Disclaimer: I don't own anything belonging to either Alexandre Dumas or his descendents.


Chapter Thirteen: A Pleasure to Serve, Monsieur

"Run!" d'Artagnan shouted.

They put spurs to their horses, but it was Elizabeth who noticed Gustav couldn't get the cart-horses to move. She wheeled her gelding around and moved towards him, putting out a hand and swinging him behind her. She paused for an indecisive moment at the sight of a bound Philippe and Henri, but rode away from them. Let them die.

The Musketeers abandoned their captives to regroup farther down the road, away from the crossfire.

"Why?" Aramis gasped.

"The Count?" Gustav offered, still behind Elizabeth, there wasn't much elsewhere he could go.

Athos glared at him, but had to admit, "It's got probability, unless someone here has severely pissed someone else off lately?" He looked at the negative shakes of the head around him. "Well, since no one's after us specifically, I suggest we go back and see our captives, or what's left of them."

"One can always hope." Porthos murmured under his breath.

Elizabeth shot him a quick wink, pulling her bow from her saddle-blankets. "Would you mind either waiting here, or riding with Porthos, Gustav?" At his hurt expression she explained, "I can't really shoot very well with you back there." He nodded and Porthos moved closer so he could switch mounts. Elizabeth swung her quiver into position and pinned her bow together. She smiled, for the first time in a long while including all her companions, "I feel like kicking some ass."

D'Artagnan returned her smile and pulled out his pistol. They wheeled around and rode back towards the abandoned cart.

Four men, all wearing purple sashes, were attempting to pull Philippe and Henri from the cart. The Musketeers quickly dispatched them. One man, obviously a leader from his lack of weapon and imperious manner, abruptly sprouted a feathered shaft from his forehead. Porthos looked back over his shoulder at Elizabeth who gave him a brisk salute with her bow before drawing fletching and impaling another soldier. Henri and Philippe were free and already on horseback. Shooting her a look of pure loathing, Philippe turned from Elizabeth and rode off into the woods with the remainder of the guards.

"Well that went well." Four eyes turned on him and Porthos shrugged. "I'm an eternal optimist, so what?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Do we follow, or do we still even care?"

Athos rounded on her. "Don't you still want justice, isn't that why you're here?"

"Sometimes I wonder if it's worth all this to save the soul of a man I couldn't stand." At the questioning looks around her Elizabeth sighed, "And no, I'm not going to elaborate." She rode forward and inspected the remains of the wagon horse. "Looks like you're riding double Porthos." She briefly touched her forehead out of respect to the dead animal then turned her mount towards Blaes.

"So what do you think the chances of us catching them are?" d'Artagnan asked from her side.

She raised one eyebrow at his presumption that she might wish to converse with him. "Slim to none." She replied anyway.

"Pity."

Elizabeth made a noncommittal sound under her breath. Or began to. The ring of a pistol shot turned her noncommittal noise into more of a curse as she clutched her arm, watching blood seep from between her fingers.

"Where...?" The men shouted, almost as one, wheeling their horses to peer into the thick line of trees near the road. One detached himself from his companions and pressed his mount close to Elizabeth's, he began to reach for the hand she held to her wound, but stopped himself.

"May I?"

Athos was as surprised as the rest of the Musketeers when Elizabeth nodded and allowed him to inspect the gunshot wound.

"I don't think it's serious."

"It feels serious." She grumbled.

He smiled briefly at her humor.

"Athos."

Athos looked up from his tending of Elizabeth to d'Artagnan. "Yes?"

"How far is it to Blaes?"

Athos' brow furrowed for a moment. "Normally, I'd say six or seven leagues, maybe two hours; but with her wound..."

"You don't need to worry about me, I'll be fine."

D'Artagnan crooked a half-grin at her. "Mind if we do anyway?"

She sighed dramatically, "If you insist."

Aramis and d'Artagnan smiled.

"Alright," that voice was Porthos. Only he could sound so put out without being offensive. "Elizabeth's been shot, and I'm riding doubled. If we make a league an hour, and it's six or seven leagues..." He trailed off here. Obviously the strain of the mathematics was too much for him.

"Six or seven hours." Athos sighed. A sudden flashback to Monsieur Trèville's office, where he'd been asked to school his friend many years ago, went through is mind. "One league an hour times six leagues is six hours Porthos."

"I fight Athos." Porthos huffed, "I have no need to get myself mixed up in arithmetic as well."

"Watch this," Aramis whispered to Elizabeth as Athos finished her bandage. "Porthos, if a whore is charging you half a silver crown an hour, and you stay for six hours, how much do you owe her?"

"Three silver crowns Half a gold piece." Porthos replied without hesitation.

Aramis winked at Elizabeth, "You see Athos, you just have to put it in his own terms."

"But after a night with me, I doubt I'd need to pay it."

He pretended to ignore the dumbstruck looks his friends gave him.

The journey henceforth had an air of normality about it. Everyone was on relatively open speaking terms with one another again, although the tension was still high between Athos and Elizabeth- and Porthos was making no effort whatsoever to speak to Athos.

They had ridden maybe two hours (which was also two leagues as d'Artagnan was patiently attempting to explain to Porthos), when a commotion caught their attention. Although it was not directed at them, their innate curiosity got the better of them.

"Grimaud, so good of you to join us."

"As my master wishes, so I obey."

Porthos' mouth might well have been permanently hinged open.

"Mosqueton?"

"Of course, sir, you have something on you tunic." He moved near, obviously with intent and purpose to clean said tunic without any regard to the fact that said sir was still wearing it.

"Friends of yours I presume?"

Athos turned to Elizabeth as they dismounted, grateful for at least one opportunity to speak with her. "These are our servants. My own here, is Grimaud." He bowed. "The fellow standing next to Porthos is Mosqueton." He moved forward and kissed the back of her hand, despite Athos' warning growl. "The somber looking man in the black is Bazin, who serves-"

"Let me guess- Aramis?"

"Correct, and the man with the sword and looking as though he's about to slay a dragon is Planchet, employed to d'Artagnan. This is Elizabeth."

"Pleasure." Elizabeth said with a smile.

"Oh," Athos grumbled, "and this is Gustav." There was a definite growl in is throat during that name. The four servants bowed, Gustav bowed back. "Did you find them?" Athos asked Grimaud.

"Not fifteen leagues east of here."

"Good."

"Excuse me?" Porthos coughed politely, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Aramis, "Who did they find, and what are they doing here?"

Athos began to explain. "Before we left Paris, I gathered all of our servants and asked them to find Philippe's army for us." At Porthos' blank look he elaborated, "The one he is going to attack the Bastille with to disguise his attempt on the king?"

"Oh." Said Porthos.

"You understand?"

"I think so," Porthos murmured, "But who's Philippe again?"

Athos sighed, "Why me?"

"The Count de Fère." Elizabeth offered.

Porthos nodded, he might be slow, but his mind hadn't managed to stop completely. Yet.

"But I thought Athos was-" Planchet began. He was cut off when d'Artagnan casually slapped him upside the head. "What?"

Elizabeth turned on Athos in open-mouthed astonishment. Athos relished rendering her speechless for a moment. "Yes, I am the Count, that's how I knew Philippe had to be an imposter."

"You're a Count?"

"Yes."

"And you never told me?"

Athos backed away as she advanced on him. She was kind of scary when she was angry. "It never came up?" he offered as explanation.

"We have been tracking Philippe, calling himself the Count de Fère, for nearly two weeks, and the topic never came up?"

Athos tumbled and fell on his derriere, mainly because she had shouted the last bit at him. "I'm sorry?"

She rolled her eyes. "Men."

Better than heartless bastard, Athos thought to himself. At least I'm moving up the scum ladder.

"So," d'Artagnan was saying, "What else?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Planchet was making a worthy attempt at an innocent expression.

"You have the 'I did something I'm not sure I should have' look."

"Why, he does doesn't he?" Porthos peered around to look.

It was Bazin who came to his rescue. "Ahem."

"Yes Bazin?" Aramis asked.

"When we found the army, we sent word to Monsieur Trèville. The remainder of the Musketeers are about one league west of here."

"You guys don't do anything halfway do you?"

Athos shot a glare at Elizabeth. She shrugged.

"I suppose we should go join them?" Aramis offered.

"Probably." Porthos sighed. "And I was just getting used to the rough life."

"We'll find you a nice accommodating wench to yell at you when Elizabeth becomes distracted." D'Artagnan offered.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"Boys? Are you coming?"

"Ah..." d'Artagnan slung an arm over Porthos' shoulder as they made their way back to the horses, "there calls the Siren now."