Sarah D'Almeida - Dying by the Sword

She looked at Aramis, eyes wide, lips trembling a little. “She has found out he has become a musketeer, and her price for whatever she’s doing for the Cardinal is a safe conduct to be allowed to do what she wishes to this musketeer and his friends.”

“Do you remember the musketeer’s name?” Aramis asked, cold sweat now trickling down his body, and his mind clenching in panic. “Anything that might tell me who he is?”

“His name is Athos,” Huguette said. And, quite unaware that Aramis felt as though he’d just turned to stone, “I remember because it’s an odd name. Like yours.”

ARAMIS, having left the tavern in good time, and finding himself, as of yet, devoid of followers, stood in a narrow alley, removing his gloves and slipping them back on, a trick he had when he was in something of a puzzle.

He could return to Athos’s house, but he could not imagine why he would be needed there. After all, the two most affected by alcohol were sleeping and, if he knew Porthos, the one least affected by alcohol would be snoring-and loudly too. This meant that Athos’s chamber was the last place to seek repose. As for the sitting room, he supposed he could sleep on a chair, or rolled upon his cloak on the floor. In fact, he’d slept in far worse conditions, when the King’s honor demanded that they march to battle. He remembered nights in arms, spent sleeping standing up, against a wall, under the pouring rain.

He had no wish to repeat that experience, though he was fairly sure he would, when next the kingdom embroiled itself in war with its neighbors over someone’s religion or someone else’s vacant throne. Until then, he had absolutely no interest in recollecting the hardships of battle by putting himself in discomfort.

Thoughts of his bed, its soft mattress and immaculate linen sheets, came to mind. Only he remembered the tone of voice in which Huguette had told about the woman, Charlotte. If she was one of the Cardinal’s minions; if she was even half so dangerous as Huguette believed… Well, it would be all up. Perhaps Aramis was becoming as afraid of shadows as his friends had been under the influence of alcohol, but he still couldn’t dispose of the conviction that the last place he should go was his lodgings. If she had asked for Athos’s life-and by extension their lives-as recompense, then heaven only knew what information the Cardinal might have given her, and what it might mean as far as their being safe in their own homes and in their own beds. And if he went home now, he wouldn’t even have the relatively ineffective Bazin as a guard.

And yet, he couldn’t imagine going to Athos’s house and crowding upon the already crowded floor or the even more crowded bed. He could, he thought, ask Grimaud for his bed, and he was fairly sure Grimaud would give it to him too. But Grimaud was old enough to be Athos’s father, which meant, in the end, that he was almost old enough to be Aramis’s grandfather. No good could come of this. Aramis could obtain his bed, but he would find himself unable to sleep for the remorse.

The other part of it was that he did not, very much, feel like sleeping. His body was charged with a sort of electrical energy, and he could not help but want to do something. Part of it was, he very much feared, that he wasn’t sure he could go home and sleep. Not with the idea that Athos’s wife was far worse than anything that Athos could represent with his story and that she wanted all their lives. If Huguette had not exaggerated-and though the girl could be fairly zany, in the past he had found her rather purple information, if anything, on the side of understated-then this woman was of the type that could not possibly have tolerated the injury that Athos had done her. He and everyone associated with him would be slated for death and this would most certainly include the friends that everyone knew spent most of every day with him.

Aramis was very much afraid even his well-appointed bed would not soothe him into sleep. And he certainly didn’t want to go back to Athos’s lodgings, wake his friend and tell him that the wife he’d thought dead was not only alive, but she was no common grade of criminal or fugitive. No, she was the sort of criminal or fugitive who could climb to the top rungs of society and destroy all those who stood in her way.

Aramis became aware that he was holding the tip of his tongue between his teeth, as though he were forcibly attempting to keep himself from telling the absent Athos the bad news. Which meant he definitely wasn’t ready to face his-who would be extremely hungover-friend. And he wasn’t ready to seek comfort in his bed, supposing there were no sharpened stakes waiting at his own doorstep, which at the moment was a somewhat unwarranted supposition.

So… So he would go to the armory, he thought. He had heard Porthos’s description, and D’Artagnan’s account of local gossip, but he was quite willing to bet that there was a nightlife in the area also, and that those abroad at that time would be more willing to talk to him than to Porthos or D’Artagnan. After all, people were more respectful of someone who was obviously a nobleman and wasn’t afraid to command their respect.

Of course, Athos could probably do the nobleman act better than Aramis, but Athos was more likely to scare them into silence than to get them to speak. Aramis they tended to think of as a fool and a dandy, and as such they viewed him as quite inoffensive.

With this happy thought, he set off at a fast clip towards the neighborhood of small close houses where the armory was. It had the advantage of being-he supposed-the very last place where anyone would look for him, just now. And it should keep Aramis happily occupied till dawn when perhaps he would be ready to brave his friends.

What he did not exactly count on was on finding the streets around the armory as empty as those of a ghost town, where everyone had suddenly died in the privacy of their houses, leaving the outside areas haunted only by shadows. Aramis took a moment to reason that, after all, he was used to musketeers and to taverns, to wenches who prowled the night and to courtiers. He was not used to people who actually woke up in the morning and worked. He supposed those would need to sleep at night.

Yet, unwilling to turn and go back to his friends, he, instead, walked around the armory. He tested the front door which, doubtless as a follow-up to Porthos’s interesting adventure, had been chained. Then he walked around, noticing how close the armory was to the house. Leaning one on the other, in fact. He wondered if there was an internal connecting passage and went along to poke his head in the narrow space between the two-so narrow, in fact, that it was hard to get his hand in between the two walls. Which he was in the process of doing when he heard a crunch of feet on gravel behind him. He started to turn around, but before he could someone or something swept his hat from his head. And something heavy hit him hard on the back of the head and the world went black.

He woke up in complete darkness and being jolted about. His first thought was that he was in a carriage, but judging from the jolts, he was being carried around in something that shook all over the place-which meant a not very good carriage, he supposed. He reached up, only to find out that if it was a carriage, it was a very small one, since he was confined, in a sitting position, with his back bent over forward, in a space barely large enough to contain him. A frantic feeling of the space around him disclosed that they had taken his sword and-apparently-his hat as well.

His first, terrifying thought was that he was in a coffin. But if he were in a coffin, the coffin was still being carried around and not confined in the ground. And besides, Aramis had never seen a coffin the shape his enclosure appeared to be-fairly high and rectangular at the base, and covered over by a domed space.