Chapter Fourteen
Aramis the Irrepressible, singing the office of None, the mid-afternoon prayers, in Latin. God, come to my assistance — Lord, make haste to help me, Athos translated without thought.
Relief flooded every sensory receptor in his body, pouring like a soothing balm over his soul. A soft laugh, perhaps of hysteria, perhaps just from the intensity of the release of stress, bubbled up from the dry well of Athos' religious experience.
Aramis might long for spiritual transcendence, but his earthy sense of humor was fully intact. The caressing notes, a pure tenor the air held lingeringly, even after the singer faded to silence, invested the free Musketeer with the strength to push off the stairs and start up again.
His still trembling legs would not let him fly up the staircase as he might have done, but fifty more panting steps and he was at the top facing another locked door just slightly beyond his skill level. Porthos, he thought, fidgeting the thing impatiently, would have opened it in a trice. It took several minutes and quite a bit of finessing before the latch gave and he stumbled over the thresh hold.
No windows, so the chamber was still below ground, but when he lifted the lantern this time, a satisfied grunt of acknowledgment followed a gusty sigh of relief.
The lantern barely made an impact on a market-square-sized room full of life-sized statuary he would have to thread his way through to reach the distant other side of the room where there had to be a door, though he could not see it through the gloom.
Athos opened his mouth to shout and thought better of it. If stealth meant the tally of dead bodies remained constant, he could repress his urgency for the width of the room.
The faces of weeping angels shone briefly in the light of the lantern carefully held out before him. He sidestepped reaching gargoyles, ducked beneath the golden trumpets of tall Swiss heralds, and stepped over various life-like animals marching two by two, though he did not see an ark among the fantastical creatures. He passed by shelves of paintings crated and stored stacked apparently to a ceiling beyond the reach of the lantern, his squelching footsteps giving some idea of the height and depth of the room by their cavernous echoing.
No hint of the river mist tainted the musty scent of ancient objets d'art a hundred years of curating had kept in pristine condition. Athos bent to pat a last small bunny sitting on its haunches inquisitively sniffing the air with a squinched pink nose, its paws crossed over its chest. The whimsical allure was too great to resist now that fear had loosed its inconvenient grip.
Gaining the other side, and a clear aisle, he moved quickly down the length of the room, set the lantern down and went to work with the picks again on the last door. It swung open with no more than a whisper of sound and Athos slumped against the doorjamb. He had to clear his excessively tight throat before he could speak, which had the effect of swiveling two dark heads, bent over a chessboard, in his direction. "I'm tempted to murder the both of you and claim the Swiss did it."
The room was dimly lit, only two candles parsed the darkness of yet another underground room. One by the large bed against the west wall, one by the chess board Aramis slumped over, scattering the pieces like feed before the livestock, eyes closed, the beads clutched in his right hand clacking emphatically as he prayed aloud.
Porthos shot out of his chair, knocking the remaining pieces, the board, and Aramis, galley west as he jumped up, though Aramis kept right on praying.
"O God, of Whose mercies there is no number, and of Whose goodness the treasure is infinite; we render thanks to Your most gracious majesty for the gifts You have bestowed upon us, evermore beseeching Your clemency, that as You grant the petitions of them that ask You, You will never forsake them, but will prepare for the reward to come. Through Christ our Lord. Amen!"
"Shades of Father Grandier?" Athos inquired lightly, locking his knees against their noodlish tendencies.
Porthos was across the room in a pair of heart beats, pounding Athos on the back as he passed him, shouting over the jubilant praying, "Where's d'Artagnan?" The big Musketeer was at the first landing before he halted and turned back, panic contorting his features as he ran back up the stairs. "Where is he?" he demanded again, grabbing Athos by the shoulders.
Athos threw up a hand, breaking Porthos' punishing grip. "Hopefully at the Rathaus, though if we've had an answer from Paris, he could well be at the negotiating table trying to explain why he's the only one of us there."
"Merciful Mother of God." Porthos slumped against the wall beside the door in obvious relief.
Aramis echoed the sentiment with heartfelt gratitude, bounding up to join them almost before his final amen. "What day is it? How did you find us? Where are we? Do you know who did this? Why are you wet? Is it raining?" He grabbed a handful of jacket, intent on disrobing the soaked Musketeer. "Where did you come from?"
"Aramis-"
"Porthos, grab the blankets." Aramis stripped off the dripping coat. "Cooperate! You're shivering so hard you're barely keeping your feet under you. You contacted the captain? Why? How? Surely we can't have been here that long. And you left d'Artagnan to do the negotiating? What the hell is going on? Do you know who's behind this?" he repeated.
Athos let Aramis take his coat, accepting the blankets Porthos swathed him in, though he refused to relinquish any further clothing. He staggered to a chair, the cessation of the battle rush that had pushed him beyond his limits finishing the job on his knees. They buckled as he sank down.
"There's a cheap, rather foul, burgundy, but it will warm you up a little." Aramis went for the liquor, snatching a cup off the long dresser housing the food that had been left with them. Porthos dropped to his knees and began stripping off footgear to warm Athos' frozen feet. Aramis handed over the cup and started on the fingers of the free hand.
It took several doses of the alcohol and a few minutes of vigorous hand and foot rubbing before Athos found his voice again.
"Tuesday," he said, clamping his chattering teeth together. "It's Tuesday, I think. It was ... dawn ... when we found the entrance ... in the bear pit. It wasn't raining when I got in, but I lost track of time, it could be Wednesday by now for all I know. What happened to the two of you? "
"Bear pit? Entrance to what?" the pair exclaimed in harmony, gazes riveted on their shivering leader, completely ignoring Athos' question."
"The entrance to the aqueduct."
"The aqueduct?"
"Aqueduct?" This time they were just a shade off unison.
Athos, in turn, ignored their traveling faire sideshow. The corners of the room were deep in shadow, but it appeared to be a well-appointed place, not just some hole-in-the-wall prison. Given its proximity to the treasures of antiquity next door, perhaps at one time it had been used by guards. "Treville's maps indicated the aqueduct. It occurred to me that an underground mechanical room would be an excellent place to stash a couple of noisy Musketeers someone did not want anyone else to stumble upon accidentally. Your face looks like d'Artagnan's chest." He retrieved his right hand from Aramis, switched the cup to it and tucked his left inside the blanket.
Aramis repossessed the chair he'd vacated earlier, slinging it around to put up a booted foot and cross his arms over his knee.
"We've not had an easy time of it on the other side of this either. But before we go any further - are you both all right?" Athos inspected each of them in the dim light. Aramis had a black eye, and a cheekbone that looked like it had met a fist repeatedly. Very likely the beard hid more of the same. Porthos appeared whole, though appearances were ever deceiving.
"I'm fine," Porthos responded before Aramis could reply.
"Except for the nigh unto broken shoulder from trying to break down the door."
"Yeah, well, that's nothin' to the point. This one," Pothos jerked his thumb at his companion, "got mouthy with them villains and paid the price for it. Had me worried; he was unconscious a long while." He tucked Athos' feet inside the blanket as well and rose, pulling a chair out from the table.
Aramis shrugged. "Nothing else to do." His expression, though, was rueful. "I was frustrated. There were only four of them, we could have taken them, even without weapons, except we were trussed up like chickens."
"Yeah, n'they kept a close eye on us too. 'Spect they knew there'd be hell to pay if we got lose."
"Did you recognize anyone? Somebody from the Rathaus? Servants that might have waited on us at the opening ball or the picnic? Anyone from the masquerade?"
"I didn't," Aramis said, tossing a questioning look in Porthos' direction, "but they were all past the age where they should be messing about in this kind of business."
"I noticed," Athos said, putting his head back. "You saw only four? I met five ... they're dead."
"Dead? What? Where? How did that happen? They were a bunch of doddering old fools!"
"They were smart enough to take us by surprise," Porthos pointed out disgustedly. "Aside from that, ain't a man in this country hasn' seen battle if he's fit enough to serve. They might'a been old, but they were cunning, and they knew their way around weapons, even if most of 'em were forged in the last century."
"The key word being - surprise," Aramis said, rolling his eyes. The acid in his voice would have eroded steel. "We were minding our own business, waiting for the dart game that was supposed to happen. We weren't unfriendly, but we'd hardly exchanged two words with anyone else in the tavern and the next thing I know the lights go out."
"Well, first that woman come over and plopped herself in your lap."
"Oh ... you're right, I'd forgotten her." Aramis' brow creased as he touched the walnut-sized bruise behind his right ear. "I don't know who she was. A tavern wench, I assumed, she sashayed over as if she'd been serving us all evening ..."
"Which she hadn't been," Porthos put in.
"Which she hadn't been," Aramis echoed, his lips flattening with the recall. "She sat herself down in my lap and that's the last thing I knew. Did she say anything, Porthos? If she did, I don't remember."
"Nothin' I remember either," Porthos agreed, scratching his head in an attempt to recall the evening. "There'd been only one the woman servin' and it weren't her, that's fer sure. Looked nothin' alike."
Athos put the cup down on the table, closing both hands inside the blankets. "d'Artagnan mentioned a woman, too. Who was she? What did she want?" If he'd killed five and Aramis and Porthos had seen only four ... maybe the entire band of miscreants were dead? "What did she look like?"
"I - don't remember," Aramis said, puzzled. "I have a vague recollection of long, dark hair, I mean really long," he clipped his thigh with a bladed palm, "well past her backside. But I can't recall her face at all."
"What was she wearing?"
"A ... dress?" Aramis closed his eyes, trying to conjure the moment.
"With'n apron. I remember the knot at the back of her neck," Porthos added, looking perplexed as well. "Aramis not rememberin' a woman's face is unusual. Specially one that sits in his lap, though she did have her back to both of us. Maybe there was sump'in in the wine. Never thought'a that. Maybe that's part'a why ya slept s'long, too, Aramis."
"Possibly, but I didn't wake up feeling hung over, just had a headache. Though there are drugs that dissipate in the system fairly quickly. Anyway, she walked straight toward us from the bar," Aramis stated, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "No, wait, she came out from behind it. There was a door ... I think she might have come through it. Her head was down, but she came toward us with a ... with a sort of... bodily invitation if you know what I mean." He looked over at Porthos. "Am I remembering right?"
"Oh yeah!" Porthos crowed, "yeah! She was all shimmyin' like, rollin' her shoulders and shoving out her bosom. But she kept her face turned to her shoulder and her hands in the folds of her dress, or behind her apron."
"I didn't reckon her intent until she was right up against me," Aramis tacked on, "and then she turned and dropped like a boulder. I barely had time to register I had an armful of female before everything went black. But she was an armful; that much I remember."
"Anything else, Porthos?"
Porthos shook his head. "Nah, nothing else to add. Though ..." he thought for a moment, "I do remember thinkin' she was built a lot like Madam Joos." His large hands shaped the air before his chest. "Nice prow 'n all."
Athos' male ego dismissed the thought instantly; Madam Joos had made her preference crystal clear. "d'Artagnan said it seemed like the entire place rose up as if on signal when she sat in your lap."
"Weren't that many people there to begin with, place was kinda' empty," Porthos said. "I remember bein' surprised that Rachid fella'd recommend a place like that. I 'spect there mighta' been half a dozen men, maybe a couple more than that."
Athos rubbed his aching forehead, drawing Aramis' attention to the spreading purple bruise, though Athos batted away the healer's exploratory hand. "d'Artagnan's account matches," he began, huddling deeper into the warmth of the blankets. "He said the two of you were hit from behind before either could even free a sword. He says he was attacked as well, but doesn't remember the outcome at all, just waking up on the tavern floor. Stabbed.
"Stabbed?" Porthos came to his feet, buzzing like an angry hornet.
"And beaten pretty severely, but he remembers none of it. Knife wound, not from a rapier. And it was inflicted by someone who knew how to hurt without injuring badly."
"But why leave 'em?"
"We received a sort of ransom note Monday just after the Swiss tabled their final offer. Whoever did this meant for him to be the bearer of the news that you'd been taken."
"So you don't know who it is." Aramis straightened, tucking his hands under his arms.
"But d'Artagnan's all right?" Porthos would not be turned aside from this line of inquiry.
Athos gave a half shrug. "He's firmly in possession of the belief that this is all his fault. And since, in my anger, I did nothing to dissuade him from that point of view, he's a mess, but the kid is a trooper. He did not tell me he'd been hurt until I dragged it out of him yesterday afternoon. If it's still Tuesday. Feels like Tuesday a week." The shivering, at least, was beginning to subside.
"We've been to the negotiations and to church." Aramis picked up the wine bottle, refilled the empty cup and drank it down himself. "What could we have done to make someone this kind of angry?" He touched his swollen face gingerly. "We've hardly been here long enough to make a lasting impression. I know I probably should have been smart enough to keep my mouth shut, but what the hell did d'Artagnan do to provoke that kind of violence?" He tossed back a second cup with a grimace. "What kind of ransom?"
"Quit the negotiations without a capitulation and leave Berne. The note said you would be released to join us if we did. Given what had happened to d'Artagnan, I wasn't going to count on the word of your captor."
"Someone on the council?"
"If it is, he is a consummate actor. However, since you two disappeared the night before the Swiss brought a final offer to the table, it has to be someone either on or close to the council."
"Or someone with access to council information."
"That's a lotta' suspects." Porthos drummed his fingers on the table. "''Sides the negotiations n'church, we been to a couple a parties 'n that picnic, too. A lotta suspects," he repeated gloomily. "But I ain't noticed anybody taking extra special interest in us - other than Madam Joos twisting your tail, Athos."
"And you did not recognize any of the men who held you?" Athos asked again.
"No."
"No," Porthos said with finality. "The puppy's all right though?" he growled, still unsatisfied. It did no good to rage like a wild animal; he'd done that already. Had the bruised knuckles and shoulder to show for it, though he had not shared that even with Aramis. When Athos did not answer quickly enough, he bent forward at the waist, peering anxiously at the lieutenant. "In't he?"
Athos opened his mouth, closed it with a scowl, then said, "He's resilient," and went on before either party could question further. "Are you absolutely certain neither of you had seen any of those four men before?"
This time Aramis shook his head. "The faces were all unfamiliar."
"Wait a minute..." Porthos slapped his hands on knees, eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted in a grimace. "I mighta seen one of 'em after all... at the masquerade. Sliding around the edges kinda oily like. He was trying to get someone's attention, but bein' kinda coy about it. Like he didn't wanna attract attention to himself. You friend the bald-headed one, Aramis. I'd forgotten that."
"Whose attention was he trying to get?"
"Dunno. It was a big crowd; coulda been anybody."
"When do you think you saw him? Who was close by?"
Porthos squeezed his eyes all the way shut, trying to recall the torch lit scene. "Mighta been the last dance. People were lining up for it, the Venner and Madam Joos were at the heada' the line again ..." He scrunched up his nose as well - to no avail. "Sorry, I just don' know. Coulda been anybody in that line, Athos. Never crossed my mind he might be up'ta no good or I'd of investigated."
"And that was the only time you saw him? Not at the ball at the Venner's, not at the picnic - just the masquerade?"
"Nope, didn't see 'em either'a those places." Porthos shrugged.
"Well, that's a dead end then." Aramis scowled. "If you killed five, and we only saw four – we might have been left here to rot. But - back to the bear pit - and the aqueduct. And how and why did you get a message to Paris and back - even if it is Wednesday?"
"They keep homing pigeons. The Swiss wanted fifty thousand livre for six companies of men; I needed some time to look for you. So we sent a bird to Paris with a copy of the capitulation and asked the king if he wanted to spend that much money. The man who came to pick up our note told us we could have a response back as soon as Tuesday."
"A lot faster than I would have thought."
"Yes, I was not counting on a twenty-four hour turn around. If we've had an answer, d'Artagnan, is - or was - at the negotiating table. But how did you end up here? We found makers on both sides of that old decrepit house. But yours," Athos looked to Porthos, "went out the back. Yours," he shifted his gaze to Aramis, "went out the front. There was a cellar, with a lock the size of a fist it appeared the Ancien Régime was guarding."
"A cellar? In a decrepit old house? That's where they dragged us to from the tavern. You found m'markers?"
"We did. Several hours after d'Artagnan brought back the news. But neither of you were there by the time I arrived."
"That's 'cause when Aramis started run'n his mouth, they split us up. One'a the cowards started in on him and the rest dragged me out and threw me in a cart. With rotten turnips. Surprised ya ain't said somethin' about the awful smell."
"Athos never offends inelegantly, my friend." Aramis' chuckle lightened the mood for a moment, though he sobered quickly. "Must of been my tone of voice, since none of them appeared to speak French."
Athos lifted an eyebrow. "Tone often transcends language barriers."
"See," Aramis laughed again, "never inelegantly. Doesn't matter, I meant to offend. Funny thing, though, none of them spoke much at all. A few words of command - judging by the tone - from the leader of the group, but that was it. Even the two left behind when the other two took off with Porthos only grunted now and again as they were attempting to rearrange my facial features."
"You and that facile tongue. One of these days, someone's going to try to cut it out. But we're following rabbit trails. Obviously you ended up here together?" The question was intended to be leading.
Porthos took up the tale again. "I don' know what the hell they were doin', but we musta driven around upwards of an hour. I know we passed the clock at least a couple'a times, and the church, 'cause the bells rung, and at least once I could smell the river, so we musta been close. Once they threw me in the back, I was able to wiggle 'round enough to loosen the rope 'nough to get m'hand inside my coat and grab a few markers. Difficult to throw'm though; I'm surprised you found any of'em at all."
"I found your markers at the top of the embankment, then your boot prints down along the path by the river. It occurs to me that I did not find any of your markers down there though."
"That's prob'ly 'cause we were down there 'fore we went to the tavern. d'Artagnan was wound tighter than a spool'a thread, so we went walkin' by the river." Porthos cocked his head. "All the way down t'the aqueduct and back. Those prints got some'in to do with why you're sneakin' through the aqueduct?"
Aramis crowed in delight. "Did they? Brilliant!"
"More luck than brilliance," Athos muttered. "Your markers ended in the lee of the Mosesbrunnenon the Münsterplatz, Aramis." He stiffed a sneeze in his blanket-covered elbow. "Treville's maps were very detailed. Berne uses the fountains for the city water supply, so there had to be workings below ground, and those would have to be supplied and serviced underground as well. Short of breaking into buildings, I could find no way to get to them inside the city. The only other option, unless I went back to the river, was the Bärengraben. According to Treville's maps, there is a fountain in the gardens surrounding the bear pit, so there had to be workings close beneath. It was far closer to my goal than the river entrance clear down by the castle, so we took the fish the kitchen sent up to break our fast to the bear pit and d'Artagnan distracted the bears while I found the right door."
Aramis whistled softly. "I'd call that brilliance. But then - where are we? I didn't get hauled here in a cart, I was dragged through the streets, and I remember hearing the clock chiming, too, but honestly, I don't remember leaving markers." He removed his foot from the chair and went to collect his jacket from a hook by the heavy, locked and barred door on the other side of the room. Rummaging in the lining, he produced a scant handful of the ace of hearts markers and stood looking down at them for a long moment before raising his head. "Someone did - if it wasn't me."
Athos hummed, though not in a good way. "Based on the cavernous store room next door, we are, currently, somewhere close to the Berner Münster, perhaps connected by underground passages. Is it possible perhaps ... that the habit is so ingrained you left those markers without realizing it? Your markers ended near here," Athos said again.
"They did?" Aramis returned the small buttons to their inner, hidden pocket. "I don't know. Our arms were bound to our sides, though they did not bind our hands in addition. Anything is possible, I suppose, but everything until I woke up here is pretty much a blur." He shrugged into his coat. "We'd best be on our way. And since that door," he jerked his head back the way he had just come, "is locked and barred from the outside, we'll have to go back the way you came." He headed for the door Athos had come through. "Five dead men on a diplomatic mission does not bode well. We'll be lucky if we're just stripped of our commissions.
"If it comes to light."
"What do you mean - if it comes to light?" Porthos liked his position with the Musketeers quite a lot, and did not want to imagine life without his brothers. He found his coat and slid it on as well. "What'd you do with the bodies? Throw 'em in the Aare?"
"The fire was the talk of the town yesterday, but no mention of bodies."
Aramis swiveled back around, jaw sagging. "You didn't!"
"If it does come to light, I was solely to blame. It was my decision to dispose of the bodies, d'Artagnan had nothing to do with it."
"Somebody's gotta know. I'll eat my hat if that bunch were actin' on their own. Surely whoever is in charge has realized their henchmen are missin'."
"Unless the leader was number five at the Spitalgasse house. No one's been by to check on you? You might have broken out by now."
"They took m'picks, along with our weapons, and neither door is a bit'a kindlin'. Nearly broke m'shoulder on 'em 'fore Aramis woke up. They knew there was no way we were gettin' out." Porthos took up the candle by the bed."S'no, no one's come by since they threw me in here. Aramis was already here." He met the marksman's admonitory glare sheepishly, ignoring the warning. "Tripped over him in the dark, thought he was dead. Took a while to find candles and figure out he wasn't."
Athos heard every bit of the anxiety and dread Porthos had experienced in the diffident little speech. He had no response. He'd felt the same when he'd finally woken enough to comprehend d'Artagnan's breathless report. Nothing he could say could match the depth of anguish Porthos had experienced. He said only, "Let's go." He took up his own coat, thrown over the scattered pieces on the chess board, ditched the blankets on the bed and squelched across the room, dragging on the wet garment. That produced another shiver, though he was no longer freezing. He was, instead, stiflingly hot in the jacket. No matter, shortly the snow-melt water of the Aare would cool him down again.
Aramis took two steps and stopped. "Wait. Before we go rushing off, let's think this through." He paused as if calculating. "One way or the other, the negotiations must conclude. You mentioned an answer from the king and d'Artagnan negotiating?"
"If Tréville was unable to stall and the king said yes, for all I know we could be in possession of a capitulation already. I don't expect Louis to balk at the cost. It's a contingency, he'll counter with a reasonable sum as a good faith payment, the balance to be rendered on the mobilization of men and arms."
"Which means things could come to a head very shortly. We should stay, Athos."
"No."
"He's got a point." Porthos folded his arms over his chest. "We're not leaving Berne with unfinished business."
"Our business," Athos stated implacably, "is to negotiate for men and arms. If the king has accepted the terms of the contract, our job is to get that capitulation signed and return it to Paris. I don't want to leave unfinished business either, but our duty is to our sovereign." He did not say the words, but they rang in the silent room nonetheless. Neither closure nor revenge fell under sovereign duties. Athos moved to the open door and waited.
"It's not right," Porthos grumbled as he ducked to pass under the low lintel."Don' like it one little bit."
To swear allegiance to the king was to relinquish personal rights to the extent that the king's business superseded one's own. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, they left behind unfinished business at the expense of their personal satisfaction.
No one liked it, least of all men who had been grievously harmed. But there was no question of abandoning duty. Athos held up the lantern, chivvying his no longer missing pair through the door ahead of him.
TBC 14/19