Aramis waited in a dark doorway opposite Le Paon, hidden by the shadows as he watched for any sign of their target. A light from between the shuttered windows told him some soul still worked at this late hour; not unusual for a trader working up his commision but enough to keep him hopeful.
By his estimations the patrolling Musketeer would reach him in the next half hour. If the Le Paon was not his destination nothing would be lost, for Porthos followed Jussac as silent and stealthy as a wolf.
It had surprised Aramis not a bit that Jussac was assigned this suspicious duty; no commander would take upon such trivial duties without cause. His blade hand itched to administer not-so-swift justice upon the man for all the ill he had wrought - blessed Lord save his soul but the red-stained turncoat needed to suffer long before he died, and Aramis would accept the darkest depths of purgatory to that end.
The Rue was dark and foggy at such an early hour, the city mist clinging to the corners with wraithlike hands where the street lanterns failed to reach. Sounds travelled far in the silence, Aramis picking up the tell-tale slap of leather upon stone long before Jussac strolled into view.
The man's arrogance even conveyed itself to his stride, confident stamping that cared little for witnesses, only that they did witness Jussac in his greatness.
Aramis forced himself to stay still, watching with eager-narrow eyes as the commander strolled toward Le Paon. To his chargrin, the man passed it by, but the disappointment was short-lived as Jussac made an abrupt turn-about and slunk to the doorway, painfully obtuse.
Aramis listened to the pattern of knocks, memorising it as the door opened. He did not hear what was exchanged by Jussac and the man within, his face eclipsed into shadow by the lamplight behind him. Whatever was said Jussac entered and, with a quick darting look to spy out any witnesses, the man within closed the door.
"We got the bastard," Porthos rumbled happily, when Aramis met with him in the next doorway beside the entrance of Le Paon.
"What now?"
"We wait until he comes out."
"And then?"
Aramis gave a tight, nasty smile. "And then; we improvise."
Barely ten minutes passed before Jussac exited Le Paon, strolling away as if he had all the time in the world.
After waiting another few minutes to ensure the man was gone, Aramis motioned to his friend to keep to the shadows, stepping out and then knocking on the door.
There was a hushed, panicked silence within, followed eventually by the opening of the main door a slight crack.
"Finally," Aramis huffed in true frustration. "I thought I would wait here all night!"
"What do you want, monsieur?" asked the hesitant voice from within.
"Come, now, don't be shy," Aramis pressed. "The weather out here would be enough to drive any man aground, let alone to such unwelcome shores."
He could see one eye peeking through the inch of space between the door and it's frame, looking wary and unsure. Driving a hand into his jerkin, Aramis withdrew a folded parchment from within.
"I have the papers, so come; let me in before some idiot sees us."
He made sure to hold the paper at such an angle that the man within had to open the door wider to get a proper look. The second he did so, Aramis pushed inside, waving the paper like a white flag against any possible rejection.
"Come on, man, have courage!" he sang, deliberately walking so that the worried tailor had to turn to keep facing him. Now that he saw him in a better light, Aramis recognised him as the proprietor, Bisset. He was a thin, short man of middle to late age, eyes pinched and bespectacled thanks to the intricacies of his work.
"Surely you were expetting me?" Aramis said.
"I... but the other...!"
Aramis paused, letting himself frown. "What other? Do you mean to say there has been another musketeer here this night? An imposter?!"
"Impossible," the tailor shook his head, "I have met Jussac many times, but I have not met you, Monsieur!"
"Well of course not!" Aramis huffed. "I don't make it a regular occurrence to bandy with traitors of France."
Behind the tailor the door clicked closed, the lock turning loudly in the silence as Porthos slid home the bolts.
"You hear that, Aramis? "Met Jussac many times", he says."
"Practically brothers, I would say, Porthos, my good friend."
The tailor, having whirled about to confirm his entrapment, paled visibly at their names.
"Tr—traitor?" he squeaked. "O—of all the preposterous...!"
"Of course, preposterous that you would do such a thing, considering what a foul and excruciating death would await you were that the case," Aramis said with a lupine smile. "No, surely you are an innocent in this matter, pressed into service by those more wicked and far more deserving of such a fate."
For a moment it seemed this tactic would work but a beat later the tailor straightened, throwing out his pigeon-chest with as much prideful arrogance as his shop namesake.
"Now listen here, you... ruffians! I shall not be intimidated by mere watchmen. What right have you to come barging in here at such an hour? I shall call the cardinal's guard on you!"
As he spoke Aramis and Porthos moved, ensuring they were not both within the man's range of sight at the same time. Porthos affected a nonchalant air. He ignored the tailor, instead spying a finely-embroidered jerkin on a mannequin and lifting the sleeve up for closer inspection.
"I've spent more time as I'd like with a needle in my hand the last couple of weeks," he said casually. "This is some bloody good work."
"I—," the tailor faltered, unsure how to proceed.
"Here, 'Mis, take a look at this," Porthos said. He gripped the body of the mannequin and with a quick tug, easy for his muscles to achieve, tore the sleeve from the jerkin. Ignoring the tailor's cries he chucked the ruined cloth over to his conspirator, who surveyed the stitching with an appraiser's eye.
"Hmm, it is passable, but there are some snagged threads here and there," he mused. "Honestly, I'd advocate starting again."
"What is the meaning of this?!"
The three men turned at the interruption: a shrill cry from the doorway of the room within, originating from a woman who could only have been Bisset's wife.
"How dare you invade our home at this hour," she snapped, striding into the room, her eyes afire. She wore a nightgown, her hair loosely plaited away from her sharp, intelligent face. Aramis was put in mind of a raven; beautiful but selfish. If he was any judge of other subtle cues, this bird had flown far from her home indeed.
He swept his hat from his head, bowing deeply.
"I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Madame," he said silkily, "we are currently in discussion with your husband over a private, yet serious matter, please, do not be alarmed."
Indeed she was not alarmed, Aramis noted as he watched the woman carefully, but she was nervous; it seemed there were no secrets within the house of Le Paon. Time to change that.
"Or perhaps it best if you do know," he said, allowing himself to become sadly hesitant. "You are also a wounded party in this, of course, not just my sister."
Now the lady did look not only alarmed but growingly furious.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, eyes narrowing upon her husband who sputtered half-formed words of innocence.
"It is as you suspect," Aramis said, shaking his head in sorrow. "I have come to discover the whereabouts of their meeting place, as my sister waits there even now, ready to elope."
"Nonsense!" Bisset managed to splutter.
"Ai, for I was betrayed even by my own brother in arms," Aramis said, placing a woeful hand upon his brow. "Jussac goes to her to make ready for the escape. Their plots have been devilish cruel and intricate, for a while I suspected them even of treason, and yet it transpires my own sister has fallen under this man's wicked spell!"
Porthos clapped Aramis upon the shoulder in a consolatory manner, his pinched lips showing only anger whilst in truth he fought hard to keep his laughter in check.
Aramis dipped into his jerkin, withdrawing his letter with a flourish.
"I would not have thought it possible myself, had I not intercepted one of their letters – my sweet sister! Oh! What has become of your innocence?!"
The Lady Bisset snatched the letter from his hands, tearing it open and scanning the page with fast-furious eyes. Whatever was in there had her blushing like a virgin, growing quickly enraged. Porthos wondered from which of Aramis' conquests the love-letter came, envying the man his ease at courting the fairer sex.
"I do not believe it!" the lady Bisset snapped. "Preposterous lies!"
"Perhaps it is as you say, my dear lady," Aramis said with a weary shake of his head. "The courier might have been taking the note to any tailor along the Rue."
Knowing that this was the only tailor on the Rue Montmartre, Aramis turned to Porthos, who managed to hide his incomprehension when Aramis next said in Spanish:
"Come, let us seek out my sister fast. I dare not leave her over-long in her delicate condition."
There was no need to see lady Bosset's face to gauge her reaction. Another, tempestuous shriek erupted from her and she dashed toward her husband, grasped by Porthos and held away from him as she screamed and spat vile curses. Bisset himself had gone sallow, looking as if he would be ill at any moment.
"Marie, hush," he said, his voice thick with dread.
"Yes, hush, dear señora," Aramis said, his voice now hard as the steel he drew. "You have both said quite enough to earn a stay in the Bastille, however short that might be before your wretched bodies are dealt with at His Majesties' leisure."
Marie – or more accurately, Marianna – had stilled at this dread pronouncement of their fate, her rage-red cheeks draining of their fiery Spanish blood. Porthos' hold on her was tight and unyielding, but she did not resist as he dragged her to her husband's side.
"Not seen a good quartering in a long time," Porthos said with a jolly chuckle, "wonder which bits His Maj'll have 'em cut off first."
"Our King is a traditionalist," Aramis said in the same light tone, "a blade is far too swift… Likely they shall be drawn apart by horses and what breathing part remains burnt to ash."
Bisset let out a low moan, and would have sunk to the floor if Porthos had not steadied him. Mme Bisset simply stood, her head raised high in spite of the terror in her eyes.
"I spoke truly before," Aramis said gently then, "there are those far more deserving of such a fate. We are but two men, if we must pursue those criminals we will not be able to hold you in custody. By the time we return I am sure you will have already fled."
"What, leave Paris?" Bisset asked dully, the thought clearly giving him nearly as much terror as the thought of his impending execution.
"Better exile then a slow, excruciating death."
"What about my shop!?"
"Your shop or your life," Porthos growled incredulously, "which is more important?"
Bisset looked ready to keep arguing but Mme Bisset overruled him. "We shall tell you what you wish to know," she said, ignoring her husband's protests. "On your word that you shall allow us to leave France unhindered."
"I promise you that unless the King himself orders your pursuit, I shall let you free," Aramis said solemnly, "but if you return, I shall not be so kind."
Marianna held out her hand, shaking Aramis' to seal the pact.
"The men you seek gather tomorrow night in the gardens of des Tuileries."
"Why there?"
"They mean to stage an attack upon the palace across the river; tomorrow's meeting is to make their final arrangements."
"Have you met with any of the conspirators?"
The lady shook her head. "Aside from Jussac we know no names."
Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look, then nodded.
"Get out of Paris," Aramis said. "I do not have to tell you that you shall be closely watched. Should you seek to alert these men, then you shall share their fate."
"You have our word," Mme Bisset said crisply, taking a fierce grip on her husband's hand as the man made to protest once more.
"An' if you think you'd quite like to stay in your cosy little shop, think again," Porthos said with a feral smile, "'cause I'll come back and burn it down, an' I'll keep you locked inside."