Chapter Two

Athos coughed. He was stuck for a few seconds in that moment between sleep and wakefulness. Or was it unconsciousness and consciousness? He was not sure. He suspected it was the latter. The dull ache in his head was not the same feeling he got after drinking too much wine. No. The pain was from a blow to the head. Although, he could not recall what had happened.

He moved his arm, intending to reach up to rub his temple. But his arm would not move. He shifted slightly. A rough rubbing on his wrists confused him further. Rope?

As he considered the rope, he became aware of something in his mouth. Something that he did not want there. Fabric. He tried to push the fabric out of his mouth but could not.

The assortment of wrong things began to organise themselves in his mind. The scratchy rope was wound around his wrists keeping his arms behind his back. He was restrained. The damp fabric in his mouth was being kept there by another piece of fabric tied around his head. He was gagged.

Neither of those things was ever good.

He forced his eyes open. Some small part of him was relieved that he was not blindfolded as well. Although it would not have made much difference, he could not see anything anyway. Only a rough stone wall and dirt floor.

Wherever he was lying was dark. Not completely dark. There was a dim source of light from somewhere behind him.

Athos forced himself to remain calm. It was not the first time he had woken in such circumstances. And he had learned over the years that it was best to keep still and quiet initially. If there was someone with him, he might not want them to know he was alert. Not until he was ready for them to know.

He listened.

He closed his eyes again and slowed his breathing.

Noises in the distance.

Someone talking. Athos could not make out what was being said, but they were talking sternly. Talking in the way a leader addresses his men. Giving orders.

Was he a prisoner after a battle?

They had not charged into battle recently, Athos told himself. The fog in his mind was not fully cleared.

A dog barking. Two dogs.

The rumble of a carriage or cart.

He was still in Paris.

Athos tuned out the sounds in the distance and concentrated on his immediate surroundings. He listened for the sound of anyone breathing nearby.

Was he alone?

He risked turning onto his back. The room shifted as dizziness and nausea assaulted him. He knew it would pass. As his spinning vision settled, he knew he was alone.

Athos was lying on the floor of an empty room. The stone walls were not clean. The room was not maintained or used for any purpose that Athos could discern. A couple of worn stone steps led up to a heavy-looking wooden door. A narrow window in the wall to his right was letting in a little light, but the glass was covered in dirt. It was impossible to see anything outside.

He spent a few moments shifting about until he was sitting, leaning against the rough stone wall. Each sharp piece of flint in the stone seemed to dig into his back and shoulders. If he had been wearing his doublet he probably would not have noticed. The effort of movement left him nauseous again. He waited patiently for the feeling to pass. He knew it would be redundant to try standing until he could do so without the crippling nausea washing over him.

Whilst he waited for that moment, Athos returned his thoughts to remembering what had happened.

He had been with Aramis. They had been attacked. He remembered losing sight of his friend for a while as he fought off his attackers. Athos thought he might have managed to strike a couple of the men, but there were too many of them. It was inevitable that they would overpower him. He remembered trying to shout out, but the sound was muffled, probably by the same foul-tasting rag that was still in his mouth. He was pushed against the wall as the rag was tied in place. He was able to look across to where more men were surrounding Aramis.

Athos tried to remember what the men looked like. They were all in their twenties. They all wore old clothes. Clothes that had been repaired or were showing signs of needing repair. A couple had scars or marks from diseases they had recovered from. Athos remembered one man was leaning close to Aramis and speaking to him. The man might have been from one of the northern countries of the African continent. Paris, a large city, attracted travellers. Some passed through. Some stayed, thinking they would find a new life.

Whatever the man had said to Aramis caused his friend to protest. Athos scowled as the memory of one of the other men hitting Aramis resurfaced. Aramis had slumped unconscious. Athos had not seen what happened after that. He guessed he had been struck similarly.

Was Aramis a prisoner as well?

Was he waking up in another dim room?

What had the African man said that caused Aramis to protest?

Athos could not answer the questions. He did not know where he was or why he had been taken prisoner.

All he could do was wait for the headache to recede enough for him to be able to get to his feet without keeling over.

Athos disliked having to wait in such circumstances.

MMMM

The Court of Miracles. A city within a city. A kingdom within a kingdom. Porthos had grown up there. He knew its ways. He knew his way around.

At least he had.

That was his old life. Far removed from his life now.

His days in the army of the Court of Miracles had been replaced with days of loyal service in the army of France. And now he was a Musketeer. A King's Musketeer. He was a member of an elite group of men, and he could not be prouder of himself. He had climbed his way out of the hell that the Court could be. He had been helped a little. A good word in his favour here, a debt repaid there. But most of it had been hard graft. Working his way up the ranks from lowly infantryman to King's Musketeer.

The life he had left behind so completely was back a second time to haunt him. Last time his former family had saved his life. They had plucked him from the jaws of death. He had been helpless, and they had come for him.

But that incident did not end well.

Charon.

His brother in the Court. A man he had grown up with. They had both been orphaned; both found their way. Both joined up with the Court's army as soon as they were deemed suitable. Both became leaders.

Then their paths had separated. Charon had become the King of the Court of Miracles. Porthos had become a servant to the King of France.

Charon had been killed.

One man, he thought of as a brother, was killed by another man he thought of as a brother.

Aramis' reaction had been instinctive. If it had been either Athos or d'Artagnan with their sword drawn, they would have made the move, Porthos was sure. But it had been Aramis.

It had not been until a few hours later, after he was safely back in the garrison reaching for a cup of wine, that he had noticed how quiet Aramis had been. His friend felt guilty for killing Charon. Porthos consoled Aramis, reminding him that if he had not acted as swiftly as he had, he would be dead.

And now, that instinctive move on Aramis' part was back to haunt them both. And Athos had been dragged into the whole sordid affair.

Porthos turned the corner, off the main road, towards the court. He forced his wandering memories away. He had to concentrate on the present. He was about to walk into one of the most dangerous places a uniformed soldier could go alone.

He felt the change in his bones as he stepped over that invisible threshold between Paris and the Court. A blanket of oppression descended. The atmosphere became heavy. Thick with fear. Thick with distrust. Thick with despair.

Porthos knew the Court was not all bad. There was a camaraderie amongst its residents that was not present anywhere else. Even the lowliest of street dwellers could ask for help. They might not get much, but they would not be instantly dismissed in the way they would be outside. In Paris.

He walked with purpose. He did not tarry. He did not hesitate. He did not falter.

They would find him. They would make themselves known to him when they were ready. Porthos only had to wait.

He did not have to wait long.

A quiet cough and rustle of fabric drew his attention. Four men were assembled ahead of him. A glance behind revealed four more. Each man was armed, they were all reasonably well dressed, and all looked well-fed. Porthos knew they were members of the Court's army. He recognised a couple of the men from his days amongst them.

He stopped walking. He waited for them to make the next move.

'Flea wants to see you.'

The man that spoke approached him from behind. Porthos did not turn. He nodded that he understood. The man rested his hand on Porthos' shoulder and directed him along the road. Porthos did not resist. He knew there was no point, and he was being taken where he wanted to go anyway.

The men ahead of him turned and led the way. His escort kept in formation. Porthos was not to be allowed to wander off. He subtly looked around. He saw faces at broken windows peering out, watching the soldiers warily. Some street dwellers tucked themselves further into their hiding places. Porthos was reminded of doing the same thing after his mother died.

Most of the buildings were not fit for habitation, but they still provided more shelter than the inhabitants would have otherwise. The people that lived in the Court guarded their territory; it was not unknown for people to be killed fighting over a few square feet of space. Porthos had been too young to fight for a sheltered area in a building when he first found himself alone. It was not until he was recruited as a future soldier that he was allowed to live with a roof over his head permanently. Life was hard in the Court, but the people knew no other way.

He did not know where the soldiers were heading. The leader of the court moved around. There were several buildings still in good repair, kept ready as defensible places if the Court was ever attacked from outside. Flea had always favoured places with large windows to let in light. Charon preferred the warmth a more centrally located dwelling brought. Flea was the leader now. Porthos narrowed the choices down in his head. But he could still be surprised.

There was no talking as he walked along the untidy street. Nothing was mentioned about the reason for his visit. And that could only mean one thing. They know why he was there. Flea could not control every inhabitant of the Court, but she was likely to know about something as significant as the attack and abduction of a Musketeer.

Porthos smiled to himself as they reached their destination. The tallest of the buildings in the Court. The pale stone of the walls was enticing, giving the large walls a warmth that the darker coloured houses did not have. The space between it and the surrounding structures meant that sunlight reached even the lower floors. A wide double door stood open in the centre of the front of the building. Porthos was guided up the four steps and into a sprawling hallway.

Unlike stepping into the homes of the nobility where space meant wealth, Porthos was greeted with makeshift walls consisting of wood or blankets creating additional rooms and corridors. He knew that most of the buildings would be the same. They could not heat the large houses. Small fires would be lit, and their warmth contained with the help of the temporary walls that cut off large areas creating many smaller rooms.

The four men that led him into the house peeled off and stood at the edge of the hallway, watching him intently. Porthos swept his gaze across their faces, taking in details about each man so that he could recognise them again. The men that were walking behind him continued to guide him further into the house. The man with his hand on Porthos' shoulder gave him an occasional order to change direction.

As they neared what would have been a ballroom, Porthos was aware of one of the other men overtaking him and his guide. The man, who was wearing a cloak, was tall and lithe, his skin tone betraying his heritage. Porthos knew that he was unusual to be French-born with dark skin; most of the perceived foreign-looking Parisians were exactly that, people from other lands. Seeking a better life, but often not finding it.

Porthos thought the man might have been Egyptian. Perhaps he had found his way to France via Portuguese traders. He thought he recognised the man from his last visit to the Court. The man did not acknowledge him.

The man led them into the ballroom, which was not filled with partitions. The space had been kept to allow large gatherings. Porthos knew he was about to have an audience with the new leader of the Court.

Flea.

The diminutive woman had once been his lover before she switched her allegiance to Charon when Porthos left the Court. Porthos had not been surprised to find her in a relationship with Charon. Flea was a clever woman. She knew that to keep herself in a position of power, she had needed to align herself with the powerful men. Until those men were gone. With no other men vying for the position of leader of the Court when Charon died, Flea took his place. And no one challenged her. She had been quick to bring the Court's army to her side. From what Porthos learned over the months since she took her throne, Flea had become a respected leader, bringing the Court back to order after the chaos of Charon's betrayal. The usual position of women as the followers did not apply in the Court. The women were frequently the ones that were in charge. They were the ones that were left behind when the man disappeared to seek a better life or having lost their lives. A woman in charge of the Court of Miracles was not something miraculous. It was inevitable.

With her blonde hair pulled back behind her slender shoulders and a look of intrigue on her face, Flea rose from the heavy chair that was resting on a raised area at one end of the ballroom. Porthos tried not to shake his head at the obvious allusion to royalty. Flea was taking her role of Queen seriously.

'I heard you were here,' she said as she gathered her skirts in her hand to take the step down to the floor. 'I had you brought here before you were killed. You know you're not welcome here anymore. You were offered the chance to return … but walked away.'

The hand on Porthos' shoulder was finally removed. He remained where he was for several seconds as the escorting men retreated. The foreign man stepped closer to Flea and spoke quietly to her. Flea nodded, her eyes on Porthos the entire time.

The foreigner stepped back, he glanced at Porthos for a second before following his men from the room.

'Asim tells me that you just walked in … alone.'

'You know why I'm here,' said Porthos.

They looked at each other for a few moments. Each searching the other for anything that was not being said. Both knew the other was good at lying. Years living on the streets and the edges of society made lying second nature.

'I heard that a Musketeer had been brought here, bound and gagged. I made some inquiries. I knew you would come.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know that,' replied Flea with a tone telling Porthos he should have known the answer. 'I only know he is here. And I know that he is still alive.'

They continued to look at each other. Porthos wondered if he caught a glimpse of a lie. Could he trust her? Much as he wanted to trust his former lover, he knew he could not. She would not trust him either. Any information he was going to get would have to be extracted carefully.

'Why was he taken?'

Despite already knowing the answer, Porthos wanted to know if Flea was aware.

'He is a soldier. Perhaps he upset some of the residents, and they wanted revenge? Perhaps they are teaching him a lesson?'

Porthos took a couple of steps forward, bringing him within touching distance of the woman. Flea looked up but did not step back and did not show any sign of intimidation. Porthos heard footsteps on the wooden floor behind him. Flea looked to the side of Porthos and shook her head once. The steps stopped. But whoever had approached did not walk away.

'I need to search for him.'

A quirk of a smile twitched at the corner of Flea's mouth. She tilted her head.

'And how long do you think you would stay alive if I let you lose out there?'

Porthos did not respond.

'I cannot let you wander around alone. And I do not think Asim would spare any of the army to accompany you.'

'Because members of the army are involved in Athos' abduction?'

It was Flea's turn not to respond.

The lack of a reply could have meant she knew something. Or it could have meant she simply agreed with Porthos' assessment but did not want to verbalise that with the army's leader standing a few feet behind him. Porthos was sure it was Asim who had moved closer when he approached Flea. Asim would want to protect his leader, which in turn protected his privileged position.

'There is a way you could search,' Flea said after a few seconds.

She looked into the distance, thoughtfully for a few seconds, as though she were considering something. Wrestling with something in her mind. She looked back at him, her eyes piercing.

'You could stay,' she said. 'Come back where you belong-'

'You said I wasn't welcome.'

'If you were to take your place beside me, it would not take you long to become respected again.'

Porthos huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

'Take my place?'

'As my equal.'

Porthos heard Asim shifting behind him. He could well imagine the man scowling at the prospect of losing a rung on the ladder of leadership to Porthos.

'You know I can't do that. All I want is Athos returned. He had nothing to do with Charon's death.'

A fleeting darkness clouded Flea's face. So quick that Porthos was not even sure if he had seen it.

'He was there though,' she said, without missing a beat. 'He did nothing to prevent Aramis from killing Charon.'

'You know why he was taken then?'

Flea smiled. The smile did not reach her eyes. She reached up and rested her hand on his chest lightly, stroking her finger across the leather of his doublet.

'Of course, I know. I have had reports. But I do not know where he is. And you are not going to be allowed to search for him … unless I can be sure of your allegiance. I have the rest of the people here to think of. If I let soldiers wander the streets freely, my people will lose faith in me.'

'Your people?'

'My people.'

Porthos took a step back from Flea, breaking their contact.

'I will ensure your safety until you have left the Court. But that is all I can do. I am sorry your friend was taken, but I cannot help you search for him.'

The impasse was unbreakable at that moment. Porthos knew he would get no further. He was sure Flea was toying with him. Teasing him. Trying to manipulate him.

He turned his back on his former lover with the intention of walking away. He found Asim in front of him; his cloak had been shifted to lie over his shoulder revealing his gun held loosely at his side.

It was not the gun that was of particular interest to Porthos. No. It was the dark piece of fabric that circled his wrist that drew Porthos' attention. He struggled not to react. Struggled not to show Asim that he had seen what would have been a new addition to the man's clothing.

Athos' scarf.

MMMM