Chapter 19

The hallway was dark except for two lanterns that hung from arched iron hooks against the walls. Flames danced, causing the shadows to move and shift, and changing the colors from bright yellow and creams to orange and reds. With determined strides d'Artagnan walked down the hall, listened to snores coming from the guest rooms, and the subtle murmurings of voices. He followed the path until it curved slightly to the right and the staircase banister came into view. He paused suddenly when he noticed a man sitting by the entry doors. He was young, dressed simply in black britches and doublet. He occasionally pulled back the heavy gold drapes and peered through the window, and then he looked up the steps toward the second-floor balcony. The man took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and tapped the heel of his boot on the floor. Two glowing lanterns hung on either side of the entry.

He was waiting.

There wasn't anyone else around. The arched entry leading to the dining area was dark, not a single lantern was lit. The desk where the young woman who had met them earlier was vacant, a single quill and book rested atop, and the chair had been pushed beneath it.

The stranger shifted again, crossed his legs, and he fiddled with the leather of his boot. D'Artagnan felt his heart pound against his ribcage, and he cupped the scabbard with the o-shape of his fingers and quietly pulled his blade. The metal caught the light of the flames and glistened. With feather-like bare feet, d'Artagnan walked along the balcony keeping his eyes on the man below. The stranger was distracted, and continued to focus on his boot.

Suddenly, the stranger looked up.

Their eyes met, and the stranger lunged for the darkened doorway to the commissary. His chair fell to its side and clattered against the flooring. D'Artagnan followed at a sprint. He took several steps at a time, grabbed the handle of the lantern that hung by the main entry door, and pursued the stranger through the darkened commissary. The sounds of footsteps, a table shifting, chairs falling to the floor and clattering, and was then was followed by the sound of a violent and painful, "Humph."

D'Artagnan maneuvered between the tables as the light from the lantern fluttered and danced. He leapt over the fallen chairs and caught sight of the man pushing himself to his feet. The man looked over his shoulder and then sprinted toward the kitchen. The clattering of cast-iron pans rang like heavy chimes. Then came the sudden and uncomfortable sound of a deep, painful, groan. D'Artagnan raised the lantern higher and slowed his sprint to a stop when he found the stranger, once again pushing himself to feet after tripping over a stool. D'Artagnan pressed the tip of his blade to the man's neck. "Don't move… or I'll run you through," he said.

The stranger paused in his stance until his arms trembled. Daringly, he lowered himself into a seated position, and he kept his eyes on d'Artagnan as he wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "Why're you chasing me?"

"Why are you running?"

"I'm," the man paused, licked his bottom lip, and looked at the blade. "I'm the night guard?"

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes. "And I'm the king of France."

"I doubt," the man snickered, "King Louis would wear his braies in public."

"I doubt," d'Artagnan quipped, "that a town as small as this needs a guard at the inn." He stepped closer and pressed the tip of his blade against the man's throat. "Who are you?"

The man swallowed several times. "I'm…" he paused. "I'm the guard."

D'Artagnan twisted the handle of his sword and watched the man close his eyes. "Was it the food or the wine?"

The man swallowed again. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"A crime against a musketeer is a crime against the king," d'Artagnan said. "I'll take you to Paris and you'll stand trial. — Have you ever seen what happens to bones when placed upon the rack?"

The man flared his nostrils, looked d'Artagnan in the eyes, and said, "If I tell you anything… they'll kill me."

"They're going to kill you anyway," d'Artagnan said. "I just need to get the word out that you told us everything."

The stranger closed his eyes and suddenly opened them wide when he felt the tip of the blade touch his chin.

"Stand up," d'Artagnan demanded. He watched the man get to his feet and d'Artagnan grabbed a fistful of the man's doublet and shoved him forward. Keeping the blade at his back and between his shoulders, he forced him through the kitchen, the commissary, and then up the steps toward the room. "What did you give my friend?" He shoved him forward, and the man stumbled on the top step, but caught himself with his hands. He pushed himself to his feet and dusted his thighs.

"Open the door," d'Artagnan said and shoved the stranger forward.

The man paused, gripped the doorknob, and then suddenly swung his arm, forcing d'Artagnan to the left and he counterbalanced the weight. The blade sliced through the man's doublet along the length of his arm and cut into the tender skin along his forearm. The stranger grasped the injury and then suddenly fell backward when he was shoved by his shoulders into the door that fell open and slammed against the wall.

D'Artagnan grabbed the man's doublet, pulled him upright, and shoved him into a chair. Using the heel of his foot he slammed the door shut. He looked at Aramis who had fallen from his chair and now lay on his side before the fire. His arms were clutched tightly to his chest, his knees pulled close. Sweat coated his hair, clung to his scalp, and beaded his brow. The pain etched on Aramis' face caused d'Artagnan's heart to race and his anger to intensify.

"What did you give him?" d'Artagnan said and shoved his finger against the man's chest.

Defiantly, the stranger flared his nostrils and repeated. "I didn't give him anything."

"What were you waiting for? Why were you seated by the doors while everyone else slept? Why were you peering outside through the window? Who else is out there?"

The stranger chuckled and tilted his chin toward the man on the floor. "News of his death."

"On whose orders?" D'Artagnan grabbed a handful of the man's hair and forced his head back. "Whose orders?" he demanded as he placed his blade against the man's neck.

The stranger licked his lips and said, "I don't know." He leaned to his side as d'Artagnan drew closer to him. "Honestly, I don't know." He licked his lips again and glanced from Aramis to the door as a means of escape. "I was hired to wait outside until the announcement was made of the deaths —"

"Deaths?"

The man shrugged. He looked at his arm and the blood that continued to seep through his fingers and drip onto his thigh.

"Do you have any idea of what I did before I became a King's Musketeer?" d'Artagnan asked and stepped back. The muscles along his jaw tightened. His eyes grew dark, menacing, and more determined.

The man cleared his throat and raised his chin. "You know I don't."

"I was a farmer," d'Artagnan said and slipped a long knife from his weapons belt. "People think I just planted wheat, sheered a few lambs, or milked a couple of cows." He slowly ran the flat of his blade along the sleeve of his blouse. "I skinned a lot of animals." He looked the stranger in the eyes.

The man swallowed again.

"I'll start with your arm," d'Artagnan pointed the tip of his blade toward the bleeding injury.

The man hitched his breath and then turned suddenly when Aramis groaned and panted for breath. "Burdock root and charcoal — it will cleanse the blood and purge the poison from his system — it takes time, but it will work." He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and licked his lips. "The poison was in the wine… it's already in your friend's system and he'll have to ride it out, but the combination of the two herbs will help."

With renewed speed, d'Artagnan released his weapons belt and pulled a narrow strip of leather from the scabbard and tools, and then tied the man's hands to the armrest of his chair.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan said as he walked toward him. "Aramis?" he squatted, patted Aramis' cheek, and said, "do you have burdock root in your bag?"

Aramis nodded, wheezed, and exhaled through parted lips. "Mix it…" he groaned, inhaled sharply, and clawed at the floor with his fingertips. "Steep it in hot water…." He whimpered, pressed the left side of his forehead against the floor and inhaled and exhaled several times. "The pain… it's worsening."

Frantically, d'Artagnan looked through the bag. He removed bandages, tools he didn't recognize, bottles of herbs that weren't labeled, and then he finally spotted a tin container with the appropriate label tied to the lid. He pried the lid off and dumped a hefty portion into the bottom of a cup and then added an equal part of charcoal.

"Shit," d'Artagnan snapped as he looked at the empty water pitcher.

"Bag," Aramis said. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe slowly. "My water bag…" he pointed to the skin that hung from the pillar of his bed.

D'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, grabbed it, and then poured it into the cup. He placed it by the fire and carefully stirred until the charcoal mixed with the water and chunks of root and waited for it to heat.

"How much did he drink?" the stranger asked. He tiredly looked from Aramis to d'Artagnan. He tried pulling on the restraint but found it only tightened the more he moved so he quit.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked. He tested the heat of the mixture, watched Aramis tighten his hands into fists and listened as his knuckles cracked. "How much of the wine did you drink?"

Aramis took in a shaky breath and exhaled quickly. "Half…" he said through clenched teeth. "I… drank half… the glass."

D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder at the stranger. "What does that mean? What poison did you use?" He tilted his head toward Aramis. "What kind of plant does this?" He tested the heat again and then waited for it to continue steeping. He turned on the balls of his feet, elbows still resting on his knees, and looked at the stranger. "What was in that wine?"

The stranger swallowed. "The burdock root will help… but your friend will suffer for a while," he leaned back and clenched his jaw when d'Artagnan stood and grabbed his knife. "I — I don't know the details — I'm not an alchemist."

"What was in the wine?" d'Artagnan asked again.

"Plant extracts," the man said and swallowed, "venoms—"

"From snakes?"

"From anything the alchemist could find to get what he wanted… spiders, snakes… I've even heard he uses fish."

D'Artagnan turned back toward the cup and tested the temperature. Satisfied, he placed the knife on the chair and turned to help Aramis sit up. "What kind of people use venom for poison?" He slipped his hands beneath Aramis' arms, felt the tension of muscles and the tremors that racked his body. "Aramis?" d'Artagnan knelt before him and cupped a hand along his jaw and neck. "Drink this?"

Aramis shivered but looked past tear and sweat soaked lashes. He was pale, his hair clung to his scalp and along his neck. Even his blouse, despite the chill he was feeling, was soaked. He wasn't feverish, but his muscles continued to strain.

"Exhaustion," the stranger said. "My employer specializes in poisons that causes exhaustion, pain, and then eventual death."

D'Artagnan looked at the man and frowned. "Why?"

"It's harder to identify it as a poison." The man shrugged and slumped back in his chair. "Because nobody else does it…. Because he can."

D'Artagnan flared his nostrils, looked back at Aramis and said, "Drink this, brother, please." He pressed the cup to Aramis' lips.

Aramis winced, felt the heat of the liquid, and slowly sipped. He turned his head away and took several deep breaths. "It's awful," he said. His voice was low, nearly inaudible, but he turned back to the cup and drank more. "How… long?" Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "How long… will this… last?"

D'Artagnan turned back toward the stranger. "Did you hear him?"

"Three days," the man said. "Had he finished the cup," he sighed with a subtle shrug, "he'd be dead in two."

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan and with a wince, shook his head. "I can't… not… not for three days." He groaned again when suddenly his muscles tremored. He raised his knees, tucked his arms toward his chest, and groaned in the back of his throat.

"Is there anything I can give him to ease the pain?" D'Artagnan turned suddenly and watched the stranger lean back in his seat. It was then that d'Artagnan noticed the pool of blood beneath the armrest of the chair.

The man licked his lips, felt his eyelids grow heavy, and said, "No… just make sure he drinks the burdock root… it will clean his blood."

"You've said that!" D'Artagnan looked at the cup, added more herb and water and placed it next to the fire to warm. He walked to the stranger and leaned toward him. "Who did this? Why Aramis?"

The stranger looked toward Aramis, who continued to lean against the wall, supported by his bed. The man snorted in satisfaction, looked lazily toward his hand that was covered in blood, and said, "The Spaniard wants you dead… all of you." He looked in d'Artagnan's eyes before slouching to the right as he breathed his last.

D'Artagnan rubbed his face, looked toward the door, and then glanced out the window as the darkness of night gave way to the morning hours. Had it been so long? He turned back toward Aramis and squatted before him.

"Let's get you comfortable, Aramis. The floor is no place for you."

With determination, and a strength d'Artagnan was unaware that he had, he slipped his arms beneath Aramis' and slowly lifted him from the floor and shuffled him awkwardly back to the bed. It wasn't a graceful move, but d'Artagnan got him into bed and covered with several blankets.

Aramis curled onto his left side and swallowed. He looked at d'Artagnan, who grabbed the cup and was once again helping him sit up to drink. "I can't…"

"You can," d'Artagnan said, "and you will." He clamped a hand on Aramis' shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "We'll do this together."

Aramis closed his eyes, felt his body once again betray him as he pulled his arms to chest and fought through the tremors.

D'Artagnan clutched the cup, looked at Aramis and then at the body of the stranger. He took a deep breath, turned, and strode to the door. With a quick glance, he looked once more at Aramis, and then left. Again, the hall was dark except for the lanterns that flickered and caused shadows to dance. He walked along the hall, down the steps, and then turned to the right and knocked on the door to the proprietor's office. He knocked again, louder this time, and called, "Madame Sabot!"

D'Artagnan heard the shifting of chairs, the tapping of feet and the squeaks of floorboards, and then suddenly the door opened a crack. The lantern light flickered across the woman's face, and she clutched at the collar of her housecoat.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan?" She opened the door wider and shifted the lantern upward. "What can I do for you? You're not dressed." She frowned, noticed the blood on his hands, and the tightness of his jaw and the concern in his eyes. "What is it, son?"

"I need some help," d'Artagnan said. "My friend is sick, poisoned. Is there a physician in town?"

Madame Sabot covered her mouth with her hand and frowned. "Only Monsieur Renee, but he is away." She opened the door wider and motioned for him to enter. "What does he need? I know a little — not nearly enough — but I might be able to help."

"Burdock root? Do you know where I can find some?"

Madame Sabot nodded and said, "Of course, it grows wild in the fields… it's a persistent weed, but I've been known to use it for my headaches. I'll bring some tea up to you… there is plenty to harvest." She waved d'Artagnan to the door. "See to your friend. I'll be up momentarily."

"Is there an undertaker in town?"

Madame Sabot paused in her haste and frowned. "Should I ask why?"

"No," d'Artagnan said, "but I'm afraid there will be some blood to clean up."