Chapter 6

Jacqueline tugged experimentally at the chains holding her to the wall, hoping against hope that they might come loose. Unfortunately, all she accomplished was making her shoulder hurt worse. Whatever Bernard had done to that bullet, the effects still hadn't worn off. She sighed, looking across the room at Siroc. The remains of Bernard's blade had been removed seemingly hours ago, but he still hadn't come to, and the sight of his lifeless form slumped against the wall, fettered in the same manner as herself, was unsettling. She knew that he'd be back, but that didn't stop her from worrying. Finally, a loud gasp, accompanied by the now-familiar sensation in her head, announced the inventor's return to the land of the living.

"Ugh…where am I?" he groaned, struggling to his feet.

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count."

"Ah…so Bernard has decided to play host. I see his idea of hospitality hasn't changed much."

"You know him, don't you…personally, I mean. He's not just someone you met in passing, or were warned about by an older immortal."

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Is that why you called him…what was it…?"

"Beltranus?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "That's what I knew him as…a long time ago."

"You said he was one of those headhunters, right? So why are we still alive?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Bernard is…he's an enigma. Just when I think I have him figured out, he goes and does something completely contradictory. My guess would be that there's something he wants from one or both of us that is somehow more important than our heads. Did he say or do anything odd--more so than usual, that is--after running me through?"

"I'm not sure where to begin with that one, the list is so long…though, come to think of it, he did seem pretty interested in my cross…said that giving it to Gerard had been a clever move, but not clever enough."

Siroc arched an eyebrow, confused. "Cross? What cross?"

"The one I've had since I was a baby."

"May I see it?"

"And exactly how do you propose I do that?" She lifted her hands slightly, indicating the chains that still bound them.

"Oh, right...not to worry…" After a fair bit of maneuvering, he managed to pull a small dagger from his shirtsleeve, which he used to work into the shackles on his own wrists. One by one they fell away, followed in short order by the ones attached to his ankles. Once he was free, Siroc quickly crossed the room and did the same for his student.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing her sore wrists. She glanced at the dagger, and a thought crossed her mind. "Wait a second…you had that the whole time?"

He shrugged. "Sorry…guess I wasn't thinking that clearly. Death does take a lot out of a guy, you know."

"Right…how silly of me…." She moved her arms around, attempting to get the blood flowing again. All she did, however, was send fresh waves of pain down her right side. And, in spite of her efforts to hide it, Siroc noticed the discomfort.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Fine."

"Liar. What happened? Hasn't it healed yet?"

She shook her head. "Bernard worked some kind of spell with that obelisk…something about infusing a bullet with its energy in order to keep me from healing quickly. It should wear off soon, or so he claims."

"Let me see." Without waiting for an answer, he carefully pushed her shirt collar aside to afford himself a better view of the wound. "Well, the bullet hole has healed itself, at least. With any luck, that means the pain will dissipate soon as well."

"I hope so."

"Me too. So…mind if I take a look at that cross now?"

"Go right ahead." She carefully lifted the chain from her neck and handed it to him. He held it up, allowing the cross to dangle in front of his face so he could examine it more closely.

"Hmm…that's odd."

"What's odd?"

"I've seen this type of cross before…thing is, the one I remember belonged to Richelieu. And I'd wager that Mazarin has one as well."

"That's impossible."

"Not really. I believe it has some connection to that secret order of theirs. What I'd like to know is how you wound up with one."

"I told you, I don't know. I've had it for as long as I can remember. And no, my parents were not involved in any sort of secret society."

"Are you sure? No disrespect intended, but the order is a secret one, so what makes you think they would've told you about it if they were involved?"

"My father was a good man, Siroc. He would never have allowed himself to be led astray by someone so foul as Mazarin. Which reminds me…there's something else that Bernard said to me--the second time he's said it, actually--that's been bothering me. He told me that I don't resemble my father, and this time he implied that it should've been his first clue that I was one of you. Is there something you're not telling me?"

He sighed. "Sit down, Jacqueline."

"I'd prefer to stand, thank you very much." She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms as she glared at him expectantly.

"Very well…Bernard was right, partly. Claude Roget wasn't your father by blood, though that doesn't make him any less of one. Family is more than just blood, after all. See, just as we cannot father or bear children of our own, immortals are also not brought into this world in the same way that mortals are. We're foundlings, all of us. No one knows exactly how it happens, but we turn up in stables, or on the steps of churches, or in any number of other places and, if we're lucky, a decent family takes us in and raises us as their own. You were no different, but at least you had the good fortune to find a loving home."

She chuckled. "You make me sound like a pet."

"Never thought of it that way…but you understand what I'm saying, right?"

"Yeah." She sighed. "So…you have no idea where this cross came from."

"Maybe he doesn't…but I do." They both whirled around at the sudden intrusion to find Bernard standing in the doorway, the devil's own grin playing across his features. He strode into the cell, and the musketeers immediately backed up, Siroc instinctively placing himself in front of Jacqueline. The inventor slipped the cross back to her and pulled the dagger—the only weapon he had left, as his sword was most likely in enemy hands.

The captain laughed, effortlessly knocking the weapon from Siroc's hand. "You should know better than that, boy. Don't make threats you can't carry out."

"What's this all about, Beltranus?"

"Patience, boy. All will be revealed in due time. As for your cross, Mademoiselle, it happens to be one of mine…however; the story of how it came to be in your possession is not for me to tell. No matter…" He snapped Siroc's neck and shoved him aside, removing the barrier between himself and Jacqueline. "What that cross means, girl, is that you were meant for greatness."

She spit in his face. "If you think I'd ever join with you, then you're even crazier than I thought."

Bernard wiped the spittle from his cheek, then backhanded her across the jaw. "That was rude. And what makes you think I'm asking you to join me? You were meant to ensure the Order's greatness…and that hardly requires you to be a willing participant." He moved even closer to Jacqueline, only to have Siroc come back and tackle him to the ground. They rolled around a bit, both trying unsuccessfully to gain an advantage. Finally, Bernard managed to whistle, and the room swiftly filled with red-coated guards. Two of them latched onto Jacqueline's arms while several others pried Siroc away from their captain. He climbed back to his feet, glaring at both of his prisoners. "I try to be nice about this, and this is how you musketeer brats repay me? Well, 'nice' ends right now. You two," he said, pointing at the men holding Jacqueline. "Get this one secured--again--and do it properly this time! Any mistakes, and I'll have your hides!" The guards quickly went to work, chaining her to the wall just like before. Bernard whirled around to face Siroc, who was struggling fiercely against those restraining him. "As for this one, take him to the special room I've prepared down the hall. He and I need to have a nice, private conversation." The guards all nodded, and Jacqueline watched helplessly as they dragged an uncooperative Siroc from the room. Bernard, smiling once more like Satan himself, was the last to leave, pulling the heavy door closed with an ominous slam. She immediately started pulling on the chains again, but her efforts went unrewarded. The last of her energy was soon spent, and she slumped back against the wall, hanging her head in defeat as she sent up a silent prayer for Siroc's safety.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Duval strode down the hallway towards Louis' personal chambers, having arrived at the palace to find him not in the throne room. Protocol may have demanded that he let someone announce his arrival and wait to be granted an audience, but he didn't have time for such formalities. Reaching the bedroom door, he raised his cane and knocked twice.

"Just a minute!" Louis called from within. Minutes passed before, finally, the door opened to reveal the young monarch, naked save for a pair of loose trousers that had obviously been thrown on at the last second. Looking past him, Duval could see a young chambermaid trying, without much success, to hide under Louis' covers.

"I…uh…I'm sorry, Sire….I didn't realize you had company."

"That's alright," Louis said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you wouldn't be back here if it wasn't important. Just give me one moment."

"Of course, Sire." The door closed again and, moments later, the King re-emerged with a silk robe wrapped around his upper body.

"Now, Captain, what's this about?"

"Your Majesty, this morning, two of my musketeers were taken to the Bastille by the cardinal's guards."

"On whose orders?"

"Captain Bernard's, so I'm told, but I believe he was acting on Mazarin's behalf."

"Oh, really? And what reason would he have to arrest your men?"

"There's no official justification that I'm aware of, but it's likely that, with your coronation so close, this is simply a last-ditch effort by the cardinal to convince you to disband the musketeers. He wants you to believe that we're all criminals so that you'll be forced to rely on him for protection, giving him an extra measure of power."

Louis nodded. "Makes sense. I certainly wouldn't put it past him. Men who love power will do anything to protect it, and Mazarin is certainly one of those men."

"Very astute, Sire."

"Thank you. Just out of curiosity, which of your men were taken?"

"Privates LePonte and Siroc."

He chuckled. "Mazarin actually thinks I'd ever believe them criminals? LePonte is one of the most loyal musketeers I've known, and Siroc…well, to be honest, he reminds me a lot of Aramis, who was one of Father's favorites. I can't imagine him doing anything illegal or treasonous."

"Of course not. So what shall we do about it?"

"For starters, I'd like you to go find Cardinal Mazarin and tell him that his sovereign would like a word with him. And make sure he knows that it's not a request."

Duval smiled, glad for the chance to put Mazarin in his place. "Will do, Sire."

"Good. In the meantime, I'm going to go back and…finish my lesson. Marjorie happens to be an excellent tutor." He winked at Duval, then retreated once more to his chambers. Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, the captain tossed off a mock salute to the door before heading off to locate the cardinal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In spite of his efforts at resistance, Siroc, now shirtless, bootless, and with his hands bound tightly in front, found himself practically being hurled into the room Bernard had indicated. He slammed into the far wall with a resounding crack and slumped to the floor, breathing heavily as he waited for his ribs to heal. As the bones were knitting themselves back together, his mind, like the well-oiled machine it was, automatically began assessing the situation. 'Room's probably about sixteen by sixteen, give or take. Walls are solid stone, at least six inches thick, maybe even a full foot. No windows, one door, guards standing right outside…even being immortal, my chances of escaping in one piece aren't looking too stellar…' His ribs finished mending rather quickly and, just as the pain was starting to subside as well, Bernard entered. He signaled to a couple of his men, who immediately hauled Siroc to his feet and dragged him over to the center of room. There was an iron chain hanging from the ceiling, with a metal hook attached to the end. That part was pushed between his bound hands so that when Bernard started yanking on the other end, the hook caught the ropes and forced his arms to follow. The captain pulled to the point where Siroc's bare feet were scarcely touching the floor, then secured his end to some unseen point on the wall. He then dismissed the other guards and shut the door, trapping the inventor with him in near-total darkness, the only light being what was provided by the lone torch in the far corner. Even so, there was no mistaking the all-too-familiar look on Bernard's face as he removed his red coat, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up some indeterminate object before approaching his prisoner. As he drew closer, Siroc could see that said object was, in fact, a cat o' nine tails. Summoning all the strength his wiry frame possessed, he wrapped his hands around the chain, pulled himself up, and kicked out. He caught Bernard squarely in the sternum, sending him crashing into what he supposed was some sort of table near the door. This bought him just enough time to work free of the ropes binding his hands. He let go of the chain and dropped back to the floor just as his captor was recovering his feet. The torchlight glinted off of something in Bernard's hand, and Siroc realized too late what it was. With nearly inhuman speed, he had the inventor pinned against the wall, the blade of his ancient kopis at his throat.

"Did you really think you could escape me that easily, boy?"

"Worth a shot." Bernard smacked him hard across the jaw, then pressed the blade even further into his throat, drawing the slightest bit of blood.

"Insolent brat! How dare you speak to me in that manner! I should take your head just for that!"

"You wouldn't….The whole building would come down."

"You're right…which is why I'm simply going to remind you of your place."

"My place? This isn't Rome, Beltranus, and I'm not your slave anymore."

"This may not be Rome, boy, but you're always going to be mine." With that, he moved the sword away from Siroc's neck and plunged it into his stomach. The blade was quickly withdrawn, and the last thing he saw before blacking out was Bernard setting it aside and reaching once more for the cat.