Don't worry, I didn't forget about Porthos and Athos.

Chapter 17

Two night fires burned in the center of the street of Allier and Athos and Porthos rode toward the Willow Tavern. There were only a few businesses, all closed, and hidden in shadows but the moon's light reflected off the thatched and tiled roofs. Firelight caused the windows to glow and several people sat chatting, drinking, and enjoying themselves within the inn. The aroma of freshly baked pies grew stronger as they pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted.

Laughter echoed. The door burst open and a man and woman tumbled from the entrance. The man, with stringy blonde hair, wrapped a strong arm around the scantily clad woman with large eyes and frizzy auburn hair. Her breasts bounced, despite the cinched corset around her waist. The skin beneath her arms waddled, and she giggled as she took a long pull of wine from the port she carried. The man grabbed at her skirts, shoved her back against the wall, and pressed his face to her chest.

Athos stepped past them, opened the door and entered the tavern, with Porthos following close behind.

"Welcome, lads," the tavern keeper said with a wave. "What'll you 'ave?" He was a short, balding man with an enormous nose covered in warts that whistled as he breathed. He joked and bartered with his clients. He poured ale, served stew from a bulbous cauldron that hung from a trammel hook over the fire within the confines of an open fireplace built from stone and mortar. He scratched his belly, which forced his blouse upward and exposed pale skin and dark hair. His britches were stained, oily handprints marred the sides of his thighs, and what one could only hope were food stains along the front of his legs.

"Ale," Porthos said. He grabbed the hilt of his sword as he took a seat against the wall. Athos sat across from him and scrutinized the men and women in the room. A game of cards took place near several barrels of wine and five individuals waited while the players, all focused intently, managed their game. Spectators chewed their thumbnails, bottom lips, and hair. A few men stood with their arms crossed over their chests, their nervous concern hidden as they clenched and unclenched their jaws.

A woman with long blonde hair loosely bound at the base of her neck leaned forward against a table's edge and framed her bosoms within the pillars of her arms as she spoke with a man more interested in his drink than the prostitute across from him.

Ale sloshed from the two cups that were hastily placed before Athos and Porthos. Both men looked up and raised their eyebrows when a short woman with a hefty girth and double chin, looked at them. Her large brown eyes squinted as she focused first on Porthos and then on Athos.

"What else ya need?" She said and pointed over her shoulder toward the bar. "We got stew," she shrugged, "an' that's about it." Two of her bottom teeth were missing, and those that remained were held in place by sheer will and determination.

"What's in the stew?" Athos asked with a furrowed brow and, though he tried not to grimace, he failed.

The woman shrugged. "This an' that — it's stew."

Porthos grumbled. "Bring me a bowl." He placed his coins on the table and leaned back as he looked at Athos. "I need to eat somethin'," he said with a shrug. "You should too… it's a long ride back to Paris."

"I do not need to do anything," Athos said, and watched the woman walk to the counter and ladle stew into a bowl. It sloshed over the sides, onto her fingers, and she quickly licked them free of the spilled gravy. She grabbed a chunk of bread from a large loaf and walked back. "And I would prefer to spare my stomach."

Porthos snickered and nodded to the woman when she placed the bowl and bread before him. She glanced at Athos and then turned suddenly toward the bar. "Last time I had an upset stomach because of somethin' I ate was when I was livin' in the Court of Miracles." He dipped his bread into the stew and took a bite. He shrugged, and while chewing around his food, said, "It's not bad — better 'an rat any day."

Athos looked at Porthos unimpressed and rapped his knuckles on the table.

"Are you musketeers?" A young man asked as he stepped to the table. Without being invited, he grabbed a chair from another table and joined them. "Are you? Are you the King's Musketeers? I recognized the pauldrons." He rested his elbows on the dirty surface and cleared his throat. Suddenly, he stuck out his hand and said, "Olaf," he said, "Olaf Prueitt… I have a farm not far from here with my wife. We, ah," he shrugged, "grow turnips and raise a few cattle — nothing fancy." He was tall, gangly, with brown hair that clung to the sides of his head and swept along his brow. His beard and mustache had not been kept, and he scratched along his jaw as he shifted in his seat. "Are you here to take care of the bandits that have been terrorizing us?" He shifted closer and crossed his arms over one another as he leaned forward and looked between them.

Athos feigned ignorance and asked, "Bandits?" He ignored Porthos' grunt as he continued to eat.

Olaf looked at Athos questionably and raised his eyebrows in concern. "You haven't heard? They're bandits, they're stealing from the folks around here… calling themselves some kind of heroes for stealing from the rich — but it's not the rich they're stealing from — it's the little folks like me." He worried his brow and bit his lower lip. "They've stolen cattle, horses… they even stole some jewelry from a nobleman traveling from Bourban — I thought for sure the king would have heard about it — when a noble was attacked." He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly in defeat.

"How many have been affected?" Athos asked and watched Porthos look around the room for those listening.

Olaf exhaled, which forced his bottom lip outward. "I'm not sure — many, though. It's been going on for months — we tried to take them down a few weeks ago after they started a fight at the Blue Stone, but," he twisted his mouth, "we only caught one of them… A twelve-year-old kid."

Porthos snorted. "Kids are doin' this?" He raised an eyebrow in question and shook his head in disgust. "You don't need musketeers — you need parents." He rolled his eyes and continued to eat.

"We think he was just following them. We couldn't get any information out of him — and we sent him home." Olaf chewed the inside of his bottom lip. "They're going to kill someone — if they haven't already — Millie," he said and turned on his seat toward the blonde prostitute who had abandoned the drunk and moved toward a couple of men playing cards. They broke her arm, and they almost killed Joffry — he helps at the stables." He dropped his hands to his lap. "What are we to do?" He looked between Porthos and Athos.

"We do not have the authority to help you —"

Olaf winced and looked away. He turned back with his brows furrowed. "You're the King's Musketeers? Don't you help his people?"

Athos clinched his jaw and rubbed his thumb along the curved edge of the table. He could feel the grit and grime that had collected over the years and he looked at the indentations caused by fights, the irregularity of the wood, and the carvings done by sharp knives and blades. "Bring us a list tomorrow morning of all those who have been injured or victimized by this group and we will see to it that our captain is informed of the matter. He can then decide if the king should be made aware."

"You would do that?"

"I cannot promise anything," Athos said, and watched Olaf stand.

"You'll be here in the morning?" He turned before Athos could respond and shouted, "Lilith, what time do you open the doors in the morning?"

The woman with the double chin stepped from her kitchen. "It's always open, you fool! This is an inn." Lilith slapped her hand against the heavy support beam and returned to her kitchen.

"I'll be here at first light." Olaf said. He gripped the brim of his hat nervously and then left.

Porthos leaned forward, tapped his index finger on the table, and said, "First light?" He raised his eyebrows. "I 'ope you enjoy meetin' with 'im," he continued his meal with a groan, "I'm sleepin' late."

"You never sleep late —"

"I'm sleepin' late tomorrow," Porthos quipped. "Lilith," he shouted over his shoulder and looked at Athos with a grin.

Athos cocked an eyebrow and glanced across the room toward a man with long black hair, dark eyes, and pale features. The man looked away and toward his friends, who sat at the table across from him.

"What?" the woman shouted back and craned her neck around the corner of her kitchen and into the commissary.

"How many rooms do you 'ave for rent?"

"How long you stayin'?" Lilith stepped around the corner, grasped the edge of the doorframe, and leaned against it.

"One night," Porthos said.

"I got rooms for the two of you," she said and waved toward the man behind the bar serving ale. "See to them." She waved her hand flippantly and turned back to her kitchen.

Porthos smiled. "You can meet Olaf… I'm sleepin' in."

Athos offered a half smile and said quietly, "Don't sleep past the morning meal."

Porthos wiped his bowl with the remains of his food and took the last bite. "Never 'appen."