Aramis stumbled forward, landed on his hands and knees, and looked up. The kitchen was nearly as dark as the cells. Stones surrounded the fireplace that warmed the room. A pot hung from the trammel hook of the swing arm. The scent of the stew permeated the room and caused Aramis' stomach to growl. A thin, short man with gray hair stood against the wall. He clutched a ladle to his chest and watched wide-eyed as Evan pulled a butcher knife from a kitchen drawer.
Evan slammed the knife onto the wood surface. Flour dusted upward. He leaned against the countertop with his hip, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched Aramis push himself back and rest on his haunches.
Aramis' shackles scraped reddened wrists, but he relaxed his shoulders, and looked toward the wooden bowl filled with fruit, the cutting board laden with freshly cut breads, and a dairy pot brimming with fresh butter. Aramis felt his mouth water, and he rolled his eyes when his stomach betrayed his strength.
"When was the last time you ate… really ate?" Evan asked. "A meal, not day old bread or an apple… maybe a piece of cheese?"
Aramis swallowed. "Bribery won't work, monsieur." His stomach grumbled and his mouth watered as the smells of honey, freshly baked bread, and simmering meat hit his senses.
Evan walked around the long island that had seen decades of use for bread-making and the rolling of doughs for pastries and pies. He grabbed a slice of bread, buttered it, drizzled honey over the top, and took a healthy bite. He grinned as he chewed and tossed the remaining slice to the top of the counter where it landed with a soft pat. Evan grabbed the heavy butcher knife, felt the weight in his hands, and ran his finger along the flat top from the handle to the curve of the tip.
"For a man who understands the seduction of a woman, you know the importance of your hands — the sensitivity of your fingers as a woman shivers from the cold, or warms beneath her arousal." He looked at Aramis and met his eyes. "In so many ways," he sighed, "your hands are key to unlocking her seduction."
Aramis tightened his jaw as he felt his arms grabbed. The guards pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the long island. "Again, monsieur, forgive my naivety, but is there a reason you wish to remove my fingers?" Aramis looked up, raised his right eyebrow, and then glanced toward the blade. His heart raced, and for a moment he couldn't hear anything, but the sound of blood rushing through his head. He had been threatened before, many times, but this… this was something different. It wasn't his life they wanted, they wanted him to suffer, to force him to share secrets he had no right to share, and they wanted to watch him bleed while they feasted on their meals.
"What is the schedule for the king's tax collection?" Tomas asked as he entered the room. He looked toward Felix, who had not moved and remained terrified next to the brick ovens and fireplace. "Who is the tax intendant, where is the collection site, and how many guards does he travel with? When do the collections start and end?" Tomas took a step forward, his quilted doublet open at the front and his lace collared blouse fluttered against his skin. He crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled
Aramis shook his head. "I don't know." He clenched his jaw and yelped when yanked to his feet by the links between the shackles. They shoved him forward over the table, and his arms pulled tight across the surface. "I don't know!" He looked toward Tomas. "I'm a king's musketeer, I protect him, I don't manage his finances!"
"Surely you've collected them on his behalf?" Tomas said. He nodded toward Evan, who pried open Aramis' clenched fist and grabbed his middle finger on his left hand, palm upward.
"Only those delinquent on their debts, and in the seven years I've been a musketeer, I've been ordered on such an occasion only once." Aramis looked upward toward Evan who brought the blade of the butcher knife toward Aramis' hand and waited.
Aramis struggled for a deep breath, felt the muscles in his arms and back tighten, and sweat pool in the small of his back. Clusters of dark hair clung to his brow as sweat beaded and fell down the sides of his face. "Is this what you want from us… information about tax collections and funds?" He frowned and looked toward Tomas. "There are much easier ways of stealing from the king, I can assure you." He exhaled slowly and tried to calm his breathing. "The crown jewels, shipments from the orient, even extortion of guests." Aramis clenched his jaw. "Of course, that would require some planning and perhaps some critical thinking on your part." He jumped when Evan slammed the blade next to his hand.
Tomas exhaled slowly. "How much does the king collect during tax season?"
Aramis shook his head, rested his forehead on the dark wood, and inhaled the scent of flour. "I don't know — not enough I can assure you. We need new blankets at the garrison — tax funds could pay for those. I'd pay more in taxes…" He sighed and licked his lips. "Wouldn't you? Just a few francs, not a lot, but enough — we really do need better blankets." He exhaled and flour dusted upward.
Someone cleared their throat.
"Have something to say, Felix?" Tomas asked, and looked toward the small man still stationed by the ovens.
"My apologies, Monsieur Tomas," Felix said, and he shifted uncomfortably. "From my own experiences, I can assure you the tax revenue is much lower than one can imagine —" he shrugged, "many of the principles pay with produce from their harvest, cattle, horses, even chickens. Gold was always in short supply." He tucked his chin and met Aramis' eyes. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," he glanced toward Tomas, "stealing tax revenue from the king is not the most lucrative way of collecting funds… that's more reserved for folk stories and legends." He shrugged and bit his bottom lip.
Aramis looked up and cocked an eyebrow toward Felix.
"How would you know that?" Tomas asked.
Felix swallowed, clutched the ladle to his chest, and said, "Prior to my employment with Baron Serres, I was a goldsmith — I specialized in financial exchanges with local municipals to secure products and lands for the crown."
Tomas rubbed his face, paused a moment over his jaw, and scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Are you lying, Felix?" He looked toward him and paused a moment with flared nostrils.
"No, Monsieur," Felix pushed himself against the stones of the fireplace, "I have no cause to lie."
Tomas clenched his right fist, stepped toward Aramis, and grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. "Men like you make me sick," he said and leaned closer to Aramis' ear. "You use your power to murder the innocent and take from them what isn't yours — you make light of their agony — mock their injustices."
Aramis frowned, swallowed, and felt his neck muscles strain beneath his grasp. "I think you've confused me with someone else, Monsieur. I'm a musketeer," he winced when Tomas tightened his grip and yanked on his neck, "the only power I've ever had is in service to France and her king… I'm a soldier — I help protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Tomas huffed, "I've seen what men like you do… I've cleaned up after men like you. I've buried the dead because of men like you." He released Aramis' hair, turned, and nodded curtly toward Evan.
"Perhaps you have me confused with someone else — I've known a few convicts that match who you're describing — Do I look like someone you once knew?" Aramis' breathing quickened and he watched Evan pick up the butcher knife. "Perhaps you seek retribution for something done to you?" He tried to focus, but found himself struggling to concentrate.
Evan flexed his jaw muscles, met Aramis' eyes, and then stuck the tip of the blade into the meat of Aramis' palm below his thumb. He guided the blade across his palm toward the base of his pinky.
Felix covered his eyes with his hand, turned his head away, and clutched at the ladle still in his grasp.
Aramis fought back a scream as blood pooled and poured from the long deep cut. He yelped when his middle finger was yanked out of joint from his knuckle. As soon as he was released he fell backward to the floor and clutched his hand to his chest. He lay still as the pain radiated and his hand throbbed.
Tomas slammed his hand on the wood surface, glared at Felix, and said, "You ever cross me again, small man, you'll never walk straight again." He looked toward Evan. "Return him to his cell," he said. He left the room in haste after he pushed the bowl of fruit to the floor.
Evan nodded toward the remaining guards, who grabbed Aramis beneath his arms and yanked him to his feet.
"Must be disappointing," Aramis said, through clenched teeth, "learning your source of income was based on folklore rather than facts — I always thought that story was rather absurd." He stumbled forward, but turned back toward Evan. "You should question who it is you follow — I think the man is insane — I've seen it before… good men who lose their minds to things outside of our understanding." He stumbled, but the guards held him upright. "We can still discuss those blankets!" He shouted over his shoulder as he was dragged down the hall.