CHAPTER 9

The three men went to Athos' rooms once more and even though they all knew it was a long shot, they each held a tiny spark of hope when they opened the door, they would find his piercing green eyes, moodily glaring at them for intruding upon his privacy. A collective, disappointed sigh escaped their lips when the room remained as it had been before, empty.

"So you took him home, put him to bed, then left," Aramis confirmed once again with Porthos, not because he had forgotten what had occurred, but because the silence in the room was creepy.

The burly man nodded in concurrence. "He was definitely sacked out when I left him."

Sweeping his eyes around Athos' spartan accommodations, Aramis took off his hat and twirled it in his hands. He noted Athos' weapons belt was still on the table and his doublet on a nearby chair.

d'Artagnan, who'd been wandering around the room righting all the knocked over wine bottles, confirmed their earlier hypothesis. "Every bottle is empty, so it is likely he did go out for more."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. The boy made a valid point. "I suppose," Aramis mused rubbing his chin, "if Athos' wits were still wine-addled enough..."

"He was really far gone," Porthos swiftly interjected. "It would have taken more than a few hours for him to sober up. More like a few days."

"...then I guess it is conceivable he could have left without his weapons," Aramis concluded.

"And his doublet," d'Artagnan pointed out lifting the garment off the chair upon which it resided.

Aramis continued along the logic path they were treading. "So where is the closest place one could get wine in the middle of the night?"

"Ole Deniaud's tavern is known to serve day or night. Not too far from here." Porthos gestured towards a southwesterly portion of the city, near the Court of Miracles.

D'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, as his face wrinkled into a frown. "I don't know that place."

Porthos gave a little chuckle. "Yeah, well it is not a place many people know about, and the people that frequent it, prefer it that way. Folks from the Court of Miracles mostly. I showed it to Athos a while back. I think he only went there when he was trying to avoid the Red Guard. It is not an establishment they ever go to, except for that one time, when they decided to try to shut it down." A small shudder rippled thru his frame. "It wasn't pretty... for the Red Guard that is."

The three musketeers left Athos' room and headed in the direction Porthos indicated, hoping someone at the tavern might have seen Athos. As they walked along the cobblestone streets, a young boy darted past them, nearly running into their legs. When the child almost tumbled to the ground, Porthos reached out a quick hand to steady the lad. "Watch where you're goin', boy," Porthos admonished gruffly, though not unkindly.

A strident voice rang out from behind them. "Hold him, the little thief. He stole from me!"

Porthos, who had been about to release the boy, kept his grip in place as a merchant, huffing and puffing, joined them.

"What seems to be the issue, Monsieur?" Aramis inquired politely of the out-of-breath shopkeeper.

"That brat," he gestured to the scruffy boy who was trying to wiggle out of Porthos' firm grasp, "stole a loaf of bread from me. And it's not the first time either, but it is his last! As the King's Musketeers, I demand you perform your duty and lock him up!"

Aramis peered down at the dirty boy, who had begun to quake in Porthos' grasp, and his eyes narrowed before he suddenly turned to face the merchant. "If I were to pay for what the boy has stolen, would you be willing to forget this incident?"

D'Artagnan and Porthos looked askance at Aramis, but a meaningful glance from their comrade had them remaining mute.

"And what guarantee do I have he won't come back tomorrow and steal from me again? If he is thrown in prison, I don't have to worry about that, do I." The merchant glowered at the street urchin, who had finally given up trying to struggle free and was dejectedly standing by the tall musketeer, eyes downcast.

"Oh I think," Aramis replied moving closer to the boy and casually draping a hand over his bony shoulder, "the lad has learned his lesson, realizes how lucky and merciful you are being, and will never bother you again, isn't that right, son?"

From under his mop of dark, stringy hair, the boy enthusiastically nodded.

"Here you go, good Sir." Reaching into his pouch, Aramis withdrew a few coins and handed them over. "I believe that should cover the bread and your inconvenience."

The merchant greedily took the coins and after giving the boy a final glare, walked back to his stall.

"So, other than feeling charitable, why did we bail out this street rat?" Porthos asked, his voice indicating he was pleased, but confused. The big man suspected the boy stole not to be malicious, but simply because he was starving. As a child of the streets, Porthos understood that driving factor, which made people do things simply to survive another day.

Aramis smiled kindly down the lad again. "Because now he owes us a favor." He gently took the boy by his bicep and led him over to a small, low, stone wall. Picking him up, he plopped the child on top of the structure so they were nearly eye to eye. "My name is Aramis and this is my friend Porthos and d'Artagnan. And who might you be?"

The boy peered at him with suspicion. "Nicolas," he grudgingly offered.

"Nicolas. And did you take the bread, Nicolas?" Aramis lightly questioned.

The boy dropped his filthy head towards his chest and shamefully nodded. "Aye. I was very hungry."

Aramis reached out a hand and placed it on the boy's slim shoulder. "We are Musketeers, in service of the King, and we are sworn to uphold the laws. The King does not approve of stealing," Aramis solemnly stated and the other Musketeers nodded gravely in agreement.

"King definitely don't like thieves," Porthos reinforced in his gravelly voice, with a slight scowl that didn't reach his eyes.

Aramis removed his hand from the boy and ran it over his chin in contemplation. "We should bring you to prison," and before he had even completed his sentence, the small boy began to tremble. "However, I think, if you help us, maybe, just this once, we could make an exception."

"How can I help?" the boy whispered, his eyes pleading with Aramis not to incarcerate him.

Aramis reached out his hand again, this time removing the scarf that was around the boy's waist. As he did, Porthos' eyes widened. "That's Athos'!"

"Can you tell us where you found this scarf, Nicolas? We believe it once belonged to a good friend of ours," Aramis said, as he ran the material through his fingers with reverence.

"I didn't steal it," the boy immediately replied defensively.

"No. Of course not," Aramis calmly agreed. "I'm sure you found it, right?" The child vigorously nodded his head. "And where would that have been?"

"It was in the street, over there," he indicated a spot a few hundred feet from where the three of them stood. The Musketeer's heads rotated as one, as they examined the area to which the boy pointed. Again, it was almost as if each expected Athos magically, to appear, standing there, scowling at them and offering up a dry witticism about their behavior.

"And did you see the man it belonged too by any chance?" Aramis prayed the answer would be yes and his devotion to God was answered.

"Aye. He was being dragged, by a man," the child replied.

Excitement glowed in the eyes of the Musketeers. The first solid clue they had into their friend's disappearance.

Growing bolder by the positive reactions his words were receiving, the boy sat up a bit straighter and his voice gained confidence as he told his tale. "It was really early in the morning. I was taking a piss over there." His small grubby hand pointed towards the mouth of an alley. "Your friend wasn't walking none to steady as he come down the street. This man snuck up behind him,and conked him over the head, and he fell. Then the man dragged him by his arms to a cart and drove away." The boy glanced hopefully and solemnly at the three musketeers. "Honest truth."

Aramis patted the boy reassuringly on the head. "I'm sure it is. Can you tell us anything about the man or the cart?"

The boy ruefully shook his head. "It was dark." He thought for a few seconds then added, "The wagon was covered. And I think it might have been green."

D'Artagnan jumped in. "Did you see what direction it went?"

The boy pointed. "Towards the gates."

Favoring the boy with a big smile, Aramis tried to jog more from the boy's memory. "The man. Was he tall? Or short? Maybe you noticed his clothes or something?" he desperately pried.

The boy's face scrunched up in concentration. "He was taller than your friend." The boy's eyes roamed over the three men in front of him. "About his height," he pointed towards Porthos. "Maybe taller."

D'Artagnan stepped closer to the boy, leaning in towards him. "I'm going to show you a trick my Da showed me on how to remember things. Close your eyes."

Fear crept in the boy's brown eyes at this request, so Aramis quickly reassured him. "It's ok. Remember, we are King's Musketeers, sworn to protect."

"Ay, we are the good guys, not like them nasty Red Guards," Porthos added which earned him an eye roll from Aramis. "What," he complained. "The boy knows the truth, don't you, boy?" he addressed the child who nodded. "We're the good guys and they are the bad guys," Porthos concluded with an evil grin.

D'Artagnan spoke again, trying to get them back on track. "My Da always said we see more than we realize, and we can recall things, by closing our eyes, and pretending we are seeing it again. Can you do that for me, Nicolas?"

Bravely, the small child shook his head, and then trustingly closed his eyes.

"Good," d'Artagnan praised this small vote of confidence by the boy. "Now think back to that night. It was dark, maybe a bit cold?"

"Aye. It was. I really didn't want to go take a piss, but I really had to," the boy factually confirmed and the Musketeers smiled.

"Yes, I think we have all experienced that problem. Now, you look over and see..." the youngest Musketeer tried to draw out the boy's memories.

A small chuckle escaped the boy's lip. "You friend. He tripped and fell. But there was nothing there."

Three sets of eyes, sans the boy's, met and a knowing glance passed between them.

"He got up. He didn't have a coat on. This man, he was tall and bald, comes hobbling out of the darkness, and bonks your friend over the head. He falls again, but this time at least he had a reason."

d'Artagnan's voice grew excited. "Hobbled? Like he had an injury? The man limped?"

"Aye," the child confirmed. "Though it didn't seem to cause him no problems. He dragged your friend by his arms over to the wagon. He picked him up and put him in the back." The boy's face wrinkled in concentration again. "I think there were other people in the wagon too. And I heard a sound."

D'Artagnan questioned, "What kind of sound?"

"A clang. Like you hear around the smithy. Like a chain rattling."

A dark expression crossed Porthos' face. "Shackles," he hissed with much displeasure. Porthos, because of his mother's circumstances, hated shackles.

D'Artagnan asked the boy a few more questions, but got no more useful information so he finally told him to open his eyes. After he opened his eyes, blinking a bit in the bright sunshine, he looked hopefully at the men. "Did I do good? Can I go now?"

Porthos took a step closer to the child and bent his head down a bit. "I grew up on the streets. It's tough." The small child nodded his head in agreement. "Is your Mum or Da alive?"

"Me Mum. We do ok," Nicolas replied both fiercely and proudly.

"Mum's can be very strong," Porthos agreed solemnly. "Me Mum raised me and I became a Musketeer. But you gotta be smart. Stealing. You got to be more careful."

The boy nodded thoughtfully. "He wasn't a good man to steal from."

Aramis and d'Artagnan appeared as if they were going to launch into a lecture on stealing but Porthos cut them off. They didn't know what it was like to live in the streets. "Nicolas. I understand stealing but ya know it ain't right." The boy gave a small nod of his head. "And next time, if you get caught, especially by the Red Guard they might hang ya." Aramis elbowed Porthos none to gently. "What? It's the truth."

The look and the sigh from Aramis said it all, so Porthos hastened onward. Reaching into his pouch, he found a few coins then looked over expectantly at his brothers who also dug in their coin purses. Taking the offerings, Porthos presented them to the boy who eagerly snatched them. "Give that to your Mum. And if you ever get in trouble, come to the Musketeer garrison and ask for Porthos."

"Or Aramis."

"Or d'Artagnan," the other two musketeers chimed in.

"...and we will help ya," Porthos concluded. Reaching out his arms, he carefully plucked the boy off the wall and set him on the ground. After tousling his hair with his black, gloved hand, Porthos sent the boy on his way.

Aramis watched as the lad ran off and disappeared into the crowd, unconsciously continuing to stroke the scarf. "Well, we have a few more clues but no real answers yet."

"We have to canvas the city. Find someone that saw the wagon or the man," d'Artagnan stated as if it were a simple fact and an easy task.

While all three realized it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, they had no other leads, so they split up and went to work. The only thing they were sure of was Athos was in trouble.