Athos stared down into the snowy valley, peering through the scarf he had wrapped around his face under the hood of his cloak. The town of Susa lay below them, nestled against the foothills of the mountains between two merging rivers. It had taken over a week of hard travel from Paris and harrassment from Spanish mountain patrols to reach their destination, and now the strongest thing that Athos felt was the need to park himself in front of a blazing hearth to thaw his extremities. If it had been cold in Paris, then it was glacial in the mountains. Glancing at Porthos, Athos slowly followed the other Musketeer down the trail towards the town. No words were spoken between them, which suited Athos.

He still wasn't quite certain what had prompted him to accompany Porthos on this madman's journey. He recalled the surprised look on the big man's face when he'd offered, and he remembered feeling quite shocked about it himself. The rational part of Athos' mind knew that their chances of recovering Aramis were slim, and that he had most likely been taken prisoner. Or was dead. Porthos' faith in his friend's ability to survive was admirable, but ultimately misguided.

So why did you follow him all the way to this foreign land? To help him bring home a corpse? A vision of the marksman, pale and deathly still, flashed across Athos' mind. But the image wasn't of his dead body. It was from a few months ago, when he'd been captured by a small group of restless Huguenots. Athos knew without a doubt that if he had been the one to be swallowed by a mission deep in hostile territory, Aramis would have come for him, likely dragging Porthos in his wake.

In spite of himself, Athos liked Aramis. He found himself orbiting around both Aramis and Porthos, and each revolution brought him closer to the center where these two men lived, like water circling a drain. He supposed it was inevitable that he would eventually get drawn in, ensnared by Aramis' persistent charm and generous spirit. When the need for company struck Athos on rare moments, he knew that the marksman would welcome him without question. Porthos, on the other hand, had warmed to Athos in the past few months but still watched him a wary edge, as if he expected Athos to suddenly decide that he was too good for their company. The former comte suspected that Porthos might think the reverse was true if he knew about the ugliness that lay in Athos' recent past.

Another hour of travel and it was midafternoon when they reached their destination. It was a reasonably sized town, with its center dominated by a large squat church with a single high tower. It was a well-protected place, with mountains at its back and a large garrison by the river, both guarding Susa from enemies without and within. Despite the unpleasant weather, the streets were crowded with people engaging in their daily business, oblivious or uncaring of the fat snowflakes swirling in the air. Athos pulled his horse alongside Porthos as they rode down a broad avenue.

"Should we find an inn?" he asked, his voice muffled by his scarf.

Porthos gave him a sidelong glance and shook his head. "You can if you'd like. I am going to try and find Tréville's contact," he said. "Assuming he is still here." A scowl decorated Porthos' face, as it had for most of the journey to Susa. Unlike Athos, Porthos' head was uncovered save for his hat, and the swordsman was not certain that his companion even felt the cold.

"I can accompany you," Athos offered.

"No, we split up. I want to cover as much ground as we can as quickly as possible. If Aramis is here, we are going to find him." If he is still alive. Those words went unspoken. Porthos twisted around in his saddle, glancing at the buildings around them and frowning when he realized he could not read any of the signs. "Do any of these places look like a tavern?"

Athos performed a similar survey. His education had afforded him a rudimentary understanding of both Spanish and Italian, and he sincerely hoped that his command of either language would not be seriously tested. One swinging wooden plaque read "La Capra di Montagna" in large block letters with "cibo e birra" written in smaller script underneath. He pointed at the small stone building to which the sign was attached. "That seems promising," he said.

Porthos raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting. Athos knew that both Porthos and Aramis suspected his noble background, and he had not disabused them of the notion. Athos was aware that he carried himself differently from commoners, and as much as he disavowed his past it was not something he could remove from his blood or his bearing.

"I will meet you at that place at sunset. We can decide what to do next then," Porthos said. With a short nod, Athos headed east as Porthos headed west, and the two Musketeers parted ways.

Athos headed towards the outskirts of town where the buildings thinned and the bustle of life became quieter. He housed his horse at a nearby stable, preferring to search on foot. Athos saw no reason to call attention to himself, especially if he was trying to find a fugitive. Tréville's account suggested that Aramis would have been alone and fleeing from capture for a week or two, and Athos realized that the odds of the marksman's survival would be low. However, despite the carefree exterior that Aramis presented to the world, Athos knew first-hand that a resolute survivor lurked under the marksman's jovial surface. The man had fought wars, endured massacres, and had managed to emerge on the other side with his innate decency intact. His own trials seemed petty and trivial by comparison, but he thought that Aramis might be the first to disagree should Athos ever divulge his past. It is not a contest to see who can be most miserable, Athos, he could almost hear the marksman admonish. Besides, who would want to win such a thing?

The Musketeer wandered in and out of some buildings that appeared unoccupied, searching the corners and shadows for signs that might point to his missing comrade. He assumed that Aramis would have chosen to stay away from any inns or similar establishments to decrease chances of recognition and collateral damage. All Athos managed to find was a few beggars that had taken shelter from the cold.

As the sun began its descent, Athos made his way back towards the center of the town. A young woman approached Athos, her prematurely lined face covered with heavy makeup. She shivered in her skimpy dress and cloak even as she gave Athos a coy smile.

"You look like you need someone to keep you warm tonight, sir," she purred, her voice surprisingly rich. Athos did not understand her words completely, but he certainly understood her intentions. As he looked past the girl, his gaze snagged on the imposing cathedral, and it loomed above them as if in disapproval of the prostitute's request. Athos shook his head in refusal and began to walk away before the working girl could respond. In times of trouble, Aramis would often seek comfort in his faith. Athos felt somewhat foolish that it had taken so long to recognize the most obvious potential refuge.

Pulling open the heavy wooden doors, Athos walked into the cathedral. He was not a religious man, but at the moment he was thankful for the opportunity to escape the gusting winds that swirled through the town. As he walked down the center aisle that cut between the rows and rows of well-worn pews, he could almost imagine Aramis doing the same. Despite his troubles, Athos had never considered turning to religion for guidance. He'd known too many pious hypocrites to find the notion appealing. Athos stared up at the sculpture of a crucified Christ that was displayed prominently above the altar. During his childhood he had watched as fellow noblemen prayed fervently under statues such as this even as they beat their servants and neglected their people. Athos found more honest comfort at the bottom of a wine bottle.

"May I help you?"

A voice from from the darkness startled Athos from his contemplation. A round-faced man dressed in the robes of a priest emerged the shadows.

"Ah...perhaps you can."

The priest looked at him consideringly. "Your Latin is excellent."

"Thank you." Athos didn't offer any explanation. His wariness of the church had not excused him from childhood lessons in catechism and Latin. He studied the priest, who looked at him with a relaxed and friendly expression. Athos wondered if he could trust the man, but then decided that any information about Aramis was worth the risk. His questions would not make the priest more or less likely to betray them, and if trouble was close, then knowing Aramis, he had already found it.

"What can I help you with?"

"I am looking for a friend. Have you seen anyone recently that you do not recognize?"

The priest smiled. "Many travelers come through Susa. You will have to be more specific."

"He is about my height, with dark, curling hair and dark eyes. He looks like he has Spanish blood."

"But is French like yourself?" the priest asked shrewdly.

Athos was startled but thought he hid it well. "Yes." He did not see any point in lying about it.

"Your Latin has a French flavor to it," the priest explained. "What is your friend's name?"

"Aramis."

The priest pursed his lips as he thought. "I have not encountered anyone with such a name. However, there was a man in here that fit your description. He went by the name Renato; I thought he might have been a vagrant, but his manner indicated otherwise."

Renato. It was close enough to Aramis' given name that he felt a sudden, wild hope surging within him. "When? When was he here?"

"Last night. I offered him shelter but he refused."

Athos understood. "Do you know where he went?"

"I am afraid I do not. I'm sorry." The priest looked genuinely regretful.

It was unfortunate, but more than Athos could have hoped for. "It is enough to know that he was here. How was he? Was he injured in any way?"

The priest slowly shook his head. "I did not see anything obvious, but he looked like a man that was in desperate need of a friend. I hope you find him soon."

"I hope so too. Thank you for your help." Athos gave the priest a shallow bow and strode out of the church, anxious to share his news with Porthos.

He made his way back to La Capra di Montagna, noting that the sun had already set. Deep twilight settled over the town and the temperature had dropped several degrees. He entered the tavern and found that it was packed full. The rich smell of salted beef stew liberally seasoned with dried herbs assaulted his nose along with the sharp, fruity scent of alcohol. The establishment was small, but clearly popular. Athos found Porthos waiting for him at a table in the back, nursing a mug of ale and staring off into nowhere.

"You're late," he said as Athos approached.

"My apologies. I had good reason." Athos took a seat and was pleased to find that Porthos had already ordered food and wine for him. He poured a healthy measure of the wine into his glass and drank it all down. It had been a while since he had indulged, and the alcohol felt good as it slid warmly down his throat.

"Did you find something?" Porthos leaned forward, his voice low and urgent.

"A priest at the cathedral claims to have met someone last night who fits Aramis' description."

"Is he still there?" The big man was already half out of his chair as Athos rolled his eyes.

"I would not have come here alone if he had been," Athos said dryly.

"Damn." Porthos sat heavily. "Did he know where Aramis went?"

"No."

"Is he still in Susa?"

"I don't know."

"God, Athos. Did you find out anything useful?" Porthos asked, his expression profoundly irritated.

Athos raised an equally irritated eyebrow. "I know that he is still alive."

The big Musketeer exhaled loudly. "That he is."

"At least as of last night, yes. The priest seemed to think Aramis was whole and physically unharmed, but perhaps not in the best state."

Porthos heaved another big sigh and folded his arms on the table. He leaned over and bounced his forehead against his clasped hands. "Damn, damn, damn." Porthos looked up at Athos. "We should search the town again."

Athos picked up his spoon. "Eat, and then we can go."

The other Musketeer frowned impatiently at him. "How can you think of eating right now?"

The former comte took a bite of the slowly cooling stew. It was every bit as good as the smell promised. "We have not eaten all day. You will do Aramis no good if you're distracted by your hunger. This will take no longer than five minutes." As if to reinforce Athos' point, Porthos' stomach contributed a loud grumble.

With an unhappy glare, first at Athos and then at the bowl of steaming food, Porthos picked up his own spoon and began to shovel the stew into his mouth. Athos absently marveled at how quickly his companion could eat without choking.

"Did you find Tréville's contact?" Athos asked.

"No. I left a message, though."

"Will he know how to find us?"

Porthos shrugged. "I don't know. At least he knows we are here, now." The big man sighed as he threw his spoon into his empty bowl. "I'm worried," he muttered. The admission was significant.

"I am too," Athos replied softly. "But we will find him. We are close, Porthos."

Porthos inhaled deeply and nodded. It had been the right thing to say. Athos imagined that Aramis would have approved. "We will. If he is still alive, we will find him," the big man said firmly. "I know it."

Athos drained the rest of his wine and they left the tavern, intent on scouring the town once more before retiring for the night. A man approached them as they stepped back into the cold, although 'man' might have been a generous description. To Athos, he seemed more like a bundle of rags with arms and feet.

"Good night to you, sirs. Might I have a moment of your time?"

Athos shook his head. We had a vague idea of what the beggar was saying, but was not interested in prolonging their interaction. He moved to push past the vagrant when a hand whipped out and gripped his arm tightly. Before Athos could free himself, the vagrant yanked and drew Athos in close.

"I have something that might be of interest to you." The whisper in his ear was spoken in perfect French.

"What did you say?" He snatched his arm away and took a step back. In a small corner of his mind, he noted that the beggar smelled clean, rather than of unwashed filth.

"You are looking for someone, correct?"

"Who the hell are you?" Porthos rumbled from behind Athos' shoulder.

The vagrant merely raised his eyebrows. His rags ruffled and revealed a pistol. It was not cocked nor was it held in a threatening manner. Moonlight gleamed on the elaborate weapon and Athos stiffened. He knew this gun.

With a growl, Porthos shoved Athos out of the way and took a fistful of the beggar's cloak. He lifted the man and pinned him against the cold stone wall of the tavern.

"Where did you get that? Answer me carefully, for your life depends on it," Porthos hissed through clenched teeth.

"It was left behind in the street. I merely picked it up," the vagrant said. He grinned at Porthos. "This is quite the reception. I thought you would be pleased to meet me."

"Who are you?" Porthos asked again. Athos could tell by the deepening of Porthos' voice that he was starting to become very agitated. It did not bode well for the man in his grip.

"Poulain, at your service," he grinned again. Athos could see the deep lines at the corners of the man's cold, cunning eyes. It was obvious at this point that Poulain was not a poor beggar. "I believe we have mutual acquaintances."

"You are Tréville's friend," Porthos said. He released Poulain, who landed lightly on his feet.

Poulain sniffed. "Hardly a friend. The man has had a leash around my neck because of some noble thing he did years ago. He has finally given me a way to be rid of it."

Athos ignored the man's explanation. "Where did you get that pistol?"

"Ah, yes." The man held it out, and Porthos snatched the weapon away, cradling it in his hands like a precious jewel. "I will tell you, but I can hardly think in the cold. There is a comfortable inn just down the street." With that, Poulain turned on his heel and walked away, clearly expecting Athos and Porthos to follow. The two Musketeers glanced at each other and took after the strange man.

The three men took refuge in small room on the second floor of the inn. Athos and Porthos waited impatiently as Poulain took the time to build a fire in the hearth. As annoyed as Athos was at the delay, he privately admitted that he was grateful for the warmth.

"There. Now we may speak openly." Poulain seated himself on the only chair in he room, pulling it close to the fireplace. The two Musketeers elected to remain standing.

"How did you come to possess Aramis' gun?" Athos folded his arms, staring flatly at Poulain.

"Aramis. That's what his name was," Poulain murmured to himself. "As I said, I found it in the street. Your friend Aramis dropped it when he was attacked."

Athos felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. "He was attacked?"

"Yes. Captured. Thrown into a cart and hauled back to Milan like a lamb to be slaughtered for a feast."

"By whom?" Porthos was practically vibrating with tension.

"By Spanish soldiers, working for someone named Bianchi, apparently. They seemed quite eager to catch him."

Athos frowned. "And you know this how?"

"I watched it all from a window. It had an excellent view."

"You didn't help him?" The fury in Porthos' voice was clear, and Athos couldn't disagree with it.

Poulain scoffed. "Of course not. Two against eight are no better odds than one against eight."

"So you simply let him be captured? You didn't even try? You coward!" Porthos' fists clenched and Athos could sense impending violence.

Poulain's cheery demeanor vanished in an eyeblink. "You listen to me, Musketeer," he said flatly. "If your friend was stupid enough to be caught, that is not my problem. I owe him nothing, and I owe you nothing. All I owe is a favor to Tréville, and by sitting here and passing on this information, I have fulfilled my obligation. Be grateful for what I am giving you."

A long moment of silence stretched between the three men. Poulain calmly sat back in his chair with his hands folded while Porthos glared daggers at the ragged man. The big Musketeer's chest was heaving with rage.

"I am assuming Aramis was still alive," Athos finally said. He held his breath until Poulain answered.

"Of course he was," the spy said disdainfully. "They would not have bothered with the wagon if he hadn't been."

"Do you know which trail they took?" Athos asked.

Poulain shrugged. "There is only one trail east that can be traveled by a cart. It goes to Torino."

Athos glanced at Porthos and discreetly placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his arm. "We know where they are going. We know where Aramis is. We will get him back, Porthos." The big man did not respond but he also did not shake Athos' hand off, which the swordsman decided to take as a positive sign. "Porthos."

"We leave tonight. I want to get to Aramis as quickly as possible."

Poulain laughed derisively. "You are just as likely to kill yourselves wandering around in the night. These mountains are not kind to travelers at this time of year. Especially when those travelers are soft and inexperienced."

"I am not leaving him in the hands of those soldiers for a minute longer that I have to," Porthos growled.

Poulain airily waved his hand. "Go on, then. Whether you live or die is no concern of mine."

Athos studied the strange little man. "Would you be willing to come with us?" Porthos was a fine warrior, and Athos was confident in his own skills, but he had to agree with Poulain. Two against eight, especially in unknown terrain, were not favorable odds.

"Absolutely not," Poulain immediately replied. "But I will give you a piece of advice. Wait until tomorrow morning. The Spaniards will have stopped for the night, and they will move at a snail's pace because of the prisoner cart. Even with a day's head start, you can overtake them easily, but not if you are fumbling around in the dark. Visit the stables on the west side of the town. They have fine horses that can carry even the greenest of riders safely through these mountains." Poulain stood and stretched. "As pleasant as this has been, I have other, more important matters to attend. If you manage to somehow survive and return to Paris, tell Tréville that we are done and that I never want to hear from him again." With that, the bundle of rags whisked himself from the room and slammed the door shut as he left.

"What an odd and unpleasant man," Athos murmured. He turned to Porthos. "He does make a good point, however."

Porthos' hands clenched into fists. "I don't want to wait."

"Neither do I. But we will do Aramis no good if we are dead. Or lost."

"We took too long. We shouldn't have stopped at that damn garrison. We would have gotten here on time if we hadn't."

Athos suppressed a sigh. He and Porthos had stopped at the garrison in Briançon to rest and restock some of their supplies. Could they have made it to Susa before Aramis was captured if they had not? "We are only a day behind, Porthos, and we know where they are taking him. We are close, but we will not be of any use if we are lost. Or dead."

Porthos blew out a breath, angry fire still dancing in his eyes. "Fine. We leave at dawn."

The comte nodded in agreement. He doubted either of them would be getting much sleep that night.

tbc

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