saying nothing. Athos distinctly knew that the man would keep his word for the time being. The man's frightened expressions gave him a certain confirmation.

Athos slightly bowed his head concluding the matter between them and stepped outside into the afternoon sunlight.

"What did you do?" d'Artagnan asked as his returned mentor untied his steed from the wooden rail and climbed up on its back.

"Couldn't be trusted," Athos said wryly, causing the youngest to lower his eyebrows and stare hard at his face, looking for confirmation of some sort of joke. After a second of silence Athos slightly smiled as the young musketeer seemed to have believed the sarcasm that he loved to produce once in a while to be true.

"Filled his pockets with coin," Athos finished answering after enjoying the moment.

d'Artagnan sighed, being relieved to some extent that Athos was bluffing.

Porthos laughed and sent a hard smack to the back of d'Artagnan. "You should 'ave seen your face. 'ilarious."

D'Artagnan cringed as the received wave of pain spread across his back. "Hilarious," he muttered between clenched teeth. Porthos' hand would clearly leave a mark for a day or two.

"So you think, per say, that this letter Elloy received was a threatening one?" Aramis asked openly; trying to ease back into the mission at hand.

"Possibly," Athos answered looking deep in thought.

"Then why did Elloy receive that note on the night Gifford was murdered? Why not the other way around?"

"Maybe the killer is communicating early on with his targets, before 'e kills 'em," Porthos added. "Gifford might 'ave received one earlier on then."

Aramis' face lit up. "What if the murderer chooses his next target before killing the previous one? Hmmm. So yesterday night being the day of his most recent murder, means that the next victim..."

"Already received a note," d'Artagnan cut him off sounding a bit darkened by the idea.

"If there is a next victim," Athos reminded them. "Although we should perceive that there might be one, we cannot be sure that there is, let alone, if that note was threatening in any manner. But..." He took a breath that could clearly be seen in the winter air. "We need to follow up on it nevertheless."

Aramis pulled up on his horse and turned around to fully face his comrades. "What about the inn near Whitman's estate? That's quite a journey for practically the same bottle that you would get here, don't you think? Who was Gifford hiding from?"

"If the two men fought about somethin', that would be a reason to create their space," Porthos hinted.

Leaning downward on his horse, Athos didn't answer for a number of seconds while he seemed to ponder an idea.

"That's why d'Artagnan and I will head out there tonight," He finally spoke, "And see what clues we can pick up from Gifford's last known location. You two are returning to the garrison."

"Were spilttin' up?" Porthos forehead creased.

"If there is a threat out for our next victim by a letter, Treville needs to know. So yes we are."

D'Artagnan moved his horse closer to Athos', already ready to follow his friend. "Let's say that the note had already been received by a musketeer in the regiment. Wouldn't he have said something about it this morning?" He paused as more questions troubled him. "Even Gifford and Elloy. Why didn't they mention that they were being targeted?"

"If it's a threatenin' note, there must 'ave been a good reason to keep their traps shut about it," Porthos imputed.

"Well make sure the next one talks, before they no longer can," Athos ordered causally.

"We'll make 'im cooperate."

"Then, dear Porthos," Aramis turned his horse around facing the opposite direction of the estate that lay miles down the same street, "We need to go back home and find a note with a black spot on it."

Athos grabbed Aramis' shoulder before he got out of reach. "And Aramis...no brothels."

Aramis patted the gloved hand on his shoulder and gave him reassurance through his brooding smile. Athos didn't return the smile.

Porthos also reassured his worried friend. "We'll 'andle it. Now you take care of yourselves." With a bow of his head he turned his horse around, sided it next to his friend's, then kicked the animal under him sending him down the Paris street at a frightful speed. Aramis followed suit and with a small tip of his hat, he sent his goodbye. They both vanished out of sight as they took the bend to the left.

When they were out of view, Athos tapped on his leather saddle bag near his side while looking at their youngest recruit, "I have papers that logged all Gifford and Elloy's activities since last spring. Looking at those might hint us toward finding a grudge holder, as you theorized. But first..." He pulled his cloak over his head as the sun reflected brightly in front of them, "We have a long ride."

With a kick, both horses were off in the opposite direction of their friends, picking up the settled dirt on the stone floors and leaving the street corner filled with only the normal hum of a busy shopping day and the loud chatter of the tavern patrons echoing down the alleyways of Paris.