Translations
Bürgermeister - mayor
les imbéciles - the idiots
Zähringerstadt - Berne's oldest district, comprising a section of the city east from Nydegg Castle, built in 1191, to the clock tower in the west.
Bärengraben - a bear pit established in 1513 when the Bernese returned home victorious from the Battle of Novara, carrying both the captured standards and a living bear as spoils of war.
Chapter Nine
Athos, conditioned to wake with the bells of Paris' cathedrals ringing the night offices, came to consciousness around the hour of Matins, though this largely Protestant city was still and silent. d'Artagnan's prayers had gone unanswered, for the moon's smiling face bathed the room in a soft radiant light. No storms on the horizon. There might be a bird half way back to Berne already if Tréville had been too preoccupied to gauge the full contents of the note.
Before his feet had even touched the floor, Athos' head commenced pounding as though an entire regiment of cannon maneuvered across the battlefield that was his brain. He ignored it, though in combination with joints that throbbed in time with his heartbeat, pushing off the bed required monumental effort. His knees buckled under him on the first try and he sat, head in his hands, for a moment longer before trying again. The damn fever was back with a vengeance. No matter, he had a job to do and he would get on with it shortly.
In the other bed, d'Artagnan shifted with a moan. He lay propped half-sitting against the pillows from every bed in the suite, one arm flung above his head, the other fisted tight in the blanket over his chest.
Athos held his breath as the youth moved restlessly, turning on his side. Shoving away his own discomfort, the Musketeer rose and crossed the room on silent, bare feet, retrieving the brew he'd mixed up earlier.
d'Artagnan had stubbornly refused the pain killer, but the comte had a few years on him and experience with a younger sibling. Disoriented and still half asleep, it might be gotten down before he was awake enough to reject it again.
Athos padded back to Aramis' bed, perching gingerly on the edge so he could wrap an arm around the slender shoulders. "Drink a little," he urged softly, knowing thirst would aid his cause.
d'Artagnan swallowed half the cup before the sticky sweetness of the liquid registered in his sleep-fogged, pain-numbed brain. "Damn you," he slurred, "you cannot ... go out ... alone ... it's the ... rule. We go together ... or not at all. Your ... rule ... Athos."
"Add it to my list of apologies to make." Athos set the cup on the floor and used both hands to ease d'Artagnan back down against the banked pillows, grateful the youth felt no warmer than was normal for someone just woken from sleep. If he could keep infection at bay, Aramis might forgive him for letting the puppy go so long without aid. "Would you like some water?"
"No. You better ... hope ... it works ... other...wise..."
"Otherwise?" Athos prompted wryly, turning and re-seating himself on the bed so he faced his patient.
The scowl d'Artagnan produced drooped a bit lethargically. "Follow."
Athos, impatient to be off hunting their friends, tapped into that well of reserves he had often had to use with his younger, impetuous brother. He could order and he knew it would be obeyed, but a few extra words would go a long way toward salving the injured youthful pride. "The skies are brilliant tonight. If the captain was otherwise occupied and forwarded the note to Richelieu immediately, we could have an answer by morning, and I do not expect the king to balk at the expense. Tomorrow we may well be in need of heroics; tonight we are not quite at point non plus. What I need now is your cooperation in giving your body a chance to recover some of its equilibrium."
d'Artagnan ground his teeth in frustration. "Then wait ... 'til ... tomorrow." The elixir had not taken long to work, he could already feel his muscles slackening again in anticipatory repose.
"Those brilliant skies will also make it easier to track if there are still markers. A foot fall, a wagon wheel, a horse's hoof, even the mist that came off the river this morning takes a toll. They are purposely made to disintegrate." Athos saw the shimmer of dread glistening in the dark eyes. "Trust me, shared blood has bound us together in such a way that I would know if they were dead already. They are not, so put that fear to rest. We will find them." Athos rose, a bit creakily, and with a groan, and patted a blanket-covered knee. "Try to sleep. I may need you to do the negotiating in the morning."
The eyelids that had been sliding inexorably closed, flew open, then closed again on a sound that might have been a grunt or a laugh, Athos could not quite tell. He did not bother asking for an explanation. It was the work of a moment to don his outer garments, stamp into his boots and belt on his sword. He checked that his pistol was primed and ready, verified his parrying dagger was properly stowed and left the room softly jingling.
Berne after midnight was a quiet city, unlike Paris where the denizens of the night were multitude. Though there was no explicit curfew, the Bürgermeister kept a tight rein on his province so for the most part, Athos had the thoroughfares and lanes to himself.
It took a bit, but eventually muscle and bone began to cooperate, his hitching gait smoothed out and Athos slipped through the shadows as if he'd been born to sleuthing. He returned, at pace, to the spot where they'd found the last of Porthos' markers and began casting about again, checking the deep recesses and niches along the route. Porthos' flick of the wrist or thumb sent markers a fair distance and he loved nothing better than playing the game.
It was twenty minutes of scouting and scuffing before Athos found a new one, then another, and another and catching on to the pattern, was able to follow the route to the last street before the embankment fell away sharply toward the river. The moon was still bright overhead as he negotiated the bank, finding at the bottom, a foot path still marked, though faintly, by several sets of boot prints, Porthos' among them.
He found no further markers, but the footprints were unmistakable. Porthos' physique alone meant any trail he left was unique, as the tread was almost always deeper than most others, but the big Musketeer quite liked the boots he'd been wearing and had had them re-heeled a number of times; they left a distinctive mark. Athos sat on his own boot heels in the moonlight, studying the prints for a long time before he rose to follow them to their eventual end atop the mouth of an aqueduct he knew led back into the city. From here, he had an excellent view of Nydegg Castle, an ancient pile reached by a bridge over the east end of the looping Aare.
The fountains of Berne, he knew also, from those very detailed maps of Treville's, were fed from the river through a system of aqueducts. Tonight, as he added his own boot prints to the churned mud atop the lip of the tunnel dipping down into the Aare, he waited patiently, watching the water level drop inch by inch until he knew that eventually the river would recede completely from the tunnel, leaving it - if not dry - at least negotiable at certain times of the day or night. Satisfied, he scrambled up the bank and headed back into the city.
Guilt skittered in the shadows as he slid past the still smoldering ruins of the house he'd put to the torch last night. But Athos slept with guilt every night; he'd learned to live with it. He found the last place they'd turned up one of Aramis' markers and began the hunt again, kicking over stones, peering into empty rain barrels, quartering the street as though he'd lost pearls of great price.
"What are you looking for?"
Athos, rapier in hand, whirled, frantically searching the shadows. It was several long moments before the childish piping of the voice registered in his weary brain. A voice from above. His gaze traveled up and up, to a second story window where moonlight gilded the silver blond head of a child, arms crossed on a windowsill, chin in his elbow, watching with bright, curious eyes.
"My friend," he whispered back in German, sheathing his sword. "I'm looking for my friend." Only Tréville, and the Inseparables, knew the comte was a skilled linguist. His extensive travels after the death of his brother and hanging of his wife, had further served to hone his abilities. He tended to acquire languages the way other folk acquired sycophants and could pick up a dialect in a sentence or two and reply in kind.
"Is that a real rapier? The kind that kills people?"
"Shhhhhh, we don't want to wake anyone else. Yes, it is. Why are you awake at this hour of the night?" Athos saw a small shoulder lift in a shrug.
"Sleep is boring."
"Does your mother know you make a practice of hanging out open windows at night?"
"'Course not, I'm not stupid. You looking for the buggers who passed by here last night, the ones hauling along one of your friends? You're one of the Frenchies from up at the Rathaus, huh? Saw yous at the masquerade. Ma let me come out for awhile."
Athos held up a finger. "A moment, my friend." His rapid assessing glance took in the street, both ways, and the miniscule balcony fronting the window. Before the boy could duck back inside and close the window, the Musketeer backed across the street and took a few running steps in order to gain enough momentum to mount the slightly curving support column. With a leap and a swing, he had one leg over that balcony railing, balancing with one foot on the inside, the other on the outside. "Yes, I am staying at the Rathaus," he said breathlessly, the effort having cost more than he liked to admit. "Were you awake last night too?"
"Yep. Two of 'em was hauling a man between them up the street. I recognized 'im by 'is fancy hat. They thought he was asleep, but he weren't, 'cause every now an then he'd flick something off into the side of the street. Musta been for you to find," the boy said with evident satisfaction at his deductive reasoning.
Athos was happy to further puff out the small chest. "That's exactly what I'm looking for. But now that I know you saw my friend, you could save me a lot of time. You've a keen eye for a lad, I'm sure you watched them as far as you could. Did they turn off where you could see them by any chance?"
The child grinned, the bright moonlight revealing two missing front teeth. "Sure an you know I did. They turned off on the Kesslergasse toward the Münsterplatz."
"Toward the cathedral? You, my good man, have just saved me a lot of trouble." Athos fished in a coat pocket and pulled out a coin. "If you want to continue your midnight peregrinations, don't show this to your mother."
"How'm supposed to spend if she doesn't know about it?" the child asked logically.
"Spend it on sweets and don't take them home."It was not his child after all, he would not have to live with the consequences of inciting insubordination.
The mischievous look in the blue eyes brightened as the thought of smuggling contraband took hold.
"May I have the privilege of an introduction, sir?" Athos handed over the illicitly earned coin with an out-of-character internal crow of delight and a very slight, precarious bow.
"I'm Peter."
"What's your family name, Peter?"
"Rorschach. What's your name?"
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Told ya, I'm not stupid. I know who you are, just don' know your name."
"I am the Comte de la Fere, better known in France as Athos of the king's Musketeers. Will you keep my confidence, sir?"
"Sure," the boy grinned again. "Least 'til you're outta town."
"You are a prince among men, Peter. Should you decide to save this and add to it occasionally, you will live a long and prosperous life." The gold livre he had passed over would ensure a decent start to the boy's cache.
The coin disappeared inside the shadowy depths of the small room. "Will I see you again?"
"I don't know my friend." Athos held out his hand, completely engulfing the small fingers that unhesitatingly reached out. "But the service you have rendered me has been invaluable. You have my eternal gratitude." He left a card in the small palm when he returned it to the windowsill. "If you ever have need of my aid, send a message to Athos at the hôtel known as the Musketeer Headquarters located on the rue de Tournon in Paris."
The youth inclined his head in the exact manner Athos had just moments ago. "It's been my pleasure, comte."
"Remember," Athos whispered, as he turned to slide down the slight incline the supporting pillar provided. "Our secret until we are gone."
Peter nodded solemnly, crossing his finger over his narrow chest. "As God is my witness, your secret is safe with me."
"Good man." With a deft turn and a quick twist, Athos was on the ground. He looked up, touched his hat brim again, and an instant later was no more than one of the shadows slinking through the Bärenplatz to turn east on Kesslefgasse.
Athos' mind was clicking through the bits and pieces of information he'd gathered. Surely les imbéciles in charge of this operation had not gone to all the trouble of dragging the missing Musketeers through the city, and apparently the aqueduct, just to house them in the old guard tower cells.
He should be so lucky; but he would check anyway. He set off at a trot, though it was not long before he had to slow down again. The ache in his side was back, and it was not from exertion.
Lady Luck, as usual, was not on his side. Porthos, who had learned the art growing up in the Court of Miracles, had taught them all to pick locks faster than a cat could wink. It was the work of a moment to insert the slender pick, turn the tumblers and slip inside. Sadly, the cells were as empty as the cellar, doors hanging open on hinges that creaked when he swung one outward. The stone floors yielded no further clues.
Athos shifted his rapier in order to slump down on one of the sloping benches carved from solid rock. A narrow slit of window far above his head slanted a bar of moonlight across the cell. A moon sword; if only he could pick it up and slice through the tangled threads of evidence
He had in his coat pocket, several more of Aramis' markers, but no solid evidence of where the missing pair might be. The last marker had lain in the lee of the Mosesbrunnen on the Münsterplatz.
Aqueducts and fountains. The Aare. There was, in the plaza fronting the Rathaus, another fountain, the Vennerbrunnen. If the Aare supplied the water for all the fountains in the city, the aqueduct from the river must lead to the fountains. Which meant there had to be space beneath the fountains to service the piping.
Much of Paris was built over quarries opened by the Romans to mine the limestone centuries of French monarchs had used to build their various projects. Perhaps, Athos mused, Berne had its own underground network of tunnels. Likely whatever existed beneath the city could be accessed from the aqueducts, but surely there must be above ground access as well. And where might that be?
He sat for a long time recalling the details of Treville's maps of Berne, letting his mind spin out random thoughts. He had never before had reason to be so thankful for the captain's love of cartography; if he overlaid several of them with his keen internal vision, he could picture the most likely spots in his mind.
When he finally gathered his cloak about him and rose, the moon sword had vanished. He closed and locked the tower door behind himself and set off to scout the various fountains throughout the city. If there was a way to get to the workings beneath them, he would find it.
Starting with the Mosesbrunnen he made the circuit of the five major thoroughfares, inspecting the buildings around every fountain and square from the Bärengraben at the west end, then backtracking to the east end of the Zähringerstadt, across the Aare from the castle.
His disheartening travels proved only that his bad luck was holding steady. If there were places to access the aqueducts from inside the city, it was through shops or homes. He'd found no doors or entrances that appeared to lead nowhere. The one place he could be certain of the possibility of an above ground entrance was in the sunken Bärengraben. The fact that there was a fountain on the grounds as well, sealed the deal.
If no message had been returned from Paris, and d'Artagnan was up to it, they would be making a visit to the bear park in the morning.
TBC 9/19