Chapter XIII: Interrogation

Better shun the bait than struggle in the snare.

- John Dryden (1631–1700) -

-o-

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

It happened too quickly for her to draw the pistol she always kept loaded from its holster. Suddenly from the fog someone yanked her aside, hard hands squeezing her waist and covering her mouth. Anne kicked and twisted, trying to reach her pistol or the dagger hidden in her bust. Her hands were violently wrenched behind her back; she retaliated by savagely biting the hand that was trying to muffle her. For a moment the hand lifted and someone swore right behind her ear. She screamed, but the sound lasted hardly a few seconds, for another shape emerged from the mist and backhanded her viciously across the face.

"Another sound and you'll slowly bleed out," a hoarse voice whispered, while a sharp blade poked at her ribs. She nodded and made herself stop resisting. The man, who had hit her, – the man with a familiar white whole-face mask – took her pistol and roughly ran his hands over her, searching for hidden weapons. Anne held her breath, still as stone. Her heart was beating madly, in a deadly race. The dagger was drawn from the bust and taken away, and her chances of survival diminished further.

Anne knew she was in deep trouble. No one was around to see or hear as she was being dragged through narrow, deserted alleys deep into the Venetian maze. She was up against at least three heavily armed men; the first one led the way, while the second dragged her in the middle, and she could hear the third one following just behind her. She was trapped between them, with no viable means to escape.

To say that the day had not gone the way she had envisioned would have been a major understatement. Waking that morning, Anne had had a very particular aim and a somewhat hazy plan to realize it. Time was running out and she had to get what she had been tasked to find or otherwise she wouldn't see a denier of the second, much larger fee she was due if she succeeded. For a moment, she had nourished the hope that the Musketeers had found the treaties – it would have been so much easier to steal them from a house she was already living in – but judging by their dull and moody manner at breakfast, they too had failed in their task the night before. So she had to find a way inside Ca' Gonzaga, this time by herself and uninvited. Anne had given Louise the day off and had slipped outside, intending to walk to the palazzo, certain she could bluff or sneak her way inside. She had managed to get only a little further from the Rialto Bridge; now she had no idea where she was.

Two to the right, one to the left, across a bridge, to the right…Anne tried to memorize the way they were going, counting the different turns they took and the bridges they crossed. She had a feeling that they were going further away from the Grand Canal, but could not be certain. Even without the thick fog, the houses, alleys and canals would have all looked the same to her. For a sharp, unhelpful moment she missed the alleys of Paris that she knew like the back of her hand. She was at a severe disadvantage in this strange, foreign city.

They crossed a narrow bridge that had no handrails, the rotting wood buckling and groaning under their weight. A few more steps and she was tugged none too gently to a sudden stop, the man before her opening a door in an inconspicuous grey wall. Apparently they had arrived to their destination, far too soon for her liking. Anne was shoved unceremoniously through the door and straight down the rickety steps into a dark, damp space. She shivered violently, suddenly feeling like she would suffocate, be buried there forever. The hands holding her didn't relent, but dragged her further into the dark. She couldn't bear it –

Anne jabbed her elbow backwards, the bone connecting painfully with her captor´s side. Not caring about his curses, she tried to wrench herself free, kicking and hitting anyone in her vicinity. The dark space was closing in, the end coming nearer, shortening her breaths, robbing her of air. Something impacted into her midriff and she couldn't breathe – she couldn't breathe – she couldn't –

"None of that now," a man said dispassionately. She was dropped to the wet floor, gasping and wheezing. With every painful breath, she slowly put herself together, deadening her fears and gathering all her strength around her, like a shield. She would survive this.

A sudden flare of light blinded her momentarily, and then the burning torch revealed that the dark space she had been shoved into was just a cellar with dark stone walls. There were no windows, no other doors than the one they had come through. Anne didn't protest, when a pair of manacles was fastened around her wrists. She would have to be patient; a better chance for escape would come.

Anne was hoisted up, the manacles attached to an iron hook on the ceiling. Luckily the ceiling was low and her toes just touched the floor; it was uncomfortable, but at least her arms didn't have to hold all her weight. She exhaled carefully, willing her heart to slow down. This was familiar: there would be questions, probably torture. She had been in this position before, and sometimes had been the one seeking the answers.

"Make sure we weren't followed," the man with the white Carnival mask commanded his companions. The two men, each of their faces obscured by black masks, immediately went up the stairs and vanished outside. It was as she had expected then; they were the hired muscle. She fixed her eyes on the man in charge, the man she had encountered in Ca' Gonzaga the night before. Her gaze met sharp, hollow eyes amid the smooth blankness of the mask.

"You don't have to wear that – I know you." It wasn't much of a risk, for she knew that the man would never let her leave the cellar alive, whether she saw his face or not.

The man snorted audibly and took the mask from his face, revealing strong features in otherwise wholly unremarkable face. "As you wish, Milady," he sneered. The common look did nothing to soften the awful emptiness of his eyes. Although they had both been in the Cardinal's employ, she had met him just a handful of times and had luckily never worked directly with him. But she had never forgotten his eyes or some of the tales that had been told about him.

"Now, you know how this is going to go. Let's safe some time and be frank with each other." Gérard stood before her, his face almost level with hers. He was impassive, certain of his dominance.

"And what do I get for my honesty?" He would not get anything out of her easily or for free.

"You'll die quickly."

Anne gave a short, dry laugh. "That doesn't really appeal to me."

One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically, but the man remained silent, his eyes appraising her. Anne forced herself to look at him, the wait for coming pain its own kind of torture, squeezing her insides, making her palms clammy. With nearly every other man, she could have talked her way out of the mess, but Gérard was different. He was cold and calculating and passionless. He could not be bargained with, nor persuaded or seduced. Any pleas or prayers for mercy would be brushed aside with indifference.

"Where are the treaties?"

"What treaties?" She didn't bother to sound confused; they both knew that she knew what he was talking about. But dammit all to hell, she wasn't going to make this easy for him. A hard fist connected with her stomach, making her gasp and moan from pain. Apparently, she also wasn't going to make this easy for herself.

"Where are the treaties?" The question was repeated emotionlessly, and the dead eyes searched her face for any cracks in composure, any breach in will.

"I quite – don't know – what – you are – talking about." She took shallow breaths, her insides still screaming from the sharp agony. He hit her again, this time aiming at her right side. She fought to keep her eyes open, to keep her tormentor in view. Gérard gripped her chin and put his face uncomfortably close to hers. She panted, hating that she couldn't mask her pain or fear. He could probably smell it on her, thick and cloying.

"You don't have them," he announced. "Did the Musketeers get them?"

She spat, the wet spit hitting his cheek. It was highly satisfying – for a moment. The pain of a hard blow to the corner of her eye wiped everything away. Her head threatened to split open from a thousand sharp stabs of agony, her vision blackening.

"This is easy," he hissed, his odious breath warming her face, "there are hundreds of things I have yet to do to you, each one of them much more painful than this. This is nothing."

Anne laughed, cracked and hollow. He was right. It was nothing compared to what she had already gone through. She forced herself to look at his face, her vision still blurry. "There is nothing you can do to me that is going to be worse than – than what has already been done to me."

"The duration and the means may vary, but in the end, pain is still pain."

"Ah, you are a veritable philosopher," she scoffed. He would never understand that not all pain was physical and that the pain could be worse – unbearable – not because of the act itself but because of its author.

"Who is your employer? What does he want with the treaties?" Gérard continued to ask mercilessly, his face as emotionless as the mask he had been wearing. He pushed her, and she swung back and forth, feet searching for purchase, her raised arms spasming from pain. The manacles were a cold fire around her wrists, spreading searing agony.

Finally she came to a halt, her toes finding the reassuring surface of the hard floor. It was a small relief, but one she was grateful for nonetheless. "Why should I…why should I tell you?" Anne croaked, her throat suddenly impossibly parched. "Why should I give you what you want, when – when you are going to kill me?" The man was pragmatic at least; maybe he would calculate that it would be easier and quicker to spare her to get the information than to fruitlessly interrogate her. Of course, if he did promise to not to kill her – there was no way in hell she would believe him.

"Very well. Tell me all that you know, and I'll let you leave this place – alive. After that, you better run."

"I don't believe you," Anne snorted, the despair gaining ground in her mind. If only he would leave her alone, then she would escape, she knew she could.

"So, we are at an impasse again. What a shame." Gérard didn't sound particularly disappointed or vexed. Bastard.

"Go to hell," she spat, her fury transcending her pain for all too short a moment.

What response that would have garnered, she didn't get to find out, for suddenly wood banged hard against stone, someone shouted loudly and Comte de la Fére, the much revered Musketeer of Louis XIII, tumbled down the stairs and landed in a heap on the floor only a yard away from her. For a small moment both Anne and Gérard stared at the dazed, groaning figure in utter astonishment, before all participants seemed to gather their wits once more.

Anne could only watch as the small space exploded with violent action: Athos tried to get up as his hands moved to grab the rapier that had flown from his grip and clattered to the floor a few feet away from him, but at the same time the two hired men thundered down the stairs, their own swords already drawn. But Gérard proved to be the quickest of them; he kicked the Musketeer savagely to the head and wrenched the weapon away from him. Within a minute, Athos was subdued, disarmed and shackled. It was downright pitiful, pathetic.

The men fastened Athos' manacles to one of the iron rings on the wall, leaving him slumping against the stone. He looked already the worse for wear, blood dirtying his temple, the side of his face. When finally their eyes met, she could detect a hint of pain, worry and sheepishness in his gaze. She glowered back with all her strength, angry that he had apparently been following her, but even more furious that he had gotten caught in the same trap she had.

"Well, this should be interesting," Gérard remarked dryly. "Let's see which one of you talks first, shall we?"

-o-

Laura Mancini was dangerous. Her golden hair framed her lovely face, her red lips were drawn into an enticing smile, the pretty eyes twinkled with intelligence and charm – she could easily make a man forget his purpose or thaw his determination. She was good company; humorous, quick-witted and opinionated. The courtesan had clearly studied different subjects, more so than Porthos, and had knowledge from different areas of life, perhaps because of her trade. She spoke flawless French and had been to Paris and many other places. The dinner was easily spent with interesting and amiable conversation, neither of them judging the time to be right for more vigorous prying or interrogation. Porthos certainly found himself reluctant to shatter the temporary truce between them. He hadn't had as good a time in a while, not since his friends' dark moods started polluting his own.

After a satisfying meal they moved into a tastefully decorated drawing room, the atmosphere instantly becoming more charged, thrillingly expectant. Laura Mancini arranged herself onto a settee, looking in the soft candlelight like one of the paintings on the walls, a beautiful model amid a swathe of fine silk, body in a sensuous pose. Porthos didn't bother to hide his admiring gaze; after all, she had undoubtedly worked quite hard to make herself that irresistible.

A valet served them each a glass of wine and then departed discreetly, leaving the carafe on the table next to a plate of small confections. They were finally alone, the drawing room doors tightly closed against the curious eyes of servants. Porthos resigned himself to sipping his drink slowly; he needed a clear head and already her alluring presence was heady enough to muddle his thoughts.

"I hope your companions do not feel very slighted that I got you all to myself this evening, robbing them of your company," the Signora purred, stretching her lithe frame in a very distracting manner.

"I doubt it," Porthos chuckled mirthlessly.

"Oh? Well, it's their loss. I haven't had so stimulating dinner conversation for some time. Just the same old senile farts, yammering endlessly about their very important lives…so boring." She gave him a sly smile, the pink tip of her tongue darting to wet her lips. "You on the other hand – you are quite something else."

"I should hope so." The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile; he was flattered despite himself.

Laura Mancini's appraising gaze roamed shamelessly over his body, from head to toe. "You are a man of action, speaking loudest with a rapier in your hand. Empty words, games of power – they are not your forte."

"No," Porthos admitted, "but I can play with the best of them."

"Can you?" The courtesan seemed amused. "Perhaps. But still, I have a feeling that you – and your companions – are out of your depth here in Venice."

"Really?" He made his voice sound mildly curious. "The people we have met here have been very generous and courteous; I think our visit will be successful."

Her laugh was lovely, like the dance of silver bells, and although there was a hint of mockery in it, Porthos still liked the sound of it. "Monsieur Porthos, you have a very positive outlook – judging by what you have accomplished since your arrival, I wouldn't be nearly so hopeful of a successful outcome as you are."

Porthos tensed, wondering if they were going to veil the meaning of their words the whole evening, or if he should just stop skirting the issue and use a direct approach. He detested empty words and petty games; she had been right about that.

Signora Mancini looked at him knowingly and snorted, "Let's stop wasting time. Neither of us is in the mood for these games." She bit into a sugary confection, giving him a chance to fill the ensuing silence. But Porthos refused to be the first to unmask the real purpose of their meeting; after all, she had invited him. The courtesan smirked, guessing what he was thinking. She ate the treat carefully, and then licked the slight traces of sugary powder from her fingers. His heartbeat fastened.

"We're not enemies, you know," she finally said. "Our goal is the same, although the means may differ."

"What were you doing in the Duke's rooms?"

"The same as you, obviously." Laura Mancini rolled her eyes. "And so far, both of us have failed."

Porthos digested her words and calculated how much he could reveal of the mission the King had tasked them with. He had a feeling she already knew fairly much – much more than the Musketeers knew about her motives. He plunged ahead, deciding he couldn't find out anything important by mincing his words. "Who is your employer? And what do they want with the treaties?"

"A more relevant question would be: why don't they want the Duke to have the treaties?" Her eyes were sparkling with pleasure; she liked all the intrigue and suspense, probably enjoyed her role as a spy. "Not all in Venice want a part in the Duke's scheme or think it is good for our country."

"If that is so, they can help us get the treaties – then we can arrest the Duke and take him away from Venice. Problem solved."

"I'm afraid it's not so simple. In the wrong hands, the treaty the Council of Ten has signed can do irreversible damage to Venice. No, that document at least cannot leave this city." Laura Mancini pursed her lips, vague unease coloring her words.

Porthos suppressed the tired sigh that wanted to break free; of course nothing was ever simple, not when power and wealth were on the line. "Then what does your employer want from us?" He would not promise anything – not without consulting the others first.

"Just what I already told you; that while you have a certain freedom to act here, there are limits – and that we can help each other to achieve what we all want." The courtesan smiled pleasantly, but Porthos didn't doubt that she – or her mysterious employer – couldn't employ more forceful methods of persuasion if the occasion warranted it.

"If we are allies, as you claim, and working towards a common goal," Porthos said carefully, "then I – and my companions – must know who it is that we are helping."

"You'll give the treaty to us, if you find it?" Her eyes sought to penetrate him, judging his truthfulness, his resolve.

"That is not my decision to make alone." He was just one of the four and they had always decided about everything important in a group. Granted, Athos' opinions tended to garner more weight, but ultimately they all had a say in how to accomplish their missions.

Laura Mancini rose swiftly from her seat, and Porthos scrambled to follow suit. "Well, when you have talked about it," she made it sound like the Musketeers were a group of nervous gossipers, breathlessly debating the merits of some trivial matter, "and have come to the right decision, we can return to the subject. But before that – I'm afraid we have nothing more to talk about."

It was clear, that it would be utterly fruitless to try to change her mind. Porthos gave the courtesan a low bow, a sign of his acquiescence. He felt a little disappointed; he had genuinely enjoyed her company and was sad to see the evening come to an end. "That's a shame; I would have liked for our meeting to last a little longer."

Laura Mancini gave him a small, but brilliant smile. "We don't have to talk – there are far more pleasant things to spend our time with."

Porthos felt an answering smile spread across his face. He was in no hurry to carry the news to his sour companions, and he had certainly earned some free time. "What you have in mind?"

"I'll show you," the courtesan promised, and then there was no talking for quite some time.