Chapter IX: The Masked Ball - part 1

Pour tromper un rival l'artifice est permis; on peut tout employer contres ses ennemis.

(To mislead a rival, deception is permissible; one may use all means against his enemies.)

- Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu et de Fronsac (1585 – 1642) -

-o-

The First of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice.

Gold, silver and crystal gleamed in the warm glow of hundreds of candles. The grand rooms were decorated with rich fabrics, gilded furniture, beautiful tapestries and the famed Murano glass, in every color imaginable. However, the people crowded into these large rooms were not easily overshadowed by their magnificent surroundings: dazzling diamonds and precious stones worth a small kingdom adorned both women and men dressed in finery. Fashion styles ranged from the conventional Spanish dress to the exotic attires found in Ottoman Empire, from the most extravagant outfits to simple disguises. All wore a mask, either a small one that just covered the eyes or a larger piece, like the monstrous contraption that imitated the head of a three-headed beast. Marquis Gonzaga's masked ball was the most fantastical and sumptuous party Athos had ever been to, full of opposing and whimsical details.

From the first moments of arriving to the ball, Athos had hardly had time to draw his breath. Signore Monteverdi had dragged him excitedly through different rooms, eagerly introducing his guest, Comte de la Fére, to different people. The merchants and some of the nobles were quick to latch onto his company, seeking ways to make money out of him or to use him to get more influence and power. Just as many deemed Athos uninteresting and beneath their notice, taking their leave after stiltedly exchanging the obligatory civilities. He bowed and smiled politely, answered questions as briefly as he could, admired Venice and praised the ladies. In short, he acted like a Comte, all the while remembering just why he hated these kinds of functions above all else: nothing there was real.

Aramis and Porthos had vanished into other rooms, no doubt to carefully take stock of the situation. Athos envied their task; he too wanted to just merge into the crowd, to be a stranger whose name and face didn't matter. Instead he had to pretend like he was enjoying himself, while keeping a close eye on Anne. Athos didn't dare to let her out of his sight, fearing she would somehow ruin their plan. He had to keep her out of Aramis' and Porthos' way, so he refused to let go of her arm, dragging her inconspicuously with him to every room and corner Signore Monteverdi led him.

Anne seemed to take it all in stride; she didn't try to dislodge his hand, but stood calmly beside him. She was the very image of a Comtesse, polite and charming, witty and interesting, the perfect counterbalance to Athos' laconic and sometimes too straight-faced manner. He watched how she subtly got everyone to either admire or like her, even the other ladies, who were all competing against each other for attention. He was again reminded how dangerous she really was: she didn't need weapons or money to make people give her what she wanted. Unlike Athos, Anne seemed to enjoy the party, not exhibiting any disquiet or impatience. From time to time she stole glances towards him, an amused smile on her lips, like they shared a mutual secret.

After a while even Signore Monteverdi had exhausted his enthusiasm to introduce Athos to every single person they encountered; the Venetian merchant seemed almost relieved, when his wife demanded that he take her to the ballroom to dance. After the Signore had vanished from his sight, Athos politely withdrew from the conversation he had been drawn into, leaving the gentlemen and ladies to argue about Florentine art versus Venetian art without him.

"You look in desperate need of a strong drink," Anne remarked dryly, when they had found a relatively crowd-free spot along one wall. "Should I get you one?"

"I'm sure I can find one soon enough." Despite the open windows letting in the chilly air, the rooms were uncomfortably hot; the warmth of hundreds of bodies pressed in close and the open flame of countless candles raised the temperature to stifling.

"I know how you hate these things," she teased good-naturedly, "you always liked the quiet and simple life; just us in our home."

"Us – and Thomas." Athos didn't know why he said his brother's name. Maybe he needed to remind himself as much as he needed to remind her that there had been three persons living in that house. That she couldn't ever brush Thomas aside.

Anne was quiet, her eyes on the surging, noisy crowd. A sea of bodies and none of them knew of the significance of the name that had just been uttered. Athos shuddered involuntary. He needed to keep his brother's name between them, for everything else she had done – every horrible, murderous thing – he could perhaps forgive, but never Thomas. Never his brother.

"I need a drink too," Anne finally said, starting to move away from their place against the wall. Athos tightened his hold on her arm. There was no way he would let her vanish into the crowd. Anne stopped and turned. For the first time that evening, her lips were pursed up in anger.

"This is getting quite tiresome – are you going to hang onto me the whole evening?"

Athos smiled bitterly, never loosening his hold. "Surely a man is permitted to keep his wife close in this den of adulators and traitors?"

Anne gave a very unladylike snort. "Fine, whatever you want. But I'm not going to stand here stupidly all night – you're getting me that drink, and then you are taking me to dance."

He proceeded to do just that. Athos flagged down a servant carrying a silver tray with a row of crystal glasses. He quickly snatched two, full of dark liquid, and offered one of those to Anne. The servant gazed in amazement, as they both downed their drinks in one go, grimacing at the strong taste. The unfamiliar alcohol burned Athos' throat but settled pleasantly at the bottom of his stomach. He took the empty glass from Anne's hand and put it back to the tray with his own, smiling wildly at the poor servant. No doubt he looked half-mad. Then he led his wife to the ballroom, where the current dance was just coming to its end.

The ballroom was a huge, long hall that was decorated with stunning frescos in the walls and the high ceiling, depicting old Roman gods and goddesses in the middle of their own merriment. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows covered entirely one of the long walls, revealing a stunning view of the Canal Grande; some of the windows were open, leading into a big balcony. At one of the narrower sides of the room was a platform, where the orchestra played their instruments. A mass of bodies filled the rest of the space, moving to the music, making patterns with their partners.

Athos had never been particularly fond of dancing; too often it had been forced upon him, and it had been both tedious and awkward. He had felt himself to be an abysmal dance partner, not particularly good in either dancing or giving into the kind of conversation his partners seemed to be expecting of him. It had all changed, when he had met Anne. They hadn't been in many balls or parties together, but the ones they had been were made bearable by the fact that he could take hold of her and twist and turn and guide her in the dance floor, keep her close.

Athos knew it was a bad idea even before he guided her among the other dancers, and it became the worst idea, when some of the couples demanded la volta. The musicians started to play the requested dance, beginning it with gaillarde, which was far from his favorite dance. It had a compilation of steps with leaps, hops and jumps that the dance partners did side by side, holding hands. The dance was fairly fast and had little room for error. The only pause the dancers got was when one of them stood still as their partner danced around them. First, Athos focused solely on the movements of his legs, certain he would make a misstep; he hadn't danced in a long while. But the movements were etched in his muscle memory, like the different fight patterns and sword moves.

When he was confident enough in his steps, Athos became acutely aware of his dance partner. Anne was a graceful dancer, gliding beside him and around him with precise steps, her hand on his warm and firm. As she danced, her eyes never moved from his face; he was the center of her fierce focus. As it came his turn to stand in place, Anne danced nimbly around him, the weight of her gaze anchoring him. He could do nothing else than to look at her, to be drawn into their own private space where there was only the music and their bodies advancing and retreating from each other; the rest of the dancers were just a blurry movement around them, the murmur of some forgotten sea.

They didn't talk, not even when they came close enough to hear each other. They had made a voiceless agreement not to shatter the delicate balance between them; this one dance was neutral ground, under a white flag. A fleeting moment in time, when Athos didn't have to feel guilty about wanting to keep hold of her hand, for waiting heart pounding for that moment when finally the music changed its tempo and they moved closer to each other. He took hold of her waist, just below her busk; the other hand he placed firmly on her back. Anne put her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her up as she sprang up into the air. When they had turned almost an entire circle, he let her down. They repeated this intimate movement for several measures, Athos drawing her into him, lifting her into his arms, until they had to part again and start the steps of the dance from the beginning.

He moved like in a dream, hardly noticing the steps and hops his legs automatically made, his eyes on her face, waiting. He knew she was waiting too; finally the steps brought them close and he could once again take hold of her. Athos lifted her up, and the rest of the world seemed to stop. Anne was firm and alive under his hands; her chest was rising with rapid breaths, her smooth skin glistened with perspiration, her cheeks glowed with healthy redness. He drew her nearer still, pressing her body against him. Her hands were squeezing his shoulders, the nails sharp even through two layers of fabric. Once he had lifted her up much like this; they had been half-naked then. The move had ended in a different kind of dance. Judging from her dark eyes, she remembered the same.

Suddenly the world rushed in: a jolt to his back, a loud laugh nearby. Athos realized that the music had stopped; the dance had ended and some couples were already leaving the dance floor, while he still held Anne up in the air. Slowly, carefully, he set her down. The moment ended.

With some reluctance, Athos led them from the ballroom, wanting to find something to eat – and more importantly, something to drink. He knew he couldn't get drunk, but a few glasses of that good liquor was definitely needed. Before he could find either food or drink, he was halted by a Venetian gentleman in dark attire, with a red leather mask on his face.

"Comte de la Fére," the stranger said in perfect French, bowing, "it is such a pleasure to finally meet you. Please let me introduce myself to you and –" the man took hold of Anne's hand, kissing it lightly, "to your lovely wife." Athos inclined his head and the stranger continued, smiling, "My name is Antonio Gabrieli, at your service."

Athos schooled his features, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away his surprise and tension at having one of the Inquisitors, Il Rosso, seeking his company. Did the man know or suspect something? "Nice to meet you," Athos forced himself to say.

"I wholly concur with my husband; however, you must excuse me from your company – Signora Monteverdi needs me." Anne's smile was unruly, and she gestured towards their hostess, who was indeed gesticulating for Anne to come to her. Athos had no choice, but to let her draw her arm away from his.

"Of course, milady," the Inquisitor bowed to Anne, "I'm sure we will meet again soon."

Anne turned towards Athos and with an impish glint in her eyes, she kissed his cheek gently. "Don't worry, mon coeur, I won't go far." Athos watched as she walked to Signora Monteverdi, and the two women started to eagerly whisper among themselves.

"Newly married?" Antonio Gabrieli asked, seeming amused. His mask covered the upper parts of his face, leaving the mouth and jaw bare; it revealed some of his emotions – depending on that they were real and not faked.

"We've been married nearly seven years."

"Ah – I congratulate you. In my experience, it's rare that the ardor of the first year of marriage survives the second," the Venetian chuckled, "but I watched you dance earlier – you are a very lucky man."

Athos bristled with sudden anger, and he struggled to keep the noncommittal expression on his face. His eyes kept sliding to watch Anne; she had found a drink and was still animatedly conversing with her friend.

"I have heard so much about you," Antonio Gabrieli continued. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were cold.

"Likewise," Athos confessed, not bothering to mask his grim voice. He was now certain that Il Rosso knew who he really was or at least suspected – the man had dropped enough hints.

"I see my reputation precedes me." Finally the Inquisitor let the smile fade from his face, so the sharp lines of his mouth matched the harsh glare of his dark eyes. "Just as well – I find it much easier to do my job, when people know what to expect from me. I don't like surprises, especially in my own city. It's my duty to know everything." He chuckled mirthlessly, warrior's eyes assessing his opponent. "I'm afraid I am one of those people, who insist that everything will be done their own way."

"And how often are things done your way?" Athos asked, assessing the man in turn.

"Always." Antonio Gabrieli's voice was flat, unyielding. "You'll find that I always get my way." The men locked gazes, neither willing to give in. Il Rosso's mouth stretched into a sardonic smile, that Athos was certain was finally the man's real smile. "Enjoy your evening – and your stay in Venice." The man didn't bother waiting for Athos' reply; he turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd.

Rattled despite himself, Athos felt a tension creep into his muscles. The Musketeers had a new, unpredictable enemy, who had power and resources that they currently lacked. He hoped that Aramis and Porthos would be careful – and that the Inquisitor had just been testing the waters and didn't really know who they were and what they were planning. But Athos wasn't an optimist or a fool – he was quite certain that Antonio Gabrieli knew much more than he had let on.

Athos started to make his way towards Signora Monteverdi, but stopped short, when he realized that in the circle of ladies around her, there was no glimpse of the familiar shape, the salmon pink dress. Frantically, he searched the room with his eyes, but Anne was nowhere to be seen. Athos had lost her from his sight – and he just knew it didn't bode well for him or for his friends.

-o-

They didn't waste any time enjoying the party, which Porthos thought was a shame, judging from the hungry gazes he bestowed both upon trays full of delicious food and strong drink and upon ladies wearing low-cut gowns. Aramis however, was glad that they didn't have to loiter among the insufferable partiers, who were currently spending as much wealth as it would take to feed the entire population of Paris for a whole year.

Having first explored the main floor, piano nobile, taking note of the exits and possible hindrances, they quickly moved to the next floor, where the living quarters of the family were situated. Although both the main staircase and the narrower stairs which the servants used were under guard, the men guarding them weren't particularly vigilant. Aramis and Porthos easily deceived the young valet, who was standing at the top of the main stairs, after they had first managed to dodge the slightly more alert soldier stationed near the staircase at the main floor.

The fourth-floor seemed eerily silent and empty after the mad throng of the floor below. The rooms were richly decorated, full of gilded furniture and fine art: they were fit for a king. Aramis and Porthos crept along the long, wide corridor, trying different doors. Most of them opened easily, revealing small salons or bedrooms that obviously belonged to women or children. Few were tightly shut and their locks had to be picked open. The first locked door revealed a study that no doubt belonged to the master of the house, and although it may have contained interesting documents, they carefully closed the door and moved forward. They found their target behind the second locked door: a suite of elegant rooms comprised of a salon, a large bedroom and a dressing room.

A familiar rapier, resting against a chair, revealed who the resident of the suite was; they had seen the Duke of Orléans carrying the sword during the times they had followed him through the streets and canals of Venice. Aramis was certain that they had found the right place. Now they just had to find the treaties; luckily they had plenty of time, as the party had barely started and would continue long into the night. However, the biggest threat was that someone – a servant or the Duke himself – would for whatever reason come to the rooms in the middle of the ball. Although the fourth-floor was currently empty, there were no guarantees that it would remain so.

Aramis and Porthos didn't need to talk about what they were going to do; they had planned it all in advance. Although the search would go quicker with two persons searching, Aramis stayed in the corridor as Porthos went into the Duke's rooms. His task was to be on guard and give warning if anybody approached them. Full with nervous energy, Aramis would have preferred to be the one to search the rooms, but as only he could speak Latin, it was better if he was standing guard.

The corridor was deadly silent; the only noises came from the Duke's rooms. Through the slightly ajar door Aramis could keep track of his friend's progress. It sounded like Porthos was opening the drawers of the bureau and the desk, tapping on the wood to find secret compartments. Aramis knew that only very few missions were easily completed without any hurdles or surprises, but he couldn't help but hope that this one would be one of them. He itched to return to Paris; although everything between him and the Queen had to be over, he wanted to see her, just to make sure that she was all right. The dark, pressing feeling inside him had only grown as more days passed, and the distance between Paris and Venice seemed to acquire more miles every moment. They never should have come to this foreign place and leave the Queen – and the King – vulnerable.

Aramis tried to banish Paris and all that it entailed from his thoughts; he had to focus on the here and now. Although Gonzaga's guards and the Duke's soldiers had so far been criminally incompetent, Aramis knew that it all could change in a moment. But they needed to get those treaties – only then could they detain the Duke and make their way back to France.

Suddenly footsteps echoed in the corridor, coming round the corner; it was all the warning Aramis got that someone was approaching. There was no time for hesitation, only seconds to decide. Should he shut himself in the Duke's rooms with Porthos and hope the person wasn't heading there? Or should he deflect the attention away from the Duke's rooms? Aramis followed his instincts: he rapped on the door and pushed it shut, knowing Porthos would catch on to what was happening. Then he took as many steps as he could away from the door and sagged against a wall. He was just in time: a middle-aged man strode into view from behind the corner, coming to a sudden halt as he saw Aramis.

Aramis leaned against the tapestry and mumbled incoherently, making his legs unsteady. Unluckily, the man wasn't any ordinary soldier, for he was the Duke's Captain of the Guard. Whenever he had escorted his master around the city, the man had been vigilant and efficient. Aramis would have to put up his very best effort to fool him.

"Hey!" The Captain exclaimed, hand already on his rapier. "What are you doing here?"

"What…" Aramis winced, trying to straighten up unsuccessfully, "what?"

The man took a good look at Aramis, lips pursing in distaste. "You cannot be here, this is the private quarters."

Aramis frowned like he didn't entirely understand what was being said. He took a wavering step towards the man, claiming, "Need the privy – where's…where's the privy?"

"Not here," the Captain said sharply, assessing how drunk Aramis really was. "Go back downstairs and the servants will show you."

Aramis gave a convincing belch. Playing drunk was his specialty; he had had to convince people on numerous missions that he was in a drunken stupor. Nine out of ten times it worked surprisingly well – as in now. The Captain seemed to deem that Aramis' drunken confusion was real; he took a hard hold of Aramis' arm and dragged him towards the main stairs. Aramis didn't protest, but went pliantly along, as it got the man further away from the Duke's rooms and Porthos.

"You there!" The Captain barked to the valet, who was standing at the top of the stairs, startling him. "How did he get here?"

The young valet looked at Aramis, his face blanching. He shook his head and muttered something in Venetian. The Captain sighed and pushed Aramis roughly towards the valet. "Just make sure he gets to the privy – and that he doesn't come up here again."

Aramis had no choice but to let the valet lead him downstairs and to the privy, acting all the while drunk. He knew he couldn't go back to the fourth-floor; if he was twice discovered there, the game would be over. Porthos was now on his own.