Chapter 6

There were few things Ambassador Fernando Perales feared, but poison was one of them. A short man with dark black hair and a bald spot on the back of his head. He had a well-trimmed beard and mustache, and constantly wore black britches with white stockings and black shoes. His cloak was warm and hung from his narrow shoulders. He pushed open the door of the old house located outside of Paris. It squeaked, and the bottom edge scraped along the stone floor. He could feel the warmth of a fire on his face, and he could smell the scent of something strong, something that burned his nasal passages and caused his eyes to water. He covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket, and then walked down the narrow hall. The stairs to his right led to several bedrooms on the top floor, a door to the left led to a small library, and then finally he entered the last room that was designed as a kitchen. The open fireplace to his left roared, a long wooden table opposite the entry was covered in bottles of liquids and dry-goods, trays of spoons, scales, and cloth wadding.

An old man leaned over the table, carefully mixed a solution, and looked up when Fernando stepped inside the entry and looked at him with wild eyes laced with fear and uncertainty.

Sasha laughed, dusted his hands on his apron, and then quickly wrote something down. "Ambassador?" Sasha said. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you here to make another request, or perhaps rectify a more personal problem?"

"You met with Rochefort?" Fernando wiped his nose, his eyes, and then flexed his jaw several times as he pulled at the lace cuffs of his sleeves. He tried to look stoic in the presence of his fear.

"An unfortunate little man," Sasha said. "And I mean that genuinely. It appears to me, Ambassador, that the Spanish may have created something a bit more unpredictable than they anticipated." His expression dulled, and then he picked up a bottle and shook it gently before raising it to eye level to check its color.

"He has asked you to kill the musketeers?"

"Just four of them," Sasha said disappointingly and looked over his shoulder. "It would be easy to dispose of them all — a drop of this… a drop of that. But alas, it's just the four." He looked up and smiled. "The king's elite guards… I'm rather surprised he has hired the apothecary to do it. He seems to have lost his touch." He replaced the bottle and grabbed another. "It will be an easy enough task — four men separated and far enough from Paris that they cannot get help."

"I have used your services for many years, and I would like to continue to."

Sasha frowned and looked at him. "You want me to kill him? Rochefort?"

"No," Fernando said. He rolled his shoulders and dabbed his nose once more. "Don't kill the musketeers — delay them — but don't kill them." He raised his forearm to his nose and mouth when the odor became too strong. "Even if you," he shrugged, "make them suffer… I do not care. But for now, they're needed."

"Why?"

"Why? Why What? That I want them left alive?" He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and curled them downward. "It doesn't matter why. What matters is that Rochefort must know he is not the one in control… I am." He looked hard at Sasha and then glanced around the room, at the small window above the table that allowed the sun's rays to enter, at the dust particles that danced within its beams. The fire snapped, and hot coals fell from the log and tumbled onto the hearth. The dark wood paneling, sealed with mud and daub, had cobwebs covered in dust in the corners of the room. A cloak hung from a hook in the wall, and a broken mirror rested against a chair.

"Whatever they did to him — to Rochefort," Sasha said, and tapped his temple, "changed him and not for the better. I could see it in his eyes."

"Rochefort was always a… an unfortunate man."

Sasha nodded in appeasement. "I can modify the poisons just enough to delay the musketeers… I must make it look and feel," he looked at Fernando, "real. My reputation is on the line… my poisons always work."

"I understand," Fernando said. "Do what you must, but do not kill them… allow them to suffer if you must to keep your reputation in tact, but keep them from Paris. Rochefort must be made aware that he is not allowed to take such action without my approval… without the approval from the council."

"Boris and his band have not departed yet for Allier or Autun." Sasha took a deep breath, coughed and then spit to the floor. "If I do this for you… things will have to change," he turned, leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I will need to make other arrangements."

Fernando nodded and said, "Do what you must. I'll help you recover what you will lose."

Sasha nodded and glanced toward the fire as a coal fell to the floor and smoked. He walked toward it, kicked it back into the fireplace, and the placed his hands on his hips. He watched Fernando wipe the tears from his eyes, and then wiped his nose.

"How can you stand it… the smell?"

"I can no longer smell," Sasha said. He opened his hand, exposed his palm, and then pinched at his skin. "My skin rips it is so thin." He shrugged, and ran a hand gently over his face. "The cost of doing what it is I do." He turned and walked back toward the table. "Tell me why Rochefort has angered you so?"

"He humiliated me before the king."

"Is that all?" Sasha said.

"And he killed Governor Alfonzo… who was my friend."

Sasha nodded. Empathetic to Fernando's cause, he wiped his hands on his apron once more, and then returned to his work. "I will not kill the musketeers… but you should know," he looked over his shoulder and said, "Rochefort is skeptical. I have already given him one for the king to make him susceptible, but I will create another that will kill within minutes."

"Why would you give him that?"

"In case suicide is his only way out."