Read Dying by the sword Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
Dying by the sword (22 page)
“By nighttime I was on my way to Paris, with Grimaud. By the end of the week I was installed, as you see me, and I’d spoken to Monsieur de Treville, an old family friend, and obtained a post in the musketeers. Since then, every year, I’ve considered returning. But I’ve found I have very little interest in revisiting the site of my misguided idylls. And even if I did, I’d prefer it if the present generation has passed away, and no one there remembers how much in love I used to be.”
He was pacing again, between chair and window, his steps rubbery, the room seeming to tilt under his feet. Through his window he saw lights come and go, like torches in the night. Carriages, he supposed, or perhaps parties of people walking and carrying a torch or a lantern. Though this was not a place known for revelers, there was some foot traffic, at night. “I thought it a little odd that I never heard of her being found, or even of her missing. We were somewhat lost in my hunting preserve, but after all, other people hunted there, if no one else, my cousin when he came into residence. And if someone had found her, they could not at all be at a loss about who she was. She was wearing her clothes. But no one found her, and I simply waited and was happy of a momentary respite.”
He stopped, his mind in confusion, thinking he hadn’t been glad of a respite at all. All this time, all the years he’d been away from La Fere, he’d been waiting for doom to come upon his head again. The one time he’d been happy in his life had ended in the greatest dishonor and pain. The one time. And now, he wasn’t even happy, but he had his position and his friends. He had been waiting for something horrible to happen. And it might well have had.
“And what happened?” a voice asked. He thought it was Porthos. “Did they find her?”
Athos heard a very odd sound, half cackle, half sob escape his lips. “No. No, my friend. I found her. Today. Outside the Palais Cardinal.”
“What?” another voice asked, almost certainly D’Artagnan’s. “But how can her body . . .”
“It wasn’t her body. Or rather, yes, it was, but she had moved it herself, she still being very much alive.”
“You never verified that you had killed her?” Porthos asked.
Athos shook his head. “I couldn’t. Even such as I did . . . it has tormented my mind and heart . . . all these years.”
“And are you sure it was her?” Aramis asked. “You know women can look devilishly alike, and after all this time . . .”
Athos nodded. “Aramis, I’ve dreamed about her every night since it happened. In my heart, I’ve never really stopped thinking about her. Her image is etched in my heart and seared in my soul. I could never not recognize her. It was her, but she went by me as if she didn’t recognize me . . . which . . . perhaps she didn’t, but . . . Why the Palais Cardinal?”
There was another soft bout of swearing. From its definite near-pious characteristics, and the soft voice in which it was pronounced, Athos was sure it was Aramis. He tried to protest that he truly wanted to know, but his tongue had, unaccountably gone thick and unyielding. So had his legs, which presently stopped obeying him and lost all force under him.
“Porthos,” Aramis’s voice said, as though from a long way off. “You help me carry him to the bed. And you’d best stay here. I think both he and D’Artagnan are quite out of human reach, just now. I . . . I have some things to do, and I will return in the morning.”
“Things to do?”
“I know a man,” Aramis said, “who might tell me who this blond servant of the Cardinal is. I’m hoping, I’m almost praying, that she is not . . . whom Athos thought she was.”
And Athos, lost between consciousness and a deep, black abyss of nothing, wanted to explain he wouldn’t prefer that. Then he would still be waiting for them to find her body.
But his mouth could form no more than a long, low moan, and, as he felt Porthos lift him, he plunged fully into the black nothingness.
The Garden after the Fall; Where Aramis Knows Several Men; The Cardinal’s New Right Hand
ARAMIS stepped out into the cool night, to find himself as if in a prefiguration of the Garden of Eden. Granted, at best Paris was a built-over garden of Eden, but now at the end of winter, when the night wasn’t quite as icy as it had been, it was possible to imagine the night perfumed with newly grown flowers, with soft, ripe grass, with the promise of the coming spring.
He looked at the stars above, and thought of his friends, up in Athos’s lodging. Porthos, perhaps because he had heard Athos’s story, had felt unusually fearful of attack. He’d told Aramis, in a perfectly serious tone, that since they still didn’t know why they’d been attacked in the gardens of the royal palace, it was not unheard of for them to be attacked in their own lodgings. And he did not feel confident with the three of them being in separate rooms.
Aramis had thought of explaining that people who broke into musketeer lodgings were, by definition, desperate enough to face practically anyone or anything. Or of pointing out that he doubted anyone at all, who knew Athos well enough to know where he lived, would find it a good idea to break into his house.
He did neither. Both of those might be true and sensible, but, in point of fact, neither mattered. Porthos felt threatened, and therefore they’d managed to lay Athos and D’Artagnan, side by side, on Athos’s bed, which had, fortunately, been brought from his domain and was therefore large and sturdy enough to fit another two musketeers, if needed, without their needing to touch.
Porthos had brought a chair from the sitting room, and half lain upon it, wrapped in his cloak. For good measure, Grimaud, who clearly felt as threatened as Porthos did, even without hearing Athos’s story—which he possibly already knew—had set a rotation of servants on guard outside the door.
So, Aramis thought, this was a paradise where the fall had occurred. And a serpent lurked somewhere out of sight. This thought sharpened his eyes, as he looked around. And he saw enough shadows lurking that he tightened his pace. And when the shadows detached from doorways and the darkened mouths of alleys, he started running, to avoid them.
It rankled to run, as he’d never before turned from offered combat. But he remembered the fight all too vividly, and he was not about to allow himself to be caught. There were far more of them than of him, and under those circumstances, it would not be a fight, but a slaughter.
He took various turns, blindly, with only one thought in mind—to get to the portions of the town where taverns were still busy and the streets thronged with strangers. There, even should his pursuers set on him, he would be more than able to call to his aid those musketeers nearby—and in the area where taverns clustered, there would be a lot of musketeers.
By the time he reached the nearest of these streets—Saint Antoine—he was running full force, and careened into the crowd of prostitutes and late-night drinkers like a man diving into a tawdry sea. Like water, they closed about him, carrying him along, in their revels.
He took several turns at random, and whenever he could, he turned to look back. Soon he was glad to note not a single man cloaked in black in sight. Not that there might not be black-cloaked people who were in no way related to those pursuing him, but on these streets you were more likely to find peacock colors and a blazing display of jewels that would shame Porthos himself.
He turned and turned again, surrounded by the smell of wine, of perfume, of sweaty bodies, taking care always to be in the thick of the crowd. A woman’s hand—at least he hoped it was a woman’s—took rather disconcerting liberties with his breeches, and a wishful sigh echoed from the direction the hand emerged.
Aramis resisted curiosity, which told him to turn and look, and walked on. At one of the edges of the drinking district, the one closest to the Palais Cardinal, he found himself quite free of pursuers.
He headed at a fast clip for the Palais Cardinal, or rather for a small tavern near it, where some of the Cardinal’s more . . . assiduous servants ate their evening meals, and often stayed by to drink their evening drinks. It wasn’t frequented by guards, as such. Or even by the Cardinal’s secretaries. No. Here came the keepers of the Cardinal’s clothes, the people who cleaned the Palais Cardinal and those who cooked for him.
While Aramis stuck out in there, like a lion at a congregation of ants, he’d been coming to the place for so many years that his entrance, in his well-cut suit, his plume-trimmed hat, occasioned not even a stare. The men ignored him. They usually did. The truth was that, for all that Aramis claimed to know a man, mostly—as Porthos was always quick to point out—he knew women. And women who made their living from scrubbing and cleaning were still, and ultimately, women. Women who had trouble resisting Aramis’s pale blond hair, his sparkling green eyes, his well-molded lips and his soft, whispering voice.
Aramis had first come in here out of a fascinated interest, like a man who sets out to explore an unknown jungle. He wasn’t of Porthos’s cut. He didn’t view these places, attended by laborers and humble artificers, as the true source of humanity’s best. Aramis thought that, all other things being equal, the best of humanity should come better washed, and, if at all possible, more fashionably attired.
But he knew that servants found out as much or more about their masters, as did their best-trusted secretaries and their guards. Sometimes more. It was, after all, highly unlikely that even the Cardinal had a personal secretary wash his underwear. So he’d started coming here, night after night, when he could spare the time from more urgent pursuits. And now, after all this time, he could come into the darkness, illuminated by sputtering candles made of bacon grease, with hardly a flinch and without actually attempting to avoid the touch of his fellow customers.
He made his way between tables packed with drinkers, to the one table at the back where he usually sat and listened to the conversations, while doing his best to dispense spiritual advice.
He’d no more sat down, and asked his server—the burly son of the tavern keeper—for a pint of their best wine, when a woman emerged from the shadows and sat across from him, giving him a brilliant smile.
She was very young—maybe no more than sixteen or so—which in this environment was the only explanation for her still possessing all her teeth. She was also somewhat pretty, or would be, with her little round face washed, her blondish hair properly combed, and wearing something other than a formless grey sack. Her name was Huguette, or at least that’s what they called her, when they weren’t calling her “pretty” and “sweet” and other such names.
Aramis had heard that she worked in the Cardinal’s kitchens, and he suspected that she engaged in a bit of prostitution on the side, just for the fun of it. Whether this was true or not, she was clearly unchaperoned, unguarded, and quite, quite determined to make the conquest of the fine-looking gentleman who consented to sit among them.
Today was no different, as she sat on the bench across from him, and pulled up her legs, so that the sack fell, and her legs were displayed from the thigh down. She wasn’t to know that those thighs, with their bony knees and the almost too thin legs, excited nothing in Aramis but a profound sense of pity. In fact, long as it had been since he’d seen D’Artagnan’s bare legs, and unexciting as he’d found the occasion, he would probably say that D’Artagnan’s legs—hair and all—were far more luscious. All Huguette made him wish to do was buy her a loaf of bread and a slice of meat. But he’d tried that at first and found that she considered it payment in advance and became, therefore, even harder to evade.
So he’d taken a sip of his wine—more to prove friendly than because he had any wish to drink it, since the vintage here was vinegary and quite a few steps below Athos’s excellent burgundy, of which Aramis had not drunk more than a few sips. In fact, faced with how incapable of self-defense the wine had made his comrades back at Athos’s house, Aramis felt not at all like drinking. He said to Huguette in his softest, most clerical voice, “Good evening my daughter.”
She gave him a look full of mischievous fun. “Your daughter, am I? Coo. I knew you gentlemen were strange, but not that strange. Even Rochefort is not that odd.”
Aramis refused to rise to the bait, either of pretending to believe her misunderstanding, or wishing to explore Rochefort’s strangeness. The idea of what Rochefort might or might not want to do in the privacy of his chamber left Aramis completely uninterested. It was what Rochefort did to France, in full light of day, and with the Cardinal’s orders to back it up, that made Aramis’s heart beat faster. Usually with fear. He took another sip of his wine, to disguise his confusion, and Huguette laughed softly.
None of the other women were coming near today, which, probably, meant none of the other women were in the tavern. Aramis would have preferred to get his gossip from a more informed source or, at least, since he didn’t think that Huguette was ill-informed, from a more stable source. But if Huguette was all there was, he would have to cater to her topics, and he would have to approach the subject, he judged, via Rochefort. Though he refused to ask about Rochefort’s habits, in general.
“So,” he said. “Is the blond lady one of Rochefort’s friends?”
“What blond lady?” she asked. “There are so many.”
“The one who came in earlier,” Aramis said, and relayed what he remembered of Athos’s description without the superlatives, which he was sure were only how Athos saw her, and in no way connected to reality—or only very little.
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