Burning Up And Hidden Words

Porthos kept his eyes trained on the priest in the pulpit as Philip's mother seemingly howled her lungs out in the front pew, drowning out much of what was being said. At second woman smothered in black placed her hand of the Lady Isabelle's shoulder and began to talk in whispers, her words clearly doing nothing to stem the hysterical woman's tears. In the pulpit the priest did his best to keep going with the service, despite most of his words drowning beneath Lady Isabelle's vocals.

"Such a terrible accident..." he droned, attempting to lift his voice above the noise yet again. "Taken from this life so young... a life so full of opportunity, nobility and bravery..."

At the back Porthos scowled, not noticing when Aramis slid in beside him, hat clutched in one hand and the other hidden within the folds of his jacket.

"The misery of losing one's child," whispered Aramis, causing Porthos to flinch and reach for his sword.

"You're done?" Porthos asked, recovering himself quickly. His hand fell away from his sword and he returned to leaning against the wall with his arms crossed across his chest.

"Someone had been in there before me," Aramis said. "Someone seemed to have been rather overzealous in their attempts to remove any trace of evidence that may have been in the young Philip's writings."

He passed across a burnt scrap of paper, keeping his eyes trained on the front pews of the church as Porthos took it off him. Porthos squinted at the scrap no bigger than the palm of his hand and turned it slowly to see if the angle might translate the nonsense scribbled charred paper.

"What is it?" he asked, flipping it over quickly and then looking towards Aramis confused. "I can't make a damn thing out."

"That's my point," Aramis said. "The fireplace was full of such scraps, all burnt and all useless. I doubt most of it had anything to do with d'Artagnan or the reason for his attack, but whoever ransacked young Philip's room decided better safe than sorry and made sure he destroyed anything he could."

"So you found nothing," Porthos scowled, the charred paper crumpling beneath his fingers as they curled into a fist. "What are we meant to do now then?"

"Oh I wouldn't say we have nothing," said Aramis, one hand still resting inside his jacket. It was the sort of sentence that should have been accompanied by a smile but Aramis' features remained grey and drawn. "There was a loose floorboard next to the fireplace," he said, the tendons in his arm twitching as he altered his grip on something hidden.

"So the bastard who burnt the papers wasn't as clever as he thought." Porthos grinned; hope finding its way back into his eyes. "What did you find?"

Aramis pulled his hand from his jacket, drawing out a small pocket book bound in black leather and embossed with Philip's family crest.

"He kept a diary," Aramis said. "But you're not going to like what it says."

Shrike swallowed a groan as his knees pooped beneath his weight and he slumped against the alley wall he'd just jumped from. Safely away from the mansion of that useless kid he took a moment to remember where he was and then took off at a jog. Checking back over his shoulder every now and again that whoever had come sneaking into the boy's room during the funeral wasn't following behind.

Shirke bloody hated Paris; hated any city for that matter. They all stank and everywhere you looked there was someone leaning out of a window or against a doorway watching you and everything you did. Cities held too many watchers. People who could land you in the sort of trouble that Shrike prided himself on keeping out of. By the time you knew someone was onto you it was too late to kill them off quietly and there would be someone else on your tail chasing you to the next stinking, mountain of bricks. The sooner he could be out of Paris the better.

Slowing to a walk he focused on levelling out his breathing and dropped his hands down to his sides, allowing them to swing loosely as he saunter around corners and pulled his lips into a leering smile for the washer women cluttering the streets. He was getting closer to the markets by now, the noise of hagglers creeping closer with each step.

"Take the next left," said the hooded figure that had slipped into step with Shrike somehow unnoticed. "You've been given orders."

Shrike snorted loudly, ignoring the looks it drew from the thickening crowds and he pressed forward into the centre of Paris.

"The boy's as good as dead," he growled, scowling at the way the cloaked figure managed to slip through the heaving bodies as if they weren't there.

"As good as isn't dead," the figure replied. "The Circle want dead as in dead, not as in almost or on the way."

"So what am I meant to do about it?" asked Shrike. "Those musketeers won't let anyone near one of their own, especially the three he hangs out with. Getting to him will be damn near impossible, and pointless seeing as he'll be dead by the end of the week."
The fabric across the figure's shoulders moved and Shrike got a glimpse of a long, bent nose as the figure's shrug caused the hood to shift slightly.

"The Circle are less than confident with your abilities with poison."

Shrike spat, hitting a young woman full in the face as she made to dash past him. She made to yell but was quickly carried off by the crowds.

"They gave me the bloody poison," growled Shrike. "If it's anyone's fault the boy survived this long it's theirs."
"They won't appreciate that," said the figure, and Shrike was given the impression that figure smiled as he spoke. "They won't appreciate that at all."

Athos brushed his hand against d'Artagnan's skin and winced at the heat pressing against his touch.

"He's getting worse," he said, speaking to the empty room and forgetting that Aramis had left with Porthos that morning to help with the investigation. That had been in the early hours but now the sun sank lower and dark clouds were rolling in from the horizon. d'Artagnan whimpered in his sleep as the thunder crept closer.

"So let me get this straight," said Porthos, leading Aramis through the warren of streets better known as the Court of Miracles. In front of them a child no older than seven scampered forward, his face smeared with mud as he led them towards the spot where Flee would be waiting. She'd sent word. Someone had seen something and they'd want to hear about it.

"You're telling me that all we know is Philip was working for someone else. We don't know who, we don't know why and we don't know what this other party would get out of killing d'Artagnan. So really, we know the same amount as we did before you found the boy's journal."

"We have a description Porthos," soothed Aramis. "It's a small improvement on the information we had already but an improvement none the less."
"It's useless if the guy's already gone!"
"Well let's hope he's still in Paris then," said Aramis. "If not we'll hunt him past the edges of this world and the next."

Flee wasn't stupid. She knew her numbers and she knew her letters, Porthos had taught her the basics before he'd left and afterwards she'd managed to teach herself the rest of what she managed to learn. It wasn't the most useful skill in the Court but she was proud, especially when it gave her an edge over those who did think she was just some idiot, thief girl from the rot of Paris.

The city had been alive with chatter over the young Musketeers nearly killed by the noble boy who'd then tragically fallen to his death when walking in ruins close to the outskirts. Flee kept her mouth shut and listened to the chatter, nodding now and again as others passed by her, each dropping something new and different for Flee to consider.

"I can't find a name," she said, running one hand through her hair as she spoke to Porthos and his friend. They were stood in the same room that Porthos had been brought to when they snatched him from the court house and his impending execution. "She's a ghost," Flee said.

"What has this woman got to do with d'Artagnan and that attack?" Aramis asked, he glanced around uneasily, not seeing anyone in the room with them but not foolish enough to believe that there wouldn't be someone listening at the doorway.

Flee shrugged.

"She's muttered about by only a few, and those are not the sort of people you want to be having dealings with. They are the most dangerous of the dangerous and if they ever had morals to begin with then they sold them at the first opportunity."

"But she wants d'Artagnan dead?" Porthos was more at home than Aramis, the Court didn't hold the same threats that Aramis saw.

"Not kill, capture," said Flee. "Whoever tried to kill d'Artagnan would seem to be working towards hurting her plans in some way. How d'Artagnan ties in with those is anyone's guess. Perhaps something from his past come back to haunt him."

Aramis shook his head.

"He's a farm boy from Gascony. I doubt there is much in his past that would warrant such associations."

"People can surprise you," Flee replied. "They might be connections of his father."

"A possibility I suppose," said Aramis. "However we know as little about the man as we do about the current situation and the only one who could illuminate us about the first currently lies delirious with fever."

"He grows worse then?" asked Flee.

"By each hour," said Aramis.

Nodding Flee turned her back on the two musketeers and wandered closer to the window.

"Do you remember The Dark Ember?" she asked, causing Porthos' frown to deepen.

"Only by reputation, same as most people."

"Well that's where you need to start," said Flee. "A few that I spoke to called her the Siren but she goes by other names just as often. Be careful, for all accounts there are few that survive searching for her and none who survive finding her."

"Perhaps they did not have the right motivation," replied Porthos, already leading Aramis out of the door.

I meant to have this chapter up much sooner but life is a chaotic thing and for three quarters of a week the chapter stood half finished on my laptop staring at me solemnly. I hope you enjoyed reading the piece and please leave a review if you have the time. I know vaguely where this plot is going but who knows what will happen between now and the final fifth segment!