~§~
The woman was no stranger to playing an elaborate act, Porthos could tell that. After all, one did not earned the title of best thieve without a good sleight of hand and acting skills good enough to perform before the King Himself.
The second he made his move to push her pistol away, she rolled with the motion and fired, aiming safely away from any vital parts. Still, it was all-too realistic and close enough that he could feel the burn of gunpowder as the shot singed his breeches, the iron ball hitting the stone bridge with a spark of fire, harmlessly, quickly followed by the weapon itself.
Porthos closed the distance between them, grabbing the woman by the neck with his left hand, thumb pressed against the silk ribbon choker she wore. She opened her mouth accordingly, a silent gasp escaping her lips, even if there was actually no pressure or intent behind his fingers.
Porthos smiled to himself. She was very good. He pulled his main gauche, allowing the sharp blade to glint in the moonlight long enough for his shadow to see, the movement swift and determined enough for a glint of doubt to enter the woman's eyes. "Trust me," he whispered, even though the other man was too far away to hear any of their words. "Can ya swim?"
The narrowing of her pale green eyes could either be from his ludicrous petition for her to place any kind of faith in a man who'd readily admitted to having been tasked with murdering her, or the fact that she couldn't actually swim. Whatever it meant, she gave him a quick, small nod and Porthos chose to believe that she had agreed to both questions.
Wasting no time in second-guessing himself, Porthos brought the blade down between them, intentionally grazing his left side in the process. He bit his lip to stop himself from voicing any pain, tasting blood in his mouth. For anyone looking on from a distance, it would be impossible to tell which body had been stabbed.
The woman in his grasp jerked in fear as she saw the blade's motion, but swiftly caught on to Porthos' intentions and reacted appropriately. With a hidden smile on her lips, she let out a strained whimper before collapsing bonelessly, her body trapped between Porthos and the bridge's railing.
Taking comfort in a silent prayer to the saint of lost causes, Porthos gave a gentle shove and pushed her over the railing, leaning forward to watch her pliant body hit the quiet waters with a resounding splash.
Knowing that the sound of the pistol's discharge might've attracted unwanted eyes, Porthos quickly grabbed the fallen weapon and shoved it into his belt, taking care to use his coat to cover the blood staining his shirt.
"Tha' wasn't part of the deal," Bourdon's man hissed as soon as Porthos rejoined him. His bony finger stabbed the air on the river's direction. "How am I s'posed to have proof of her bein' dead if there's no body t'fetch?"
Porthos loomed over the smaller man, resisting the urge to pick him up and send him into the river to check for himself. Instead, he produced his dagger, blade glistening with fresh blood. "Here's yer proof, ya ninny!" he growled, shoving past. "Now, we're going back to Bourdon's or-"
The rest of the sentence died on his lips as Porthos found himself staring into Athos' condemning eyes.
~§~
They had found them by pure chance. Charlotte knew which tavern they had gone to because, it being Sarazin's territory, they all knew well to stay clear of it, but by the time they reached the place, Porthos was nowhere to be found.
Athos supposed that they had followed the woman from the tavern to some secluded place where Porthos could kill her. The idea made him shudder and lose the precarious balance he'd been keeping, in between his sore ankle and the young girl's support.
They had been moving slowly towards the river when the sound of a pistol being fired echoed through the night.
"T'bridge!" Charlotte determined, racing in that direction.
Athos found himself rushing to follow and being hindered by a limb that refused to obey him properly. By the time he managed to reach the end of the street that led them straight to the river, he spotted Charlotte, hidden behind a crate, looking intently to her left. Athos shuffled closer to stand behind her, his back pressed against the wall to hide his shape in the shadows.
His eyes followed the direction of the young girl's gaze, and for a moment, Athos forgot how to breathe. On top of the stone bridge, towards the far side of the river, Porthos' large figure, impossible to mistake for any other, loomed over a hooded figure half his size, the glint of a blade in his right hand.
They had arrived too late to stop him.
Frozen in his spot, Athos watched helplessly as Porthos plunged the dagger down and, without the faintest of hesitations, pushed the woman's body over the side of the bridge and into the water. There was no sound of metal piercing flesh, there was no shout of pain, only the muffled sound of a splash as the body hit the water. They were too far away to hear any of that and without those details, Athos' mind could barely believe what his eyes were telling him was real.
Before he could process what had just happened, Porthos was on the move, sprinting in their direction. There was a man, Athos could see him now, hiding in the shadows of the buildings, a few feet ahead.
There was no point in remaining hidden now, Athos surmised bitterly. Porthos had fulfilled his part of the vile deal he had struck with Bourdon, which meant that Athos' freedom was his own again. His decision made, the Musketeer moved from his hiding place, almost colliding with Porthos as both men came rushing in his direction, arguing in hushed tones.
Porthos stood rooted in place as his eyes landed on Athos' stern face. The look on tall man's face wasn't quite embarrassment or even guilt; just plain surprise, like he had been caught stealing sweets at the King's feast.
Athos could feel disappointment rolling off him like tidal waves. He had believed Porthos to be a man of honor, had trusted him to uphold strong values that he thought them both to share. Porthos had fooled him, like Anne had. And like her, he was nothing but a murderer.
The unmistakable sound of a cocking pistol brought them both out of their private reverie. "Oi! Yer not s'posed t'be here!" Bourdon's man hissed, pointing his weapon at Athos' chest.
"None of us is s'posed t'be here," Porthos growled, pushing the weapon down even as he moved to stand in between Athos and Bourdon's man. "Or do ya want t'stick around and wait fer any Red Guard hearin' that shot back there?"
He had a valid point, one that Bourdon's man seemed to agree with, as he returned his pistol to his belt. "Go on then," he urged. "Bourdon will be waitin'."
"I see no point in wasting the time," Athos pointed out, his voice cold and unwavering as he moved from behind the protection of Porthos' bulk and addressed Bourdon's man directly. He could feel Porthos' eyes on him, but dared not look at the man, lest he lose his feeble grasp on his temper. "He already has what he asked for," he pointed out, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. "It's time we're given what we're due."
"Ya know t'way?" Porthos asked, surprised at the turn of events. "Wha' about the girl? I thought she was t'one who knew wh-"
"I know the way," Athos confirmed hastily, his eyes quickly slipping to the crates behind which Charlotte still hid. There was no point in complicating the girl's life any more than was necessary by revealing her presence. Porthos somehow understood his meaning, if not his reasoning.
"Tha's not wha' was arranged," the man insisted, his fingers twitching towards his weapon once again.
"But tha' is wha's happening," Porthos finally decided as he took a step closer. "Go back to Bourdon, tell 'im that his mark is dead and tha' we're taking wha' we were promised, yeah?"
It wasn't really a question, Athos could see that. The only option the man had, now that he was outnumbered and Bourdon held no leverage over Porthos, was to either do what they were suggesting or join the dead woman in the Seine.
With an angry snarl, the man pushed past and stalked away, muttering about telling everything to Bourdon.
As soon as they were alone, Charlotte stepped away from her hideout with a smirk on her face. "Bourdon ain't goin' t'be happy, he's goin' t'kick Ant-" she started, her voice dropping to a whisper as she noticed the tension between the two remaining men. "Yer face is awfully red," she added, looking intently at Athos.
Athos sagged against his right side, finally dropping the pretense of being uninjured. Porthos instinctively moved to help, only to have Athos stop him with a cold look.
"Wha' happened t'you?" Porthos asked, ignoring the scalding blue gaze once more as he searched for the source of Athos' pain. "Was it Bourdon's men?" he added with a snarl, fury clouding his face. "And wha' is she doin' here?"
"I suggest we move rather than talk," Athos offered coldly. They had wasted enough time already and he was in no condition to run anywhere, which would delay them even further in reaching Aramis.
"Athos..."
More than his name on the other man's lips, it was the warm hand on his arm that unraveled Athos' resolution of not saying anything until they'd freed Aramis. That hand, however, the same hand that had so callously taken a life, was too much. "I can't believe you just did that!" he hissed, turning to face the other man at last. How could he had ever looked into those warm brown eyes and seen a good man? "I thought you were a man of honor!"
Porthos recoiled and for a moment, Athos regretted the venom in his tone. Whatever unforgivable actions Porthos had taken, he had done so to protect Athos' life and assure them a safe passage to Aramis. Athos knew he shouldn't fault him for that. And yet...
Porthos was the one looking disappointed now, and for the life of him, Athos couldn't fathom why. "What?"
Porthos snarled, turning away in anger.
Where Porthos fingers had curled around his arm, there was a bloodstain left behind on his sleeve as he pulled away. Athos couldn't help wondering if it belonged to the dead woman or if he was missing some important fact in that all nightmare of a night. "Porthos?"
"She ain't dead," Porthos let out with a hiss. "It was all play-actin'."
Athos felt his mouth run dry. How could none of that have been real? He had seen..."It was all very...convincing," he found himself mumbling, now certain that he had offended his friend deeply. "The blood?" he asked, a pang of unease and worry consuming him.
"None of yer concern," Porthos offered. "Which way we goin'?"
~§~
Aramis looked up tiredly at the wall his shoulder had collided with, in the narrow passageway he was trying to navigate. He had been so concentrated on his shuffling feet, doing his best to not stumble over the length of chain between his ankles, that the close proximity of the wall had taken him completely by surprise.
The tunnel had started out relatively wide, walls made of light stone, similar to the chamber he had left behind. Now, though, stone had given place to packed dirt and brick. It looked so soft and inviting that Aramis found himself leaning in further, until his head was resting against the wall. He allowed himself a few minutes of quiet, his body humming with heat, exhaustion and pain.
He had no idea where he was going. And neither did Marsac, he was sure of that.
It was only when the earth walls began to be replaced by the bones of the dead, that Aramis understood where Marsac was leading him. The scourging heat, the dragging chains, the bones... this was Hell. It could be no other place.
Aramis knew he wasn't the best of men, he wasn't even the bravest and certainly not the most pious of men… but surely he did not deserved Hell? He had tried so hard to make up for the lives he had failed to save...
"You promised you'd show me the way out," Aramis croaked, the words coming out in puffs of dust. To his surprise, he found himself on the verge of tears. Marsac had tricked him, betrayed his trust. "I cannot follow you to Hell."
Marsac stopped in front of him, sad blue eyes trapping Aramis in his gaze. There was so much left unsaid in his look, so much recrimination that Aramis took a step back, frightened of what he was seeing. The wall at his back stopped him from retreating any further and suddenly the whole weight of the small space was upon him. Aramis fell to his knees, his strength spent, barely feeling it as he hit the ground.
"No Aramis, you cannot follow me," Marsac finally said, a thin smile spreading across his lips. "You never seem to follow, do you?"
The wounded Musketeer refused to hear the truth behind those words, but deep down he knew that Marsac was right. He had failed to follow his dead comrades in death and he had failed to follow his brother as he...
Aramis knew what would come next. He'd experienced it before, had been unable to stop it from happening before. Still, he shook his head in denial.
Marsac turned his back on him, pulling the pauldron from his right shoulder and letting it drop to the ground as he walked, the leather turning to dust as it touched the dark earth.
"Marsac..." Aramis called out. Marsac was right, he could not follow. He lacked the strength to do so. "Don't leave me alone in here..." ...surrounded by the dead, he stopped himself from saying. "Come back!"
But it was already too late. The shadows ate away at Marsac's form, leaving nothing behind but an empty tunnel and Aramis, slumped against the wall, holding out a candle whose light was slowly dying.
~§~
The sky was covered in dark clouds, barely allowing for the first rays of sun to peek through, turning dawn into nothing but a pale mirror of the night.
The only reason why Treville was aware of the beginning of a new day was the fact that Madame Bennoit's rooster, two houses down, had already crowed at least twice since the Captain had left his office. How the damn beast was aware that the sun was up, hidden as it was by the dark skies, he had no idea.
He hadn't slept. Had barely managed to sit still for any portion of the night. The horses, in their stalls beneath his quarters, should be weary and sick of his constant pacing back and forth.
It was probably what he most despised about being in command. Being left behind, not knowing how things were proceeding, having to wait for his men to report back for him to find out.
Aramis was nowhere to be found. If he was in any of the prisons controlled by the Cardinal, the man was not sharing that information.
And now, Athos and Porthos had gone missing as well. Last he had heard of them was through a hastily-scribbled note brought by a street vagrant, vaguely reporting that they were close to finding Aramis' location and had gone in search of a guide.
A guide! Why in heaven's name did they need a guide to take them to Aramis?
And the Cardinal...the man had looked positively smug every single time they had crossed paths at the palace the previous day, enough so that Treville had made his excuses to the King and retreated back to the garrison, claiming important business to attend to...lest his common sense abandoned him and he put his fist through Richelieu's teeth.
The First Minister had never forgiven nor forgotten the fact that, when forming his elite guard, the King had chosen Treville, and not him, to command them. He had been forced to stand on the sidelines, watching as Treville took his pick of the best that France had to offer in terms of soldiers and fencing champions and added them to his ranks. And most aggravating of all, there were no noblemen throwing money at Cardinal to confer on their sons the honor of being a part of the Red Guard as they often did for the chance to be a Musketeer.
The Cardinal had created the Red Guard out of spite, to prove he could do better than Treville. And he'd lived in that state of mind ever since.
The very fact that Richelieu was not in control of the Musketeers was, Treville was sure, the main reason for all their recent troubles. The Captain was bound to silence by his own position and decisions, but the knowledge that there was a soldier in Treville's regiment, free to open his mouth and speak about the travesty of Savoy and unmask the truth about what had truly happened there...that was too much uncertainty and lack of control for the Cardinal's taste.
Hopefully, that same compulsion to be in control would also be his downfall.
As if summoned by Treville's dark thoughts, a young woman hurried into the garrison courtyard. He could barely catch her features in the dim light, but as her eyes rose to the balcony outside his office and met his, the Captain recognized her at once. Constance.
"There...there was a man," she called out, trying to catch her breath. "The letter...he..."
Not for the first time since he had hatched this ill-advised plan with Aramis, Treville worried about the safety of the Bonacieux. The intent was to make the Cardinal believe that the confession had been left in the hands of untrained people, thus making it easy for him to obtain it. The use of violence became unnecessary when there was no fight to be had.
But the truth was, there was still a faint chance that the overly-suspicious Cardinal might not believe them to be simple bystanders, the dark possibility that he might think them aware of the contents of the letter and seek to dispose of them.
Unfortunately, there had been no one else. It could not be any of Aramis' acquaintances, for the whole idea of flogging and punishing the Musketeer was to make the Cardinal believe the regiment and Treville had turned their backs on Aramis. And Treville dedicated too much of his time to the regiment to allow for any lasting bonds outside the Musketeers.
"Madame Bonacieux," he greeted, hurrying down the flight of stairs to meet her. "Are you unharmed?"
"Oh, yes, very much so," she quickly brushed his concern aside. "The man who showed up at my door passed himself off as a Musketeer and just asked for the letter."
"A Musketeer?" Treville asked, leading Constance to sit at the table. "Are you certain?"
The young woman nodded, arranging her skirts around her legs. "He had one of your cloaks and all, though I rather think it didn't belong to him."
Treville sighed in relief. Aramis had managed to set his bait and the Cardinal's men had taken it, even down to the part of passing themselves off as Musketeers to retrieve the confession. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, it was just too long for him," Constance said. "I should know, I've sewn enough of the bloody things to know that they usually fall just to about their knees," she went on, a smile on her face. "The one who showed up at my door, his cloak almost reached his ankles! I think he might've stolen it from a much taller man."
Treville smiled, remembering the contrite look on Pierre's face when he had reported that, in his drunkenness, he had misplaced his cloak, just two weeks before. Such a garment, in fine-sewn leather as befitted a King's Musketeer, would've fetched a fine price and had certainly been sold by those who found it. That it had found its way into serving such a purpose did not fail in its irony.
Pierre, Treville gauged, was almost a head taller than him. There weren't many men who could put on his cloak and not look like a child in his father's clothing.
"I hope everything works out the way you've planned it, Captain," Constance said quietly, her eyes fixed on the men sparring in the yard rather than on him. "I didn't like the way that man looked and I hope that, whatever he's done, he pays for it."
Treville nodded, impressed by her perceptiveness. Though he was sure neither Porthos nor Athos had told the Bonacieux any details about what they were doing, it was clear that Constance had put enough together. "I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done, Madame," he said, offering her a heartfelt bow. "What did he look like, this man posing as a Musketeer?"
Constance pulled her woolen shawl closer, as if the memory alone gave her chills. "Cold, pale blue eyes, straw-like hair," she described. "Well-spoken, but dirty," she added with a crinkle of her nose.
"How so?"
"There was blood," she whispered, extending her hands in front of her. "Right there, underneath his fingernails. I don't suppose it was his, was it?"
~§~
Porthos could clearly see the heavy limp that Athos was trying to suppress. Given that he had brushed away the other man's concerns about his own wound, he felt that it was not his place to question Athos about his.
It did make for slow progress and more than once Porthos wondered if they weren't costing Aramis precious time he didn't have with their stubbornness.
Glancing at Athos' sweat-covered face and the grim set of his lips, Porthos couldn't ascertain why, exactly, he was so angry at the man. The blatant lack of faith in his valor and honor were topmost, Porthos knew that.
But then again, he had intended to offer a good show to convince anyone watching that he was truly killing that woman, and convincing they had been. Aramis had been found with a bloody dagger next to a corpse, and even though Porthos and Athos knew in their hearts that the more experienced Musketeer was a man of honor, they had still harbored their doubts. Could Porthos truly question Athos' assumptions when the man had seen him commit the crime?
"Porthos...Porthos!"
Porthos startled out of his thoughts to find himself looking at the concerned faces of Athos and the young girl guiding them. From the apprehensive tone in Athos' voice, Porthos could guess that he had been calling him for some time.
He looked around, realizing that he had been blindly following in their footsteps and had no idea where they were. "Is it here?"
Athos took a staggering step closer, his hand closing over the arm that Porthos held protectively against his left side. "Enough is enough," he said, his voice gentle despite the commanding tone. "Allow me to see to your wound before you fall down. I am in no condition to either pick you up or carry you...my friend."
Porthos felt the last of his anger ebbing away. Athos was certainly not the kind of person to open his heart or share his feelings; most of the time, he wouldn't share even his thoughts. He was also not someone who, Porthos reckoned, spent a lot of his time apologizing for his actions and deeds. That small sentence, laden with guilt and concern, was as close as he was going to come, Porthos knew. The my friend, shyly added at the end was almost endearing in its tentativeness.
"Fine," he agreed, opening the doublet he had fastened tightly about himself and pulling his shirt up. He hissed as the linen pulled at his skin, stuck together by dried blood. There was more of it than he had expected.
"Did you do this to yourself?" Athos asked, his fingers hovering over the shallow cut. "Perhaps you should return to the garrison..."
Porthos pushed his hand away, before the man could actually touch the wound. The bleeding had all but stopped, but that didn't mean that it wouldn't start anew if someone went poking at it. "Just find me somethin' t'bind it and I'll be good to go," he reassured. He was not going to abandon Aramis just because he had been foolish enough to nick himself harder than what he'd intended. "Don't worry," he added with a smile, "done myself worse shaving."
"Remind me to never let you anywhere my beard then," Athos conceded, pulling loose the scarf he usually wore around his neck for warmth. "Here, use this," he offered.
Porthos hissed as he pressed the piece of soft cloth to the cut in his side, pulling the shirt back down and redoing his belt over it. "Where are we anyways?" he asked.
He had expected the girl to lead them back to Notre Dame, the same place where Rochefort had been spotted going in and out of the tunnels. Instead, they were in the middle of a narrow street, standing in front of a door where someone had scribbled in black ink 'apothecary'.
"Tis faster if we take this entry," Charlotte informed them, her eyes quietly and thoroughly surveying the two men in front of her. With a disgruntled shake of her head, she turned and walked to the closed door.
"Wha'?"
"Is something the matter?"
Charlotte sighed before turning to face them. "Tis nothin'," she let out, kicking the dirt at her feet.
Porthos took a step closer, sudden thoughts of the girl being in cahoots with Bourdon and them walking into a trap surging into his mind. "This best not be one of Bourdon's schemes..." he threatened.
Instead of looking scared, the girl just gave him a raised eyebrow and an impossible mixture of indignation and resignation. "Ya lot walked by three of his spotters, two of his bees and a brothel I'm pretty sure he owns," she counted on her fingers. "If Bourdon wanted ya dead, ya wouldn't be breathing down me neck, have no worries!"
Porthos looked around, wondering how distracted he must've been to have missed all of that. Still, she had a point.
"What then?" Athos asked.
Charlotte frowned. "Tis just that...yer down to one good leg," she said, pointing to his ankle, the one he was avoiding setting on the ground. "And 'im can't even stand straight, can he?" she asked, looking pointedly at Porthos. "So...who's goin' t'carry yer friend out of that place? 'cause I can't do it!"
Porthos exchanged a glance with Athos, similar sickened looks in their eyes. The implication that Aramis would not be able walk out of there on his own wasn't something that either of them had wanted to consider...until a practical young girl made it impossible for them to ignore.
"We'll deal with that when we get to him," Athos answered for both of them, his voice hard with resolve.
~§~
AN: I've been feeling a bit under the weather this past week so, this is the post that almost did not happened *g* But! With so many of you so awesomely guessing exactly what was going to happen next, I couldn't NOT post it, could I? Also, special cookies for whoever guessed who Sarazin's best thief actually was! Hugs!