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Chapter Ten
In light of recent events, it was time to meet Simeon once more and this time, d'Artagnan accompanied them, eager to see the war spy and get his measure. Aramis had pressed upon him not to say anything that would antagonise him. They had no way of knowing how he was involved in this and they had need of him still.
"Hear him out," Aramis had said earlier, wrapping his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "For Athos's sake. Remember what the Captain said."
"What if he's lying?" d'Artagnan had muttered.
"Then we will deal with it when we have evidence, as always," Porthos had responded. "Hold your peace, lad. There's a time an' place for everything. Whatever he sets in motion, it's more than we've turned up. We're on his territory now."
They met in one of the two taverns that Simeon told them he frequented. If he was not in one, he would be in the other. He disliked set appointments. It was likely that these two taverns would be abandoned once they had finished their business with him and Simeon would move stealthily on. They were satisfied he knew he could contact them at the Garrison should he need to thereafter, as he had done previously.
This tavern, "The Pewter Pot," was three storeys high, with small bullion windows. Likely erected a few hundred years before, remarkably it was still standing and in reasonable repair. The outside timbers were dry and cracked but the stonework looked strong. The roof overhung the upper storey, keeping the front reasonably dry in wet weather. Smoke billowed from the two tall chimneys, adding to the general fugue of the area. In the distance, the riverside was crowded with vessels loading and unloading sacks and crates on to the quay. The streets were thick with workers, residents and traders, the ground dusty dry, laying thick on hems and shoes.
Inside the dim, smoked-filled interior, Simeon saw them first and lifted his hand slightly, a long-stemmed pipe in his grasp.
"He's already here," d'Artagnan muttered as his companions subtly acknowledged the spy. "I thought he would just appear at our sides."
"Sshh," Porthos growled in warning, as they moved forward, though it did not have his usual firmness.
The three men pushed their way through the crowd busy ordering food and ale, as it was noon, the busiest time of the day and calculated to obscure many a nefarious meeting, present company excepted.
"This is d'Artagnan," Aramis said immediately, as the young man sat down, his eyes squarely on Simeon.
Simeon looked up and held his gaze, until d'Artagnan dropped his.
"He's one of us," Porthos said firmly. Simeon's eyes flicked toward him, before he eventually nodded his head and put his pipe to his lips.
"As you wish," he responded, his voice low.
"Athos has been taken," Aramis said, without preamble. "Your lead led us to a derelict warehouse, where we were outnumbered."
They gave him brief details. The numbers of men involved, the requirement for one of them as a hostage.
They all waited for Simeon's response, carefully watching him.
Alhough his response was measured, a look of concern passed over his face.
"How did they know you were looking for them?" Simeon asked.
It was an odd question, which may have led their youngest to answer, "Because you told them," but Aramis was relieved to see that d'Artagnan did not say it and they did not convey it in their own replies;
"Word travels quickly," Aramis replied, casually.
"Walls have ears," Porthos said.
"And France has spies," d'Artagnan murmured, meeting Porthos's resultant glare with one of his own.
"It is a lead, though, we have made contact, at last," Aramis continued. "Athos went willingly enough," he added, looking at Porthos, who nodded.
"We need your help," Aramis said, leaning forward to speak more privately. "This gang is a danger if they are working for The Wolf. We believe they are, in view of Athos's response to them. We believe he recognised one of them."
"What is he hoping to achieve?" Simeon frowned, tapping his pipe out on the table, his head down.
"Athos's intention is to get information on theirplans from the inside, one way or another." Aramis replied. "For that to succeed he has to get out, or we have to find him."
Simeon did not speak, his pipe clamped once more between his jaws. His pallor was pale and Porthos watched as he curled his free hand into a fist.
"This is entirely to do with La Rochelle, Simeon," Porthos said. "Do you 'ave any contacts from that time?"
"Some," Simeon said, harshly scrubbing his forehead with bony fingers. "Perhaps."
"You were a very effective informant for Richelieu," Aramis said. "If anyone can find this pack, you can. Time is of the essence."
d'Artagnan had tensed at his use of the word, "pack," though he said nothing.
"I have a few people I can seek out," Simeon said. "I will send word in three days."
"Two," Porthos growled, growing impatient.
"Two?!" Simeon said, startled.
"One, preferably," d'Artagnan added, shrugging when Simeon turned his head to to look at him.
"Two," Simeon said, pointedly, as d'Artagnan held his gaze.
Business concluded, Aramis and Porthos rose, their chairs scraping across the floor. d'Artagnan broke eye contact only when Aramis squeezed his shoulder. Aramis stepped back and waited for d'Artagnan to rise. After a few moments, d'Artagnan conceded and stood, moving quietly past Aramis and away from the table, following Porthos through the crowd to the door.
Aramis looked down at Simeon.
"Two days," he smiled, though there was little warmth in it.
Simeon remained seated, watching them go, deep in thought.
/
The building was empty now.
The men had left at noon.
Nothing stirred, including the Musketeer, slumped by the staircase, his arms held tightly to his sides by the rope wound around his torso.
A shaft of weak sunlight filtered down from between the planks of the dilapidated double doors at the top of the shallow chute at the end of the room. A basket lay in the middle of the floor, thrown aside in the fight that had occurred between the four men earlier.
In a corner, a rat sat on its haunches, nose twitching.
There was no seed left in the grain store, save for a few husks scattered in the corners of the room, for the rats had had it all.
This one was young and more interested in the shape near the stairs. Its nose continued to twitch, along with its prominent ears; its eyes on the figure. It dropped onto all fours, tail stretched out behind it, as it scurried along the wall, keeping low, eyes on the mound of clothes ahead. It skittered through a patch of sunlight, its shadow larger than itself on the wall beside it.
Leaving the safety of the wall, it ran across the floor, its sharp claws clicking on the patches of cement on the floor, halting at the leather jacket and belt, dropped in the corner. Finding nothing of interest, it turned toward the figure that smelled tantalising, and stilled - its large bead-like eyes focussed, intent.
Confident now, it scurried along the length of the figure and over leather boots, its teeth pulling at the shirt cuff.
The action caused Athos to stir and he opened his one good eye to the rodent, its short, dense brown coat dull as it reared up to sniff around his hand, held tight against his hip by the ropes that bound him.
Panic gave him a brief jolt of energy and his fingers suddenly flexed. Skittish, the rat was off, running back the way it came before disappearing into a hole in the brickwork. Athos whispered one word before oblivioun took him, leaving him alone once more;
"Masonne."
To be continued ...