Athos' feet dragged along the stone floor; he had neither the strength left, nor the inclination to walk to his fate. Two men, positioned on either side, propelled him between them; they added nothing to the jeers and insults shouted from either side as they passed. Athos briefly considered fighting, but he had no idea what the odds were, and with his vision impaired, even without the sack he was fairly sure he would lose. His limbs were not responding as they should and though the sack was just an ordinary sack, it felt like it bore the weight of the world.
He heard the grating of a key in a lock and the creak of old hinges. 'Put him in here, and make sure he is on his own. I want him lost, not dead – at least not yet. I'm leaving one of my men to guard him at all times, so he won't be your responsibility. Just make sure no one knows he is here.' The voice was definitely that of Giroux. When Athos got out of this latest mess, and he would, one way or another, he and the Red Guard captain would be having a conversation, and not with words.
Athos was flung to the floor and the sack pulled from his head – not that it made much difference, the cell was pitch black. Water dripped from somewhere, and the smell of damp was heavy in the air, along with other aromas that were best not dwelt upon.
'Do you think Treville will not notice my absence?' the swordsman managed to quip.
Giroux paused in the doorway. 'I don't really care if half of Paris notices you are missing, they will not think to look here.' With that he slammed the door shut, the sound of heavy footfalls slowing fading in to silence.
However, the silence was not quite complete; the continual sound of water was both annoying and ominous, and the floor beneath him was without a doubt damp. Every now and again there would be a random moan or cry from somewhere deep within the maze of tunnels. No, this would not be on anyone's list when those that cared came looking for him; that was if they looked at all. It would not be inconceivable for them to suspect he had taken advantage of the situation and disappeared of his own accord, attempting to avoid the fate they all suspected awaited him – and for that he had no one to blame but himself.
Athos slumped against the wall, his eyes closing automatically, for he could no longer deny how tired he felt. His ribs were sore, but not broken, and his face hurt and probably looked a mess, though not for the first time. No, none of this was new, the only thing that was different, was his reaction – this time he wasn't sure he cared. He had no anger, no resentment, no fierce betrayal to fuel his defence. He felt nothing. He had failed as a brother and as a husband.
However, he had been a good soldier, if not something of a trial to his brothers and Treville. Still, he should have taken better care of Dubois – the boy was just an untried cadet, who had not even wanted to be a Musketeer. The look of admiration in the dying boy's eyes was undeserved. Then there were the Benoirs, who had died helping him keep his secret. A secret that was beginning to fester and grow like a sore, a secret that he was so tired of protecting. Just a little sleep and perhaps he would think of a plan.
His eyes had hardly closed when Athos heard the key in the door once more. He kept them shut; he could not see anything in the dark so why bother to open them? However, he did feel the sharp kick to his thigh as the figure entered.
'Food! Apparently, we can't let you starve. Still, no one said anything about you refusing to eat it.' Athos heard the strike of metal on stone before the heavy door shut with a thud and the key turned once more. He could smell the food, and it was quite clear that whatever it contained had been dead for a very long time. The only reason he opened his eyes at all, was the small hope of water. Unfortunately, the cup now lay on its side, whatever it had contained long spilled upon the floor – along with whatever else ran between the filthy slabs. With a deep sigh, the Musketeer closed his eyes, quite prepared to accept whatever dreams his sleep would bring forth.
ooOoo
Aramis and Porthos had searched all of the usual places, mostly taverns. They had even searched the stables where they had discovered the swordsman sleeping when they had first met.
Aramis removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. The rain was heavy, but he did not appear to notice. 'We have searched everywhere, I cannot think of anywhere else to look.' His voice held a note of desperation, not to mention panic.
Even Porthos did not have a quick comeback or a complaint about the Musketeer to break the tension. 'Well 'e's somewhere, but 'e might not necessarily be in Paris.' He hesitated as he spoke, not really wanting to voice his suspicions aloud.
Aramis turned in surprise. 'You think he has left the city?'
'Well to be fair, I'm not sure I'd blame 'im. If the King does 'ave plans for 'im , 'ow could Athos turn him down? It wouldn't be pretty now, would it?'
As he witnessed the hurt in his friend's eyes, Porthos wished he had kept his thoughts to himself.
'You believe he would just leave like that, without telling us? He knows we would worry, he would have left a message.' All the time the marksman's eyes were willing Porthos to agree with his statement, but the big man looked away.
''E's done it before.'
'But that was before, he understands now, he knows we would help him, doesn't he?' Again Porthos was silent. They stood in the dark, the streets almost empty, rain dripping from their clothing. They scrutinised the Seine and the shore beyond, where only the occasional horse was in sight as it crossed the Ponte Royal. Aramis' attention held on the lights blazing from Saint Chapelle.
'I will return to the garrison soon.' Porthos followed his friend's focus and nodded his understanding.
'Perhaps 'e know's where 'e is, but I doubt it.' With that the big man slapped his friend on the back and turned his horse toward the Rue du Bac.
Aramis sat in the silence of the upper chapel; the small windows made it dark, only heightening the pious atmosphere. He bowed his head and prayed – for himself, for France, for his comrades, but most of all for the missing Musketeer. He did not hear the priest approach; they apparently had the ability to glide around their hallowed houses in complete silence, enhancing their holy authority.
'Why, Aramis, I have not seen you for a while. Are you well?'
'Forgive me, Father, we have a chapel at the garrison and Father Matteus performs mass and takes our confession.'
'I am glad. I hope it gives you and your fellow Musketeers some solace.' If there was judgement of their profession in his statement, he managed to hide it well. 'Yet you have made your way here. Would you like to talk about it, or do you wish solitude?'
Aramis raised his eyes to the flickering flames, their light playing across the small windows, the dancing flames enhancing the scenes within, creating a sense that they moved as though alive.
'I am afraid, Father. Not of battle, or conflict. I am afraid to acknowledge… I do not even know what name to give it. Betrayal is too strong a word, perhaps dismissal is better. To be considered of such inconsequence, to be abandoned without explanation. I do not know what to name it.'
The priest took his time. 'You are hurt, disappointed.'
Aramis turned to face the man. 'Yes, I am disappointed, and it does hurt.'
'Perhaps this person is protecting you. Perhaps they believed their actions were necessary.'
'There is a great deal of sense in what you say, Father, and yet something inside of me tells me that is not true.'
Father Benedetto placed his hand upon the young man's shoulder. 'You find it easier to believe this person has deliberately left – thinking you unworthy of consolation, that they believe you unworthy of their attention – rather than consider they felt their actions and motives were honourable?'
Aramis was shocked. 'No, Father, he is one of the most honourable men I know. It is not his brothers he feels to be unworthy – but himself.' Somehow the realisation took a sudden weight from Aramis' shoulders. 'He would not consider his actions to be detrimental to us, for he would tell himself we would be better off without him. You fool, Athos.'
The priest straightened. 'Would that be the same Monsieur Athos who spent some time convalescing with the monks at the Church of Our Lady a little while ago?'
'Why yes, one in the same. He is rather drawn to trouble, though this time it is not of his own making. I should go, Father, I thank you for your time. I promise to attend mass soon.' With that the Musketeer took his leave.
The rain had stopped, but the air had turned cold, the now clear sky threatening a sharp frost. If only the marksman had known just how close he was to his missing friend, just a short walk away across the river.
ooOoo
No matter how Athos' exhaustion deepened, no matter how he resigned himself to receive the inevitable dreams and torment, sleep would not come. He stared into the darkness. His eyes, or to be more accurate eye, had adjusted to the lack of light, the other was swollen and almost closed, but he could just about discern the boundaries of his small cell. There was nothing to see, just bare walls, even in the blackness he could tell they appeared to be covered in something shimmering in the gloom, slime or whatever it was which ran down the stone. He hoped it was merely rain seeping in from the ground above, failing dismally to find its way to the small drain grate floor – whatever it was, he could feel his trousers soaking up the dubious solution in the damp and fetid space.
Despite the solid walls, a cold blast of air managed to penetrate from somewhere – drains perhaps. Not only could he feel the temperature dropping as the night wore on, but he became aware of every sound, including the scampering feet of those descending upon his uneaten meal. Still, whilst they were happy feasting on the rancid meat, they were not interested in him. Athos' headache persisted, not helped by straining to see in the pitch black. He closed his eyes and considered his options. He had no weapon and he had to admit his condition was not conducive to fighting his way out. No, he would need another option, unless of course his brothers found him first.
ooOoo
Back at the garrison, Porthos awaited Aramis' arrival. Claude approached bearing something on a tray; something hot, judging by the steam that rose into the frosty air.
'Wot you doin' sittin' out 'ere? Whether 'e comes back or not, freezin' to death won't 'elp.' The old cook placed the tray upon the table with more care than his words suggested.
''E'll be back when 'e's ready, and not before, and if Aramis don't turn up soon 'is will be cold.' With that he left the tray and two bowls of stew upon the table, stomping unevenly back to the garrison kitchen.
As if he had heard the remark, the sound of thundering hooves heralded the approach of a rider, and Aramis' horse shot through the garrison arch. He slid from his mount and handed it over to the stable lad. Seeing Porthos waiting at the table he hurried over.
'Mmm, tell me that is still as hot as it looks.'
'Humph, you're lucky, I was plannin' to eat yours too.'
The two men devoured their food in no time and sat back with their ale. Porthos did not ask any questions – Aramis' devout faith was well known, and he hoped his conversation with God had helped in some small way.
'I have been thinking.' Porthos waited for his friend to continue, anticipating some final acceptance, or prosaic insight into Athos' departure was about to be forthcoming. 'Sadly, I believe Athos' departure is no reflection on us, or how important we are, but indicative of how unimportant he believes himself to be. We should not be disappointed, I do not know what more we could have done to show him he was loved.'
Porthos had not expected Aramis' words to have such an effect, but he realised the marksman was right. If Athos had left, he would have told himself it was for the best and they would be fine without him.
'Bloody idiot!' was all the big man said, but he turned from Aramis and sniffed. They sat in thoughtful repose for some time, as the stars twinkled in the sky and slowly the garrison courtyard began to glimmer with frost.
'You two, are you on duty?' The Captain's bark made the pair jump.
'No, Captain,' they said in unison.
'Then in God's name what are you doing out here in the freezing cold? Get some sleep.' With that the office door banged shut, leaving the two Musketeers somewhat at a loss for words.
'He is probably right,' Aramis decided, as he felt the stiffening of his gloved hand. 'I think we might be beginning to freeze.' With few words, they made their way to their rooms, both aware that further conversation would not ease their sleep.
Treville noted his men stand and acknowledged his relief. He understood what was going through their heads, and he knew they were hurt. However, he did not believe Athos had simply left Paris, not this time. The whole episode had been far too convenient, with Milady on hand, ready to create a diversion – a diversion for what? Athos was quick to turn a situation to benefit himself, but even he would not have taken advantage of the shooting to abandon the King and Queen. On the contrary, he would have been the first one into the room to protect them – to turn and flee, simply wasn't his style. If they could move past their own sense of loss, Aramis and Porthos would come to the same conclusion, and if they did not, he would make sure they did.
ooOoo
Milady had hurried from the palace grounds and made her way back to her apartments. She had no time to spare. By now Richelieu and Rochefort would know of her perfidy, and she needed to leave as soon as possible. She refused to begin yet another new life as a pauper, stuffing all her stolen gowns and jewels into a trunk. She studied the rooms that had been provided for her. For once she was glad she had not had time to put down anything resembling roots. There was nothing else for her to take, other than the belongings she had arrived from England with, and most of them were still packed. Hurrying outside, she found a small urchin and, throwing him a coin, sent him to find transport.
Standing there in the darkened doorway, her heart hammered against her ribs every time a horse and rider appeared, and by the time the summoned vehicle arrived she was in a permanent state of panic. Not until the covered waggon turned the corner and left her apartment behind did she allow herself to breathe. The question now was – where to next? Her world was beginning to shrink before her eyes.
Milady leant forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Take me to the Inn le Croix on the port road.' She sat back, a plan beginning to form in her mind. The roads were bumpy and the biting cold of the approaching evening pervaded the thin canvas; she huddled inside her fur-lined cloak and cursed every man she had ever known. Would she ever settle, could she settle, and what would happen when her looks faded and old age set in? The thought made her shiver. No, that would not suit her – she needed a plan, a long-term plan. Even if that plan was death.
When the cart bumped to a halt, she could already hear the sounds of laughter and chattering voices, as carriages and carts arrived and departed the busy tavern. 'I shall be staying the night, please see to my bags.' With that she handed the man his money and stood whilst he unloaded her belongings. Men hurried forth from within and took the trunks. The tavern was typical of its kind but better than most. It catered to travellers journeying to and from Le Havre and housed visitors of all stations. 'Good evening, I need a room for two nights, a good room.'
The inn keeper grinned, sensing good coin. 'Indeed, madame, you are lucky we have just had a room come available. Would you like to take a table in our private parlour, and we will bring food. I am afraid I cannot offer you total privacy for there are two other noble parties travelling tonight, but they assured me they are happy to share.'
Milady smiled and felt the familiar thrum of blood in her veins as she put her plan into action.
She entered the closed off room and found two parties seated, taking their evening meal. A quick appraisal identified an older couple with two young children and on the other an elderly man with a younger man by his side – either could work, she would just have to see how the conversation flowed.
She walked into the room and as she lowered her hood, she staggered slightly. 'Oh, my dear,' said the woman, 'come take a seat quickly. Are you ill?'
Milady gave her best smile. 'Oh no, simply weary. I have travelled some distance today and it is so very cold outside. My carriage lost a wheel, and I was forced to hire a covered waggon.' At this she shivered in revulsion and almost fell into her seat, though maintaining a necessary amount of elegance.
'Oh you poor mite,' the woman fussed. The two children glanced up briefly before returning their attention to their meal. The husband offered her a meaningful smile along with an admiring glance and offered her a glass of wine.
The woman chattered on. 'Travelling is so tiring. We, ourselves, are just visiting friends in Paris for a few days from Royan, so tiring. I could not possibly arrive on their doorstep looking so overset, so we are resting here for the night before entering the city tomorrow.' The matron gave Milady a beaming smile and she felt her heart sink. Visiting the city would not do, and Royan was much too far away for her plan.
Instantly dismissing the family from her mind, she half turned and lowered her lashes as she gave the older gentleman a bashful smile. 'I do hope you do not mind sharing your parlour, sir.' The man gave a blustery laugh and blushed.
'With you, madame, not at all. It sounds as though you have been dashed unlucky.' At this the two siblings began to argue and the parents' attentions were fixed upon their unruly offspring.
The older gentleman observed the antics with dismay and held out his hand. 'Perhaps you would like to join me and leave the Mallens to their dinner. Milady nodded her head and gave a small smile of understanding as he cast another withering glance at the now crying children.
The Mallens did not appear to notice her departure and very soon ushered the admonished children from the room.
'Now sit, my dear. Perhaps we can eat our meals in peace now. Do not like children, never have.' Milady gave the young man seated next to him a glance. 'Ha, ha, not mine. No, this is Barlow, my secretary. I am bound for England, diplomatic job you understand.' At this he tapped the side of his nose and puffed out his chest. The young man stood and made his apologies, begging letters to write. Now alone, Milady began to act the role necessary to extract as much as she could from her victim.
She shivered dramatically. 'England, oh they say it is so cold and wet, must you stay long?'
He gave a resigned smile. 'One must do what one must for France. I am hoping it will only be for six months.' He poured her a glass of wine, her last one abandoned on the Mallen's table. She purred at the perfection of his suitability.
'Do you live in the city, sir?'
'Colonel, Colonel Gauthier, my dear, at your service. No, just outside where the air is cleaner, close enough for my needs. House been in the family for generations, too big really but it is home.'
'How lovely, I am sure your staff will miss you,' she gushed.'
'I believe I am considered a good master, I have allowed most of the staff to take time away or found them temporary places with colleagues. Just the housekeeper, her husband and a skeleton staff in residence. Enough to keep the place in good order. Now what about you, my dear?'
Milady had had ample practice at producing a suitable story, one that would ingratiate herself into the strong protective arms of a susceptible man, and she had no problem enthralling the colonel with her tale of betrayal and woe. It was part truth, part fiction, and a small part which she could no longer differentiate as being one or the other. By the time she had finished she had him eating out of her hand, blustering to have the man who had wronged her brought to justice. She inwardly smiled at the irony of her tale but basked in her success.
As usual, it had been easy to produce the necessary tears, and as she rode away from the tavern the next morning, in the luxury carriage the colonel had bespoke for her, she patted the letter in her reticule. The note informed the housekeeper to allow her the run of his house, for as long as she should need it. It could not have been more perfect, and it had cost her nothing. She did not dwell on just how easily she had produced the tears, she had done it countless times before, though perhaps this time they had issued forth more easily, or felt more painful, and perhaps she experienced just a twinge of genuine self-pity for the very first time. But it mattered not, she had what she had wanted and more – free board and lodging, where no one would look for some months to come and perhaps longer; after all the roads from England were long and dangerous.
ooOoo
Richelieu had slept surprisingly well, and to the relief of those around him appeared to be in a benevolent mood that morning. Yes, there had been a shooting at the palace, but there had been no harm done, just one less idiot soldier. A small price to pay.
He had a strong suspicion where the shot had come from, and consequently who had done the shooting. There had been many men of import present in the room, but they had targeted a lowly soldier, and only the one, just enough to cause a panic. With a timely distraction, his problem had been removed, just like that. If the shooter had been the woman he had used so well, then there were still questions to be asked and work to be done, but he had breathing room now to plan.
A sharp rap upon the door broke his reverie. 'Come.'
When the visitor entered, Richelieu did not bother to conceal his surprise. 'Tremblay, to what do I owe this pleasure?' The sarcasm was evident, but du Tremblay did not appear to care.
'Cardinal, good morning. I shall not waste your time. What have you done with the Musketeer Athos?' The friar smiled, making the question appear so casual as to be almost inconsequential.
Richelieu paused, his brain working through various options. He had not been expecting the question to come from such a quarter. 'I have absolutely no idea, is he not playing soldier at the garrison?'
Tremblay did not wait to be asked but seated himself in front of the Cardinal's desk. 'We go back a long way you and I. You probably believe I am still alive because you deem it so, but remember, I can plot and connive just as well as you, my old friend. Maybe you are alive because it suits me.' Not many men would have dared say such a thing to the First Minister, but Joseph du Tremblay was one of them.
'Are you threatening me, Tremblay?'
'No, Armand, I am simply making sure we understand the rules of play. I will ask once more. Do you know the whereabouts of Athos?' Though the priest still wore the same beatific smile, his eyes were cold and penetrating. However, for once Richelieu did not have to lie.
'No, I do not. Forgive me if do not offer you refreshments, I am afraid I have a very busy morning. Out of interest, why do you care?'
Du Tremblay, rose slowly and shook out his robes, he was halfway toward the door before he turned with that same otherworldly expression. 'I knew his father.'
He closed the door behind him leaving Richelieu speechless.
ooOoo
Athos awoke with a start. He had not slept long, he was sure, and what sleep he had managed had been full of dreams of such startling clarity that he still felt exhausted. It had not been his cell mates that had awoken him – he had become accustomed to their scratching and scurrying – no, this was the sound of heavy footsteps. He tensed in preparation at the grinding turn of the key in the lock.
It was the same guard as last night and he had obviously been posted outside ever since, his evident anger clear from the sneer upon his face. 'Didn't like your evenin' meal, sir? Well perhaps we can tempt you wiv a little porridge.' Again he practically threw the tin plate and cup onto the floor, but this time Athos made a grab for the cup, not bothering to prevent the thin grey slop in the bowl from spilling on to the floor. He paid for his efforts with a powerful slap to the head, causing most of the cup's contents to spill onto his hand; still, there was just about enough left to cool his parched throat.
Athos heard the man's laugh echo along the corridor and the sound of muted conversation. Booted feet left and yet more came closer; there was the sound of dragging, a chair perhaps, then nothing. The new guard had obviously arrived and was settling in for his miserable shift. Athos wondered what each of these men had done to earn such a job, or was it just they were the most spiteful Giroux could find?
The cold from the cell had settled into his bones and he felt himself shiver. The water had tasted foul, God knows where it had come from, quite possibly the Seine. His head felt muzzy and the pain over his eye ached abominably – an infection quite probably. It was indicative of his weakened state that as he drew up his knees to provide some warmth, his eyes closed, and he fell into a deep and fitful sleep.
ooOoo
It had been nearly a week since Athos had disappeared. Aramis and Porthos did what was expected of them by day or night, but when their time was their own Treville knew they still scoured the city for some sign of their friend. The Captain had given the matter a great deal of thought. He had watched his two men begin to wilt beneath the uncertainty of the Musketeer's fate and decided enough was enough. It was time for that talk.
'Aramis, Porthos, my office.'
The two men paused in their tasks and looked up to the closed door of Treville's office. 'Wot you done?'
'Me, what makes you think it is something I have done?'
'Well I ain't done a thing, not even cheated at cards.'
'Perhaps he has news.' The idea of such a possibility put a spring in their step as they took the stairs two at a time. However, the look on their Captain's face bought them sharply back to reality.
'Have you news?' Aramis asked the question, though Treville's expression suggested if he had heard anything at all it was not good.
'No, nothing. Sit.' The two men were both disappointed and relieved; at least this was not bad news.
'You have searched everywhere you could think of, every place Athos has ever been and found no trace of him, is that correct?'
Porthos frowned. 'You know we have. There's no sign.'
Treville continued. 'You do not want to, but you believe Athos has left the city in an attempt to avoid whatever plans the King had for him, is that a fair assessment?' Both Aramis and Porthos had the grace to look uncomfortable.
'We don't want to, but it does look that way,' Porthos rumbled.
'Very well, let us look at what we know. The King sends for Athos as soon as we arrive, we all accompany him to the palace, where we find Milady de Winter skulking as usual. She tells you what the King has planned and agrees to create a distraction, whilst you two spirit Athos away. Is that correct?'
'Yes, but I never asked her to shoot someone,' Aramis spluttered. Treville held up his hand.
'I never said you did. Now let us put her convenient presence there aside for the moment. We all arrive outside the palace rooms and we hear a gunshot. What do you believe happened next?'
Aramis and Porthos exchanged expressions. 'You know what happened next, we rushed into the room saw the fallen guard and hurried the King and Queen to safety. There was no sign of the shooter because we know who it was and presumably she knew somewhere to hide.'
'And what about Athos?'
'He must 'ave slipped away in the confusion,' Porthos muttered, but Aramis was frowning, deep in thought.
'No, that does not make sense. If Athos heard a gunshot inside the King's apartments, he would not have stopped to consider his own problems, he would have barged inside and…'
Porthos finished his sentence with a slight grin on his face, '…probably thrown himself in front of the shooter.'
'He did not run, he would never have run.' Aramis slapped his head in irritation and strode across the room. 'What were we thinking? Athos did not leave of his own accord.'
Both Musketeers were overjoyed, until the reality hit. 'So where is 'e?'
All three men looked nonplussed. 'We can only assume he was taken. Yet it must have been very quick, and Milady's distraction played right into their hands, whoever they are. Unless of course he went with her.'
'He would not have left the King and Queen willingly, even for her,' Aramis stated.
'We need to find 'er,' Porthos growled as he stood and cracked his knuckles.
'My guess is you will not be the only ones interested in finding her. Richelieu will know by now of her presence in Pinot and his spies will be seeking her out. Get to it, my guess is he is still in the city, but God knows where. Find him.'
The two men needed no encouragement, fuelled by their anger at not realising what had been right in front of them from the very start. As always, it was Aramis who voiced his feelings first. 'How could we have not realised the whole thing was wrong?'
'Because the secretive bastard never tells us what 'e's up to, and 'e's done stupid things before.' Porthos was angry, but Aramis understood that part of that anger was aimed at himself.
'It has been a week, we have wasted a week.'
'It wasn't wasted; we know where not to bother to look now. Though I 'ave no idea where to look for 'er. I suppose we could start with the sewers.'
In fact it was a stroke of luck that gave them the clue they had been looking for. They had tried taverns, boarding houses, even brothels. Where did one look for a hired assassin?
They had finally decided they were too hungry to concentrate so had ordered lunch at The Red Lion. They ate in silence, each trying to think of where to look next.
Suddenly an argument began on the table next to them, so loud they could not help but take notice.
'Ay, you're cheatin.'
'No I aint, you're just rubbish at cards. Stick to stealin.' The man accused of cheating stood up and began to gather up his winnings.
'I ain't no theif thief,' the smaller man yelled.
'Really, and I suppose you got that fancy knife for your birthday?' the man jeered as he pocketed the coin and made for the door. The knife in question whistled far too close to Porthos' head for comfort and embedded itself in the post closest to the door. The man who had won the game made a dive through small gap and left in a hurry. Porthos rose slowly to his feet and pulled the offending weapon free from the wood, giving the man who had thrown it an evil glare.
'That, my friend, was a big mistake.' He made to move toward the man, but Aramis held him back.
'Wait, give me the knife.' Porthos stalled and passed the dagger to Aramis.
'Wot is it?'
'We know that knife, look closer.' The tavern was dim, and they were not sitting near the fire or a window. However, upon closer inspection the fine engraving on the hilt of the knife became clear, along with the small rendering of the de la Fère crest.
They looked at one another and then back at the man now inching toward the doorway.
This time Porthos threw the knife, and it pinned the man to the door by his coat.
'Excellent throw,' Aramis quipped as they rounded on the terrified man.
'Thank you, I've been practising.'
They pulled out the knife and flung the wide-eyed man into a chair. Brandishing the dagger before his face Porthos pulled a chair around and sat facing the man, his arms leaning on the back of the seat. He twirled the knife in his hands and knew he had the man's attention.
'This is a good knife, sharp and well honed. Could take a man's fingers off easily don't yer think?' he said to Aramis with a quizzical expression.
'Oh yes, easily. In fact it could probably take out a tongue just as effortlessly, a lying tongue.' He smiled at the man who had gone a horrible shade of green.
'It was a present, honest. Sister's boy give it to me for my birthday.' The two Musketeers looked incredulous.
'He gave you this knife for your birthday? He must like you very much to have bought such a fine object.
The man licked his lips and continued to blurt out his tale. ''E's a good boy, but childlike, not a lot upstairs. I practically bought 'im up.' He obviously hoped this would be explanation enough, but he was wrong.
Porthos pretended to drop the knife but caught it just before it hit the man's crotch. 'Oops, sorry, my 'and's tired,' the big man frowned.
'Where might we find the boy?' Aramis smiled at the man urging him to talk quickly.
''E 'elps out at the guard barracks, 'e likes 'orses and they let 'im do the dirty jobs. I thought that was where 'e 'ad probably got the knife.'
The two Musketeers exchanged a look of understanding. 'Thank you, my friend, we will return this to its owner. What is the boy's name?'
'Joseph.' With that he leapt from the chair and without hindrance vanished into the night.
'Do you think the knife being found by a boy who works at the guard barracks is a coincidence?'
'Do you? That bastard Giroux 'as got a lot of talking to do.
'He is probably asleep.'
'Good, then let's go and wake 'im up.'