Chapter Three

"Right intelligent of you," Porthos growled as the carriage rolled away and the grooms who'd taken their horses rounded the corner to the stables behind the Rathaus, "making accusations about the lady in front of her servants." He cuffed Aramis none to gently. "Stupidty runnin' in the ranks tonight or something? Me 'n d'Artagnan are goin' to bed, the two of you need to work out your differences down here so you're not disturbin' us."

"There is nothing to work out. Aramis is right, I was wrong, that's the end of it." Athos did not know if he could make it to the top of the stairs but he started up anyway, forcing his booted feet to lift for each step.

Aramis mounted the stairs behind his friends locked in a frosty silence, though his righteous indignation was beginning to cool. The comte's very nature was reflective; deftness was the man's middle name. For Athos to cut their hostess so directly, Madam Joos had to have grossly exceeded the bounds of propriety.

But their leader so rarely misstepped the shock had jarred the marksman clear to his toes.

And Athos, who had a spine of steel, was drooping. Aramis caught up, ignoring d'Artagnan's scowl. The healer's eye assessed the sweat trickling down the temple and along the firmly set jaw into the neatly trimmed beard, the unusual glitter in the narrowed eyes, the unbuttoned shirt plastered like a second skin to the heaving chest.

"I don't understand what happened tonight, but then just when I think I've gotten a handle on you, your behavior makes a sudden, strange shift."

"I am a puzzle box in need of your witch doctoring."

Aramis huffed for form's sake, though he recognized the peace offering. There was a bedrock foundation of self-sufficiency at the core of the comte; asking for help did not come easily. It was his turn to bend accordingly. "I'll be up shortly," he stated, veering off without explanation.

Athos stopped to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

"Where's he going?" d'Artagnan, hovering next to Athos, turned to watch Aramis' departure.

"Probably on some doctorly errand." Porthos was already at the top of the stairs. "You gonna make it?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Of course I'm going to make it."

"Wasn't talkin' to you, youngling."

Athos did not deign to answer, just started up the stairs again, trying not to pant.

Porthos had every candle in the apartment lit by the time Athos and d'Artagnan reached the suite. Athos, peeling off sweat-soaked clothing the moment the door closed behind d'Artagnan, headed directly to the bed chamber.

By the time Aramis entered with a train of night servants, two of whom carried a large wooden tub, followed by several more bearing buckets of steaming, hot water, Athos was down to his smalls. The succession of menials muscled the bath into the bedchamber shared by Athos and d'Artagnan, set it up, scrubbed and rinsed it quickly, then poured a dozen buckets of steaming water into the newly clean bath.

This was accomplished with a minimum of fuss and total silence among the servants, who filed out, stacking their empty buckets in the hall before dispersing in different directions as Porthos closed the sitting room door.

"In the tub," Aramis ordered, when Athos would have ignored the entire retinue and fallen into bed. "That fever wants breaking."

"Tomorrow -" Athos attempted.

"Tomorrow we will make your excuses when we attend services with Herr Venner and his wife. You will be in bed, Monsieur le Comte."

"I'd forgotten that is on our schedule." Athos did not protest, though it was not in his nature to back down from a fight. If he did not rest, he would be useless at the negotiating table come Monday morning.

Aramis' pointing finger brooked no further argument. "I should have made you go to bed when we arrived. Perhaps, had you been yourself, tonight's disaster would not have happened."

"Ehh - we don't know it's a disaster yet. Let's not be countin' chickens - or angry Venners - before they appear." Porthos assisted Athos into the tub as d'Artagnan began laying Athos' wet garments over furniture to dry. "Though I'd like'ta be a fly on the Joos' bedchamber wall t'night. M'be she likes it when he's mad."

Athos sank chin deep in the wonderfully hot water. Aramis went to root out his doctoring kit and a very few moments later, poured a couple of vials of oil into the water, emptying a third that held a crystal form of some medicinal, swishing it around so the still rising steam took on a pungent aroma that - Athos found - instantly made it easier to breathe.

"I recognize peppermint, what's the other smell?" d'Artagnan, finished with his valet duties, was stripping out of his own finery.

"Camphor," Aramis replied, kneeling before the hearth. "You might want to sleep in the other room with Porthos tonight."

"Why?"

Aramis twitched back a smile; there was still a lot of youngster in their baby Musketeer. Picking up the flint and steel laid on the hearth, he struck sparks to the already set kindling. "It's going to be hot in here."

Athos, the back of his neck propped on a thick cloth conveniently laid over the edge of the tub, was practically asleep. The combination of aromatic steam and nearly scalding hot water was working its magic, the surcease of his various aches and pains engendering a kind of lethargy his body had not experienced in days.

"Plannin' on roastin' 'em like a pig?" Porthos inquired from the doorway.

"He'll certainly be tender enough to eat by the time he's cooked sufficiently to break that fever." Aramis waited for the flames to begin licking at the logs he'd propped upright against each other before adding more kindling and another pair of logs.

d'Artagnan's face was a picture - somewhere between wryly amused and speculatively wary. "I've fallen in with a group of West Indies Caribs."

"Probably tastes like old shoe leather," Porthos said, "I'm not inclined to try him."

"Where did you learn of Caribs?" Aramis asked curiously.

d'Artagnan fished in the messy bed linens for his parrying dagger as he perched on the edge of his bed to pull off his boots. "Even in Lupiac we have stories to scare children into good behavior. I imagine the tale of the Spanish crew eaten by the Caribs will still be being told when my children's children are ancient." He sliced through the knotted thread holding the rosettes in place, cutting a glance at Porthos as he did so. "I'm not wearing these every day." Nor ever again his expressive face added without benefit of the extra verbiage.

Porthos just shoved his hands up under his arms as d'Artagnan was wont to do when feeling insecure, though on the large Musketeer the action looked more like restraint than inhibition. "You'll keep 'em in a safe place for the next time we need'ta wear fancy togs."

d'Artagnan blinked, but refrained from rolling his eyes and stashed them under his pillow. "Safe enough?"

"You're lucky 'm too tired to give you a lesson in manners, monsieur saucebox. You keep it up 'n we'll take back the hat." The twinkle in the big man's eyes belied the serious tone he employed. "What more do ya need us to do, Aramis?" he asked, keeping his voice lowered in deference to their sleeping companion.

"Nothing. Go to bed, no use all of us staying up the rest of the night. d'Artagnan will be sleeping in my bed." Aramis held up a hand at the first sound of protest. "Unless you want to share, since if I sleep, it will be in your bed."

"We can spell ya so you get some sleep too, just tell us what to do. Can't be that complicated, 'specially if all you're gonna do is pile blankets over 'em and keep the fire stoked. We're both capable of pouring any of your concoctions down his throat as well. 'Sides, I 'spect after tonight, Monsieur le Comte will be a little more cooperative - for awhile at least."

"He'd hate that we're talking about him when he's unaware like this," d'Artagnan observed, gaze straying to the man in the tub. Despite the initiative blood brother's speech Athos had delivered in their Dunkirk inn room on the return side of their jaunt to Calais, the Gascon was a little surprised the elder Musketeer had succumbed to the vulnerability of sleep under the circumstances, particularly with both of the others angry with him.

d'Artagnan, on his own, came to the recognition that this was one of those instances Athos would refer to a teachable moment. Despite their differences, despite the anger Athos' response to Madam Joos apparent incitement had evoked, these men trusted one another implicitly. Even when there were hotly contested differences of opinion, they still worked together like a well-oiled machine. The realization that he had already been included as an integral part of this close-knit group lit a small glow of unanticipated joy deep in the youthful heart.

"Go to bed, both of you," Aramis repeated, pulling at the foamy lace at his neck. "If I need reinforcements, I will wake one of you." He was used to night vigils, though, and had no intention of passing off this duty. He had discovered early on that a vulnerable Athos occasionally shared a piece or two of his soul under the influence of drugs. Being the repository of a few of those pieces already, Aramis, the healer, well knew the value their leader placed on his discretion.

"We been summarily dismissed, youngling." Porthos, the unequivocal, though undeclared, belle of the ball, had set aquiver innumerable feminine hearts, danced every dance, and left many a maid and her mother to share reminisces of his gallantries. The ermine mantle d'Aragnan had gone back to fetch lay abandoned in the sitting room of the suite and Porthos' dancing slippers were whimpering with exhaustion. He yawned hugely. "Come along then, I need 'elp wif this coat, can't get out of it by m'self."

"Mind the flowers under my pillow," d'Artagnan admonished Aramis, the yawn provoking an answering one from the youth. "Porthos will kill me if you lose them." His voice dropped to a whisper, "Though I would be forever grateful." Grinning, he scooted out the door, closing it softly behind himself.

They had wrestled Porthos out of his coat and both settled into bed when d'Artagnan popped up again, waking Porthos who had just dozed off.

"What the devil?" the big man grumbled, opening one eye to peer across the room lit only by the coals remaining in the fire place. But the youth was already gone.

d'Artagnan reappeared with the hat clutched to his bare chest.

"Oh you got to be kiddin' me," Porthos groaned. "You're not gonna sleep with it are ya?" Not being a man much given to pretense, the grin spreading across his countenance quickly gave lie to his growling. He was pleased as punch their puppy was enamored with the gift.

"Maybe. Athos does it all the time." d'Artagnan set the chapeau atop his clothes on the chair and returned to bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, though he propped the pillow under the back of his head so the last thing his drooping eyes would behold was that marvelous hat limned by firelight. And the first he'd see in the morning, positioned as it was to catch the morning light through the window. He fell asleep thinking about how much Constance would admire that hat.

Porthos was not long in following the youth down the dream path, though his thoughts as he drifted off were circling the mess they might well be in, despite his attempts to pour oil on troubled waters. Athos very rarely lost his temper, but when he did, the cleanup usually involved blood.

3/19 (The last chapter was finished and sent to the beta yesterday. My apologies, the story turned out to be only nineteen chapters.)


A/N Just wanted to leave a word of thanks to UK Guest, Beetle Girl, Troy08, and Guest for leaving love notes! Every review is treasured and hoarded and reread a thousand times, then printed out and saved with the story in a notebook for posterity. And under the Did You (Want to?) Know header - Modern puzzle boxes developed from furniture and jewelry boxes with secret compartments and hidden openings, known since renaissance time. - Wiki I looked it up before using Athos' reference to being a puzzle box.