Summary: Aramis is abducted by Spanish agents and it's a race against time to find out why and where they've gone.

A/N: Thank you to two Guests, Laureleaf, and Uia for your reviews! I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter. :)

"Nefarious Plots"

The din of the tavern ebbed and flowed with a natural rhythm, broken occasionally by a boisterous crowd. That night, the three Inseparables and their adopted pup fell into the latter as Aramis regaled d'Artagnan with a story of having to chase a badger through the woods when it made off with the missive they'd been tasked to deliver.

D'Artagnan, full of wine, laughed with the force of his entire body. He coughed to control himself. "You're pulling my leg."

Aramis put a hand over his heart. "I swear on my honor it is true."

"Porthos had stashed the letter in his food pouch," Athos put in blandly, his skill at weaving a captivating tale sorely lacking in theatrics. "When the badger nicked the bag, it took off with the letter inside."

"Gave us a merry chase," Aramis confirmed.

"But you did catch it?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Porthos did. Wrestled with it until it gave up its quarry. Beast put up quite the fight too. I think it's the only opponent that's come close to besting him."

Porthos huffed indignantly.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Is any of this true?"

Aramis laughed and winked at him. "Most of it."

The boy rolled his eyes and took another swig of his drink.

Aramis finished his one cup and picked up his hat. "And with that, I bid you goodnight, gentlemen."

"'Ave a previous engagement, do ya?" Porthos said with a knowing smirk.

Aramis merely grinned. "Don't wait up."

He donned his hat and headed outside into the night. The muffled clamor of the tavern began to recede as he made his way across the street, but no sooner had he passed the first alley that several figures launched themselves from the shadows. Multiple assailants were grabbing at him, and Aramis threw an elbow back into someone's face. He kicked out at one coming at him from the front and caught the man in the knee, causing him to stumble back with a pained howl.

Aramis seized the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it from its scabbard, a damp cloth was slapped over his nose and mouth from behind. The stench of rotten eggs instantly made him gag, but he couldn't wrench away. He clawed at the arm braced across his chest and holding the cloth, but more hands grabbed his arms to restrain him.

The fumes permeated his nose, making his head swim. In another second, it felt like the strings to his limbs had been abruptly cut, and he felt himself going limp in his attackers' arms. And then everything faded to black.

o.0.o

Athos was nursing his third bottle of wine and only half listening to d'Artagnan telling Porthos some humorous animal stories from his time growing up on a farm.

A woman came up to their table. Athos recognized her as one of the tavern wenches. She was wringing her hands in her dress.

"Yer musketeers, yea?"

"That's right," Porthos replied, raising his brows in curiosity at her.

D'Artagnan straightened in his seat. "Is there something we can help you with?"

"There was another with you tonight…"

Athos rolled his eyes. Seemed Aramis had caught this girl's fancy. He caught every woman's fancy.

"'Fraid 'e's gone for the night," Porthos said with an amused grin. "I'll tell 'im you were askin' after 'im."

"No, I…" She darted her gaze around. "I saw 'im outside. 'E was attacked."

Athos was on his feet only a split second behind d'Artagnan.

"What?" the boy exclaimed. "Is he hurt?"

"They- they took 'im."

The stupor Athos had been working his way toward vanished in an instant. "Show us," he said.

With a jerky nod, she turned on her heel and led them outside the tavern and across the street. They were still in sight of the establishment when she stopped and pointed toward an alleyway. "O'er there."

Guard heightened, Athos put a hand on his sword as he strode over. The vicinity was empty.

"No signs of a struggle," Porthos commented.

Athos roved his gaze across the ground and paused as he caught sight of something near the wall. His heart plummeted. "That's not true." He crouched down to pick up Aramis's hat.

Porthos made an animalistic sound in the back of his throat. "Who took 'im?" he asked the woman who'd brought them out here.

She shook her head. "I don' know. It was dark."

Athos spotted something else on the ground near where the hat had fallen, a white cloth, damp when he picked it up. He brought it up to inspect it and quickly jerked away with a wrinkling of his nose. "Ether, I'd wager."

"They drugged him," d'Artagnan said, incredulous.

"Seems that way."

Porthos turned to the tavern wench again. "Which way did they go?"

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don' know. I'm sorry. I was too scared ta move. But I remembered the musketeer was in the tavern wiv you and as soon as I thought 'em gone, I came to tell ya."

"You did the right thing," d'Artagnan said.

"We have to find 'im," Porthos growled.

"The use of ether suggests they want him alive," Athos said. Which, unfortunately, could be so much worse than a simple robbery.

"But for what?" d'Artagnan asked, voicing the very concern clenching Athos's own heart.

"I didn' see 'em, but…" the woman spoke up hesitantly. "I 'eard 'em. Think they was speakin' Spanish."

"Spanish?" Porthos repeated dubiously. "What the hell would the Spanish want wit' Aramis?"

"Unless their target was any musketeer they came across," Athos put in.

"How does this help us?" d'Artagnan asked in mounting agitation.

Athos pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "There's a merchant in Paris, Spanish born but naturalized to France. He's a pillar in the Spanish community in the city. He might know something."

"Then let's go see if he's home," Porthos said.

It was getting late, but considering the urgency of the matter, Athos had no qualms about knocking down the man's door. Aramis was likely alive, but the question was how long he would remain so.

Athos led the way through the streets to a shop set on a corner. The lights were all off, even in the apartments above the store. He indicated the door and let Porthos do the banging.

It took several minutes before the door finally swung open, revealing a short man with curly black hair and a black beard. One hand clutched at the folds of a night robe, the other holding a candle. "What?" he snapped.

"Monsieur Nuñez," Athos greeted. "I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. We are investigating a kidnapping."

Nuñez squinted at him. "I don't know anything about a kidnapping."

"A witness identified the agents as Spanish, and as you are a central figure in the community, you might be able to help us. Can you think of anyone brazen enough to abduct a King's Musketeer?"

Nuñez scowled. "I am not a criminal and I do not keep the company of criminals. I am an honest businessman." He tried to shut the door on them, but Porthos grabbed the wood and shoved it open further. Nuñez staggered back a step, eyes widening in fear.

"We are not here to accuse you," Athos said, impatience making his voice tight. "But I doubt there is anything that goes on within the Spanish community that you are unaware of. A life is at stake."

Nuñez's jaw ticked. "All right," he conceded. "There were four newcomers to Paris from Spain. They arrived a week ago and came asking for directions and information on navigating the city. But that was it, and they did not express plans to stay."

"So they would be returning to Spain?" Athos asked.

"That was my understanding, señor."

"Any idea why they might abduct a musketeer?"

"No. But I can tell you they did not hold hospitable attitudes toward France."

Athos's lips thinned. This did not help them much, but at least it was confirmation that something was afoot with Spain. He gave Nuñez a clipped nod. "Thank you. I apologize for disturbing your evening." He gave Porthos a look to stand down.

Nuñez hesitated for a moment, then said, "One of the men asked after the whereabouts of a cousin living in the city, a man named Ortega who lives in the district south of Notre Dame. I gathered that they were not in contact prior, but it may help you."

"Thank you," Athos said again, more appreciatively.

Nuñez shut the door on them.

"So now we find this Ortega?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We cannot go banging on each door in the neighborhood at this hour," Athos replied regretfully.

"We can't jus' do nothin'," Porthos rejoined. "Aramis is in trouble."

"We'll go back to the garrison," Athos said firmly. "Report this to Treville. Then at dawn we return with a troop of men to conduct a search for Ortega."

Porthos shook his head angrily.

"Remember they took him alive," Athos pointed out. "We have some time."

He dearly hoped he was right.

"Do you think they could be holding Aramis at Ortega's house?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I don't know, but we will find out soon."

Their brother just had to hold on that long.

o.0.o

Aramis woke to a rhythmic jostling through the floor boards he was lying on. It took a moment for his groggy mind to recognize the creak and bump of a cart. Prying his eyelids open, he was at first greeted with brown blurs, but after a few moments they coalesced into crates and canvas, and he realized he was in the back of a covered wagon. His head ached fiercely and there was a tickle in the back of his throat. He tried to move, only to find his wrists bound in front of him with rope.

He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to remember what happened. He'd been at the tavern, had left before the others, and…he vaguely remembered a fight with faceless shadows that had jumped him just outside the tavern. But then things got hazy.

Aramis lifted his head to peer through the flap of canvas at the back of the wagon. He caught a glimpse of open road and early morning light and blinked in bewilderment. They weren't in Paris anymore?

Two men on horseback brought up the rear, and Aramis knew that tumbling out the back wouldn't get him very far. Better he wait for an opportunity. At least travel by wagon was slow, so maybe they weren't that far from the city… But who were these men and what did they want?

He wasn't sure how long it was before he finally heard someone call a stop. Long enough for him to regain strength in his limbs. But he was perplexed when he heard the order given in Spanish. There was an annoyed reply grumbling about having to travel all through the night, also delivered in Spanish, and a response that they knew why they must; they had to get back to Spain as quickly as possible.

That sent Aramis's heart rate up a notch. He was being taken to Spain? Why? There had to be some mistake.

He pushed himself upright and scooted to the edge of the wagon bed, listening to the footsteps moving about outside, waiting for an opening. When a hand appeared to lift the flap, Aramis drew both knees up and kicked out, catching the man square in the chest and sending him flying back.

Aramis scrambled out of the wagon to land in a crouch, then lunged to snatch the man's sword from its sheath. He got it out just in time as another figure came charging from around the wagon, sword raised. Aramis threw the blade up, steel clashing with a discordant screech. He forced the locked swords down to the side and head butted the man with enough force he went stumbling back.

Aramis flipped the sword he held to drive the point into the ground and quickly knelt to slice through the ropes around his wrists. But before he could succeed, something hard clobbered him in the back of the shoulder, sending him face first to the ground. A boot planted against his shoulder and kicked him onto his back, followed by a sword point to his throat. Aramis stilled, dropping his head back in defeat.

At a gesture from the swordsman, the other men got to their feet and roughly grabbed Aramis's arms to haul him up as well.

"What do you want?" he demanded, speaking French just to gauge things and not give away a possible advantage for discovering what was going on.

The man sheathed his sword and answered in French, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Señor Aramis, France's finest marksman."

His brow furrowed in confusion. So this wasn't a case of mistaken identity?

"You have me at a disadvantage, señor."

The Spaniard merely smirked. "Your reputation is known among those of our…profession."

Profession…as soldiers?

"What do you want?" Aramis repeated, giving a futile shrug against the hands restraining him. "Why have you abducted me from Paris?"

"We have need of your special skill set." The man's lips curved upward. "You see, there will be an assassination attempt made on the King of Spain. When it's discovered that it was made by one of France's finest soldiers, it will be considered an act of war."

Aramis blinked dubiously at him. "You can't be serious. I would never commit such an act of treason."

"Spain would believe it sanctioned. When your body is found at the scene, slain after you miss your shot, the truth will be undeniable."

Aramis snorted. "That I would miss would be even less credible."

The quip was said to cover his mounting trepidation. They hadn't divested him of his uniform, the pauldron with the Fleur de Lis an obvious mark of his nationality and association, obviously meant to be twisted to these men's uses.

The man shrugged. "It happens to the best of us."

Aramis looked over the man's shoulder at the empty road, fear wrapping cold fingers around his heart. No one would know he was missing for hours yet, believing him with a woman when he failed to show up for morning muster. There would be jokes and laments and threats that he would be mucking out the stables for a week. And when real concern would finally settle in, they would have no way of determining what had happened to him.

Aramis forced himself to remain calm, to think of a way out of this.

The Spaniard smirked again and reached into his doublet to pull out a vial, along with a folded handkerchief. He removed the stopper and pressed the cloth to the top, then tipped it upside down quickly.

Aramis renewed his struggles as the man advanced toward him, but the men holding him were unyielding.

"No—"

The man pressed the cloth to Aramis's face, and no matter how much he tried to buck and twist, he could not escape. He tried to hold his breath, but it didn't matter; the fumes filled his nostrils and suffused into his bloodstream, and in a matter of moments he slipped away.

o.0.o

After waking the captain and informing him what had happened, they'd been ordered to get what rest they could. D'Artagnan hadn't been able to sleep, however, not with Aramis missing, and he had no intention of going back to his room at the Bonacieux house when a development could happen at the garrison at any time. He had stayed up with Porthos in his room, the two of them stewing in worried silence. Athos hadn't gone back to his apartments either, though he sat in a chair with his hat over his eyes, either sleeping or only pretending to.

Finally when morning came, half the garrison set out to search for this Ortega person in the district Nuñez had directed them to. They pounded on doors and stopped everyone in the street, asking after Ortega's apartments. So far they had found nothing and d'Artagnan was feeling the frustration as palpably as the waves practically rolling off Porthos's shoulders.

Pierre came jogging up the street toward them. "We found him."

Without a word, they followed the other musketeer a few blocks down and into a home where two others from the garrison were flanking a man seated in a chair in the kitchen. He was older, with a weathered face that shot them all a surly and uncooperative glare upon their entrance.

"He says he has no information," Pierre reported.

Athos stepped forward. "Four men recently traveled to the city from Spain, one we believe was your cousin."

Ortega shrugged. "I haven't spoken to my relatives in years."

"If you do not tell us what we want to know, you will be charged as an accomplice to the abduction of a musketeer, which will result in you going to the noose."

Ortega's cheeks flushed red. "I had nothing to do with that!"

"Then cooperate," Athos said.

Porthos shifted where he stood. "Jus' give me five minutes wit' 'im."

Athos held up a warning hand and arched a brow at Ortega. "What will it be?"

The man scowled. "My cousin Alonso showed up out of the blue last week, demanding a place to stay. But he did not spend his days here and I did not ask where he and his friends went off to."

"So he only wanted lodgings from you?" Athos asked.

"And a wagon for their trip home. That's all I know!"

D'Artagnan moved in and leaned forward, quirking a pointed look at him. "Is it?" he asked, holding the man's gaze for a long moment, aware of Porthos pacing like a caged tiger behind him.

Ortega's eyes flicked between them. "Look, I'm not associated with my cousin. He's a mercenary, I'm a tanner. He favors war over peace time." Ortega snorted. "Says it's better for business." He shifted restlessly in his chair. "I may have overheard something about framing a musketeer for an assassination attempt on Spanish soil. But I have no part of it!"

D'Artagnan straightened, shooting a horrified look at the others. That would be an act of war. Surely they didn't think they could get away with something like that.

Athos's expression was grim with fury as he turned to Pierre. "Take this man to the captain to give his statement. Porthos, d'Artagnan, and I will ride out immediately. Send reinforcements."

Pierre gave a stern nod and gestured for the other musketeers to take Ortega.

"He mentioned a wagon," d'Artagnan said. "So they probably left by the main road."

Athos nodded. "That gives us a chance to catch up."

o.0.o

They rode fast out of Paris. Athos hoped the information they'd gleaned was correct and that they weren't being sent on a wild chase while Aramis was, in fact, still within the city. Or that his abductors had taken another road.

This plot to instigate war was unbelievable and mad, but there were mad men in the world. Athos had known unscrupulous businessman before, but one who craved profit from violence was another breed. And perhaps one so brazen as to attempt this.

Despite the slow travel of a wagon, the Spanish agents had a head start, and it took them four hours to finally catch sight of their quarry on the road. At least, Athos hoped it was who they were looking for.

They spurred their horses from a canter into a gallop. The two riders at the back saw them coming and a pistol shot cracked the air but didn't hit any of them. Athos drew his own pistol and returned fire, unseating one of the men from his horse. By then the musketeers had overtaken them and it became a clash of steel as they unsheathed their swords and leaped from their horses.

This little operation seemed to only have four men. Athos quickly dispatched one while d'Artagnan took the one who'd been grazed by the musket ball. Porthos took on the last two, roaring like a raging bull as he bore down on them relentlessly. He clobbered one in the head with the pommel of his sword before disarming the fourth and body slamming him to the ground. Porthos's schiavona swung down, but instead of slicing through the man's neck, it came to a stop at his throat.

Athos was closest to the wagon and he rushed forward, slapping the canvas curtain aside as he jumped into the back. He found Aramis laying on his side, bound and unconscious. Athos dropped his sword and reached out both hands to clasp his friend's neck.

"Aramis. Aramis."

He got no response. Athos yanked one glove off with his teeth and searched for a pulse, relieved to feel the languid but steady beat beneath his fingers.

"Aramis," he called again, giving the marksman a light shake. Aramis still didn't stir. Athos noticed tiny red splotches around his nose and lips.

Looking around the supplies, he grabbed a water skin and plucked his scarf from around his neck. He wet the cloth and then used it to gently wipe Aramis's face, worried about the marksman's continued unresponsiveness. Athos then picked up his sword and cut the bonds before backing out of the wagon.

Porthos shot him a questioning look filled with dread.

"He's alive but unconscious," Athos reported and strode over to the Spanish agent on the ground with Porthos's blade still at his throat. "Are you Alonso?"

The man furrowed his brow just a fraction, which was answer enough. Then he let out a string of Spanish under his breath. Athos caught a curse word or two and the name of his cousin.

"Get him up," Athos said.

Porthos and d'Artagnan reached down to haul the man to his feet.

"You are under arrest for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit treason."

Alonso spat something else in Spanish, though Athos didn't know what it was. It would have been nice to have Aramis awake to translate. But he wasn't, and the fact that he wasn't turned Athos's blood to ice. He stepped forward and roughly searched Alonso's coat, finding the vial he suspected contained the ether.

"How many times did you drug him with this?" he asked, voice level like the calm in the scant seconds between a lightning strike and clap of thunder.

Alonso lifted his chin and didn't say anything.

"Couldn't have him puttin' up a fuss in the back of the wagon on the road, could ya?" Porthos growled menacingly.

Athos rifled through the rest of the Spaniard's pockets until he found a handkerchief. After a moment's thought, he uncapped the vial and doused the cloth with it.

Alonso frowned. "What are you doing?"

"So you do speak French. However, I'm no longer interested in what you have to say." With that, he thrust the soaked cloth against Alonso's face, clapping his other hand around the back of his neck to hold him in place as he thrashed. It only took a moment for him to go limp and crumple to the ground.

D'Artagnan arched a brow at him, to which Athos just shrugged.

"We'll put the Spanish agents in the wagon to take back to Paris. Porthos, help me get Aramis out. Better he ride with you than be lying next to his abductors."

Athos turned and climbed back into the wagon, slipping his arms under Aramis's shoulders and gently scooting him toward the edge where Porthos took him into his arms.

"He'll wake up, yeah?" he asked worriedly.

"Without knowing when the last dose was, there's no way to know how long he'll be out," Athos replied. "But he's alive and we thwarted Alonso's plot."

He grabbed some rope from the supplies before hopping back out and tossed it to d'Artagnan to secure their prisoners, though one was dead and the other would probably die from his wounds before they made it back to the city.

Then the two of them set about loading the bodies into the wagon while Porthos sat on the ground, cradling Aramis in his arms. Athos had not mentioned his concern over the repeated exposure to ether, not wanting to add to Porthos's worry, but he wanted to get back to Paris as soon as possible.

When the wagon was all loaded up and the extra horses tethered in a line, Athos and d'Artagnan got Aramis into the saddle so Porthos could climb up behind him. D'Artagnan then took the wagon and Athos mounted his own horse, and they turned to make their way back to the city.

o.0.o

Porthos hated the way Aramis was completely limp in front of him. He wanted to hear that blessed voice make a joke or complain, or even insist that he was fine and they didn't need to fuss. And then Porthos would make a quip that fussin' was Aramis's job.

But there was none of that. Only the silent, agonizingly slow pace they set back to Paris. Porthos would have ridden back to the garrison with his precious cargo if he wasn't worried Alonso might not have been working alone, and he couldn't leave Athos and d'Artagnan by themselves, not until musketeer reinforcements caught up with them.

Aramis twitched, a low moan catching in his throat.

Porthos pulled back on the reins to stop his horse. "Aramis?"

His friend twisted his head away, eyelids fluttering. He started to thrash against the arms around his middle.

"Athos!" Porthos called, automatically tightening his hold to keep Aramis from tumbling out of the saddle. He leaned forward, tucking his chin over his friend's shoulder. "Easy. It's Porthos. You're safe, Aramis."

The struggles stilled. "P'thos?"

"That's right. You're all right."

Aramis craned his head back to look up at him, still blinking groggily.

Athos had dismounted and now came to stand beside their horse, placing one hand on Aramis's knee and reaching the other up to help slide him down. He couldn't keep his legs about him and practically fell against Athos, who then eased him to the ground, sitting behind him to keep him propped up. Aramis immediately broke into a fit of coughing.

Porthos swung down from his horse and grabbed his water skin, then knelt to give Aramis some to drink. By that time, d'Artagnan had come over to join them.

Aramis gulped down the water desperately and Porthos had to pull it away.

"Easy. What's that yer always tellin' us about not drinkin' too fast?"

Aramis's eyelids fluttered rapidly at him, then up at d'Artagnan. One hand weakly reached back to grasp at Athos's arm. "You're here," he rasped in wonder.

"'Course we are," Porthos said.

"H-how?"

"One of the tavern wenches witnessed your abduction," Athos explained. "Unfortunately, it took us several hours to discover by whom and where they were headed. Sorry if we kept you waiting."

Aramis coughed again. "By the…grace of…God," he wheezed.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Exposure to ether," Athos replied. "Aramis, do you know how many times they dosed you with it?"

"Mm, three? That I remember. After I…woke the…first time." A cough punched its way up his throat. "Don' think they…gave me…much chance again. Had tried to…escape."

Porthos held the water skin to his lips so he could drink more. "We need to get 'im to a doctor."

"I'll be…fine."

And Porthos quirked a small smile because there it was, exactly what he'd asked for. "That many doses could equal poison," he argued, because that was his role and though he usually found it aggravating, he was happy to play it this time if it meant everything was as it should be.

"Only if it was given too frequently or in too concentrated a form," Athos put in. "Rest and time for it to dissipate from your body is probably the only thing that can be done, but I would still like a professional opinion on the matter."

Aramis made a humming sound that Porthos took as acquiescence.

Athos shifted slightly so he could look down and meet Aramis's eye. "Do you want to continue back to Paris or rest a while? Your abductors have been apprehended and are trussed up in the back of the wagon. We can afford to wait for the captain's reinforcements to meet us on the road."

Aramis blinked blearily a few times and let out a small cough. "I would like to go home," he finally whispered.

Athos nodded, and Porthos reached out to help him get Aramis up and back into the saddle. Then Porthos swung up behind him.

He put an arm around Aramis's middle and drew him back to rest against his chest. "It's okay," Porthos murmured in his ear. "You can relax. We've got you. Hey…" He reached behind him to pluck the item he'd carried on his saddlebags this whole way. "Look what we found." He brought the hat around and patted it against Aramis's chest.

Fingers clumsily grasped it and held it close. There was a long exhalation and then Aramis let himself slump against Porthos. "Thank you, my friend."

"Always."

A/N: Ether wasn't given that name until 1729 but the substance had been around and in use since 1540. (According to Wikipedia.) I just preferred to use the shortened name than the lengthier "oleum dulce vitrioli" it went by in that time.