Victor Emilian stepped inside his tent, tossed his cloak to the bed and bowed his head. Muscles tensed, and his hands tightened around the belt at his waist. He could feel the eyes of Salvador on his back. Salvador stood calmly with his arms crossed, his feet shoulder width apart, and his jaw clenched as he flexed masseter muscles that burned and caused his teeth to grind.

"I hate this place," Victor said. He shook his head, ran his hand over his short gray hair, and looked at the wood stove that heated his tent. "It smells like shit, and the people… the people are like rodents." He looked over his shoulder.

"King Louis said he needed time to think," Salvador said, and frowned. The wrinkles of his forehead exaggerated, and he listened as the regiment outside the tent worked to prepare their afternoon meal.

Emilian huffed and shook his head as he turned. "Everything I have worked for is gone…" he met Salvador's eyes. "Everything!" He swung his arm and knocked over his desk, sent papers, ink, and maps to the floor. The inkwell catapulted and arched black ink along the curve of the tent wall.

"The musketeer?" Salvador relaxed his shoulders and watched Emilian pace from the stove to his bed and back again.

Emilian nodded, scratched his jaw, and rubbed his mouth. "If he recognized me —"

"Who is he?"

Emilian looked up, raised his eyebrows, and watched Salvador pour himself a drink from the whiskey port that rested on the table near the bed. "Old history," he said, and reached for the maps, uprighted his table, and replaced them on the surface.

Salvador chuckled, sipped at his drink, and took a deep breath. "Old history is what get's you killed. Who is he?"

Emilian swallowed, rubbed his neck and said, "I killed his mother." He raised his eyebrows, placed a hand on his hip, and sighed. "He was a boy… no more than seven or eight," he chuckled and shook his head, "but a determined little shit." He ran his hand over his head and then scratched behind his ear.

"The determined little shit is no longer a boy, but a man — from what I understand — is quite accomplished with the blade." Salvador shrugged, peeked out the door-flap, and turned back toward Emilian. "Want me to eliminate the problem?"

Emilian shook his head. "Not yet." He sighed. "If he remembers me, he will have already told the king, and if he hasn't… we might still have a chance."

"What did you say to him?"

Emilian clenched his jaw, pursed his lips, and shook his head again. "I should not have said anything to him — I was surprised he survived."

Salvador groaned. "So even if the musketeer does not remember you, you've left him a hint that you know him?" He shook his head. "You're a fool!"

Emilian cocked an eyebrow. "Careful."

Salvador took a deep breath, finished his drink and set the glass on the table next to the port of whiskey. "I cannot defend you when you choose to act on impulse." He ran a hand over his head, stepped toward the exit and paused. "What about Rome — it's been 23 years?"

Emilian chuckled and raised his eyebrows in skepticism. "Rome would have me drawn and quartered and they'd celebrate while they did it." He rubbed his face and turned.

"Spain? The ambassador seemed engrossed with your story?"

Emilian nodded, but looked toward the floor as he turned. "Spain will only participate if I fulfill my promise." He exhaled slowly, looked at the map, and clenched his jaw. "We should notify regimental captains to proceed to Paris on different routes — should the king be made aware, we will need assistance fleeing France."

"I've never known you to flee from anything?" Salvador pursed his lips.

"We are at the mercy of Spain, and of France right now and it is best that you understand what is being asked of you," Emilian said. His voiced deepened, and his stance was strong. "I'm not a fool and understand when and where to make a stand… This?" he raised his eyebrows, "is not it." He shook his head, rubbed his neck, and looked at Salvador. "Find me a woman… someone who is not rotten."

Salvador clenched his jaw, recognized the dismissal, nodded, and left the tent.

Emilian grabbed his cross bow, took a seat on his bed, and obsessively started to clean.