Chapter Two

The painkiller had done its job, d'Artagnan had slipped into an uneasy sleep. The pain was still etched on his face, but he was not reacting to Aramis' ministrations as he changed the dressings on d'Artagnan's legs.

They had all tried not to react when the bandages were cut off. Constance had gasped quietly and looked away for a few seconds, before going back to gently wiping the perspiration from her lover's face and neck.

'Will he be scarred?' asked Athos as he looked carefully at the burns.

Aramis shrugged, 'I don't know. I suspect the marks will last for a long time, years perhaps.'

'Will it affect his work?'

The question that none of them really wanted to ask, but one that needed to be answered.

'I don't think so,' said Aramis slowly. 'But I cannot be sure. We'll have to watch for infection first, we need to get him fit and walking before we can really know what the damage will be.'

Constance wiped the dampened cloth along d'Artagnan's arm, being careful to clean the marks on his wrists where the manacles had grazed his skin. She managed to look at the burns properly.

'Do you think he's worried about what I will think?' she asked. 'That I might not love him if he's left with permanent scars?'

The two Musketeers looked at one another for a few seconds.

'He might think that,' said Aramis, 'but I am sure it is only the pain confusing him. He knows that what you have is more than superficial.'

Constance nodded, she looked lovingly at the sleeping man for a few seconds before going back to her task of washing him. Aramis readied bandages and indicated for Athos to help him. Between them, they started to redress the wounds causing d'Artagnan to moan. His eyes went wide and he gasped. D'Artagnan tried to reach down, pushing Constance aside again. Athos quickly grabbed d'Artagnan's arms and pinned him back down on the bed.

'D'Artagnan,' he said firmly, 'you are safe. We are helping you.'

The injured Musketeer continued to struggle against him.

'Aramis, he needs more of the painkiller,' said Athos.

Again, Aramis hesitated for longer than Athos would have expected. The field medic seemed very reluctant to give d'Artagnan any of the drink, despite them all knowing it would help him. After a few seconds Aramis collected the drink and helped d'Artagnan to a few sips, Athos noted that Aramis had given d'Artagnan less than the previous time. Nonetheless, after a few minutes, d'Artagnan began to calm down.

Athos was forced to keep hold of d'Artagnan as Aramis dressed the wounds as quickly as he could.

They all stepped back and watched the barely conscious man for a few seconds. He continued to mumble and show signs of distress. Aramis stepped back from the bed and went to one of the cupboards, he appeared to look for something.

'I need some more herbs,' he said. 'I'll go now, whilst he's asleep and calm. I can get what I need from the large market.'

'We can watch him for a while,' said Athos with a glance at Constance who nodded without taking her eyes off d'Artagnan.

'I'll be as quick as I can.'

Without waiting for a response Aramis grabbed a bag and walked from the infirmary. Athos watched him go. He found his friend's behaviour a little odd, he wondered if all that had gone on had got to Aramis. Perhaps his friend just needed a few minutes to clear his head and had made up an excuse to leave.

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Aramis closed the door to the infirmary behind him. He glanced about the yard, none of the other Musketeers or cadets appeared to have noticed him leave. He did not want to be delayed by any of them, or for them to see him leave the garrison. He skirted around a couple of sparring men and slipped into the sleeping quarter, relieved not to pass anyone as he made his way to his room. He knew what he was about to do was probably foolhardy and that if the others found out they would berate him, but he had to do it. He did not want to risk d'Artagnan's health by not doing it.

He pulled off most of his weapons leaving only a gun and his main gauche, he could hide what was left under a cloak. Pulling off his pauldron had him pause for a few seconds, he always felt oddly naked without it. After laying it on his bed with the rest of his weapons Aramis pulled a plain black cloak from his chest and swung it over his shoulders, making sure it concealed his weapons.

Taking a little-used door at the back of the garrison Aramis stole out before anyone could question what would be perceived as strange behaviour.

The cloak had a hood, which he pulled over his head before he came into contact with anyone. The last thing he needed was for someone to see him making his way to the Court of Miracles.

He knew it was a risk, but he had to talk to Old Jean again. The painkiller may have been having the desired effect, but Aramis was worried if he used too much of it that d'Artagnan might become dependent on it. He had seen men become addicted to various things over the years, not least Athos and his wine. But if d'Artagnan became addicted to the strong pain killer would they be able to wean him off it? Aramis did not know what was in the painkiller, Old Jean had refused to give him the ingredients. Aramis had no choice but to go and ask the old healer what was in the mixture.

The problem was he would have to enter the Court of Miracles and he knew from his last visit with Porthos that he was not welcome there. After he had saved Porthos' life when the previous leader, Charon, had tried to kill his friend, many of the other inhabitants had taken against Aramis. The new leader, a petite, but dominating woman called Flea had made it quite clear that no harm was to come to Aramis on the streets of Paris. But within the boundaries of the Court, Aramis would always be in danger. He just hoped his simple disguise would be enough.

He knew Porthos would be annoyed that he had gone alone, but Aramis did not want to share his fears with the others. He did not want the Captain to know that one of his Musketeers might be in danger of becoming an addict. The thought of d'Artagnan potentially losing his commission because he had administered too much of the painkiller was not something Aramis wanted to think about. But the thought had already taken root in Aramis' mind. What if he had already given his friend too much? He knew Athos thought d'Artagnan should have been given more of the drug, but Athos had not been there when Old Jean had told Aramis that the painkiller was strong and that not much was needed.

As he walked, Aramis kept an eye on his surroundings, watching the side streets and dark doorways. He wanted to be sure no one was watching him, taking an interest in him before he turned into the Court. It was going to be hard enough to remain undetected once, inside the city within a city, Aramis did not want to come to anyone's attention before he got there.

He watched a couple of young lads step out of a side street, their hands thrust deep into their pockets, they followed an unsuspecting old man walking slowly along the road. Aramis knew the man was about to be the victim of a theft, he also knew he could not draw attention to himself by stopping the theft. As the thieves and soon to be victim moved further along the road, Aramis turned into the road the lads had stepped out of. He purposefully did not stop, he stepped over the invisible border to the Court of Miracles without hesitation.

There was a difference between the street outside the Court and the street inside. It was not perhaps obvious, but there was something, an oppression. Aramis found it difficult to place what it felt like to step over that threshold into the strange world of the Court. He wondered if the feeling was akin to claustrophobia. The streets were not much narrower, but they felt as though they were closing in on him before he had even gone a few feet. Unconsciously, Aramis pulled his cloak tighter around him and tugged the hood a little lower.

He remembered the way to Old Jean's dilapidated house and made his way straight towards it. He knew it would not do for him to get lost in the court. He could hardly ask for directions. He kept to the side of the road, in the shadows as much as possible. The light never seemed to penetrate as fully as it did elsewhere in the city. The streets were always dim, visibility always compromised.

As he walked Aramis made a mental note of each recess, each doorway, anywhere someone could conceal themselves, anywhere someone could hide. He watched a few raggedly clothed people scurry away or pull themselves further into the darkness of any gap or dark alleyway they could. He wondered if he had already been recognised as a stranger.

Quickening his pace, he was pleased to turn into the street where Old Jean lived. He paused outside the ill-fitting door and glanced up and down the street. He did not see anyone paying him particular attention. He knocked on the door.

'Come,' came the voice of the healer.

Aramis pushed the door open and stepped into the relative safety of the healer's home. He eased the door closed behind him, worried it could fall off its hinges at any moment.

'I wondered if you might come back.'

Aramis turned to Old Jean, pulling his hood down as he did so. The elderly medic was watching him, his brown eyes piercing and bright despite his age. The man was stooped and using a cane to support himself. The cane appeared to have belonged to someone far above Old Jean's class.

'You've taken a risk; you know that don't you?'

Aramis nodded, 'I wouldn't have come if I didn't think it was necessary,' he replied.

Old Jean nodded and shuffled towards his table. He pulled out a chair and pointed at it before taking a seat in an old worn cushioned chair nearer the small hearth. Aramis sat down and waited for the old man to indicate he was listening.

'Did you find your friend? The one you needed the painkiller for?'

'Yes,' said Aramis. 'That's why I've come. The painkiller, you said it was strong. But you wouldn't give me the ingredients - '

'And I still won't young man. If that is what you are here for.'

'No, monsieur,' said Aramis, hoping to reassure the healer. 'I'm just worried that I may give my friend too much. That he might become too used to it.'

Old Jean nodded slowly, 'I understand,' he said. 'You have risked your life by coming here… alone as well… to ask if my drug is addictive.'

Aramis nodded and waited as Old Jean looked at him intently.

'You are perhaps wiser than I gave you credit,' said the old man after a few seconds, 'there are ingredients in the drug that can cause the reaction you fear if given in large enough doses over time. And from what you said before I believe there is a chance your friend will need the pain killer for a while?'

Aramis nodded, 'he was badly burned. We cooled the burns in cold water as you suggested but the pain is still unbearable for him. It is… horrible to watch him suffer. But I don't want to cause him more problems in the long run.'

Old Jean leaned forward a little and reached out to pat Aramis' knee reassuringly.

'I have something that will help, and you can have the ingredients for this one.'

The healer rose from his chair and crossed to his small chest of medicines; he hooked the cane over the edge of the table the chest sat on. Aramis watched as the man pulled out a small vial and a piece of paper. He wrote a few words on the paper before folding it up and handing it to Aramis who glanced at the list. The ingredients were all things he could easily obtain but would not normally think to mix. He took the offered vial as well, slipping it into his pocket along with the list.

'When you want to wean him off the painkiller, start to mix that in with it. The taste will gradually make the painkiller less palatable until your friend will not be able to stomach it.'

Aramis nodded his understanding.

'Now,' said Old Jean, as he opened the low door. 'You must go and go quickly before word gets around that you are here.'

'Thank you, monsieur,' said Aramis with a nod.

He pulled his hood back up as he stepped back onto the street. He heard the door being closed behind him. Without waiting Aramis hurried away, back the way he had come. There was no need for him to linger, the sooner he was out of the forbidding place the better.

Thinking his luck was in, he walked a little quicker towards the more welcoming streets outside the court.

His luck had run out.

Several young men, with murderous looks on their faces, stepped in front of Aramis. He looked around for any way to evade the men only to find himself expertly surrounded. Despite his years of training, the Musketeer had been outwitted by the inhabitants of the Court. And they were out for blood.

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