"You stink of horse," Porthos complained, wrinkling his nose at Athos.
"Not all of us can be so occupied within the laundry," the man replied dryly from over the lip of his wineglass. "How fares your stitching? Any improvement?"
Porthos grunted sourly, hiding his hand – which bore several needle gouges to the fingers – behind his back.
"My poor maids," Aramis said with a mock-sorrowful shake of his head. "Truly your vocations in life have been missed."
"A pity there is only one grindstone," d'Artagnan said, taking a swig of his wine. "But then you'd run out of swords before the end of the week."
Aramis twisted his mouth into a pout at that. He detested getting dirty and sweating thanks to such an un-glamourous and mindless duty. D'Melliuor had chosen each of their penance's well to most poorly suit their tastes. Seeing proud Athos drudging in the stables was the worst of it, but watching poor Porthos struggling to manipulate a needle along a line of delicate cloth almost made up for it.
It had been a week since the new captain's instatement, and it had been a long, boring one. They had hardly seen d'Artagnan, whose duties had been reduced to that of a squire, running onerous errands for Jussac when he was not set to near endless training upon the fields. The boy was exhausted, but maintained a happy façade.
Their time had not past idly, however; each man managing to conduct their investigation throughout the course of their duties. D'Artagnan in particular had succeeded in snooping through a good number of their brothers' effects, thanks to his menial labour within their rooms, but had so far found nothing incriminating.
They made efforts to meet each night to swap information and unwind from their long days, though it did not go unnoticed that d'Artagnan would routinely fall asleep over his glass before the tenth bell. Their restriction to the barracks had been lifted that night and all four had been eager to leave the stifling confinement of their home.
Porthos was in the middle of a long and vulgar joke when the four were interrupted by another.
Antionne d'Melliuor, lately elevated to the position of lieutenant, came to a halt, standing nervously before their table.
"Lieutenant, care for a wine?" Aramis offered. Despite the boy's parentage, they bore Antionne no ill-will. Since his misadventure with d'Artagnan some months prior, the young musketeer had been much altered; polite and quiet, but not withdrawn. Gaspard in particular had found himself a dutiful pupil, his actions against the boy seeming to have engendered respect rather than hostility. Though they had not discussed it with him, it seemed his father's position, and his own elevation in the ranks were a point of disquiet for Antionne.
The boy shook his head politely at the offer. "I must decline, thank you."
"What's up, lad?" Porthos enquired, tilting his head back to scrutinise him from under his hat. "You look right miserable."
Antionne took a breath. "I have come for monsieur d'Artagnan," he said, indeed looking miserable.
Three pairs of eyes fixed upon the young Gascon.
"What you do, whelp?" Porthos asked, his tone lightly teasing.
"Me?" d'Artagnan shook his head, not even needing to affect false sincerity. "Nothing."
"My men are outside," Antionne continued. He dropped his voice so that their conversation did not reach the other tables and prying ears. "I have been ordered to return with you to the garrison immediately… You are under arrest."
"What?" Aramis snapped.
"On what charge?" Athos asked, his voice a deadly growl.
"Desertion will be the official charge," said Antionne with distaste. "Monsieur d'Artagnan failed to report for his guard duty this evening."
"I had no such duty!" d'Artagnan protested angrily.
Athos placed a calming hand upon his young brother's arm. "Did you check the board before you came to meet us?" he asked quietly.
The notice board at the garrison held a list of the daily duties for each musketeer, posted each day before the change in guard at six in the morning and at night. In Treville's time it was hardly used, each man knowing his daily routine and informed as to changes by Treville personally. The new captain, however, maintained the board with ruthless efficiency.
"Of course," d'Artagnan snorted. "I checked it as I was leaving at six," he paused, his tone becoming unsure, "…almost six …a few minutes before perhaps…"
Athos closed his eyes and Aramis groaned as Porthos slapped his forehead with a meaty palm. None would put it past d'Melliuor to wait until the precise moment to post the new orders, with the very intention of catching out an unwary man eager to leave the garrison after a week's detention. They had played right into the captain's hands.
"I was not on duty on the morning roster," d'Artagnan said miserably.
"But you were on this evening's," Antionne said gently, his tone conciliatory. "I'm sorry, Charles."
The informal use of his first name surprised the boy and he looked up at Antionne with a grateful, if pallid smile. "Thank you for coming for me in this manner," he said. "I know you could have been a sight more heavy-handed."
"I owe you a debt of gratitude, monsieur," Antionne said with a bow. "It is frankly the least I could do."
D'Artagnan stood, draining his glass and then donning his hat with a heavy sigh. "Let us get this over with, then."
Aramis leapt up, snatching his hat. "We should go too, we could explain—"
"You know it'll do no good, 'mis," Porthos growled.
"Porthos is right, my friend," Athos said with a shake of his head. "We would only cause more trouble for our young runaway."
There was a soft reprimand in the man's joke that d'Artagnan took with a solemn nod. It was his own error that had put him in this situation, at the very time he had promised Athos to act with care. The fault was legitimate, even if it was unjust. He would face the consequences with dignity and without excuses.
Aramis squeezed d'Artagnan's arm, giving the boy an encouraging smile. "We shall be along shortly, mon ami, have courage."
Antionne bowed to the three and then led d'Artagnan out.
The inseparables stayed as they were for a long moment, broken as Athos smashed his fist upon the table.
"Damn!"