This is still anachronistic and silly and I apologize if anyone gets all offended by Siroc's disguise in this chapter. I know it's tacky (thus my repeated warnings), but I had to do it for plot reasons. Plus, I'm warped, I admit it freely. I've said repeatedly that this story is meant to be silly and nothing in it should be taken seriously, so don't say I didn't warn you. If I get flames telling me that it's anachronistic, historically iffy, dumb, bad translations, or how dare I use that disguise, I'm going to move on to the next reviewer. Fair enough? I know I don't sew up all the plot threads in this story, but one must leave the door ajar for future stories, right? Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, they're Dan Angel's, Billy Brown's, and PAX TV's. Still rated for teenagers and up. That being said, here's the conclusion, folks. I really hope you liked it in some small way.
5
The Resurrection of Monsieur Vieaux
Paris, the Court of the King, Five Years Earlier
Their reactions were not unexpected.
The Royal Advisors had murmured among themselves before one, a senior member of the court named Moncrief, had stuttered out the first question: "We were told you were…much older." The man had gray hair, wrinkles around the eyes, teeth that were yellowed, worn, and in some spaces missing altogether, and might have been in his seventies as he professed. Still, there was something very---odd---about the elderly gentleman that Moncrief couldn't put his finger on.
Standing beside Moncrief, the Cardinal Mazarin blinked, collecting himself. He found his voice, but tiptoed around the question truly bothering those gathered in the room. Instead, he added, "We were told you were…retired?"
Seated on her throne on the dais, Queen Anne---always forthright with her thoughts---blurted out what had truly startled the group when this elderly man had walked through the door: "We were told you were dead, Monsieur Vieaux."
Under their combined stares and gaping, Siroc shifted a bit in his seat. He felt perfectly ridiculous in his costume, and the longer they stared, the more he worried that they could see his disguise was fake.
With Jeanette's help, Ramon had 'borrowed' the wig of gray hair, the suit, the shoes, and the cane from the Theater Bastelier. The Musketeer had grumbled something in Spanish upon returning to the river camp with the outfit in hand. Siroc spoke enough of the language to figure out that Ramon had promised the unpleasant woman an evening at the café in exchange for her help and was debating to himself whether he'd made a good trade or not.
In addition to the spectacles, Siroc had improvised the wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth, and the wooden teeth. He'd made the teeth himself, then set about mixing a salve that, when rubbed into the skin, would produce deep and temporary (he hoped) folds in the skin. The wrinkle-effect had been enough to impress the Musketeers.
"How did you do that?" D'Artagnan had wanted to know.
"The wrinkles? A simple combination of water, clay, lemon juice, human---"
Ramon interrupted, "Stop! We don't want to know…"
Both Musketeers had assured the inventor that the costume was perfectly convincing. Sitting in the throne room of the royal palace now, trying not to fidget under the incredulous stares of the royal court and Queen Anne, Siroc wondered how much of his new friends' reassurances had been outright exaggerations. He glanced sidelong at his reflection in one of the Queen's mirrors. No doubt about it, he was the oddest-looking fake old man he'd ever seen. There was no way they couldn't see through his disguise…
Very well, Master Vieaux, he silently appealed to his old teacher, whom Siroc was certain must be watching the proceedings. No doubt you find this whole affair sacrilegious…or else you're having a spectacular laugh over it…but I could use your help here…
Siroc cleared his throat and did his best impersonation of his former mentor's voice: "Dead? No, that was a misunderstanding…" It was awkward trying to speak with the false teeth in his mouth. Siroc didn't know whether to worry more about the wooden teeth popping out of his mouth mid-sentence or about whether they'd every come off, since he'd used the epoxy he'd devised for the horseshoes to hold the teeth him place. "…frightened ten years out of the poor people at the funeral…but, that's water under the bridge. And here I am."
The Queen had no idea what that meant, so she changed the subject. "Yes, well…we thank you for restoring my son's birthday gift." She patted the 'volcanic pumice' that 'Monsieur Vieaux' had just delivered to the palace. "Louis was quite upset when it was stolen…where is Louis? Louis!" Her bellow sent guards and courtiers scrambling to track down the wayward Prince.
Cardinal Mazarin rubbed his chin, glancing from the pumice stone in the Queen Anne's lap to Siroc, his expression still suspicious. "And where did you happen to find our treasure, Monsieur Vieaux?"
"Oh…that…very strange indeed. A dog was trying to bury it in my yard. I managed to fetch it from him by trading a steak bone. I was going to use it as a decoration for my desk until I heard about the dreadful business with the Prince's birthday gifts. Rest assured, I brought it to you the instant I realized what it was," Siroc answered. "Oh yes, and speaking of his royal highness' birthday…I wished to pay my own tribute in his honor. I think I have something here…" He carefully dug into the satchel slung over his shoulder, making a show of rifling through its contents, and produced what looked to those gathered like a spool of twine. "Yes, here we go!" He presented it to the Queen.
Her nose wrinkled a bit as she turned the spool over in her hands, trying to fathom what how such a seemingly useless object could be considered fitting tribute. Perhaps age had made 'Monsieur Vieaux' a bit…well, senile, she mused. "Oh…lovely. Thank you. Louis!"
"What?" The Prince was ushered into the room and directed towards the Queen by the flustered courtiers, who were acting like villagers offering a sacrifice to appease an angry dragon. The Prince sulked, "I was about to take my pre-mid-morning-nap nap."
The Queen nodded towards their guest. "Louis, this is the eminent Monsieur Vieaux, one of the finest instructors in the sciences in all of France. He has recovered your lost Vesuvius rock."
The Prince showed no excitement over this news at all. "Oh, the lava rock. Good. Thank you. You should be rewarded---help yourself to all the cheese and bread you'd like on your way out." He tried to duck out of the room, but the Queen caught him by his ear.
"…and he's brought you a birthday gift, for which I'm sure you'd like to offer your proper thanks." She shoved the spool into the boy's hands.
The boy scowled at the spool. "Twine on a stick? Is this a joke?"
"No, no…allow me, Your Highness." Siroc did his best to affect Monsieur Vieaux's limp as he stood and walked over to the Prince. "May I? You see the loop tied at the end of the string? That goes over your forefinger like so…now, drop the spool and move your hand like this…" Siroc demonstrated by moving his own hand up and down. "The spool drops to the end of the twine, then rewinds itself and comes back to your hand. It's a toy. See?"
Luckily for the inventor, the Prince was easily amused. After a few tries, he had the spool bobbing up and down, winding and unwinding. "Well-done! How remarkable! Would you like to try this, Mazarin?" Louis tried tossing the toy to the Cardinal, but forgot to remove the string tied around his forefinger. The spool went flying until it reached the end of the length of twine, bonked the Cardinal squarely on his nose, then rewound itself and returned to the Prince's hands. "Sorry," Louis apologized.
Mazarin rubbed his aching nose. "No, thank you, Your Majesty," he forced a pleasant reply through gritted teeth.
Everyone stepped clear when Louis tried the toy again. "Splendid indeed! How does it do that? Where did you get this?" he asked 'Monsieur Vieaux'.
"Simple physics. Action-reaction. And I made it," Siroc answered. This was it... "I could teach you how it works if you are sincerely interested."
The Prince stopped playing, staring in awe at him. "You're an inventor? A scientist? Well, then, you must stay. I need a tutor in the sciences and the ones Mazarin has brought me are perfectly boring bags of wind…"
Siroc hid a grin. It was the answer he'd hoped for. "Oh…I'm honored Your Majesty…but I couldn't…"
Louis stamped his foot. "Nonsense! Of course you could. I insist." He tried the spool toy again and laughed. "I just love this…Mazarin, show Monsieur Vieaux the laboratory." With that, the Prince bounded out of the room, new toy in hand.
Silence descended on the group. Siroc waited.
Finally, the Queen turned to him. "Monsieur…I realize it's something of an imposition, but we are having the devil's own time finding a tutor whom Louis responds to…and you did seem to get his attention."
Cardinal Mazarin still stared rather suspiciously at 'Monsieur Vieaux'. "You can, of course, say 'no'…"
Siroc bowed to the Queen, "It would be my privilege, Your Majesty."
Ramon and D'Artagnan hated waiting.
Siroc had delivered the 'pumice' to the palace. The last they'd seen of the inventor was him being escorted inside by one of the royal guard. It was out of their hands at that point---it was up to Siroc to convince the Queen and Prince to offer him the tutor's job. If he couldn't, there'd be no one to watch for any attempts to steal the rock, and the Musketeers would have to alert the palace guards about the possibly conspiracy.
D'Artagnan and Ramon circled around to the side of the palace. They were familiar enough with the palace, having been there many times in an official capacity to offer reports to the royal family, to know where to find the laboratory window. Luckily, the laboratory overlooked the gardens, and there was sufficient cover in the form of trees and shrubs and fountains, for the Musketeers to find a hiding place from which the window was visible. If Siroc had succeeded in his task, the laboratory was the next place they should see him.
Sure enough, almost an hour after Siroc had vanished into the palace, the laboratory door opened to reveal Cardinal Mazarin and the royal advisor Moncrief leading 'Monsieur Vieaux' into the room. Siroc was moving his jaw as if worried his false teeth were about to fall out and tugging as subtly as he could at the wig, which tried to slide forward.
"He looks strangely like my Aunt Geraldine in that costume," D'Artagnan said.
"Really? That's disturbing in every possible way," Ramon cringed.
Moncrief was gesturing around, mouth moving non-stop, obviously giving 'Vieaux' the tour of the facility. Cardinal Mazarin was staring at 'Vieaux' like Siroc was a pesky bug he'd like the smash…D'Artagnan and Ramon would have to particularly keep an eye on Mazarin if he were even remotely suspicious.
"…If there's anything else you require, you need only ask," Moncrief completed 'Vieaux's' tour of the laboratory.
Siroc shook his head so vehemently that he almost displaced the wig again. "No…I think this will be suitable…more than suitable." He glanced wistfully at the finest assortment of laboratory equipment he'd ever seen in his life. There were tools and gadgets he'd never heard of even in rumors stocked in this facility. I could have been very happy in this job…
He glanced sidelong at Mazarin, who was still watching him like a hawk. …or maybe not.
Moncrief smiled. "Excellent. There's a room just through that door. It will serve as your private quarters. Meals are brought to you in your quarters unless the Prince or the Queen requests that you dine with them. Lessons are in the afternoon. You have the use of the laboratory the rest of the day to do as you wish."
Siroc bowed again, mindful of his uncooperative wig. "Most generous. Thank you."
From their vantage point, D'Artagnan and Ramon watched as Siroc gawked at the laboratory like a child who'd just been given the largest collection of toys in the world.
"Now, you see, two things have happened here," Ramon counted, "One---he's completely forgotten about conspirators and sky rocks. Two—we'll be obliged to rescue the entire royal court from blue smoke before this evening is over…"
Siroc wasn't sleeping---there was nothing unusual about that---but, for once, it wasn't scientific inspiration keeping him awake.
He'd at least tried to perform the task of giving the Prince a proper lesson in science that afternoon. The strangeness of being thrust into the role of teacher instead of pupil had brought to mind Siroc's own days with the mentor he was now impersonating, had made him miss the man all over again. Of course, Siroc had never dozed off in the middle of one of Monsieur Vieaux's lessons. Siroc wondered if Vieaux might have preferred that to having an alert and enthusiastic student prone to causing things to explode and/or catch fire in his laboratory on a daily basis. But, no, Vieaux had good humor. He always dismissed the accidents as 'the inevitable consequence of the learning process', whereas if Siroc had drifted off mid-lesson, Vieaux would have taken it as a personal insult.
Eluding both the palace guards and the ever-suspicious Cardinal Mazarin had been another challenge (it was lucky that Ramon and D'Artagnan were familiar with the palace and the routines of its guards and could advise him), but Siroc had done so to reach the display where Louis had stored his 'volcanic pumice'. He was glad to discover that the rock had been placed on an object very similar to a measuring scale…that had inspired Siroc. Basing it on the clock that he'd used all these years to wake him each morning, he'd rigged a sort of 'alarm' to the display: If the rock were removed from its perch, the upward motion of its scale-like display would pull on a string. Siroc then made a small hole in the wall (just a bit of an acidic compound and a small hand-drill from his laboratory did the job) and pulled the string through the hole. On the other side of the wall, as D'Artagnan and Ramon had said, was a small room used to store hats the Queen had purchased and grown bored with. The other end of the string was tied to the arm of a bell. It would ring, just once, when the string pulled at it. Therefore, and Siroc had tested to make sure it worked, when the conspirators removed that 'pumice' from its stand, even if it was only for a few seconds, the bell would quietly sound in the adjoining closet.
Which meant, Siroc had to sit in the closet and wait if he intended to hear it. And wait. And wait some more. Fortunately, as long as he had a pen, a piece of parchment, and light to see by, Siroc was never bored. He'd whiled away many nights sitting and sketching out new inventions…and he was still mulling over what had gone wrong with the tests on his submersible. The only distraction was pausing to listen every time he heard footsteps in the corridor outside and the maddening itching of the wig and false teeth.
He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there when the bell finally chimed.
Siroc was on his feet at once, hurrying to the closet door. He opened it just a crack, enough to see a figure in the thieves' familiar black uniform, round a corner and disappear down the hallway. The 'pumice' had been replaced on its display as if it had never been touched, but a glance at the floor told Siroc all he needed to know: He'd filled the false pumice shell with his trick powder and then glued the shell closed so that, when they had to fight the epoxy's seal to open the shell, they'd be sure to douse themselves with the powder. The thief/conspirator had opened the shell to remove the pyramid and its power source and paid no mind at all when the powder had spilled out, covering him…and blanketing his feet. Red footprints were already appearing on the carpets and red smudges on the wall…marking a plain trail that would lead right to the thief.
As fast as he could, Siroc had run back to his laboratory. He lit a candle and placed it on the windowsill. He couldn't see them, but the Musketeers were supposed to be watching for this signal from their hiding places somewhere outside.
Siroc picked up the satchel he'd hung from a peg on the laboratory's wall. It was loaded with extra powder and what jars and bottles had survived the destruction of his own laboratory. It was the powder that Siroc was worried about.
He had promised D'Artagnan and Ramon that he'd stay out of the way, that he'd simply point them in the direction of whoever took the pyramid and let them pursue the thief. However, there were too many variables in play for Siroc to sit by and do nothing. He didn't know how far the thief would wander or how long the powder that coated the man's hands and feet would last before wearing off. If it wore off, they might lose the thief. If that happened, the royal family was in peril of their lives and D'Artagnan and Ramon would be disgraced (or imprisoned) for this unauthorized plan. Therefore, Siroc intended to make sure the trail didn't run out before it lead the Musketeers to the conspirators.
Siroc was able to catch up to the fleeing thief shortly before his trail—the powder—had run out. He had run until he could hear the echo of the man's footsteps. The man had made his way downstairs, to the lower levels of the palace, and then out the door and across the courtyard to the stables. Halfway there, the last of the powder had been scraped or kicked off his shoes. It didn't matter—Siroc had him in earshot, and utilizing the simple physics of sound waves made it pitifully easy for the inventor to trail him while still keeping out of the thief's sight. At every turn in the hallway, Siroc had pulled the jar of the powder from his satchel, dipped his own finger into the mixture, and with it drawn a small arrow on the wall to guide Ramon and D'Artagnan. He only hoped they weren't too far behind…
D'Artagnan and Ramon had raced into the palace the instant they saw Siroc place the telltale candle onto the laboratory's windowsill. They knew the layout of the palace as well as they knew the layout of the Musketeers' barracks and they found the corridor where Louis had displayed the 'pumice' easily, save for the matter of evading the guards. The floor and walls were smeared with red handprints and footprints.
"It actually worked," D'Artagnan admitted. The inventor had pulled it off.
"I don't want to be here when the Queen sees this mess," Ramon said.
They followed the tracks down into the lower levels, noticing that the red footprints were growing progressively fainter the farther they went. That was disconcerting…even more so when they reached the last footprint, which almost indistinguishable.
"Now what?" D'Artagnan asked.
Ramon looked around, then spied the red arrows on the wall and pointed them out to D'Artagnan. It had to be Siroc's doing.
D'Artagnan grinned. "This guy's growing on me."
The inventor crept into the stables, keeping eyes and ears open to be sure that absolutely no one saw or heard him sneak inside. Keeping low, hiding behind the stalls as he moved, he searched until he finally found the thief.
The thief wasn't alone. There were three more men in black uniforms gathered in the stables. They were preparing one of the royal carriages and a rickety wagon. The trio had fixed a false bottom into the wagon and were piling crates on top of it. Under the false bottom, they had placed a large, heavy, metal bar. They shoved blankets behind it and a few small boxes. From the looks of it, the effort was meant to keep the bar from rolling around when the wagon moved. A similar bar was being fixed to the underside of the carriage.
"Odin! Pascal! Tujan! You were supposed to have that finished," the thief with the pyramid scolded. Siroc recognized the voice and scowled---the man with the pyramid was one of the men who had wrecked his laboratory.
Odin eyed the pyramid. "Is that thing dangerous?"
The thief smacked him soundly in the face. "Not without its power source."
Pascal sniffed, "I do not see how we'll get rid of the Prince with that rock."
"That's why you are not in charge. We move, now!" the thief ordered. "The Master's waiting. Then you'll get your demonstration of how our treasure will rid us of that flouncing idiot."
Siroc watched anxiously, debating with himself as to what to do. He didn't want to take the chance of losing the thieves. The wagon would not leave a much of a trail on the streets of Paris in the dark of the middle of the night. Unless…
Deciding in the space of a heartbeat, having just a few seconds to act while the men were distracted with their bickering over the pyramid, Siroc dashed to the wagon and scrambled into the shadows beneath the false bottom. It was really no different from squeezing between his bed and his table in his room at Bastelier's. Just to be safe, he covered himself with one of the blankets.
Then one of the conspirators closed the gate of the wagon and Siroc was left in pitch black. Footsteps crunched on straw and dirt and then the wagon swayed as one of the men climbed into the driver's seat. There was the crack of the reins and the wagon lurched. "Hâte!" the thief with the pyramid shouted.
Hastily, Siroc felt around the wagon boards until his fingers found a hole where a knot had come out of the planks. He began pouring powder through that hole onto the dirt streets, counting ten second intervals between drops, and lamented how much wiser it would have been to devise powder that would glow in the dark.
The trail of red arrows guided D'Artagnan and Ramon to the empty palace stables. From the tracks and mess left behind, the thieves had taken two carriages or carts or wagons. Of the thieves and the inventor, there was not a sign.
"No, no…" Ramon cursed in Spanish and rushed to check the stables again.
We've lost them, D'Artagnan felt a stab of fear at the knowledge. Fear for the royal family and for the inventor.
The wagon bumped and lurched for quite a long ways. Siroc had no idea where he was or whether the Musketeers were able to follow the wagon's tracks or the trail he'd tried to leave.
Siroc felt the change when the wagon left the dirt streets for the uneven ground of the forest. That was something---they'd leave more of a trail for D'Artagnan and Ramon driving through grass and undergrowth than on the dirt. That was a very good thing, since he'd almost run out of powder to mark a trail. By listening to the echo of the horse's steps, the creaks of the wheels, and the random words exchanged by the thieves, it dawned on Siroc that they were very near some sort of canyon or ravine.
He couldn't get out of the wagon with that gate closed, and the crates weighed down the false bottom so that he couldn't push it upwards to crawl out from beneath it. There were no other ways out.
"There is no back door."
"Invent one."
Good advice was good advice, Siroc decided. Feeling around in the pitch black, he located his satchel. He began sorting through the jars and bottles by touch and smell. When he found the two that he wanted, he mumbled a prayer that he didn't over mix them, since he couldn't see what he was doing…
The wagon jolted to a stop. It bounced as the driver jumped from his seat to the ground. Siroc listened attentively, but didn't stop what he was doing.
Odin was complaining, "So, we're here. Now, perhaps you will explain how this rock will gain us the throne?"
"That's why you were called here…for your demonstration of the power of the Stone of Vesuvio."
Siroc didn't know that voice. It wasn't one of the thieves from his house or from the palace. It seemed somehow familiar, but the newcomer was speaking Latin with a very thick accent and it sounded as if he were speaking through fabric like a mask, which further muffled and distorted his voice. He found another hole, this one in the planks on the wagon's sides and tried to see through the narrow opening. In the glow of moonlight and lanterns, he saw someone who might have been the speaker, but the man was indeed wearing a black mask so Siroc couldn't be sure until he spoke again. The man also wore some sort of golden medallion around his neck. In the dark, there was no chance of Siroc making out what was inscribed on the pendant.
"When the royal family is on board for their ride to the concert, one of our men will place a metal beam just like this one beneath their carriage." The leader strode to the carriage his men had stolen from the stables and pointed out the bar. "The drive will be one of our own. He will make sure their path to the concert leads them here instead. When they pass the ravine..."
Siroc grinned, Ravine it is then. He craned his neck a bit to look past the carriage. He knew this ravine. It wasn't very deep, the King's engineers had managed to bridge the small gap, and there was a cluster of rocks near its rim---and at the bottom of the drop-off.
"When the carriage passes this ravine, we'll have our choice of how to eliminate the family. First, we can place the pyramid among those boulders. Trujan, if you please, wait for my signal and place the power source into the pyramid. I suggest that you then hide behind the boulders as quickly as you can," the leader instructed. "Secure the wagon. Unhitch the horses from the carriage."
The thieves hastened to obey. Siroc heard their activities, heard boulders rolled in front of the wagon's wheels to hold it in place, but could still see only the man in the medallion and the carriage. The horses were led away from the carriage quickly. The leader removed his medallion from around his neck and buttoned it into one of his pockets.
"The driver will unhitch the horses, jump onto them or to the side of the road. I suggest you hang on to your swords and take your horses behind the rocks if you value either one, gentlemen. At this point, our man behind the boulders places the power source into the pyramid, and--" The leader gestured for Trujan to do just that.
The pyramid's glow bathed the small clearing in purple light. The wagon shuddered, its team of horses whinnied nervously, and strained in the pyramid's magnetic pull so violently that Siroc thought it might come apart (which, all things considered, would have been very helpful to him at that point). The carriage, unsecured against the pyramid's pull, raced forward. It picked up speed under the pyramid's power, until it finally slammed into the boulders and splintered into pieces. Siroc was at once riveted and horrified by the sight.
The leader waved it off. "A terrible tragedy, of course. Unhitch the horses from the wagon and I'll show you what happens when the royal carriage is on one side of the ravine and the pyramid is on the other…"
Galvanized from scientific fascination by the fact that the wagon was about to find its way to the bottom of the ravine---with him still inside---Siroc returned to the mixture he'd been preparing. He took the mixture and began pouring it over the bottom of the wagon as fast as he could. He must have blended the compounds correctly, for smoke poured from the boards at once, stinging his eyes. He covered his nose and mouth, not daring to either breathe in the fumes or to cough and betray his presence to the men outside the wagon.
Ramon had found tracks in the courtyard…two sets of them. But, more importantly, after a search by the light of lanterns the thieves had left burning in the stables, Ramon spotted familiar crimson drops on the dirt road. They were nearly impossible to see in the lamplight, but they were there.
The Musketeers had borrowed horses from the stables. On foot, they'd followed the wagon tracks and crimson drops to the main road, where the tracks blended with those of the many other carts and carriages that traveled the streets. It was the crimson stains that ensured the tracks D'Artagnan and Ramon followed were the right ones. Now and then, they'd find someone wandering the streets, even at this late hour, and would inquire. A few recalled seeing one of the royal carriages and a wagon moving in the direction of the forest.
"At least we know what we're looking for now," D'Artagnan said.
Their task became easier when they reached the edge of the city. Traveling on foot was maddeningly slow, and they were painfully aware that each passing minute was time they couldn't spare, time in which the thieves---and Siroc---slipped farther away from them. On the outskirts of the city, the wagon and carriage had turned from the main road onto a seldom-used trail.
"This road leads to the ravine," Ramon knew.
D'Artagnan had a sick feeling in his gut that he knew why the thieves had taken this trail. The crimson drops would be impossible to follow with this uneven terrain, but it didn't matter. They knew where the thieves were heading. It wouldn't be safe trying to run this road at night with only the moon for light, but they had no choice. The Musketeers had climbed onto the horses and urged them as fast as they dared down the trail.
Light appeared on the road ahead of them. Familiar, purple light.
The sound of their horses' approach had been drowned out by the groan of the wagon and the crash of the carriage as it plowed across the clearing and dashed itself to pieces against the boulders. D'Artagnan and Ramon were just in time to witness the terrible spectacle. "Siroc…" D'Artagnan prayed the inventor hadn't been hiding in the carriage.
Tying the horses to the trees, lest the animals wander and alert the thieves to their presence, the Musketeers found a place in the undergrowth of the forest from which they had a good view of the men in the clearing. There were six or seven men in all, the conspirators beyond a doubt, each of their faces hidden behind those damnable black masks. One spoke with the authority of a leader. D'Artagnan and Ramon listened carefully, seeing if they could place his voice, but couldn't. He was speaking in Latin. D'Artagnan had learned a bit as a child, but Ramon didn't speak one word of the language. He didn't need to in order to see what was about to happen: The leader was carrying the pyramid towards the bridge. His minions were removing stones that had been holding the wagon in place and unhitched the horses from the wagon.
There was no sign of Siroc anywhere.
"Do you see him?" Ramon whispered.
"No." D'Artagnan refused to believe the inventor had been in that carriage. "He may have jumped out along the way."
Ramon wanted to believe that, but doubt etched his features. "We would have seen him."
"Hiding somewhere nearby? The trees? I'm sure---"
The Spaniard spied something and pointed towards the wagon. "There! Look!"
D'Artagnan saw it too. It was almost invisible in the moonlight and glow of the lamps, but it was there: Blue smoke was coming out the bottom of the wagon.
"Siroc," they both said.
"Distract them," Ramon told D'Artagnan as he rushed to intercept the leader.
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. " 'Distract them'…easy for him to say…"
Siroc felt the wagon being turned---presumably for a straight shot at the ravine. The acidic compound he'd mixed was eating through the wagon boards, but not nearly fast enough. He pulled the ridiculous wig off his head, wrapped it around his hand, and began pushing at the weakening boards.
That's when Siroc heard thunder---hoofbeats---and the sounds of shouting. This was followed by the clang of metal on metal—swords! The cry of challenge that accompanied the noises of battle was immediately recognizable as D'Artagnan's. Breathing a sigh of relief, Siroc gave up trying to be quiet with his attempts to break the boards. He began smashing at the dissolving boards with blows from his elbows instead.
Odin had been unhitching the horses from the wagon when he noticed the smell…a rather unpleasant odor (even more so than the usual scents associated with sweaty horse flesh). It wasn't coming from the animals, so what was it? The thief circled the wagon, sniffing gingerly at the air, trying to discern the source of the foul odor. Thinking that the wagon wheels might have rolled through manure or something, Odin bent to check…and saw the blue smoke seeping from the bottom of the wagon.
"Mairde!" He cursed. The wagon was on fire! Odin didn't pause to wonder how that was possible. He went to the back of the wagon and started pushing it towards the ravine at the same moment the horse carrying D'Artagnan charged into the clearing.
About to step onto the bridge at the bottom of the slope, their master heard the sudden commotion and turned to look back at the clearing. Unbelievable! There was a Musketeer attacking his men! "What the---?"
"Hey!"
The voice came from the direction of the boulders. The leader turned to look---just in time to see the heel of Ramon's boot careening towards his face. Ramon's kick landed squarely beneath the thief's jaw. The blow knocked the man from his feet and sent him flying. He hit the ground with a thud and didn't move. His hand came open upon impact and the pyramid and its power source rolled out of his grasp…right towards the ravine's drop-off! Forgetting the thief, Ramon leaped from the horse and dove for the stones, catching the pyramid in a lucky grab. Sliding, digging in his heels to keep from going over the drop-off, he only just managed to snatch up the circular power source in time.
In the middle of a swordfight, being on the horse affording him some advantage, D'Artagnan saw one of the thieves circle the wagon and then bend to peer at its underside. The thief shrieked, "Fire!", and shoved the wagon towards the slope that led down to the ravine.
"Siroc!" D'Artagnan shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to warn the inventor. He tried to steer his horse towards the wagon, but the thieves closed in on him, inserting themselves between the Musketeer and his goal.
Ramon heard D'Artagnan's shout and glanced up in time to see the danger. The wagon was being pushed, slowly but steadily, towards the slope. One of the idiots in black was shoving it in that direction. Ramon's breath caught in his throat, Oh God, what could he do? He'd never be able to physically stop the wagon if it hit that slope…
He stared at the pyramid and power source in his hand. Maybe…Ramon climbed, heading for the top of the slope as fast as he could.
Powerless to do anything else to stop the fool who was pushing Siroc towards certain death, D'Artagnan lifted his sword like a javelin and pitched it at the man. The blade drove straight through Odin's heart, pinning him to the back of the wagon. D'Artagnan was seconds too late---the wagon had just reached the beginning of the downslope. Worse, the Frenchman was now unarmed and surrounded by the remaining thieves.
In the wagon, Siroc was just beginning to punch a hole through the weakening boards when he felt the wagon hit the slope. He felt himself pitched away from the opening that was his only chance of escape, sliding towards the front of the wagon, and grabbed the split he'd made in the planks to catch himself. Not good…
Ramon reached the top of the slope. Fortunately, the thieves were preoccupied with D'Artagnan and didn't notice the second Musketeer at all. Trujan spied Ramon and attempted to stop him and died before he could raise his blade against the Musketeer. Circling behind the wagon, Ramon shoved the power source into the pyramid.
The purple glow illuminated the clearing, nearly turned night to day so brilliant was the light. Ramon aimed the pyramid in the direction of the wagon, not that he needed to: The magnetic pull halted the wagon's descent towards the drop-off almost instantly. Ever so slowly, the wagon began to roll upwards, towards the top of the slope. What he didn't notice until D'Artagnan yelled, "Ramon, watch out!", was that the pyramid's power also ripped the swords from the hands of the unprepared combatants. The blade sailed towards the man—towards the pyramid he grasped in his hands.
Inside the wagon, the boards finally gave way beneath Siroc's grasp, and an opening formed that was just large enough for him to squeeze through if he could only climb…
Ramon moved for the cover of the boulders, still trying to point the pyramid over his shoulder in the direction of the wagon as he ran. Finally, he had to drop the stone in order to dive for cover. The swords piled atop of the pyramid or collided with the boulders where Ramon had sought protection from the projectiles.
When Ramon dropped the pyramid, it too bounced off the boulders. The impact dislodged the power source from the pyramid. Abruptly, the purple glow and its magnetic field winked out. Both Musketeers watched helplessly as, free of the pyramid's hold, the wagon careened down the slope and sailed over the drop-off.
Oh no…
Time crawled to a stop. For an eternity, neither Musketeer could move or think. D'Artagnan savagely punched one of the thieves when the man intruded into his grieving for his friend by challenging the Frenchman. D'Artagnan felt his legs start to carry him, of their own volition, towards the ravine. The depth of his anguish caught him unprepared…it was absurd, D'Artagnan might have laughed if he could breathe at the moment. He'd barely known the quirky inventor for two days, and it felt as though he'd just lost a close friend and comrade of many years.
Ramon made it to the drop-off, his face etched with the same shock and grief that D'Artagnan felt. The Spaniard stood, unmoving, staring over the edge into the ravine. D'Artagnan tried to find his voice, to say something, but there were no words that would comfort his friend. Was it only yesterday that D'Artagnan had chided Ramon for his fast-forged bond with Siroc? But Ramon had trusted his intuition about the man, and he'd been right. D'Artagnan had no way to make up for his own doubts except to help Ramon retrieve the inventor's body from the crevasse and arrange a funeral befitting a---
"Siroc?" Ramon shouted into the ravine. D'Artagnan was sure it must have been denial that prompted the outburst…
…until he reached the edge of the ravine. Quite visible in the moonlight was a figure, very much alive, dangling from the end of a blanket. The cloth had managed to snag a branch that protruded from the wall of the ravine. In response to hearing his name, Siroc turned his head to gaze up at the two Musketeers.
"Siroc?" D'Artagnan gasped. "How---?"
The inventor couldn't shrug. His full attention was on keeping his grip on the blanket. "It occurred to me that, in a freefall, if I stretched the blanket, its square footage might catch an updraft and create a lift that would slow my descent…" he explained.
D'Artagnan and Ramon nearly sagged, so great was their relief. "Did it?" Ramon humored him.
"No. Perhaps I should try jumping from a higher altitude---"
"NO!" both Musketeers shouted at once.
Siroc pouted a bit. "Just a thought." It dawned on him then how very far down the bottom of the gorge was. "Uh---there wouldn't be a rope or something up there?"
The Musketeers looked around. It was then that Ramon noticed the bridge---
The leader of the conspirators was gone! He must have slipped away while Ramon and D'Artagnan were busy with the wagon. Ramon swore.
Siroc couldn't see what was upsetting his friend from his position in the gorge. "What?"
Ramon and D'Artagnan exchanged grim looks. After all this, to have even one of the men elude them…but their friend was alive. If that was the trade-off, then so be it.
The conspirators couldn't hide forever.
Present Day
The riders in black brought their horses up short when---just as they had almost reached the main road into Paris---they found themselves surrounded Cardinal Mazarin and his guards. The riders had expected to see the Cardinal…but not there, in the middle of the forest. Something had to be dreadfully wrong for their leader to have risked a face-to-face meeting like this, with the whole of the Musketeers scouring the countryside for them. Mazarin's displeasure was all too apparent.
The first rider feared to ask: "Eminence---what are you doing here? We promised to deliver the Stone of Vesuvio to you at----"
Mazarin signaled for the man to dismount at once. Nervously, the rider complied. "I'm here because the Prince heard a rumor that the same conspirators who stole the Stone of Vesuvio five years ago, who abducted eight children from Paris last week, attacked and wounded one of his Musketeers this morning. The Prince was quite upset about that---he has that inconvenient attachment to his Musketeers, as you're well aware. He insisted that I send my personal guards to help apprehend the dangerous criminals responsible." The slightest clenching and unclenching of the Cardinal's fist was the only warning sign of the depths of his fury. "You can well imagine how surprised I was to hear about this---especially as I had explicitly ordered you to search the barracks for the stone…not to ambush, not to kill, and not to bring down angry Musketeers and royal tantrums on me." His gaze narrowed, a predator about to pounce on prey. Beneath the mask, sweat dotted the rider's brow. "Why?" The Cardinal demanded.
The rider was almost tongue-tied attempting to say something to appease his leader. "We obeyed your orders to the letter, Eminence…but…but we couldn't find the stone anywhere….I thought…"
Mazarin purred, "Thinking wasn't one of your orders."
The rider continued: "…The barracks were supposed to be empty…the Musketeers returned too soon…but we have the stone now." Eager to please the Cardinal, the rider pulled the stone and its power source from his pocket and offered it to Mazarin.
The Cardinal inspected the stone. Something about it wasn't right. The texture, the color, it was off a bit. He made no move to accept it. "Remove your gloves," he said.
"Pardon?" the rider asked.
"Gloves!"
The rider tore the gloves off his hands…which were now tinted bright red.
Mazarin sneered, "You idiot. You let the inventor know you were there." He backed away from the pyramid—or whatever it was the inventor had given the riders. "You have nothing but a rock…and I have to clean up your mess for the good of our Cause."
The implications of that statement made all three riders tremble a bit, the first rider most of all. "But, the pyramid is right here….I'll show you it's real…." The rider put the power source into the stone.
Nothing happened.
The rider shook the pyramid, slapped it with his hands, and still nothing happened. He tried pulling the cylinder-shaped power source out…but the thing wouldn't be pulled free. It was stuck as if it had been glued. The rider tugged with all his might and finally the cylinder came loose…or rather, broke in half. When it shattered, a puff of blue smoke emerged from the 'power source'. The noxious smell of the smoke efficiently rendered the first rider unconscious.
The second rider, resigned to his fate, addressed the Cardinal: "What are your orders, Eminence?"
Mazarin was blunt. "You failed. You put us all in peril. I expect you to make amends."
The remaining two riders nodded their understanding. They would accept punishment as sole perpetrators of the crime. They would go to their deaths without breathing a word about the Cardinal and their glorious Cause. They would be martyrs for the greater good of the revolution to come. Mazarin saw all that in their eyes and, just for the moment, was satisfied. But the rider slumped on the ground…he was weaker than Mazarin had anticipated. He would betray all of them to prevent his own execution.
The Cardinal couldn't allow that. He took a pistol from one of his guards and personally shot the unconscious man squarely in the heart. No one gathered in the forest so much as flinched. Mazarin returned the pistol to the guard, then moved to the dead man. The Cardinal pulled a gold medallion from his own pocket---not quite an exact duplicate as the one Mazarin himself had worn the night he had demonstrated the power of the Stone of Vesuvio, the night when the Musketeers had almost apprehended him, but a decent replica that would full said Musketeers. He placed the medallion into the dead rider's pocket.
Not far away, D'Artagnan and Jacqueline heard the echo. They urged their horses in the direction from which the shot had come. They rounded a bend in the path and stumbled onto the scene of Cardinal Mazarin and his guards in the process of binding the hands of two of the riders. The third rider lay dead on the ground.
"Cardinal?" D'Artagnan asked.
Mazarin smiled, the image of innocence and eagerness to help. "The Prince heard about your friend. He asked that I personally see to it that the men responsible were brought to justice…" He saw the Musketeers glance at the dead rider. "That one was reluctant to be captured."
D'Artagnan and Jacqueline didn't believe a word the Cardinal said. Too much experience, too painful of experiences, with the 'holy' man had taught them better. The Musketeers dismounted and knelt beside the corpse. D'Artagnan noted the dead man's red-tinted hands. This was the one who broke into Siroc's laboratory…at least one of them. He was sure that, beneath their gloves, the men being detained by Mazarin's guards would have red-tinted hands as well. D'Artagnan was only sorry that the Cardinal's hands weren't tinted bright red. He supposed that would have been too simple, though, Mazarin would never allow himself to be caught that easily.
Next, D'Artagnan removed the dead rider's mask. He recognized the face behind the mask at once. Mazarin made a show of his shock: "Moncrief! The Prince's own advisor!" The Cardinal sighed, shaking his head. D'Artagnan and Jacqueline both fought the urge not to be ill over the false display of sorrow and dismay that Mazarin affected. "I owe you my apologies, D'Artagnan. It would seem you were right about a conspirator within the Prince's own inner circle. How fortunate that you've finally apprehended him after all these years…with our humble assistance, of course."
D'Artagnan looked away from the Cardinal's sneer before he lost the battle with himself not to punch the man right in the face. He checked the dead man's pockets and found the medallion right away, recognized it at once. His only question was who had worn the medallion that night five years ago? Moncrief? Or Mazarin?
"What is that?" Mazarin feigned ignorance.
D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, but answered only, "Nothing." He though he knew who the real owner of the medallion was…and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
At least, not yet...
"Why would these men attack a Musketeer?" The Cardinal asked.
D'Artagnan's gaze fell on the broken mess of the 'pyramid' that Siroc had given the riders in black. It wasn't difficult to see that this 'Stone of Vesuvio' was a fake. He took some consolation at that---Siroc had tricked Mazarin and his co-conspirators after all. That meant the real pyramid was still safely hidden somewhere in the barracks.
"You surely remember that these men absconded with the Prince's volcano rock years ago? The one that had some pyramid called the 'Stone of Vesuvio' inside? The pyramid was crushed to pieces---the thieves were foolish enough to leave it sitting in a wagon that they sent over the sides of very deep ravine. I think these gentlemen were under the mistaken impression that the Stone of Vesuvio survived the plunge---and that this pyramid was it. I don't know who put that insane notion into their heads. We would never lie to the Queen and Prince about the stone being dashed to pieces. We certainly wouldn't lie about it and then keep the pyramid for ourselves." D'Artagnan handed the remains of the fake pyramid to Mazarin, making sure most of the powder covering the false rock fell directly onto the Cardinal's unprotected hands. D'Artagnan looked Mazarin directly in the eye and added: "Siroc used this piece of glass to hold down papers on his worktable. There's nothing remarkable about it at all. It was a fake all along." His tone let the Cardinal know that D'Artagnan was well aware that the pyramid wasn't the only thing that was a fake.
Mazarin cleared his throat. "So it would seem."
D'Artagnan smiled in vengeful satisfaction at that. Mazarin had to be absolutely livid beneath his calm façade. The Cardinal couldn't very well admit to knowing the Stone of Vesuvio still existed, that the Musketeers had lied about it being destroyed in the wagon accident, without explaining how he knew it…and that would lead to too many questions and quite possibly to the suspicion that he was involved with the conspirators…which meant he couldn't accuse D'Artagnan of lying right now---or demand that the Musketeers return the real Stone of Vesuvio.
And if Mazarin even thought of trying to steal the real stone again, he was going to have every Musketeer in France to deal with now that they knew he was coming.
The Cardinal stepped away from the Musketeer, addressing his guards instead. "Take those two to the dungeons----"
Jacqueline spoke up: "With respect, Cardinal, we'll do that ourselves." She gave him a look that dared Mazarin to argue.
It wasn't enough. They had the men who'd ambushed her and Siroc, two of them had not lived to make another attempt on her life or the lives of her friends, but it wasn't enough. Jacqueline had to watch Cardinal Mazarin ride away again knowing that he was once again responsible for harm brought to someone close to her. The thought was making bile rise in her throat. There was nothing she could do---she knew the Cardinal was somehow connected to these riders in black, to whatever forces were conspiring against the King, but knowing it and proving it were two different matters.
But when she could prove it…Mazarin would answer to her personally. She had made that promise when her father died, renewed it when her brother had almost perished, and she swore it again then and there.
It was sunset before D'Artagnan and Jacqueline returned to the barracks. They rode straight into the stables. Siroc's room was adjacent and that was where they were sure to find Ramon.
The shutters on the window to the bedroom/laboratory had been closed. Ramon was seated on a bench outside Siroc's door, hardly moving, not speaking, just waiting. The only motion he made was fidgeting with his collar…no, in fact, upon closer look, they saw that he was touching the crucifix he wore beneath the folds of his shirt. The gesture unnerved both D'Artagnan and Jacqueline.
D'Artagnan hardly dared ask, but the need to know was about to drive him mad, "Ramon, how is--?"
Ramon turned his head, finally meeting their stares. He opened his mouth to answer, but, at that same instant, the door opened and Duvall and the doctor stepped out of Siroc's room. The Captain saw the three faces, anxious and drawn with worry, waiting on the other side. He smiled a bit and nodded.
The doctor was pulling on his hat, rattling off instructions to the Captain. "…to make sure he sleeps, and you'll need to watch for signs of infection. He'll have a bit of a fever tonight, so keep an eye on him and use cold cloths. If he isn't doing better in the morning, fetch me, but I think he'll be just fine."
D'Artagnan asked for everyone, "Siroc's all right?"
The doctor nodded, "Yes, see for---"
Duvall and the doctor were nearly bowled over by Ramon, D'Artagnan, and Jacqueline as they plowed past them in their haste to get into the bedroom. Ramon paused only enough to politely catch and return the hat that they'd knocked right off the doctor's head in their haste. "---yourselves," the doctor finished. Duvall smiled apologetically. "Yes, well, I can see he's in very good hands. I'll look in on him tomorrow."
"Thank you, Doctor. Good evening."
"Good evening, Captain."
Duvall saw the medic to the door, then returned to the laboratory. D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Jacqueline had already defied the doctors order and were pulling up the few stools and one chair so that each one could take turns talking the injured man's ear off. Siroc was trying groggily to stay awake long enough to listen.
Duvall watched the scene for a minute, and then retreated for his office. He'd do his share of checking on the inventor over the next few days.
I don't need scientists, I need Musketeers.
The Captain was glad to admit having been wrong about that…
Epilogue
It was too quiet.
Duvall quietly passed the trio still camped outside the laboratory door, trying not to wake D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Jacque now that they'd finally succumbed to sleep. They had been reluctant to return to their own quarters, wanted to be on hand if their friend needed anything. It would appear the Captain wasn't the only one who hadn't quite gotten over what had almost happened that day. Duvall couldn't point fingers when he'd come to the laboratory to be a bit of a mother hen himself.
Tip-toeing past the trio, he slipped into the laboratory and, quietly as possible checked on the inventor. The younger man's forehead felt cooler to the touch now. That was good, it meant the fever that the doctor worried about was finally abating. But, for pity's sake, there was a piece of parchment and a quill already half-hidden among Siroc's blankets. The inventor's neat writing and sketches covered the paper. How had he managed to sneak that past the entire corps of Musketeers…especially the trio outside the door, who were under orders to be 'watching like a hawk' to make sure he did nothing at all besides sleep.
When Duvall picked up the paper, Siroc's eyes opened at once. "Wha---" Disoriented for a moment, he gazed blearily at the source of the disturbance. "Captain--?"
"Sorry. It's late, you should be sleeping."
Still a bit groggy, Siroc stared at him in confusion, tried to sit up, and winced at the twinge in his shoulder. That brought the memory of the day's events back in a rush.
"What is this?" Duvall squinted at the drawings on the parchment. He supposed you had to be a scientist-inventor to make sense of the notations Siroc had made.
"Just had an idea for a shirt that can catch pistol shots…" Siroc tried to unsuccessfully find a comfortable position on the cot. "Would have come in handy today."
"That sounds like a worthwhile invention…" The Captain approved. "…but it can wait another few days.
Siroc was still trying to piece together snippets of memory from the past day. "Jacque said he and D'Artagnan caught the men responsible?" He remembered telling Jacque to go after the thieves, and Jacque's refusal. Siroc had hoped that, if someone did take the fake Stone of Vesuvio, following them would lead to the rest of the conspirators…especially to the one with the medallion who had escaped five years ago.
Duvall nodded. "Red hands and all."
"Who?"
The Captain sobered. "Let's just say…Mazarin showed up at a very opportune moment."
This wasn't entirely a shock to the inventor. He had known there was something familiar about the voice of the thieves' leader five years ago. If the man with the medallion hadn't been speaking Latin and had his words distorted by that mask---and if Siroc hadn't been concentrating on trying to get out of the doomed wagon at the time---he might have put it together sooner. But, what could he have done about it? Without actually seeing Mazarin's face that night, he never could have proved the Cardinal was involved. They would have to catch the Cardinal in the act of conspiracy with irrefutable proof if they were going to take him down. "Red-handed?"
"Unfortunately, no." The younger man's disappointment was obvious, and Duvall knew how he felt. "Very clever…making a fake pyramid for them to 'steal'."
"I thought it was best to have something to bargain with when they showed up, and I couldn't risk the real Stone of Vesuvio. I constructed a fake out of crushed glass and sugar and my epoxy…with a couple of surprises for them. We said before that intelligence clearly wasn't in their job descriptions…still, I can't believe they expected me to be traipsing around the forest with the real pyramid in my pocket for anyone to steal." He rolled his eyes at bit at the notion. "The real stone--?"
"Still safely locked away," Duvall promised.
Siroc relaxed a bit hearing that. "Good." His eyes were trying to drift shut again, but he was fighting sleep. Duvall knew his cue to go.
"You are ordered---again---to rest. Mimou and Adam are coming to visit me next month, and Adam is specifically looking forward to 'helping Monsieur Siroc with his magic force'. You can explain to me what that means later." Duvall smiled at the surprise on Siroc's face. The inventor was still taken aback by the boy's attachment to him. "It would seem you have an apprentice after all, Master Siroc, so I won't have you disappointing my nephew by not healing before his visit due to the lack of sense to sleep when you need to."
To make his point, Duvall placed every piece of parchment and every quill he could find on top of the highest shelf Siroc had, hopefully out of his reach with that bad shoulder of his. If that didn't work, he'd lock them in his desk drawer. He'd warn the others later that anyone who returned the items before the inventor was sufficiently recovered would muck out the stables every day for the next six months. He returned to the bunk long enough to give the inventor's good shoulder a squeeze. "We'll talk again tomorrow."
Siroc nodded, but didn't open his eyes. Duvall let him be. As quietly as possible, he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
It was not surprising that the conversation had not gone unnoticed. Jacqueline was standing just outside the door now, awakened by the sound of voices within the room. Having only been half-asleep she had still automatically got up at the noise to see if the inventor needed something. She hadn't wanted to intrude on the captain's conversation with him. "Captain? Is everything all right?"
Duvall nodded. "You should be asleep as well."
"I can't sleep. Ironic, isn't it? No late night explosions, no mysterious fogs or vapors, no purple foam or bangs or thumps…and the only one getting any sleep is Siroc."
Duvall chuckled at bit at that. He'd noticed that as well. It was strange how you could become used to such things.
Since she had the chance at a private word, Jacqueline had something she wanted to ask the question. "Sir…I was wondering. D'Artagnan told me what happened five years ago with that pyramid. You said you didn't need scientists---"
"And you want to know what changed my mind?" Duvall asked.
She nodded.
Paris, the Court of the King, Five Years Earlier
The Captain had to do some fast-talking.
Still, even the Captain could cringe under the withering stare of the Queen when she was feeling put out. "…and so, you see, Your Majesty, since we did not know who among the court was part of the conspiracy, we thought it was best to---set a trap for them, draw them out into the open. I take responsibility for our decision to keep our intentions secret…temporarily, of course. We feared that if the conspirators found out the Musketeers were privy to their plans, they would simply slip away and we would have lost a valuable opportunity to catch the entire membership…"
"Red handed?" D'Artagnan smirked, and even Ramon and the inventor were hiding grins. Duvall gave them a look that clearly said he had a line of unpleasant chores in mind, tasks would wipe those smirks off their faces in short order, for their disobedience of direct orders.
"…in the act of treason. Rest assured, it was always our intention to notify you, Your Highness, and alert your palace guard…"
Louis was scratching his head. "So, this 'Stone of Vesuvio' was hidden in my birthday gift? My birthday gift was a fake?" He crossed his arms, slumped back in his throne and pouted.
Duvall sighed, "Yes, Your Highness."
Mazarin spoke up, "Where is the Stone of Vesuvio now?"
Only his Musketeers and Siroc could detect the Captain's hesitation before he answered: "Destroyed, unfortunately. Our thieves made the poor decision to leave it sitting on a wagon that they sent to the bottom of the ravine."
D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Siroc knew the truth. The pyramid—the 'Stone of Vesuvio' as the elusive leader of the conspirators had called it---was currently resting in Duvall's pocket, where it had been since his men presented it to him that morning when they'd given their accounts of everything from how D'Artagnan had picked the lock on the Captain's desk to take it up to their idea for pretending that the stone had been lost at the bottom of the ravine.
Moncrief interjected, "Your Majesty, this sort of behavior is another example of why you should allow the Cardinal's guards to take responsibility for your protection…"
The Queen redirected her fuming glare towards the Cardinal. "What sort of 'behavior' do you find objectionable? Discovering a conspiracy hiding under your very nose? Or delivering the conspirators to me without the loss of a single royal guard or Musketeer?"
"But, to withhold such information----" Mazarin agreed. "---and, respectfully, I must point out that they did lose the stone and let one conspirator slip past them."
"For now," D'Artagnan's tone was deceptively mild. Mazarin backed down only when the Musketeer pointedly stared at the gloves hiding the Cardinal's fingers, raised an eyebrow, and added: "He won't be difficult to find with red fingers." Mazarin folded his hands in his lap and said nothing else.
The Queen drummed her fingers on the armrest of her throne. "It's true I cannot say I appreciate being kept in the dark, Captain Duvall…nevertheless, I am grateful to you and your Musketeers for bringing these conspirators to justice. However, the next time you have such a foolhardy notion, you will keep me informed," she ordered.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Louis sat on his throne, arms crossed, the image of childish petulance. "Yes, but what about my birthday gift? I have nothing left but an empty shell and…" He held up his hands, displaying fingers tinted red, "What's to be done about this? It won't come off! And it's all over everything!"
"Ah, yes, the mess. I have already found three volunteers to clean up every last smudge and smear." Duvall gave the trio standing behind him a grin that was pure evil. D'Artagnan, Ramon, and Siroc obediently cringed.
"That powder will wash off, right?" D'Artagnan quietly asked the inventor.
"Eventually."
Ramon didn't like the sound of that. "How many washes is 'eventually'?" He risked a glimpse at Siroc, who had been pursing his lips and scrunching his face repeatedly to the point that it was about to drive Ramon and D'Artagnan both quite mad. God help them if the Queen thought one of them was making faces at her. "What are you doing!"
"My teeth itch," Siroc complained. In fact, they had been itching since he'd removed the wooden teeth that morning. The upside to the discomfort was that he'd deduced it was an allergic reaction to the epoxy and was already well into calculations on how to remix the epoxy so that it could comfortably and firmly hold false teeth in place without making one's gums itch to distraction.
The Queen was addressing him. Siroc forgot about itchy teeth and epoxy at once. "As for you," she was studying the young man. "You may not be Monsieur Vieaux, but you were his apprentice. That carries weight in this court…and you managed to keep Louis awake for most of his science lesson. We are still in need of a tutor. If you wish it, the position is yours."
Stunned, Siroc couldn't find his voice, for once couldn't get his mind to even supply the word he wanted. Did he want the position? A position that offered unfettered use of the finest laboratory in France? A more ludicrous question had never been asked. He was prepared to jump at the opportunity, even if it meant having to cope with Mazarin's skulkings and occasional snores from his student.
Duvall spoke up first. "I'm sure Siroc is humbled and honored by your offer, Your Highness. It would be the greatest privilege a scientist could have…however, Siroc has come all this way from Guierre in the hopes of serving the royal family as one of the Musketeers…"
This was news to Siroc, but he said nothing to contradict the Captain. Beside the inventor, D'Artagnan and Ramon appeared equally baffled.
"…and I believe you'll find him quite invaluable in that capacity. With your permission, naturally?"
The Queen looked set to insist. Duvall and his men—Siroc included---waited tensely, until she finally nodded. "You've saved my life and the life of my son. If it is truly your wish to join the Musketeers, then that will be your reward."
Duvall, D'Artagnan, and Ramon waited for Siroc's answer. "It is my wish, Your Majesty."
Siroc had asked no questions, and for that Duvall was grateful. The Captain had been fully aware that he'd declined the boy's most heartfelt wish, a job for which he was eminently suited, without the courtesy of even consulting Siroc first. In fact, the boy had said nothing at all about the matter after they left the palace. He had gone to collect his belongings, with Ramon and D'Artagnan's help, with nary a word on the subject.
It was later that day before the topic was broached. Duvall had been in his office at the barracks when a loud crash from the direction of the quarters he'd assigned to Siroc made him jump. Upon investigating, he found the trio had quickly set up a laboratory for the inventor, albeit nowhere near as grand as the facilities at the palace. When Duvall walked into the laboratory, the three of them were in the process of dousing a small fire on the worktable.
Seeing the Captain, D'Artagnan hurriedly explained, "Just a little accident, sir. Nothing we can't handle."
"Hmm." Duvall wondered what he'd gotten himself into bringing the inventor into the barracks. He hoped such 'accidents' weren't going to become a routine. "Gentlemen, may I have a word with Siroc?"
D'Artagnan and Ramon obliged, heading back to the river to retrieve what was left of Siroc's crates…what hadn't been stolen while his belongings were left unattended by the Seine in the name of saving the royal family. Duvall looked around for a chair, but found only a stool. Apparently, comfortable seating wasn't one of the inventor's priorities. A couple more decades of age would change the boy's opinion about the value of a good, soft chair…
Siroc found another stool and took a seat opposite the captain, waiting for the older man to speak. He had donned the gray uniform coat of a Musketeer as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a scientist to be wearing. If Siroc was unhappy about the turn of events, it didn't show.
"Siroc---I spoke out of turn this morning. I know—D'Artagnan and Ramon have told me---that when you came to Paris, it was with the hopes of becoming a royal scientist or tutor. It wasn't my right to decline the job for you. So, first, I wished to thank you for trusting me when I answered for you this morning. Second, you deserve an explanation. If you still want the position at the palace after you hear what I have to say, I'll arrange it."
The inventor nodded, but said nothing. It sounded reasonable to him.
"Ramon came to me yesterday and asked if there might be a place for you with us. I told him no, that I needed Musketeers and not scientists to protect the royal family. I didn't know you, and if I was more suspicious, more cautious, than I should have been, it's because suspicion and caution have allowed me to protect the royal family for a very long time. However, as it turns out, my decision about you was rather short-sighted. If you hadn't helped us, despite my effort to keep you from doing so, we wouldn't have known about the conspiracy, and it's quite probable that the royal family would be dead now." Duvall's blood ran cold at the idea. "Somewhere, out there---possibly right there among the Prince's trusted inner circle---is a conspirator who is still planning to kill the royal family…or to try at least.
"If he were planning to try to overthrow the King with swords and pistols, I could protect him. But this conspirator is planning his attacks with science and magic and weapons I don't understand. I need someone I know I can trust---someone who does understand the weapons we'll be fighting, or who can at least figure them out. So, as I said, I was wrong. It would seem I do need a scientist."
Duvall pulled the Stone of Vesuvio, which D'Artagnan and Ramon had given him for safekeeping, onto the worktable. "You can begin by studying this. Since this pyramid has officially been 'destroyed', you'll have as long as you need to examine it…if you'll stay."
Siroc stared at the stone. The Lord has a much grander scheme for your life to bless you with the mind he's given you, grander than puttering in an old man's laboratory and mending the roofs and carriages of Guierre. It's time that you discovered that scheme, his mentor had told him years ago. Was this the scheme Monsieur Vieaux had meant?
"A Musketeer…" Siroc hadn't intended to say that aloud.
Duvall corrected, "An inventor-Musketeer."
Siroc grinned. The Captain took that as a 'yes'.
"Good." As he stood, Duvall pointed to the pyramid. "You, D'Artagnan, Ramon, and I are the only four people in the world who know that thing still exists. Let's keep it that way. And, whatever you do---keep that thing safe."
"I will, sir," the inventor promised.
Glad to have the matter resolved, the Captain started for the door.
"Captain?" Siroc called.
Duvall paused.
"Thank you," the inventor added.
Duvall smiled. "Welcome to the group, Siroc."
THE END