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Chapter Text

Translations

chapeau - hat

pièce de résistance - the best or most important thing

Venner - Venner was a military-political position in medieval Switzerland. In Bern, the Venner was very powerful and important to the operations of the city.  Because fiction does not always follow truth, for the purposes of this story, Herr Joos is retired from the military, but has retained the title of Venner and oversees the negotiating of Berne's capitulations.

Capitulation - Swiss contracts for military service

Monsieur vie du parti -  Mr. Life of the Party

Rathaus -  Berne's medieval state house - which may not have housed guests in 1630.  For the purposes of this story, the attached wing provides guest housing

Platz - plaza or square

Brunnen - fountain

Mademoiselle la Chatte - Miss Cat

Monsieur le Chien - Mr. Dog

Messieurs - gentlemen

PROLOGUE

Sunday, May 5, 1630

The eyes beneath the cant of the hat brim were the color of a frozen Caribbean sea, chips of ice set in the composed features, though it was unlikely his foe caught even a glimpse of them as the lantern he carried dropped from suddenly lax fingers, replaced by a primed and ready pistol.  The naked rapier instantly in his right hand flexed infinitesimally as he raised the gun and shot the first one charging him.  The second, rapidly closing in on his right, dropped with a broken neck from a savagely whipped pistol butt before the now useless weapon was abandoned.  He jammed his parrying dagger into a third, yanked it out and whirling, sent it spinning toward the jugular of a fourth who had no time to dodge as he engaged the fifth in a silent, deadly duel that lasted approximately three minutes before Athos disengaged from a bind, rocked back on his left heel and drove the point of his rapier between the left fourth and fifth ribs. 

His sword made sucking sounds as he pulled it out very slowly and watched his opponent keel over like a straw dummy.

"Last man standing."  The rasp was barely a whisper.   It took a great deal of effort not to kick the  body as Athos stepped over it, moving to disengage a massive key ring from the belt of the man whose neck was sporting his blade.  He collected the parrying dagger as well, stuck it hilt-deep in the dirt to rid it of the blood and stowed it in its sheath behind his back before rising, rapier quietly quiescent in his rock steady hand. 

"Are they here?" d'Artagnan, grabbing a gatepost to stop his sliding entrance into the courtyard, asked breathlessly.

Chapter One

Seven days earlier ...

"Hold still," Aramis commanded,  "your neck cloth is crooked." 

Athos scowled but stood still, allowing Aramis to undo and then retie the long band of cloth. 

"You lie like a rug," the comte growled, attempting to glance down when Aramis let him go.  "It was not crooked and now I look like a court jester."  The starched material had been completely rearranged from his simple knotted style, into an elaborate waterfall. 

"You look like a Huguenot, or perhaps an English Puritan."  Aramis elbowed Porthos - admiring his velvet puce attire, topped by a small mauve-tinted ruff - out from in front of the mirror, dragging Athos to stand before it.  "A dash of class is not going to kill you."  He reached around the eye-rolling Musketeer to adjust his efforts with the neck cloth.  "You took the potion?" he asked quietly.

"I would not be standing here otherwise."  Athos made a face in the mirror.  "I am merely over warm from the exertions of turning myself into a court jester."  And he was over warm.  Even Aramis thought the fever should have run its course by now, though he had remarked that perhaps it would have if their fearless leader had taken it to bed instead of to the Rathaus negotiating table on their arrival. 

They were here in Berne on a diplomatic mission, negotiating for Swiss backing  should it eventually come to war with Spain.  Five days into their journey Athos had come down with a wicked chill that had sized head, throat and chest .  He'd sneezed, coughed and wheezed his way through another sennight, arriving in Berne exhausted and out of sorts Tuesday night, only to be up and at the negotiating table bright and early Wednesday morning. 

Several heated negotiating sessions, one outdoor picnic and a welcome ball later, the Swiss were throwing yet another party in honor of the Musketeer contingent.  A masquerade, to which the entire city had been invited.  It was Saturday night and tomorrow was officially a day of rest.

Athos just wanted to go to bed.  He had taken Aramis' potion, mostly because he was too worn down to make even a token protest anymore.  Those damn potions and plasters were the only thing binding body and soul together. 

He met Aramis' concerned gaze in the mirror again.  "I will rest tomorrow."

Aramis' mouth twitched in a moue of regret, but he said nothing.  Much as he would have liked to order Athos to bed, the circumstances were delicate enough without adding fuel to the fire.  They'd been treated with respect, feted daily, offered every hospitable courtesy, and yet at the negotiating table, the Swiss - who for centuries had supplied mercenaries to the French kings - were being truculent.  The French contingent could not afford to allow their leader the leisure of lying abed. 

Aramis squeezed the tense shoulders briefly.  Athos would blacken his eye if he attempted overt sympathy.  "Tomorrow is not so far away as it seems," he said quietly.  "We don't have to stay long this evening."

Athos picked up his hat from the elaborately scrolled and gilded side board beneath the mirror.  It matched his customary black coat perfectly, though this coat - knee-length, open down the front and adorned with large, embossed silver buttons from neck to waist - was of superfine, with matching buttons ornamenting the wide, turned-back cuffs as well as the pocket flaps.  Black breeches molded the long, lean length of thigh on display when the coat opened, tucking into just-over-the-knee black boots polished to a high sheen. 

Aramis had made him change out of the loose black shirt Athos had donned beneath this outfit, into a more tailored shirt of fine, white cotton lawn and produced the pristine white neck cloth.

"If you look like a court jester, I look like the jongleur at the faire."  d'Artagnan appeared in the doorway of the room he shared with Athos, tugging at the wide lace collar draping over his shoulders. 

The Inseparables turned as a unit to inspect their newest addition.   

"Well ain't you a sight for sore eyes," Porthos proclaimed heartily, moving to clap the boy on the back.  "I was worried you'd be too skinny to fill out the suit properly." 

"Madam Bonacieux made some alterations.  It's hot," d'Artagnan complained.  "And way too tight for plying a sword."  He wore a flattering velvet doublet the color of old copper, close cut with decorative flaps of coffee-colored suede sewn at a slant along the hips and coming to a point just below the last suede button affixed at the waist.  He flexed an elbow broodingly as his companions watched in amusement.  "No range of motion at all!"

"Fortunately your range of motion will be taxed only in so far as the need to extend your arms as the dancing requires," Aramis threw over his shoulder as he disappeared into the second bed chamber. 

Porthos threw back his head and laughed heartily.  "I'm tellin' ya, ya look a sight, youngling.  You'll have trouble beatin' off the ladies tonight."

The sleeves of d'Artagnan's doublet were slashed on the inside of the arms and inset with the same cream-colored material as the Brussels lace embroidered around the edges in a pattern of fleur de lis at collar and cuffs.  The britches were of the same thin suede as the coat flaps and fit like they had been tailored especially for d'Artagnan.  Madam Bonacieux either had a very good eye, or her boarder had been especially cooperative. 

d'Artagnan had flatly refused to consider dancing shoes, insisting he would wear his own boots or go barefoot when Porthos had taken him to the market stall of an old friend from the Court who dealt in used clothing. 

Porthos, after much argument, had finally agreed that the boots were workable.  Now he brandished his own addition to d'Artagnan's evening wear, a pair of ribbons elaborately tied and knotted to resemble something like a golden chrysanthemum, that he knelt and began to affix to the outside of d'Artagnan's right boot.

"What?  NO!" d'Artagnan smacked Porthos' bent head.  "I'm not wearing flowers on my knees!"

At the youth's beseeching look, Athos, watching in the mirror, shrugged his incompetence in dealing with Porthos or Aramis when it came to matters of fashion. 

Porthos stabbed the Gascon with the large needle he was using to attach the flourishing bows.  "Less'n you wanna be stabbed again, hold still.  You're not gonna put the rest of us to shame with yer barnyard boots."

"They are not--"

Aramis, in a flowing white silk shirt and small clothes still, having attended to the dressing of his companions like a lady's maid, reappeared in the doorway.  "You've been whining incessantly about a hat," he interrupted, producing a chapeau from behind his back. 

This had the happy corollary of shutting down the current line of whining with alacrity; d'Artagnan was instantly entranced. 

The hat was the same dark brown suede as the pocket flaps and breeches, it's brim canted fore and aft, the left side curving up slightly, a long, metallic green peacock feather curling from the left front around to the back of the brim. 

Athos, hard pressed to keep the amusement dancing in his eyes off his face, and grateful to have attention diverted from himself,  stepped back from the mirror as Aramis set the hat on the puppy's head, adjusted the brim, and shoved d'Artagnan in the front of the looking glass. 

Aramis and Porthos flanked Athos' position, watching a kind of dazed, worshipful gratitude settle over the youthful features.  d'Artagnan met each gaze in the mirror, his grin a blinding flash of white in the tawny face.  "Really?  It's mine?"

"Yours." Porthos flashed a matching grin.  "A gift from all of us."

The grin broadened impossibly as d'Artagnan reached up to run a finger over the brim shadowing his face. 

"All properly dressed gentlemen must have a hat to complete their ensemble." Aramis laughed, pleased with their little coup. 

"An now you got to pay up, Athos!" Porthos cackled, smacking his fellow Musketeer on the back. 

Their lieutenant had come upon Aramis and Porthos crowing over their find and bet them they could not keep it a secret.  Athos, without the slightest protest, produced the requisite gold coins, flipping them dexterously at his companions.

Aramis snatched his out of the air, declaring, "And now I must finish dressing, else we'll be late for the party!"  

Porthos caught his as well, jingling it as it joined its cohorts in his pocket.  He was never without betting money, since one never knew when the stars might align and make a lucky man a rich one, too. 

"Thank you all," d'Artagnan offered shyly, reluctantly removing the new accouterment; a gentleman did not wear his hat indoors.  Being ready to go, he moved to lean against the wall, the hat under his arm, his gaze caressing the extraordinary feather though he refrained from running his hand over it.   

Porthos resumed his primping before the mirror, reshaping his oiled beard and adjusting the small starched ruff yet again.  He wore satin knee britches of a light purple, the voluminous material gathered at the fitted waist and knee, and over these, a coat of dark purple velvet trimmed with ermine sprinkled with brilliants.  His dancing shoes were of black leather, tied with purple ribbons that matched the color of the fleur de lis fancifully worked into the silk of his white stockings.  But the pièce de résistance of this ensemble was the floor-length mantle of ermine clasped at the neck by a chain of gold . 

His purse fat from a successful night of plucking newly recruited Red Guards, Porthos had been unable to resist the siren song of the rig.  He silently congratulated himself yet again on his find, as he watched Athos retreat to one of the chairs situated by the wide picture window.  "You gonna be okay?" he asked the reflection in the mirror. 

Athos, having turned his gaze out the window overlooking the courtyard of the Berner Rathaus, none-the-less knew the question was directed at him.  "Needs must when the devil drives," he murmured, momentarily drawing d'Artagnan's attention from his gift. 

"Aramis?" the youth lifted his voice, and in the next instant lost it for a moment as he stared at the picture the sharp shooter made, once more framed in the doorway.  This time for effect.  There was not an effeminate bone in either of the Musketeer's, but Aramis' enjoyment of fashion rivaled Porthos'. 

Porthos had just moved on to using his oiled fingers on his eyebrows when Aramis reappeared.  He was not overly impressed with the suit itself, though he did admire the waterfall of lace his compatriot wore. 

A collar of it poured over Aramis' shoulders, it fountained from his throat, over his wrists and even fell gracefully from the tops of his boots.  He rustled like the wind as he strode into the room, wafting the spicy scent of bergamot and cedar. 

d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open, though he shut it quickly.  He had thought the garments black initially, until Aramis moved to the center of the room to buckle on his dress sword.  The material caught the light of the fire and the Gascon saw it was a deep, shimmering blue, the color of the ocean under a starlit night. 

"You called?" Aramis glanced over at their wide-eyed baby Musketeer. 

"I did?" d'Artagnan blinked.  He had never seen anything so exquisite.  "Oh - I did."  

Aramis cocked an eyebrow questioningly. 

"Ahhhmm ..." d'Artagnan turned his gaze on Athos, who had turned from the window and was eyeing the Gascon with disfavor. 

"Leave off your fretting," Athos said more sharply than he had intended.  "It does not help in the least."  His headache was escalating with each sidelong glance and measuring look.  "There is sufficient strength yet to pummel the next to suggest I am too feeble to be on my feet."

Aramis bowed with ingratiating charm, the firelight rippling coyly over his deceptively simple doublet.  "Beware Athos' ill favor, especially when he's sober."  The coat was fitted at the shoulders, wide at the thigh-length hem, the sleeves slashed thrice from shoulder to wrist to show intricately pleated lace insets.  The britches of the same shimmering blue were not quite so fitted as either d'Artagnan's nor Athos', but neither were they as fulsome as Porthos'.  They disappeared into a pair of boots dyed the exact blue of the suit, the rolled boot cuffs all but covered by the same Venetian lace as graced shoulders, throat and wrists. 

"My we are a resplendent lot," Athos remarked, ignoring the accurate assessment of his mood as he eyed the pair of peacocks vying for space before the looking glass.  "Madam Joos' carriage awaits, though I do not believe it's large enough to bear all our sartorial splendor un-creased to our  destination.  d'Artagnan and I will ride escort."

Neither Aramis nor Porthos were dressed to ride and Athos had no intention of stuffing himself into the hot, stifling confines of a closed carriage. 

Tonight's festivities were in honor of old alliances revisited, though why the Swiss were flaunting this in the face of their current dithering, Athos could not quite grasp.  The king's  palace guard was Swiss, as had been his father's before him.  Louis had decided in his usual arbitrary way, that should it come to war with Spain, he desired that the core of his army be Swiss mercenaries.  He'd heard stories of their prowess in battle from all his father's aides, and remembered stories from his father, Henry IV, as well.

To that end, he had gone around the cardinal, who believed the sons of France perfectly capable of defending their own territory, enlisting Treville's aid in sending Musketeers on this diplomatic mission. 

This was not the first time their unit had seen diplomatic service.  Athos could be silver-tongued when he chose to use his vast store of knowledge, Aramis was a born courtier, and Porthos' menacing bulk bore silent testimony to France's ability to field an army of vigorous, strapping young men of its own. They were a fair contingent; intelligent, self-disciplined and shrewd bargainers.  If the Inseparables were available, they were always Tréville's first choice for diplomatic missions. 

Athos headed for the door of their suite.

"Wait," Aramis commanded, producing, apparently by sleight of hand, several layers of what appeared to be black cloth.  "When in Rome ..." he said, when Athos drew back.  "It's a masquerade,  we must at least start out masked."

"Aramis --"

"As the guests of honor we can hardly fail to participate.  It would be an insult to our hosts."

Athos took the strip of black silk with a low growl, despite the fact Aramis was right. 

"We must enter from different directions too," Aramis admonished, ushering his companions through the door and closing it softly behind their quartet.  "Else we will be instantly recognizable and where's the fun in that?"

"No," Athos said flatly.  "We go together or not all."

Aramis scowled over his shoulder.  "It is a party, Monsieur le Comte."

"We are in a foreign country, on a mission, Monsieur Vie du Parti," Athos returned with finality.

" Mr. Life of the Party," Porthos hooted, as they turned right toward the stairs that would take them to the Rathaus vestibule and thence down to the Rathausplatz and the carriage Madam Joos had sent for them.  "A tidy comeback, Athos.  You know he's right, so stop yer poutin'," he said, poking Aramis, "we'll be the belles of the ball anyway, since it's in our honor."

d'Artagnan made a face as well.  "Is there no masculine form for that expression?  Aramis may desire the distinction, but I will leave it to him." 

For this piece of sass, he was smacked upside the head  by Aramis, striding along in his wake.  "You've a bit of the saucebox in you, youngling.  As your elder, you're required to treat me with respect."

d'Artagnan, laughing, slowed to greet his new friends as they passed through the foyer. "Mademoiselle la Chatte, Monsieur le Chien, you do not participate in the masquerade this evening?"  The cat immediately took advantage, rising up on her hind feet to rest a paw against d'Artagnan's boot in order to thoroughly investigate the rosettes, then batted playfully at the dangling ribbons. The dog, sitting attentively by the massive front doors, raised its big head to be petted too.

Porthos, in great good spirits, chortled, bending to swat the ribbons out of the cat's reach, though it was d'Artagnan he chastised.  "I did not go to the trouble of fashioning those for the cat's amusement, monsieur."  Straightening, he adjusted his cape so it flowed out behind him as he strode after Aramis.  If any among them was to be the belle of the ball, his glittering costume would far outstrip his companions and he was quite fond of adulation and praise.  He would happily accept the application of the term in all its glory. 

Even Athos chuckled; despite his stress and fatigue his companions high spirits were infectious. 

Madam Joos' carriage, awaiting their departure with majestic indifference, was a black lacquered affair with much silver gilt and a pair of greys between the traces that were almost an exact match for all the gilt.  The driver wore a grey velvet suit that was easily the equivalent of any of their finery and the inside of the carriage was a silver cocoon inlaid with black velvet squabs, the silver lamps already lit against evening's dusk. 

Herr Joos, the Venner heading up the negotiations,  was descended from the oldest of the aristocratic Swiss families whose titles dated from feudal nobility.  Much of the wealth of the Swiss confederacy was consolidated in the hands of these ruling families, which meant those same families also dictated the political alliances.  And those had long leaned toward the French. 

A groom held Athos and d'Artagnan's horses.

d'Artagnan, who did not mind riding at all, especially as it would provide a longer opportunity to sport his newly acquired head gear, still had to duck inside the door held open by an equally nattily attired tiger.  Though his father had been as elevated as any of the local gentry in Lupiac, with no Madam d'Artagnan requiring equipage to convey her from place to place, young d'Artagnan had no memory of a time when they had owned something so grand. 

Hat tucked under his arm again, the youth withdrew his head, whistling appreciatively as he stepped back and pompously extended a hand, palm up.  "Messieurs, may I assist you in entering your vehicle?" 

Aramis smacked the upturned palm and stooped to step into the carriage.  Porthos turned his nose up at the offered hand but flicked an imperative gesture at his flowing mantle.  d'Artagnan, in the spirit of the evening, gathered it up as Porthos bent nearly in half.  The carriage step sagged under the Musketeer's weight; he had to turn sideways to maneuver himself inside and dispose his tall frame logistically on the backwards facing seat. 

"You're going to roast in that getup," d'Artagnan laughed, stuffing the trailing train of velvet inside before slamming the door shut.  He returned his hat to his head, then lifted it to salute the coachman.  "We'll be right behind you," he said, turning to take the reins Athos handed down to him.

The hat, as he sprang with his usual enthusiasm into the saddle, not having been made for his head, sailed off to hang itself on an ornamental bush.  Athos merely clucked his horse forward, scooped it up, and handed it back to its new owner. 

d'Artagnan sheepishly readjusted it as he clicked his own mount to fall in beside the elder Musketeer.  Athos, amusement fading quickly, resigned himself to a long evening and prayed the refreshments included something stronger than watered wine. 

In their small company, Aramis ran their social obligations like the seasoned military campaigner he was.  Had there been no Savoy, he might also have planned their actual military campaigns.  That disastrous sortie, though, had broken something intrinsic in the then newly-minted Musketeer.  If there was a battle, he was in the thick of it.  If there was intrigue, he was planning it.  If there was a job needed doing, Aramis was doing it, but he consistently refused command.    Porthos, too, refused any attempt to move him up in the ranks, though both were as skilled as anyone, including Tréville, at running a garrison and commanding men. 

Athos had neither desired nor sought leadership any more than the others; Tréville, however, hadn't bothered to argue.  A word in the ear of Aramis or Porthos and the entire garrison looked to Athos in Tréville's absence.  Eventually Athos had quit fighting.  He did not love the burden of command, but he was good at it, and because he was still one of the troops, he had a finger on the pulse of the garrison and often knew even before the captain, when trouble was brewing. 

The pair on horseback followed the carriage circling around the square and the Vennerbrunnen- a fountain featuring an individual who looked a lot like the Venner heading up the council  - fronting the Rathaus in order to go west on the Rathausgasse.  They passed the Zähringerbrunnen, this one topped by a bear dressed in amour holding a shield, with a cub at its feet, memorializing the city's founder, Berchtold von Zähringer, then took a left turn south on the Kornhausbrücke, across the bridge and into the Kornhausplatz where the carriage pulled up along the edge of a stream of merry makers.  The driver leaned over the side to tell them he would meet them here again at the end of the night and bade his occupants join the throng of jolly Bernese happily threading their way to the center of the city. 

Chapter Text

Translations

Junge - young one

vieille dame - elderly woman

Mesdames - ladies

Mademoiselles - girls

adieu - goodbye

mon ami - my friend

atelier - studio/shop

Athos and d'Artagnan handed over their mounts to the tiger, the quartet tied on their masks and stepped beyond the sheltering carriage to be instantly swept into the throng.

Without being told, d'Artagnan stuck like glue to Athos' right shoulder, matching the Musketeer step for step.  Aramis was on their heels, with Porthos bringing up the rear as the crowd drew them along like a line of ducklings caught in the undertow. 

Torches, ensconced in holders affixed to columns between stone arches, lit the tableau as it shifted like a living tapestry, the rollicking ribbon of humanity splitting to accommodate a lively allemande already in progress, promenading down the center of the square with Venner Joos and his wife leading the column of dancers.  Above the noise of the crowd one could occasionally catch the drift of a tune capably rendered by an ensemble of woodwinds and strings. 

Athos stepped out of the flow, d'Artagnan and Aramis sliding out right beside him, to stand beneath a shadowed archway and watch. 

Porthos peacocked right up to the Venner's lady, bowing with suave sophistication as he claimed the right to cut in.  Her laughing spouse gracefully ceded his spot, still smiling broadly as he joined the remainder of the French negotiating party beneath the portico. 

"Your wife is in looks this evening, sir," Aramis remarked with just the right balance of respect and subtle masculine envy.  They had met her twice; first at the opening ball she had hosted at the abode of she and her spouse, the evening the negotiations had commenced, and again the next day, at an impromptu outdoor picnic when she'd brought lunch on the second day of haggling. 

"She is always in good looks, Herr Aramis!  Always!  I am the most fortunate of men." 

The lady was well above average height, her posture such that a princess would envy it, her exquisitely formed bosom jutting like the prow of a Viking ship.  Tonight she wore a rose gold gown flattering a figure a Valkyrie might envy as she swayed and swooped to the duple metre of the dance.  Her ensemble included a gold demi-mask in the shape of a butterfly, its jeweled wings glittering with smaller gems that gleamed as bright as her necklace, though the mask was mere convention, since all who beheld her would recognize her instantly.  Her husband's attire was a match for his wife, a dashing costume cut to show off the fact that he remained a fine figure of man, though on the downhill side of his prime. 

"Is Porthos allowed to do that?" d'Artagnan inquired artlessly, his social polish having extended only to village dances.  

"Of course, Junge, he is a guest.  Come!" Venner Joos waved his hands invitingly.  "Join the dancing!"  He snatched up the hand of a nearby maiden, grinned challengingly at the Frenchmen, and fell in at the end of the line that was now the head of the line again. 

"Go." Athos shooed his companions in like manner, urging the pair standing next to him into the fray.  Aramis was not behind in following orders, d'Artagnan, however, was not ready to make the leap. 

He sidled a bit closer to Athos to whisper, "What did he just call me?"

"Junge," Athos repeated, keeping the smile out of his voice.

"Translated?"

"Literally, it means young one, but he does not mean it as an insult.  Rather, he uses is much like our own use of youngling." 

d'Artagnan sighed.  "It's universal."

"Of course it is, you are young, experience has not yet marked you.  Do not hurry to collect it, d'Artagnan.  As you likely reckoned from our trip to Calais, it will not always use you lightly."  Athos felt the youth's involuntary shudder. 

d'Artagnan's recovery from their Calais adventure had taken considerably more time than the youth had been willing to give it, thus lengthening his convalescence.  Consequentially their baby Musketeer had developed quite an interesting relationship with his landlady.  Athos wondered if that was why he hung back instead of joining the festivities. 

Madam Joos, on the arm of Aramis now, waved gaily as the opening bars of a galliard began.  The dance was intricately patterned, requiring an athleticism usually reserved for the young.  Porthos danced by, his partner, an amply endowed grandmotherly armful, keeping pace without missing a beat or a breath. 

Jesters and potentates, kings and queens, even a costumed Musketeer or two wrapped in blue cloaks and plumed hats danced past.   They saw a woman in a silver mask, wrapped in a voluminous magenta cloak carrying a lap dog wearing a mask in the shape of a cat's face.  Clowns in parti-colored tights sporting tutus trailing long streamers that looked like tails passed by.  Another female wore the mask of a peacock and bore a train of iridescent feathers in her wake. 

"Poor bird," d'Artagnan murmured, his foot tapping in time to the music. 

Athos gave the youngster's shoulder a friendly shove.  "Go, find a partner, any of those young women would give their best garter to dance with you."

The youth shrugged diffidently.  "I don't know this one."

Athos crossed his arms over his chest and gave his companion the canted-hat look.  "Aramis would tell you to take one aside and ask her to teach you the patterns."

"And you?" d'Artagnan inquired. 

"I would tell you to stay away from women." 

"Too late." 

"Beware the sniveling husband."  Athos' flat delivery did not detract from the warning in the least. 

When again d'Artagnan grew restive at his shoulder, he took the youth's arm and moved back into the deeper shadows.  "It's not hard and it will likely come up again this evening; it goes like this.  Right left, right left, and make a sort of hop-jump so you land on both feet." He demonstrated in time to the beat.  "Listen to the music, it's a five count, do you hear it?  Right left right left cadence - which is what the hop step is called.  The landing is a called a posture.  It isn't that hard once you can hear the steps in the music." 

He drew d'Artagnan's arm through his elbow.  "Come, follow my lead."  He walked the youngster through the steps at half time for several measures then sped up to the match the beat of the music."  When d'Artagnan had the steps down, he clapped him on the back, giving both permission and encouragement with the affectionate gesture.  "Go give the young women of Berne pleasant dreams."

"But ..."

"d'Artagnan, go break hearts!"

"I am not Aramis."

"I am fully cognizant of the small mercies God grants in my life." If there is a God.  "And while I'm not letting any of you out of my sight tonight, that does not mean you have to keep me company." 

"Of course he does not, come Junge!" Madam Joos swept into their obscure sanctuary on Aramis' arm and swept out on d'Artagnan's without missing a beat of the music, though she was leading as they departed.  "The next dance is the Black Almain, I will back for you, my lord!" she flirted over her shoulder at Athos. 

"I do not dance."

"Everyone dances!" Madam trilled as she tucked herself, one-handed, back into her low-cut bodice on the bounce step. 

d'Artagnan threw a helpless look over his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd with his hostess. 

Aramis and Athos waited until the pair was far enough away not to hear, and burst into gales of laughter.  Porthos found them propping one another up, still wiping tears from their eyes. 

"Wha'sa funny?"  He unhooked his cloak, borrowing an empty torch holder for a convenient hook to hang it from, then fanned himself.  "Well?"

"d'Artagnan," Aramis hiccupped. 

Porthos chuckled.  "Saw 'em wiv the Joos woman.  She's a right armful, that one."

"She shed me for d'Artagnan and popped out of her bodice on the very first jump, right in his face."

Even Athos was still laughing.  "It was priceless," he said, shaking his head.  "I thought she was going to flip the hat right off his head."

Porthos, having a very fine imagination indeed,  doubled over his knees roaring with mirth. 

"d'Artagnan's eyes about popped out of his head."  Aramis stripped off his mask, doffed his hat and stuffed the piece of silk inside the crown before donning it again.  "Gentlemen."  He essayed a courtly bow.  "While the pleasure of your company has been both enlightening and enjoyable, I'm off to see what other ladies I may charm.  The evening is yet young."

"Do not make me order you to be back in your own bed tonight, Aramis." Athos was still smiling, his tone reasonable, but implacable.  "And both of you, keep an eye on d'Artagnan."  He resumed his leaning posture, melting into the stone as though he was part and parcel of its solidity. 

"We'll make sure he stays out of trouble," Porthos rumbled, following Aramis back out into the crowd. 

d'Artagnan and his partner were nearing the head of the line of dancers again; he'd clearly gotten the hang of it for he was firmly in the lead this time and appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.  The smile was genuine and he touched his hat brim as they circled past Athos, who returned the greeting affably. 

As soon as they were out of sight, though, Athos collected the cloak Porthos had left behind and slipped deeper into the recessed well of darkness, gliding away beneath the archways like a silent ghost.  Surely there were a few citizens of Berne who preferred drinking to dancing, there had to be some establishment nearby catering to those who had no desire to spend the night in useless flummery.

A rainbow of colors swirled past,  the women in every possible hue nature painted, jewels catching the torch light to flash fire and ice, their husbands and brothers, uncles and sons equally brilliantly attired.  There were elaborate head dresses of feathers, total face masks of ceramic variously coquettish, bizarre, and outlandish. 

Women had bird cages with live birds woven into high hairdos and set into headdresses.  Pashas carried silver lamps burning a sweet smelling incense, wearing little more than oil and loin cloths. 

He caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan, having followed Porthos' example, guiding a tiny elderly woman through a turn, then ducking to spin beneath her high held hand.  The sight was as absurd as it was heartwarming, the tall would-be Musketeer's knees bent nearly to the ground to accommodate their difference in height, but d'Artagnan made it look perfectly normal.  The vieille dame's seamed face was alight with pleasure.  

Among the dancing couples, Athos had been watching a pair dressed uniformly from head to toe in silver, he in balloon britches and hose topped by a tabard of patterned silver silk, the cloak attached at the shoulders by bridges of stiffened leather studded with silver pearls.  The female was likewise dressed, though she wore a skirt of the same silver silk, overlaid with sparkling silver tulle.  But it was their headdresses that fascinated him.  Huge swathes of tucks and braided material bunched inside extravagantly molded foundations covered in lace and beads and trailing long, shimmering waterfalls of veils. 

Three years ago, in his solitary to-ing and fro-ing of the continent, he had been in Venice during carnival.  While Berne's rendition was less elaborate in scope and imagination, it lacked only the risqué application of paint to the body - and nothing else - as costume. 

"Ahhhh, I have found you at last.  Why do you make it so difficult to do my duty, sir?"  Madam Joos brushed his shoulder with her ivory feather fan flirtatiously.  "The Venner will be displeased with me if I fail in my responsibilities, comte."

Athos diplomatically checked the unwary groan.  He had stayed in one place too long.  "Madam." He bowed, Porthos' cloak dragging on the ground with the genuflection.  There was something familiar about her he could not quite place.  Her direct gaze, the way she tilted her head, even her scent nagged like a distant warning bell.  The gaiety was merely a veneer, though he did not know why or how he knew this. 

She held out her hand, the golden mask tilted inquiringly and waited.

"I do not dance, madam," he repeated, taking her hand.  He kissed the air above the gloved fingers with appropriate finesse.

Eyes blue as Lake Geneva glittered behind the mask.  In their secluded little spot, the noise of the crowd absorbed by the massive stone arches and columns, he could hear the long artfully darkened eyelashes flutter against the inside of the mask.  Her fingers tightened around his extended hand.  Slowly, deliberately,  head swiveling to keep eye contact, she raised his hand and swirled gracefully beneath it.  "You lie," she whispered, lips pursed in a moue of displeasure.  "You are the most graceful dancer here, and yet you hide your light under a bushel."

"Biblical pummeling, ma'am?  Were you a man, you would be lying dead at my feet." 

She spoke as if she had intimate knowledge of Athos' capabilities.  And this was not the first time she'd importuned him; she'd attached herself to his side at the picnic as well, and made sure to serve him luncheon personally.  Athos did not quite know what to make of her apparent pursuit.

"I know."  The words were drawn out on a shivery breath, the Viking's ship prow heaving with pleasure at this duel of words.  "I heard that in Venice you donned the costume of the Angel of Death and dispensed justice at the point of your sword."

For a moment, he was taken aback, but he did not deny the delicate accusation.  "Did you."  It was not a question.

She waited again, but Athos was an authority on silence, he had mastered its subliminal subtleties long ago.  He waited her out.

On a blatantly false little laugh she tucked her hand through his elbow, drawing him forward.  "If you will not dance, then you will promenade with me so that my lord and master sees that I have done my duty.  Do you wish to appear a flunky?"  Madam Joos relieved him of Porthos' cloak, flinging the mass of white velvet carelessly over a bench they passed. 

There it was, that edge beneath the charm; he could not decide if she disliked him personally based on his reputation, or his role as leader of the negotiations.  He was attuned these days to a woman's malice and felt it humming along his nerve endings like a rasping file.  Yet there was also, beneath that hum, a hungry desire sighing in measured counterpoint to the antagonism.   

"What have I done to earn your enmity, madam?"

Her head, level with his, turned sharply.  He saw a flash of anger in those eyes - or at least he thought that's what he'd seen - though it was masked so quickly he doubted its veracity.   "La, sir, whatever have I done to give you such an impression?"  She leaned into him, pressing her voluptuousness seductively against his arm.  "I have heard many things about you, but one should always be wary of extremes."  She directed their steps so they skirted the edge of the dancing throng.  "For instance, I have heard also that you support many small charities that would not survive without your aid."

Athos remained silent as a stick. He followed smoothly where she led, pliant beneath her fingertips, lest he give away his surprise at the extent of her knowledge. 

"I have also heard that you hung your wife and it broke your heart."

He'd been expectantly prepared for another barb, but it still required a monumental effort of will not to flinch.  Madam Joos was a veritable fount of knowledge.  He supposed he should be grateful she'd given a nod to the possibility he might not be a complete bounder. 

"You deny nothing?"

"Clearly it would be a waste of words, and I rarely waste words, madam."

"Yes, I have heard that about you too."  She sighed plaintively.  "And I had so hoped to learn the truth of you.  But you do not even ask how I know such things."  There followed a rap of her knuckles on his forearm.  "You are vexing in the extreme, sir.  You do not dance, you do not talk, is there no curiosity in you at all?"

"None."  The declamation was delivered in a flat monotone.

"Fine then, I will not tell you, though I know you are dying to know."  This was delivered with a little flounce that nearly bounced her out of her bodice again, though Athos suspected this time is was purposeful.  "Tell me only this, then, is your heart broken?"

At this he turned his head to look her directly in the eye.  "I do not have a heart to break."  He deliberately left off the courtesy of her title.  She reminded him of his wife; this woman had courage to spare for she did not look away, searching his eyes as though she might ferret out some grain of truth he refused to speak. 

"I thought perhaps we might commiserate, my lord."  She had stopped their forward progress, but resumed it now.  "I once had three fine sons.  They are all dead by my hand for I stood by and watched as they marched off to war, the bravest of the brave in our land, the fairest of the fair.  I cheered them on as each one joined a Berne regiment.  They were a sight to behold in their regimental gear, row up on row of blue and gold clad boys, their halberds glinting in the sun." 

Again, Athos waited out the long pause without a murmur.

"You do have the gift of silence.  You must know they each returned to me, those beautiful boys, laid upon wooden biers if they were lucky.  Slung over the back of a horse if they were not.  Those immaculate uniforms smeared with the long-dried blood of their veins.  The blood of my womb covering their hands and faces."  She leaned into his shoulder with calculated intimacy.  "I thought perhaps shared loss might give us a basis for conversation."

"Alas, I am capable only of acknowledging your loss and offering my condolences." 

"You are a hard man, comte."

Athos bowed his acknowledgement of this and disengaged his arm, carrying her gloved hand to his lips again.  "It has been a pleasure, madam."  He could lie suavely as well. 

"No, no, the pleasure has been entirely mine, good sir."  She curtsied deeply enough to give him a particularly fine view of her décolletage.  There was in her eyes, as she rose, the touch of a sad smile that perceptibly darkened the blue.  "You have been a worthy adversary, my lord."  Her fingers grazed his temple lightly.  "You perspire?  I had heard you have been ill.  Perhaps you should take that fever to bed."  The hand dropped to hover for a moment over his heart.  "And I am not convinced you were born heartless."

He did not react, waiting with a stillness few could match until she stepped back, then he touched his hat, twisted on a boot heel, and melted into the crowd.  It required every ounce of control he possessed not to shiver under the gimlet stare he knew followed his progress across the square.  An enfleshed Valkyrie indeed.  Athos was not a fanciful man, but he felt the need to bathe in icy water to rid himself of the talonish feel of her fingers marking him. 

He had not been so deeply disturbed since his wife had murdered his brother.   His jaw ached with the effort of keeping it unclenched, but he would not give her the satisfaction of chasing him away.  She had shattered the rules of hospitality, he would repay her in kind; let her explain to her lord and master how and why she had angered an honored guest.

Bowing before the first female his external vision finally noticed, he extended an invitation that was immediately accepted, led her over to the group forming closest to them and gave himself over fully to charming his audience.  He did not miss one dance the rest of the evening and kept the rest of his contingent at it until Porthos literally cornered him where he was chatting amiably with a delegation of mothers and daughters.

"Mesdames, mademoiselles."  Porthos slung a friendly arm around Athos' shoulders.  "I've been deputized by the rest of our troop to corral the comte.  My apologies for stealing him away, but we must be up and ready for church on time tomorrow." His diction was a match for any lord of the realm.  "It has been our very great pleasure to spend this evening amongst such fair companions."  Hand to his heart, the Musketeer bowed deeply, his glittering ensemble a brilliant foil for his dark skin.  The genuflection had all the ladies cooing and trilling. 

"Mesdames, mademoiselles," Athos repeated, offering his own polished bow.  " I can only echo my good friend, Porthos.  I am humbly grateful you chose to spend time in my company this evening.  But now I must bid you all adieu.  Your genuine hospitality has warmed my heart, I will take away the memory as a souvenir when our negotiations are complete." 

They bowed their way out of the group, Porthos, making excellent use of the twittering that rose like a cloud as soon as their backs were turned, muttering out of the side of his mouth, "What is wrong with you?" 

Athos, still on display as they strode through the thinning crowd to join Aramis and d'Artagnan, kept a smile pasted on his face.  "None of your business."

"Wrong."  Porthos' teeth gleamed as bright as his habiliments.  "That one for all 'n all for one ain't worth squat when one is playin' off the field without botherin' to tell his teammates.  Your little affront sets off the Venner an you've just ended the negotiations." 

"Are you insane?" Aramis demanded without so much as moving a muscle in his pleasantly arranged features.  He could flay the proverbial skin off an individual and no one out of hearing range would be the wiser.  He fell in step on the other side of Athos. 

"Is this helpful?" d'Artagnan, looking wearily troubled, asked quietly.  "Even in the short time I've been with you, I know Athos does nothing without reason." 

The canniness of the observation only served to spike the temper Aramis rarely displayed.  "Your input is not required in this matter," he snapped, shepherding their quartet past the astronomical clock striking the hour of two.  

d'Artagnan shrugged and turned his gaze to the ground, missing the keen glance Porthos shot him as he trudged alongside the big Musketeer. 

"You're a better marksman than that, mon ami.  d'Artagnan was merely doing what we have consistently asked him to do since he joined us," Porthos stated unequivocally.  "Move your sights to the proper target."

Athos swiped his sleeve across his forehead and kept his feet moving toward his patient steed.  He broke his silence only when he was mounted next to d'Artagnan and Porthos was about to contort himself to enter the carriage.  "The situation is entirely of my doing, my apologies to all of you for my lapse in judgment.  I will make it right."

"How?" Aramis demanded.  "That woman wants you in her bed and instead of finessing it, you let her goad you into making it a game of one-upmanship."

Porthos shoved through the carriage door, snagged Aramis by an arm and yanked him inside as well, then slammed the door.  "We'll see you shortly at the Rathaus."  He banged the grip of his dress sword on the ceiling, signaling their readiness, and the coach rolled forward.

"I need to go back and collect Porthos' cloak from where I left it."

d'Artagnan swung down before Athos could dismount.  "Where is it?"

Athos closed his eyes.  "A bench near the bootmaker's atelier."  The youth was back before he could get his eyes open again.  "My thanks."  In the heat of the battle he had carelessly burnt through his reserves; it was all he could do to stay in the saddle.  

"For what it's worth, the Venner did not look particularly upset any time I saw him this evening and we spoke several times." d'Artagnan tossed the trailing velvet over his horse's withers, settled his hat on his head and swung back into the saddle to rein around.  He eyed Athos critically.  "You need the cloak?"

"No." Athos reined around, too, so they fell in behind the lumbering coach.  Now that he was still, his sweaty clothes were turning clammy and cold, chills chasing up and down his spine.  Nor could he control the fine tremors coursing through his body.  He was in a great deal of trouble. 

Chapter Text

"Right intelligent of you," Porthos growled as the carriage rolled away and the grooms who'd taken their horses rounded the corner to the stables behind the Rathaus, "making accusations about the lady in front of her servants."  He cuffed Aramis none to gently.  "Stupidty runnin' in the ranks tonight or something?  Me 'n d'Artagnan are goin' to bed, the two of you need to work out your differences down here so you're not disturbin' us."

"There is nothing to work out.  Aramis is right, I was wrong, that's the end of it."  Athos did not know if he could make it to the top of the stairs but he started up anyway, forcing his booted feet to lift for each step. 

Aramis mounted the stairs behind his friends locked in a frosty silence, though his righteous indignation was beginning to cool.  The comte's very nature was reflective; deftness was the man's middle name.  For Athos to cut their hostess so directly, Madam Joos had to have grossly exceeded the bounds of propriety. 

But their leader so rarely misstepped the shock had jarred the marksman clear to his toes.

And Athos, who had a spine of steel, was drooping.  Aramis caught up, ignoring d'Artagnan's scowl.  The healer's eye assessed the sweat trickling down the temple and along the firmly set jaw into the neatly trimmed beard, the unusual glitter in the narrowed eyes, the unbuttoned shirt plastered like a second skin to the heaving chest. 

"I don't understand what happened tonight, but then just when I think I've gotten a handle on you, your behavior makes a sudden, strange shift."

"I am a puzzle box in need of your witch doctoring."

Aramis huffed for form's sake, though he recognized the peace offering.  There was a bedrock foundation of self-sufficiency at the core of the comte; asking for help did not come easily.  It was his turn to bend accordingly. "I'll be up shortly," he stated, veering off without explanation. 

Athos stopped to lean against the wall and catch his breath. 

"Where's he going?" d'Artagnan, hovering next to Athos, turned to watch Aramis' departure.

"Probably on some doctorly errand."  Porthos was already at the top of the stairs.  "You gonna make it?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Of course I'm going to make it."

"Wasn't talkin' to you, youngling."

Athos did not deign to answer, just started up the stairs again, trying not to pant. 

Porthos had every candle in the apartment lit by the time Athos and d'Artagnan reached the suite.   Athos, peeling off sweat-soaked clothing the moment the door closed behind d'Artagnan, headed directly to the bed chamber.   

By the time Aramis entered  with a train of night servants, two of whom carried a large wooden tub, followed by several more bearing buckets of steaming, hot water, Athos was down to his smalls.  The succession of menials muscled the bath into the bedchamber shared by Athos and d'Artagnan, set it up, scrubbed and rinsed it quickly, then poured a dozen buckets of steaming water into the newly clean bath.

This was accomplished with a minimum of fuss and total silence among the servants, who filed out, stacking their empty buckets in the hall before dispersing in different directions as Porthos closed the sitting room door.   

"In the tub," Aramis ordered, when Athos would have ignored the entire retinue and fallen into bed.  "That fever wants breaking."

"Tomorrow -" Athos attempted.

"Tomorrow we will make your excuses when we attend services with Herr Venner and his wife.  You will be in bed, Monsieur le Comte." 

"I'd forgotten that is on our schedule."  Athos did not protest, though it was not in his nature to back down from a fight.  If he did not rest, he would be useless at the negotiating table come Monday morning. 

Aramis' pointing finger brooked no further argument.  "I should have made you go to bed when we arrived.  Perhaps, had you been yourself, tonight's disaster would not have happened."

"Ehh -- we don't know it's a disaster yet.  Let's not be countin' chickens - or angry Venners - before they appear."  Porthos assisted Athos into the tub as d'Artagnan began laying Athos' wet garments over furniture to dry.  "Though I'd like'ta be a fly on the Joos' bedchamber wall t'night.  M'be she likes it when he's mad."

Athos sank chin deep in the wonderfully hot water.  Aramis went to root out his doctoring kit and a very few moments later, poured a couple of vials of oil into the water, emptying a third that held a crystal form of some medicinal, swishing it around so the still rising steam took on a pungent aroma that - Athos found - instantly made it easier to breathe. 

"I recognize peppermint, what's the other smell?"  d'Artagnan, finished with his valet duties, was stripping out of his own finery. 

"Camphor," Aramis replied, kneeling before the hearth.  "You might want to sleep in the other room with Porthos tonight." 

"Why?"

Aramis twitched back a smile; there was still a lot of youngster in their baby Musketeer.  Picking  up the flint and steel laid on the hearth, he struck sparks to the already set kindling.  "It's going to be hot in here."

Athos, the back of his neck propped on a thick cloth conveniently laid over the edge of the tub, was practically asleep.  The combination of aromatic steam and nearly scalding hot water was working its magic, the surcease of his various aches and pains engendering a kind of lethargy his body had not experienced in days. 

"Plannin' on roastin' 'em like a pig?" Porthos inquired from the doorway.

"He'll certainly be tender enough to eat by the time he's cooked sufficiently to break that fever."  Aramis waited for the flames to begin licking at the logs he'd propped upright against each other before adding more kindling and another pair of logs. 

d'Artagnan's face was a picture - somewhere between wryly amused and speculatively wary.  "I've fallen in with a group of West Indies Caribs."

"Probably tastes like old shoe leather," Porthos said,  "I'm not inclined to try him."

"Where did you learn of Caribs?" Aramis asked curiously. 

d'Artagnan fished in the messy bed linens for his parrying dagger as he perched on the edge of his bed to pull off his boots.  "Even in Lupiac we have stories to scare children into good behavior.  I imagine the tale of the Spanish crew eaten by the Caribs will still be being told when my children's children are ancient."  He sliced through the knotted thread holding the rosettes in place, cutting a glance at Porthos as he did so.  "I'm not wearing these every day." Nor ever again his expressive face added without benefit of the extra verbiage.

Porthos just shoved his hands up under his arms as d'Artagnan was wont to do when feeling insecure, though on the large Musketeer the action looked more like restraint than inhibition.  "You'll keep 'em in a safe place for the next time we need'ta wear fancy togs."

d'Artagnan blinked, but refrained from rolling his eyes and stashed them under his pillow.  "Safe enough?"

"You're lucky 'm too tired to give you a lesson in manners, monsieur saucebox.  You keep it up 'n we'll take back the hat."  The twinkle in the big man's eyes belied the serious tone he employed.  "What more do ya need us to do, Aramis?" he asked, keeping his voice lowered in deference to their sleeping companion. 

"Nothing.  Go to bed, no use all of us staying up the rest of the night.  d'Artagnan will be sleeping in my bed."  Aramis held up a hand at the first sound of protest.  "Unless you want to share, since if I sleep, it will be in your bed."

"We can spell ya so you get some sleep too, just tell us what to do.  Can't be that complicated, 'specially if all you're gonna do is pile blankets over 'em and keep the fire stoked.  We're both capable of pouring any of your concoctions down his throat as well.  'Sides, I 'spect after tonight, Monsieur le Comte will be a little more cooperative - for awhile at least."

"He'd hate that we're talking about him when he's unaware like this," d'Artagnan observed, gaze straying to the man in the tub.  Despite the initiative blood brother's speech Athos had delivered in their Dunkirk inn room on the return side of their jaunt to Calais, the Gascon was a little surprised the elder Musketeer had succumbed to the vulnerability of sleep under the circumstances, particularly with both of the others angry with him. 

d'Artagnan, on his own, came to the recognition that this was one of those instances Athos would refer to a teachable moment.  Despite their differences, despite the anger Athos' response to Madam Joos apparent incitement had evoked, these men trusted one another implicitly.  Even when there were hotly contested differences of opinion, they still worked together like a well-oiled machine.  The realization that he had already been included as an integral part of this close-knit group lit a small glow of unanticipated joy deep in the youthful heart.

"Go to bed, both of you," Aramis repeated, pulling at the foamy lace at his neck.  "If I need reinforcements, I will wake one of you."  He was used to night vigils, though, and had no intention of passing off this duty.  He had discovered early on that a vulnerable Athos occasionally shared a piece or two of his soul under the influence of drugs.  Being the repository of a few of those pieces already, Aramis, the healer, well knew the value their leader placed on his discretion.   

"We been summarily dismissed, youngling."  Porthos, the unequivocal, though undeclared, belle of the ball, had set a quiver innumerable feminine hearts, danced every dance, and left many a maid and her mother to share reminisces of his gallantries.  The ermine mantle d'Aragnan had gone back to fetch lay abandoned in the sitting room of the suite and Porthos' dancing slippers were whimpering with exhaustion.  He yawned hugely. "Come along then, I need 'elp wif this coat, can't get out of it by m'self." 

"Mind the flowers under my pillow," d'Artagnan admonished Aramis, the yawn provoking an answering one from the youth.  "Porthos will kill me if you lose them."  His voice dropped to a whisper, "Though I would be forever grateful."  Grinning, he scooted out the door, closing it softly behind himself. 

They had wrestled Porthos out of his coat and both settled into bed when d'Artagnan popped up again, waking Porthos who had just dozed off. 

"What the devil?" the big man grumbled, sitting up to peer across the room lit only by the few candles still burning.  But the youth was already gone. 

d'Artagnan reappeared with the hat clutched to his bare chest. 

"Oh you got to be kiddin' me," Porthos groaned.  "You're not gonna sleep with it are ya?"  Not being a man much given to pretense, the grin spreading across his countenance quickly gave lie to his growling.  He was pleased as punch their puppy was enamored with the gift. 

"Maybe.  Athos does it all the time."  d'Artagnan set the chapeau atop his clothes on the chair and returned to bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, though he propped the pillow under the back of his head so the last thing his drooping eyes would behold was that marvelous hat limned by firelight.  And the first he'd see in the morning, positioned as it was to catch the morning light through the window.  He fell asleep thinking about how much Constance would admire that hat.  

Porthos was not long in following the youth down the dream path, though his thoughts as he drifted off were circling the mess they might well be in, despite his attempts to pour oil on troubled waters.  Athos very rarely lost his temper, but when he did, the cleanup usually involved blood.

Chapter Text

Aramis, meanwhile, had set out his bottles and vials on top of the writing desk and had more water heating over the fire.  Finished measuring, pouring and concocting, he woke their dozing lieutenant, set a small stone crock of soap on a stool pulled close to the tub and moved across the generously-proportioned room to run the warming pan between the sheets and over the pillow.  While it was not exactly cold, he did not want even a suggestion of coolness to insinuate its unwanted self into the mix.  He had already collected every spare blanket he could lay his hands on and piled them on the bed.  The warm nest he'd created awaited only the insertion of the comte. 

Athos, however, had other ideas.  He was not reluctant to leave the tub, the water was no longer hot enough to be efficacious, but he would not be bundled wil-you-nil-you into bed to be dosed and plastered.  He did get into bed and pull the covers up as he was the modest sort, but he scrunched himself up in a sort of seated fetal position, propped against the headboard.  "Give me a moment; I need to collect my thoughts."

Aramis said nothing, just sat himself down so Athos' blanket-covered toes were pressed against his thigh.  The comte was tolerant of minimal human contact, though only with d'Artagnan did he initiate it and that was only to cuff the youth affectionately, or very occasionally, and mostly when he was drunk, sling an arm around the youngster's shoulders. 

The physician studied the ends of the hair curling damply around the patrician features, the fan of lashes barely concealing the half-moon crescents of purple beneath the deep-set blue eyes, the flush of color painting the aristocratic cheek bones.  The face was pared down so those cheek bones were more prominent, the clavicle bones equally jutting.  Their comte had not been eating or sleeping again.   

"Madam Joos ..." Athos began, only to fall silent after the pronunciation of the name.  A long sigh preceded the raising of bleak blue eyes.  "Five years ago I hung my wife.  Madam Joos is in possession of this knowledge and may use it to try to sabotage the negotiations."

Aramis did not even blink. Neither was he behind in responding.  "First of all, why would she want to sabotage the negotiations?  Secondly, exactly how could she damage us with this information?  If you hung your wife, it was done lawfully and with reason." No wonder the comte's thorn hedge was in full bloom.  The revelation, though, instantly rearranged all the pieces of the puzzle he'd been gathering in his head for the last three years. 

"I have no idea what her motivation might be.  It did not come out quite as an accusation, nor was there any implied threat in the way she brought it up.  It's just ... a  feeling."  Athos thoroughly disliked these little premonitions he sometimes had and hated even mentioning them.  But once or twice they'd proved useful and perhaps this one had bearing on why the council seemed to be dragging out the negotiations.  "Hanging one's wife is hardly a topic one brings up in polite conversation."

"Nor particularly conducive to flirtation," Aramis observed dryly.  "You mentioned once, that you had a sibling ..."  he did not quite know how to give voice to the conclusion his mind had instantly drawn, but the leap of logic was not so great as it seemed.  There had been many little clues along the way and it would certainly explain the drinking.  "I suppose we just assumed he had died of natural causes.  Is that ... not the case?"

A long, indrawn breath whistled softly in the stillness, before Athos, his voice emotionlessly flat, spoke again.  "My wife claimed it was self-defense.  I could have had her indentured or transported, I suppose, though I was not in the frame of mind to do so at the time."  Athos wrapped his arms around his blanketed knees, knuckles white where his hands were clenched around his ankles.  This was a topic he had spoken of to no one beyond those involved in the situation.  How it had reached Madam Joos' ears was a mystery he had no wish to contemplate at the moment. 

Aramis gathered the patience he had learned to cultivate in his role as a healer and waited, though shock reverberated echoingly in his soul.  Justice or mercy?  What a choice to have to make in regards to a spouse. 

"I was affianced to the daughter of my father's best friend before either of us were even born."

"A trifle presumptuous before even the begetting," Aramis murmured.

As intended, the scarred lip lifted in amusement.  "A trifle," Athos echoed.  "We were three years apart in age and grew up together, friends of a sort.  When Thomas and I lost our parents, her father stood as guardian until I was of age.  We were to marry when I came into my inheritance at five and twenty." 

The comte lowered his forehead to his knees.  Despite the muffling effect, his words were still clear and  precise.  "I met Anne on the occasion of my twenty-fourth birthday and was married less than a month later.  Catherine's father was incensed and attempted to have the marriage annulled, threatening all manner of compensatory legalities, but he could do nothing beyond threaten, as control of the estate was still in the hands of the executors and they ignored him.  He was the first to cast aspersions upon my wife's character, but I was besotted.  I was deaf, also, to my brother's hints, and finally, outright accusations, until he lay dead at my feet .... stabbed through the heart with a dagger I knew my wife slept with under her pillow, his blood on her hands.  She said he had tried to rape her.  I almost believed her."  The rasping voice shredded to silence for long moments.  "I wanted to ... desperately."

Aramis of the tender heart wanted to hit something.  Hard. 

Guilt, however misplaced, was an unrelenting tyrant; once it crawled into bed with you, its companionship was a foregone conclusion.  Few could outrun it, even fewer turn and fight; it overpowered even the most stalwart individuals.  Aramis had done nothing but survive the Savoy massacre, and yet, five years later he still woke in a cold sweat, cuddled up with his most assiduous mistress.  Guilt was amoral, immutable and insidious; one might even call it immortal.  It certainly gave all appearances of being everlasting.

"The glimpses Porthos has shared of his life growing up, has given me ... a different perspective."

Aramis took the seemingly left turn in stride, partly because he sensed that interrupting would cut off the flow, partly because even his facile tongue was struggling to find words of comfort.  He'd seen the winters of desolation and despair etched into the fine lines bracketing those usually fathomless eyes, now he understood what he had seen with his heart but been unable grasp without the context.  This new understanding explained the why of the firm line of the lips, the reasons behind the cant of the hat brim the comte wore like a shield against the slings and arrows of life. 

"Anne grew up in similar circumstances and yet in my limited understanding I saw only that I had been played by a virtuoso.  I did not have enough life experience for mercy to be included in my repertoire as magistrate of my own lands.  Three days after she murdered my brother, I murdered her ... we had been married ... a year to the day."

The words alone were hard to hear; Aramis could not control his internal flinch.  Moreover, the healer in him instinctually grasped the certain knowledge that Athos had loved - and loved deeply.  That this man, who believed he had murdered his wife, had not been able to murder his love for her.  This last piece of the puzzle completed the picture.

"Your rational mind at least understands that not only the law of the land, but canon law as well, supports your judgment?" It was inflected as a question, though it was a statement of fact as well. 

"An eye for an eye," Athos rejoined wearily.  "Moral high ground is nothing but an island of insanity." 

This was not the first time Athos had refuted Donne's poetic disclaimer.  

With Athos, Aramis had learned a brisk response worked better than tilting at windmills on the comte's behalf.  "If we might return to the original reason for this visit to the confessional - as already noted, Madam Joos' ammunition is flawed."  He scratched the back of his head as if cultivating the thoughts piling up in there.  "Though I must admit to curiosity as to how she discovered the information.  However, that's neither here nor there at the moment. You are not the perpetrator; you are the victim.  Yes, you made a bad bargain, and you lost much because of it, but you did not compound your bad bargain by letting the perpetrator get away with it.  You did what the law required - a life for a life." 

Aramis rose, shrugged out of his coat and folded it over the back of the chair at the desk.  The room was warming up quickly.  As he set about removing his shirt buttons, he added almost conversationally, " For all practical purposes, I am the king's personal assassin.  I've lost track of the number of times my particular skill set has been called upon to euphemistically 'take care of a problem'." 

The marksman set the buttons in a tray on the desk specifically designed for holding a gentleman's accouterments before turning back to find Athos watching him.

"Your point?"

"Does that make me a murderer?"  Aramis turned the chair around and straddled it, rolling up his shirt sleeves before crossing his arms over the coat. 

"I am not endorsing a simplistic view of morality."

"Well," Aramis said contemplatively, "it seems to me that's a matter of opinion.  I uphold the law as interpreted by the king and his council.  On your land, you are also required to uphold the king's justice.  And yet you judge yourself guilty of murder - but not me."

"Nothing is ever that black and white."

"Unless it applies to you."

"From your own perspective, more than once, is that not human nature?"

"Touché, but at least you see the flaw in your self-flagellation." Aramis returned, again, to the origin of the debate.  "So what if the Joos woman knows?  Was it done in secret in a scared grove like some pagan sacrifice?"

"Of course not."

Aramis cocked an eyebrow.  "You made her stand on the balcony railing in your home and pushed her off so it would appear as if you'd murdered her?"

"She was hung from a tree within sight of the house." 

"And - just to be clear in your own mind - the law gave you the right to hang her for her crime?"

"Yes."

"Then, I repeat, the Joos woman's ammunition is flawed if she thinks to use it in some way to muck up the negotiations.  It might even work to our advantage if she did try to make something of it."

"How so?"

"I'd wager good money that a man who upholds the law even when it's detrimental to his own well-being would be considered a most honorable man in the eyes of anyone with pretensions to honor."  Aramis poured a tot of the spirits, stocked in the sitting room, that he'd been using to mix his elixirs, into a squat crystal glass.  "You should still mend fences with her, but," he raised the glass in a mock toast, "let Madam Joos do her worst.  The truth, my good man, will set you free," he offered, downing a mouthful of the medicinal. 

"Good God, further biblical mauling."  Athos abandoned his fetal position, slumping back against the headboard.  In the next instant he was out of the bed and across the room in three galloping strides, pounding their pseudo physician on the back.  "What the hell?!" 

Aramis, folded in half, sounded like a wheezy shofar.  Athos snatched the glass out of Aramis' fingers and sniffed it.  

The healer, breathing fire, righted himself from his bent posture, pushing off his knees, still trying to catch his breath.  "Good God indeed," he choked out, ineffectually fanning his face with a hand.  "That stuff is potent.  Have you tried it?"

Athos grabbed the back of the desk chair and slumped over it.  "Idiot."  He sucked in air much the same way Aramis was still attempting to draw breath.  "I thought you'd been poisoned."  The instant battle rush the aspect of Aramis gasping like a fish had brought on, dissipated as swiftly as it had manifested.  Athos gathered what was left of his dignity and made his way back to bed, unashamedly using the furniture as handy props.  While whatever Aramis had put into the water had helped his breathing, he was beyond exhausted and the let down from this little bit of rush was not helping. 

"That's enough to singe the hair off your chest," Aramis grated, "I think it took a layer of skin off when it went down."  He eyed the mug he'd mixed the potion in. 

"Maybe it will burn out this - whatever - that's plaguing me.  And besides it isn't that bad, if it puts me to sleep, I will be forever grateful."

Aramis reluctantly collected the mug and handed it over, and Athos downed it in one swallow without even blinking.  "Wake me in the morning."

"I don't think --" Aramis began. 

"I can't remember the last time I put a foot through the door of a church; God may resent my presence, but I will go."

"We'll put d'Artagnan beside you; he'll deflect any lightning strikes."

Chapter Text

Athos' head rang with each resounding peal of the bells calling the faithful to services throughout the city.  The bright morning sun streaming through the striated layers of fog rolling off the encircling river lanced an ache deep behind his eyeballs, but on the whole, Aramis' witch doctoring had done its job.  Weariness yet dogged the comte's heels, but it was the kind of lassitude brought on by too little sleep after a long night of revelry, not the dragging stupor of illness he had been dealing with. 

He had been mentally rehearsing his apology throughout their walk to the center of Berne's religious life, but left off his cogitations as his party approached the Berner Münster  from the opposite end of Münsterplatz. 

Aramis was instantly entranced with the scene of the Last Judgment intricately carved above the tall twin doors inset beneath the middle, and tallest, pointed Gothic arch.  Two slightly less lofty arches with single inset doors completed the front of the facade. 

"What is it?" Porthos tilted his hat back to study the carvings.  "Looks like a lot a nekkid people to me, 'n some angels, maybe."

"That is Justice in the middle." Aramis pointed.  "The saints - clothed - on the right; sinners - unclothed  - on the left.  Miraculous, really, that this was not completely obliterated in the Reformation." 

"That mean we ain't sinners 'cause we're clothed?" Porthos inquired with a smirk, sliding a hand around Aramis' neck to urge him forward.  "You c'n look at it to yer heart's content after the service.  I don' wanna be tromping up the aisle to the Venner's pew once it's started."

"True."  Aramis allowed himself to be chivvied forward. 

d'Artagnan, performing door duty again, bowed each of them through, allowing the door to whisper shut behind their quartet.  Athos, the set of his shoulders square beneath the blue cape, was already moving up the center aisle with that take-no-prisoners stride of his, boots ringing on the quarried blue sand stone floors. 

Aramis counted fourteen flying buttresses supporting the high vaulting of the central nave, noted the lacy gothic style of the ceiling and tallied no less than ten small bays hosting chapels dedicated to various saints.  The soaring edifice did not require the extra dressing the reformers had stripped away.  Though some wise soul, free of the frenzy of spiritual chaos, had thoughtfully stored away that art rather than allow its desecration.

The very bones of the structure invited one's spirit to transcend the mundane and soar to the gates of heaven.  Aquifers of ascended prayers permeated the porous stone, the scent of incense and beeswax an eternal reminder of souls gone before.  The sandstone columns and capitals, the repeating pointed arches, the bent light transfiguring what was left of centuries old statuary all declaimed glory to God in the highest.  

Aramis would have overshot their destination so enamored was he of the morning sun pouring through the stained glass windows, repainting the brilliant colors of the heraldic devices and religious iconography on the floors between the choir stalls.

Porthos fisted a hand in the back of Aramis' cape, stopping his forward movement, though it did not stop his feet until his mind left off drinking in the beauty of the interior to process the cessation of his forward progress.  Still he did not move, at Porthos' urging, into the row of seats.  His gaze was transfixed. 

Somber as the subject was, Aramis particularly liked the windows depicting The Dance of Death - a stained glass skeleton claiming people from all walks of life regardless of station or wealth.  This was how spirituality should be framed, in magnificent splendor, the sacred and the mundane side by side; an allegory of life.  For who among them lived in a soap bubble of perfection?

He came back to himself with a shake of his head only when Porthos dragged him into the row, attempting to seat him next to Athos.  There ensued another kind of dance as Aramis, with a lifted eyebrow at Athos, ensured a mystified d'Artagnan was seated by the comte, who had taken the chair next to Madam Joos. 

By the time they were all seated, Porthos having to step over d'Artagnan's long legs after Aramis plunked down on the other side of the youth, the Venner's lady had a black fan lifted before her face to hide an amused smile. 

Aramis had been oblivious as the rest of his team had greeted the Venner and his lady wife.  He bent forward at the waist, offering subdued salutations.  "You are fortunate in your place of worship," he whispered. 

Smiling nods of approbation met the heartfelt admission with agreement.  The sanctuary rustled with the same sound as a room full of silkworms pursuing their instinctual purpose as Aramis settled himself to luxuriate in the unusual opportunity.  At home, church attendance usually meant guard duty, or the occasional fishing expedition for a new patroness.  

Three seats down he caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head slightly to watch Madam Joos lean to Athos.  He could not discern the words, but the contrition on her face appeared sincere.

"Herr Joos was exceedingly vexed with me last night," the lady breathed into Athos' ear, "I am to apologize for angering you with my poor hospitality." 

Athos controlled the instinct to draw back.  He would consider the implications of that disclosure later, he thought silently, though perhaps there was a God after all.  At least they were not to be expelled from Berne like so much dross in the wind.  "I must apologize as well," he responded quietly, infusing as much sincerity into it as possible.  "The blame lies entirely with me." Perhaps the almost playful tone of her admission should have warned him, but Athos was too relieved to parse such a small thing. 

"Nay, my lord. I alone am at fault, it was discourteous of me to tease you so."

Tease? His mind recoiled instantly.  His dead wife had used to tease him endlessly, though at the time he'd thought it merely an infatuated lover's prerogative. In light of the investigation he had instigated upon the death of his brother, that teasing had taken on sinister overtones.

"Truce, then?" he offered neutrally, with that inclination of the head that might have been copied from kings and potentates across the continent - or might have been arrogated by kings and potentates from Olivier d'Athos de la Fère. 

The dame behind them hissed disapprovingly. 

Beside him, the forward Venner's wife slipped a hand beneath Athos' elbow, squeezing his forearm briefly.  "Truce," she agreed, her soft spoken accord continuing to be colored with a gaiety foreign both to the circumstances and their surrounds.  Strange too, since if one looked into her eyes they appeared flat as coins laid upon the eyelids of the dead. 

Athos resigned himself to an uncomfortable afternoon.  Hell - an uncomfortable trip, period. 

Aramis had plastered and potioned and piled blanket upon blanket last night, until Athos had thought he would smother beneath the crucible of quilts.  But the fever had broken, leaving him weak as a newborn kitten.  He had slept, finally, toward dawn, waking to Aramis' regretful physiognomy and insistent hand. 

Athos had wanted to rescind his own order and roll away from those persistent fingers.  Duty had dragged him out of bed, bathed the recalcitrant body sagging over the wash stand and eventually seen him tidily dressed and waiting on his companions as they broke their fast.  Food had held no appeal, though Aramis had insisted the comte break his fast.  The night had taken its toll, Athos' body needed sustenance, especially fluids to replenish all it had sacrificed.

Aramis was a fiend when it came to his patients.  One complied with his orders or suffered the consequences the next time one found oneself in a quandary requiring a healer's assistance.  Athos and Porthos had both learned diffidence in the face of Aramis' highhandedness when it came to matters of medical import.  

Madam Joos did not remove her hand, leaving it to rest lightly upon his sleeve as though they were boon companions.  Athos let it lie, though he had to repress an involuntary shudder; her familiarity both attracted and repelled. He was unused to being in the no-man's-land of indecisiveness and disliked it excessively. 

What little he had eaten was threatening to reappear.  He sternly forbade such an occurrence and arranged his features into their usual glacier composition.  This female would not discommode him again. 

Athos turned his attention to the carvings in the choir stalls, eyeing the intricate details of the heraldic beast of Berne sitting upright with its back to a chair knob, clutching a disproportionally largish berry between its paws.  There was a cherub sucking its toes and a jester with one foot planted on the mask of tragedy eternally plucking the strings of a lyre set across his lap.   Art he could appreciate, though the sanguinity of spirituality pervading the place did not touch his soul in the same way he had seen it plumb the depths of his friend just a few moments ago.

Madam Joos leaned into his shoulder, not so obviously as to be remarked, even by the disdainful female behind, yet the contact scorched like fire, making his skin crawl beneath jacket and shirt sleeve. Her bejeweled fingers began to pet the back of his - thankfully gloved - hand resting on his thigh, setting every nerve ending to quivering.  It irritated him no end that a strange thread of desire wove itself into the bleak landscape of revulsion, though he did rather desire to slap those progressively importunate digits. 

The Venner, who had risen with sagacious politesse on their arrival, greeting Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos with grave bows and Aramis' enthrallment with smiling charity, now turned an approving beam upon his wife, patting her other hand in obvious encouragement.

Had the priest not been making his way to the high alter to begin the service, Athos might have turned yellow and fled the battlefield.  Madam Joos he could handle; the Venner pandering his wife as a negotiating tool was more than a bit maladroit. 

The Musketeer bowed his head, closed his eyes and prayed to a god he did not believe in, for forbearance and equanimity.  On his other side, d'Artagnan leaned into his shoulder too, head bowed as well, though the dark gaze sought his, eyebrows raising beneath the fringe of long hair.  A well of solidarity to draw from.  Beyond the youth, Aramis and Porthos wore identical expressions of smugness.

Athos would deal with them later. An eye blink and the slightest of shoulder shifts garnered a relieved smile from the Gascon  -  and a moment of complete accord -  before they both turned their faces up to the altar, ostensibly at least, listening to the Word. 

The Venner, his wife, and their guests, were the center of attention after services.  The belle of the ball was besieged by a flock of silk-clad mammas towing equally eager daughters in their wake.  While Aramis, quite often the recipient of all that attention, disappeared into the cavernous depths of the cathedral, probably to lay his hands upon the stone in an effort to eke out the last bits of tranquility he could draw into his soul.

d'Artagnan glued himself to Athos' shoulder, a fluid mirror as Athos bowed and complimented and seethed. 

"The carriage will be around front by now if you would prefer to wait in its obscurity," Herr Joos declared affably.

Athos bore his scrutiny without remark, though the uptick at the corners of his lips could hardly be deemed a smile.  "My thanks, we will retire there when Aramis joins us again."

"He seems much captivated by the charm of our sanctuary."

"He is," Athos agreed easily.  "Though Aramis is enthralled by every cathedral he meets.  He is quite ecumenical in his regard for all things ... spiritual." 

"Perhaps he missed his calling?" the Venner suggested lightly, drawing on the gauntlets he had removed to greet friends and neighbors. 

At Athos' shoulder, d'Artagnan shifted on the balls of his feet, the Musketeer correctly interpreting the pivot as an unvoiced shout of laughter.  "Some might think so," Athos replied smoothly, canting a hip into the youth, whose lips twitched with the silent shared jest. 

Porthos, having had his fill of praise and glory, joined them. "What's 's funny?"  His brows drew together at the uncomprehendingly blank faces the pair turned on him.

"Funny?" Athos queried, d'Artagnan's quiet camaraderie lifting his dark mood in a way he could not have foreseen.  "Nothing.  We should find Aramis; our hosts may wish to leave soon."  Dispensing that small shared moment of harmony would distill its impact.  He turned so he could slide through the disorderly row of empty chairs across the aisle.

"Last I saw him, he was headed toward the stalls up front." d'Artagnan glanced that way again.

"Choir loft," Porthos grunted, having hung around Aramis long enough to have learned a thing or two about cathedrals as well.  "Not surprisin', though hopefully he won't succumb to the urge to try out the sound."

d'Artagnan, starting across the empty expanse between the chairs and the chancel, looked over his shoulder.

"He likes to sing."  Porthos grinned, following in the puppy's footsteps.  "Though he's usually discreet about his venues.  Unless he's drunk."

Athos found their errant Musketeer kneeling at a prie dieu in one of the small side chapels, an onyx set of rosary beads echoing softly around the space as they clicked through the long, slender fingers in counterpoint to the whisper of sound as Aramis prayed.

Athos set his feet, crossed his arms and waited.  This accommodation was not his to gainsay.  d'Artagnan and Porthos joined him shortly, coming almost on tiptoe in deference to Aramis' solemnity.    

The Venner and Madam Joos, too, found them, and still Aramis remained on his knees, head bowed, a bead occasionally clacking a little more assertively against its mates, a supplication repeated with emphasis; a blessing given extra merit.

There was about Aramis' person, a contemplative calm, as he rose.  An aura of inner peace glimpsed only from the corner of the eye and only if one knew what to look for.  Athos, who counted himself a Philistine, caught the shimmer of it and was glad for his friend. 

"My apologies."  Their marksman moved with consummate grace to light a candle outside the chapel, carefully placing a handful of coins in the requisite box so they did not jangle jarringly. "I did not mean to hold everyone up.  Are we ready to depart?"

Madam Joos smiled benevolently.  "Only if you are, Herr Aramis."  She took his arm, though far more impersonally that she had plied Athos' arm.  "Perhaps you would prefer we linger a little longer and request Father Pfyffer tour us around the place.  He is a bit of an historian and would love an appreciative audience.  Herr Joos and I both remarked your appreciation."

"Another day, perhaps."  Aramis bowed, extending a graceful hand toward the narthex.  "It would be my pleasure to spend time here with Father Pfyffer, but not today when my wanderings would hold up everyone else."

"I hope you will have time to return here, then, before you leave." Madam Joos smiled, allocating a filial pat that fanned Athos' slow burn to flame. 

The worst of it was, the woman knew it.  If she'd been a cat, she would have been purring.  He could not fathom why he had been singled out for her feline attentions.  Despite the strange sense of familiarity, he could conjure no memory of her, but then his rather solitary jaunt across the continent had not been about female companionship, rather the opposite.  He'd left home hoping to rid himself of the fingerprints a woman had left on his soul; he had not gone looking for new ones to cover them over. 

Aramis would likely tell him that alone put him in the role of mouse in the usual court games.  No matter if he was rich as Croesus or pockets to let, whether he bore the mien of a gargoyle or King Louis, any man desiring to hold himself aloof from women became instantly more attractive.  He had learned this for himself, abroad, but forgotten the lesson. It had been the sole reason for his participation, as the deeper he had hidden in the shadows, the more sought after he'd become.  So he had quit hiding and forced his retiring nature into submission, joined in the dancing, acceded to requests to 'make up the numbers', ridden to hounds though the sport did not appeal, and generally made himself agreeable in whatever capacity was required of him.

Nothing had worked.  Those fingerprints remained deeply embedded; he had found nothing to erase or pry them out.  When he'd grown tired of putting on an agreeable front, he'd collected his horse and his manservant, and made his way back through the frozen wastelands of Russia in the dead of winter.  Once he'd made up his mind, there was no stopping his progress toward Paris and a sudden resolve to pursue a long-stifled dream.  Not the constant sniveling despair of his valet that they would never see home again; not the short days or blustery winds that all but drove them backwards; not even the winter wastes themselves, one day icy, the next boggy as a swamp.  They had traveled back by the northern route through Livonia and Prussia, across to Brandenburg and down through Saxony over to Luxemburg and back into France through Reims and then to Paris.  Though the sniveling varlet of a valet had been dropped at Pinon, replaced by a more stalwart individual who could not only tie a cravat, but shoe horses as well, though even the replacement had been sent home shortly after their arrival in Paris.

Despite his apparent willingness to share, the Venner seemed domestically content with his wife.   Which was too bad, since Athos' palms were itching to commit bloody murder.  He wondered how deep the Aare was and how much weight it would require to keep the body submerged. 

Dinner, a long slow torturous affair served al fresco on the Joos' back terrace, with several other guests in attendance as well, took up most of the afternoon. Fortunately an excellent vintage flowed as though the Venner owned a winery, though Madam Joos discovered Athos' singular weakness. She made certain his glass was constantly refilled.

And, as the empty bottles began to stack up, Athos, in a much improved mood, discovered Madam Joos' delightful side.  He had purposely staked a claim on a single chair so as to avoid madam's over familiarity and yet, she had pulled up a chair as close as possible and begun a nattering recitation of her travels around  the continent with her widowed sister. 

The woman sighed theatrically.  "My lord, I've flirted outrageously in an attempt to jog your memory and still you don't remember me." 

Athos refrained from rolling his eyes.  He did not have enough hairs on his head to count the number of times he'd heard women sigh those exact same words to Aramis. Only Aramis did remember them - every single one of them - and could call them by name.  He had never chosen to cultivate that facility. 

"We've met?" he inquired staidly.  Had the Aare flowed with this vintage of wine, there would still not be enough to make him give in to that tweaking thread of desire. 

"Yes.  After we trailed you half way around Europe, we finally met at the Moscow court," she twittered.  "My sister was the Baroness von Rasmussen. "

It took a moment to register, but when it did, Athos' slouch straightened so quickly wine splashed over the rim of his glass.

Every head on the terrace turned in their direction. 

He'd been slumped in the chair, drinking steadily as an antidote to her stalking.  Now he turned toward her.  "No ..." The wine glass came up, right index finger pointing at the woman regarding him steadily.  He was drunk enough to have been caught completely off guard at this revelation; his normal boundaries  blurred so far as to be about non-existent.  Shock loosed his tongue, though he had presence of mind enough to keep his voice down.  "You are half of the Heilesen twins? Good God..."  he bit off a groan as he returned the regard in the softening afternoon light.  "You've cut your hair."  Not only was the long blonde hair bobbed at chin level, the intervening years had left their mark.  While she was still magnificently proportioned, the curves were padded now, the neck and line of the jaw beginning to sag just a little.  She had passed through the thresholds of maiden and mother and now bore the marks of the crone.   They did not, however, detract one bit from the quiet air of earthy sexuality she yet exuded.

Distantly, Athos heard her spouse chortle, though the man was far enough away he could not have over heard.  Several things fell into place along with the scalding memories of the one and only night of Athos' life spent in complete and utter dissipation.    Surely she wasn't going to bring that up here on her terrace, surrounded by friends and family - her husband not ten feet away.  He did not dare slump back in the chair as he wanted to do.  Or get up and make a spectacularly fast exit; he was already too drunk to accomplish that.

"I will not importune you, my lord, but that night ..." that night came out on a quiet exhale, "that night," she repeated, "I discovered wickedness could be devastatingly wonderful." 

Athos had no idea the vessel of his mind could contain the confluence of emotions cresting like a wave about to crash over him.  He could not control the color he could literally feel heating his cheeks, nor remember the last time he'd blushed; his only saving grace was the shadowing hat brim. 

She'd been a sad goddess trapped in human form.  Athos had purposely tried to erase the memory.

He lifted his wine glass in salute and took a very small sip lest - for his sins - he choke on it.  He had been wicked exactly once in his life, if one discounted the stupidity of taking to wife a thief and a murderess in violation of a long-standing betrothal agreement.  His experience before taking that wife had been limited to dallying dairy maids and tolerant tavern wenches.  Apparently said wife had taught him how to please a woman well if years later his wickedness was yet another unusual topic of conversation.  Naturally, being a man, he could not help the little spike of pride, though it was tempered by the equally impaling question - what exactly was Madam Joos after?

As if reading his mind, madam's fingers fluttered over his bare hand again, the one holding the wine glass, since his wrist rested once more on the arm of the chair.  "Only to reminisce a little.  I promise I will not importune you," she said again.  "My sister and I were one court after another behind until we caught up with you in Moscow.  You were oblivious of the attention you attracted and the court gossip that followed in your wake; it made you doubly intriguing. A man so sure of himself, and yet so distant and unavailable." 

A dreamy look had replaced the flat affect in her eyes when Athos chanced a glance in her direction.  He cut his gaze directly to the wine glass in his hand lest he be caught staring.  The recitation at the very least explained how she had come by her information.  He had noted, repeatedly throughout his travels, the same faces appearing in every court across the continent.  The nobility of Europe traveled much like packs of wolves, devouring anyone in their path and weaning their pups on the milk of gossip.  His had not been the only noble house in the vicinity of Aisne, nor, as he'd informed Aramis, had the hanging of his wife been done in secret.  Given the dissolute nature of European courts, it should not have surprised him that the small, insular world he had inhabited prior to being commissioned as a Musketeer, knew of his personal heartache.

"You must understand, my lord, I was married young and had born my spouse three children without once experiencing the kind of intimacy we shared that night.  It left a lasting impression; add to that it was one and only time I have been able to completely escape my grief for a few hours."  Madam Joos sat back in her chair, a large floppy hat of her own shielding her face from the sun on this lovely spring afternoon.  " Your d'Artagnan reminds me of my youngest.  Not in looks, though he is quite handsome with his dark, exotic heritage.  It is in their natures that I see the similarities, the youthful charm and ... how do you say it?  Joie de vivre?"  Gaze turning inward, she added quietly, "When grief presses most assiduously those memories remain an assuagement." 

Athos the Silent was completely at a loss for words.  An unusual occurrence, as he was rarely without them; he just chose not to use them.  Kammiel, and her twin sister, Kamilla, had been a bit of a revelation to a recently widowed male attempting murder most foul upon his own feelings.  While they had been fledgling wicked-ites themselves, the pair had raised 'feeling' to a new level of anticipatory pleasure. 

His mind had allowed him to rewrite the reason he had preferred the frozen Russian steppes.   The mere thought of allowing the duo to thaw out anymore of his 'feelings' had driven him right out of Moscow. He'd worked hard to freeze those feeling and had had no desire to take them out every now and again just to see if they were still in good working condition. 

"I understand it did not leave as lasting an impression on you as it did on us. Kammilla vowed she would settle for nothing less if she married again, and a year ago, she met a gentleman she claims has your hand and heart."

If he could do her this one courtesy, Athos would extend it willingly.  "My lady," the title was extravagant but offered with respect, "I had no heart then and I have no heart now.  You are correct that I hung my wife.  She was a lying, thieving whore who killed my brother in cold blood - but she took my heart to the grave with her.  It is not mend-ably broken, it is as gone as if it had never beat in my chest."  He rose carefully, exonerated both in his duty to apologize and untangle any knots in the negotiations.  The Venner would be pleased with their new accord.  "Please give my regards to your lovely sister when you see her again."  He had no interest in reviving those 'feelings' now either.

"It is unlikely I will see her again this side of the pearly gates.  She married a Russian count and moved back to Moscow.  That trip was a once in a lifetime event, it will not be repeated.  We were both grieving losses.  You were our gift to ourselves; one night of decadence to last the rest of a lifetime.  One night to lay aside our sorrows and remember the joys of youth. I am elated that Kammilla has found someone to fill her empty arms."  Madam rose as well.  "You are young yet, comte, do not let one woman's betrayal taint the rest of your life.

"Love is a mendacious bedfellow."  Athos lifted and kissed the back of her fingers with unfeigned gallantry. 

Madam Joos smiled, the coins lifted from those eyes to reveal an unfathomable depth of despair.  "All the more reason to kick that one out before it puts roots right through the mattress and down through the floor.  Find a new love that will put down nurturing roots."

"Alas, no amount of chipping, chopping or burning has even marred its thick skin."  Athos stared at the bottom of the empty wine glass; drink, too, was ever a deceiver.  It made him far too garrulous for his own good.  

Aramis was wandering over.  Slowly, but with intention. 

"I thank you for your concern and wish you health and happiness to spare, madam. Aramis?" Athos put down the glass and retrieved his gauntlets from the arm of the chair.  "Have you been deputized to collect me?"

"I have," Aramis said pleasantly.  "I am sorry to part you from such lovely company, but the boys are getting restless.  You know d'Artagnan, sitting still through an entire church service has already overtaxed his tolerance.  Not to denigrate your hospitality, madam.  The food was superb and the company even better, but we really need to let the puppy off the leash for awhile before bedtime."  He accompanied this with a fond smile in d'Artagnan's direction, thankful their exuberantly youthful puppy was still engaged in conversation with the Venner and paying no attention.  Else Aramis would have gotten his shins kicked - probably exuberantly.  d'Artagnan had not taken well to the nickname.

"Thank you for graciously opening your home to us and feeding us again.  If we do not see you before, then I will look forward to the closing reception, no matter the outcome of our negotiations." Athos' smile nearly knocked Aramis off his feet, unprepared as he was for the rueful honesty of it.

In the three years he'd been acquainted with the man, he'd never seen the like, nor had Athos ever made such an obvious about face.   In point of fact, Aramis was almost positive he'd never seen the comte change his mind once it was made up. 

"Madam."  Aramis bowed and linked an arm through Athos', discreetly steadying the wandering footsteps as they left the terrace.  "Porthos is collecting d'Artagnan.  Can you walk back to the Rathaus or should I request a further loan of the Joos' carriage?"

"I am perfectly capable of walking."  Athos shook off Aramis' hold, only to walk straight into a gate post hard enough to jar his teeth. 

Aramis, with a twist of the lips that might have been a repressed chuckle, caught up with their obstinate sword master.  "Yes, I can see the feet are in fine working order, perhaps it's the ability to focus that's plaguing you.  Likely a walk in the fresh air will do you good.  You, Monsieur le Comte, should consider going straight to bed when we get back.  Porthos and I will tire out the puppy so he sleeps tonight."

"Why?  Didn't he sleep last night?"

"He was up every hour checking on you."

"Aramis, you must tell him this is not serious."

Aramis could have sworn Athos had clucked like a mother hen.  "It could easily be, if you refuse to take care of yourself," he clucked in return.  "Here they come, tell him yourself."

"He won't believe me."

"Probably not.  Wonder why that is."  It wasn't a question.  "And while we're on the subject, no more alcohol until you're fully recovered."

"It was medicinal."

Aramis stopped in his tracks, forcing Athos to stop as well since the healer still had him by the arm.  "It is medicinal only if it comes from my hand, are we clear on this?" 

Aramis could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of times one of the three of them had been sick. In point of fact, this was a first for Athos during his tenure as a Musketeer.  Scratches and scrapes, rapier and lead wounds were par for the course - illness was not. 

"Whether you choose to see it or not, excessive alcohol use depresses the spirit. It could well have consequences we do not yet understand, on the body's ability to heal itself.  Aside from that, Madam Hildegard cautions against the use of strong spirits during recuperation, and I trust her observations."  He'd proven the nun's medicinal knowledge again and again in his own practice of the healing arts.  "On the other hand, as I told d'Artagnan not that long ago - you are only my responsibility insofar as you allow it.  You can deal with this yourself, or we can ask the Swiss to send a real doctor."

Athos borrowed a convenient arch to lean against.  "Do you require a white flag?"

Aramis scowled.  "I require your cooperation, one of the very few things you are not good at, especially when it comes to compromising your willingness to accept help.  You're ever ready to provide it; accepting it is an entirely different ball of wax."

"Must we have this conversation in the middle of a foreign street?"

"Yes!"  Tension climbed the hill between them, then slid down the other side.  Aramis sighed.  "No, of course not.  Porthos and d'Artagnan are coming around the corner.  What's with you and Madam Joos?  You were still giving her the iceberg treatment when we left church and three hours later the pair of you were looking like cooing love birds."

"Disgusting as that sounds, since we were lovers once, and it was ... pleasant for both of us, I suppose it's possible the memory momentarily overcame us both."

Aramis, who slept in a different bed if not every night, at least every other week, thought his jaw might unhinge itself.  He snapped it shut, though he could not seem to control the exclamatory arch of his eyebrows.   

Athos pushed off his resting place with a sigh.  "Your God, Aramis, has a warped sense of humor." He spread his arms and raised his face to the sky.  "I would have preferred lightening."

"What's goin' on?" Porthos grabbed an arm, attempting to pull Athos along.  "Besides the fact you're drunk as a lord."

"I am a lord."  Athos planted his feet.  "And confession is supposed to be good for the soul."

"Not yours, it ain't."  Porthos shot a mystified glare at Aramis, who shrugged. 

"Church must have rattled his wits."

"Som'in got rattled, that's fer sure.  Come along, my lord, before you do som'in really stupid."

"Too late."  Athos smiled cheerily, though it was slightly cross-eyed. "However you will all be pleased to know the negotiations remain unaffected by my crass conduct last night."  He swept off his hat, essaying a bow that would have ended in a nose dive had not Porthos caught him and dragged him upright.

d'Artagnan, hanging back slightly, frowned.  He'd encountered angsty drunk Athos already, and morose drunk Athos, but not a comical drunk Athos.  It was ... disconcerting.  "What happened back there?  In church you were doing a fine impression of a hedgehog sitting next to madam and just now," the youth jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "back there, you looked like a pair of cats that found the cream pitcher unguarded."

"Comparing notes with Aramis, were you?" Athos said coolly, resuming his erratic stroll, allowing Porthos the privilege of keeping him upright.  It had been a very long night and now a long day on top of it, though it was barely past four of the clock. 

"He was not," Aramis returned, just as coolly.  "But if d'Artagnan observed it, rest assured he was not the only one."

"Thanks," the youth muttered.  "Though I'm pretty sure I was just insulted."

"Enough, all of you," Porthos commanded.  "This is gettin' out of hand.  I don' know what's gotten into us, but this bickering stops now.  Whatever's goin' on between the two of you--" He hauled Athos to a stop with a minatory glare, then turned it on Aramis, "Get over it.  We're not effective as a unit when we're tearin' at each other.  I'm real tempted to grab both of ya by the scruff o' the neck 'n shake some sense into ya."  The glare softened slightly as he turned back to Athos.  "You need to go back to bed and sleep off this drunk.  The rest of us need to go shake out some o' these fidgets.  Now move all a'ya, 'fore I start crackin' heads; an not another word until ya can play nicely again."

The only sound was the soft sighing of a spring breeze soughing around buildings, and a short time later, boot heels clicking up the stairs then ringing across marble floors as they entered the Rathaus.  The suite door closed gently behind d'Artagnan bringing up the rear.  He hovered there as the three Musketeers divested themselves of capes and hats, and in silence, disappeared into their respective bed chambers. 

Uncomfortable, he thought, stopping to hang his chapeau alongside the others before following Athos into their room. 

The elder Musketeer was sitting on his bed pulling off his boots.  He set them side by side at the foot of the bed as was his habit and crawled between the covers without bothering to undress.  "Keep them out of trouble if you can," he said quietly, closed his eyes and was - very unusually - asleep between breaths. 

d'Artagnan watched the slow descent into deep sleep as the stiffness in back and shoulders began to dissolve.  A long, expansive breath in and then out and he knew their leader had truly succumbed.  The man must be exhausted, else he would never have backed down, though if he hadn't been exhausted the errors in judgment would never have occurred.  Despite the fact that Athos made it look easy, those shoulders carried much of the weight on every mission.  In the heart of the vulnerability the man had exposed, the youth from Gascony read a valuable lesson.  Even the best leaders had to rely on others occasionally; the very best recognized when it was necessary and acceded gracefully. 

Normally, Athos was grace personified. 

Porthos stuck his head around the door jamb, glanced at Athos, and motioned d'Artagnan to follow.  "He'll be fine," Porthos assured the youth as d'Artagnan hovered in the doorway, torn by conflicting desires.

He wanted to stay and watch over this new friend and at the same time knew on some intuitive level Athos had disappeared into sleep because it was the only privacy afforded on this trip. 

Porthos decided for him.  "Not a thing you can do 'cept let him be.  Athos ain't used to puttin' a foot wrong in any situation, it galls him when he does, but he'll sleep off his mad and between us, we'll jolly Aramis out of the sulks as well."  He slung an arm around the youth's shoulders, guiding him toward the parlor door.  "Aramis has gone for the horses, he'll have 'em out front waitin' for us.  That man, Rachid, told Aramis there's a race course set up on t' other side'a the river.  The townsfolk don' use it on a Sunday so we'll have the place to ourselves."

"Rachid?"

"The silver-haired man?"

"Yeah." d'Artagnan allowed himself to be pulled along.  "Every member of the council  is silver-haired.  As were many of the other guests this afternoon."

Porthos laughed on cue.  "Ya got me there.  The one couldn't leave off oglin' Madam Joos' prow."

"Oh!  Rachid."

Porthos laughed again and cuffed the youth good-naturedly.  "That's the one.  Told Aramis about a local tavern, too.  You any good at darts?  Said there's a friendly game every Sunday night."

"I can usually hit the board with my rapier." d'Artagnan reluctantly left his hat on the sideboard as he followed Porthos out.  "I wouldn't mind a good gallop, but shouldn't we come back here for the evening?"

"Yer worrin' again and worrin' for Athos will likely getcha a tongue lashing does he catch you at it.  He'll sleep 'til morning anyway.  Sunday's 'sposed to be a day a rest, give your worry a rest, too." 

This, d'Artagnan already knew, was not as easy as Porthos made it sound, though probably a good idea if he could manage it.  

Events, as it turned out, earned d'Artagnan more than a tongue lashing.  He very nearly garnered himself a cashiering before he'd even earned his pauldron.  Though through no fault of his own. 

Chapter Text

The eyes beneath the cant of the hat brim were the color of a frozen Caribbean sea, chips of ice set in the composed features, though it was unlikely his foe caught even a glimpse of them as the lantern he carried dropped from suddenly lax fingers, replaced by a primed and ready pistol.  The naked rapier instantly in his right hand flexed infinitesimally as he raised the gun and shot the first one coming directly at him.  The second, rapidly advancing on his right, dropped like a stone from a savagely whipped pistol butt before the now useless weapon was abandoned.  He jammed his parrying dagger into a third, yanked it out and whirling, sent it spinning toward the jugular of a fourth who had no time to dodge as he engaged the fifth in a silent, deadly duel that lasted approximately three minutes before Athos disengaged from a bind, rocked back on his left heel and drove the point of his rapier between the left fourth and fifth ribs. 

His sword made sucking sounds as he pulled it out very slowly and watched his opponent keel over like a straw dummy.

"Last man standing."  The rasp was barely a whisper.  It took a great deal of effort not to kick the  body as Athos stepped over it, moving to disengage a massive key ring from the belt of the man whose neck was sporting his dagger.  He collected the parrying dagger as well, stuck it hilt-deep in the dirt to rid it of the blood and stowed it in its sheath behind his back before rising, rapier quietly quiescent in his rock steady hand. 

Around the side of the ramshackle house, the cut-out dirt steps down to the basement were crumbling badly and bore evidence of much recent activity.  The large iron key fit easily into the rusty lock, but he had to sheath his sword and use both hands to turn it.  He did so warily, ears tuned for the slightest scrape of sound behind him, though he did not bother looking over his shoulder. 

Empty. 

He knew instantly and without a doubt those he sought were not within.  The crypt five men and the self-important lock had guarded so conspicuously was empty.  Athos knew himself for a fool as well.  The hair on the back of his neck rose like spiny thorns as he turned on a boot heel, expecting to face another dozen miscreants, though he had heard nothing.  His hands dropped without thought to the various accouterments that would announce his presence as he moved silently back to the corner to reconnoiter the courtyard again.

He took a deep steadying breath and focused - as much as he was able with his heart pounding an unholy wrath through his system - on the carnage left in the wake of his assault.  He was no closer to finding his friends and there were five dead bodies littering the small space between the gate hanging half off its hinges and the decrepit building brooding above the empty cellar. 

Seething, he grabbed the feet of the closest caitiff, dragged him to the basement threshold and sent the body tumbling down the rickety stairs with a shove of his boot. 

The gate banged as he heard d'Artagnan's running footsteps slide to a stop at the furthest body.  Still he did not turn, just continued with the job of dragging the deceased to the door of the cellar.  He knew himself disproportionately angry, if he spoke at all it would be to spew forth in bitter acrimony and d'Artagnan would take his words as a further measure of fault. 

He'd certainly imparted a few cold, deadly words to the youth earlier when d'Artagnan had all but fallen into their room, waking Athos from a dead sleep with the nearly incomprehensible report, between gasps, that Aramis and Porthos were missing.

A thing unheard of; Aramis and Porthos were an unbeatable combination.  They could take a room full of drunken bastards alone and leave d'Artagnan sitting at the table.  Though the hot-headed youth was incapable of staying out of any fight.

On further reflection, Athos regretted his sharp reprimand.  Fault rarely belonged to one alone.  And to be fair, d'Artagnan did not pick fights like Porthos, who liked to flex his muscles occasionally, or Aramis, who often relieved his boredom with his facile tongue.  The youth's fiery zeal was usually reserved for cases of blatant injustice.  

Clearly, expecting d'Artagnan to keep the other two in line had been the height of stupidity.  And unfair as well. 

Athos leaned wearily against the foul smelling door jamb.  If this mounting tally of dead bodies reached the ears of their potential allies, Tréville - not to mention the cardinal and the king - would have three Musketeer heads mounted on platters like John the Baptist. 

He turned from the top of the dank, dark head of the stairwell to find d'Artagnan behind him, hauling another body.  This one looked familiar, though he could not place where he had seen the man.  Aramis, with his uncanny knack for identifying faces, could have told him, but they'd been so many places - the opening ball, the masquerade, even church - and met so many faces, they were mostly a blur to Athos.  He saw no reason to mention the uneasy feeling to d'Artagnan, though, and together they hefted it silently down the stairs. 

Their only hope lay in the fact that this was an unsavory neighborhood; perhaps the authorities would be appreciative of their efforts to rid it of some of the vermin population. 

"They are not here then?" d'Artagnan asked uneasily.  The carnage in the courtyard had made him sick to his stomach.

"Do you see them?"  Athos clamped his teeth shut on the snarled incivility. 

d'Artagnan turned away to collect another of the sprawled men and the remaining two bodies were similarly dispatched before returning in silence to gather up the weapons lying where they'd been dropped by dead men.   Athos hefted a gleaming halberd, running a gauntleted finger across the blade - it sliced off a layer of leather thin enough to see through - before tossing it into the dirt cellar as well.

Returning to the courtyard, he put a hand against one of the dilapidated support beams, needing a moment to consider what to do, but the beam shifted and only d'Artagnan's quick snatch kept him from being buried under the timber that gave way as the porch roof sighed and abruptly rained down a wagonload of debris. 

They both shied back from the deluge of dust raised by the collapse, throwing up elbows and arms to shield faces as the porch pulled loose of the house, adding bricks and more rotten timber to the wreckage. 

Athos did not miss the boy's sharp inhale.  "Are you hurt?"

"No." 

The response was as quick and sharp as the inhale, which in the short time Athos had known the young man had already come to signify d'Artagnan was lying through his teeth.

"Where?"

"I'm fine.  What happened?" 

There was no visible wound, no telltale blood dripping; the Musketeer let it go.  He did not have time to waste, the trail grew colder with each passing moment.  "We had a shadow.  He took off when I turned on him." 

d'Artagnan bent over, hands on his knees, trying to wheeze quietly.  "I only found you because I heard the pistol shot."

A long moment of grudging stillness yielded, "You're right."  Athos acknowledged the unvoiced reproof, though the youth's temperately modulated tone only stoked his anger.  "We're down to two already, we should stick together."  The words came out bitten off, laced with hostility. 

d'Artagnan was silent behind his heaving breath.  "I'm sorry," he said finally, and for the thousandth time in the last several hours.  The bitterness seeping from the quiet utterance was too reminiscent of Athos' own self-loathing. 

The Musketeer sighed, reining in his run-away resentment, though it was difficult at best.  Two of his men, his brothers, were missing; he was seething still.  But he tempered his voice, collected his will and said in his usual monotone,  "Again, the fault is mine.  Remind me to apologize profusely when this is over.  I should not be taking my anger out on you."

d'Artagnan had done his level best to keep the blame from falling on Aramis - where it belonged, Athos had no doubt - spreading it evenly between the three culprits.  The fact that it had involved a woman, though she'd only been mentioned very briefly, almost in passing, told its own story.  d'Artagnan's version had focused mainly on the sudden and inexplicable multitude who'd risen up as if at some signal and stormed their table with naked rapiers.  

"If only they'd taken me..." d'Artagnan mumbled under his breath.  "They're likely dead by now."

The night was quiet, though, and Athos heard the anguish in the pernicious tenor of the words.  "No." He glanced once more around the dimly lit courtyard.  "If whoever is behind this had wanted them dead, you would have all been left for dead in the tavern.  They took Aramis and Porthos for a reason and left you to bear the news back to me."

But what reason? 

The tavern, when they'd returned, had been locked up tight, though that had not stopped Athos.  He'd smashed a person-sized hole in the front window and crawled into the dark interior heedless of danger. The place had been little more than a hole in the wall, the bar a plank across two saw horses, with a shelf of liquor behind.  A few tables, a couple of dark corners and another locked door into an alley literally seeping excrement and offal.

Athos kicked through the rubble of the porch roof until he found the lantern that had been hanging over the door.  The descent had snuffed the wick.  He pulled it out, deliberated for a moment, then strode across to one of the still lit lamps hanging from a nail by the stable entrance.  He relit the one he'd pulled from the rubble and took both back to the porch where he settled one carefully in a nest of debris, tipping it just enough to purposefully spill a little of the oil.  Then waited to make sure the hungry tongues of flame lapped beyond the hood of the light.  When the curling tendrils of flame began to lick at the brittle wooden roof shakes around it, he rose and crossed to the opposite side of the courtyard to retrieve a third lamp from where it hung on the enclosure wall. 

He handed one to d'Artagnan.  "Look for markers.  If they were here, we'll find a new trail."

d'Artagnan had only been initiated into this system a few hours ago, when Athos had insisted they begin their search at the tavern where d'Artagnan had woken alone.  The Musketeer had begun casting about the street in front of the establishment, intently scouring each millimeter of ground until he'd bent and picked up what appeared to be a small button.  And it had been, of a sort.  A small bit of clay stamped with a pair of dice no bigger than the end of Athos' thumb.  Inconspicuous, but easily seen if one knew what to look for.

d'Artagnan had found another almost immediately.

Athos had informed him that every Musketeer carried some kind of marker, usually in a hidden pocket inside clothing.  They came in handy for all sorts of things.  Aramis, naturally, often used his to chink the windows of his various amours.   

The dice belonged to Porthos, which, d'Artagnan had discovered, likely meant Aramis was unconscious, or he too would have left an identifier.  Athos had muttered something about vanity and continued searching the ground, moving further along the road from where d'Artagnan had found the second one.  He'd found a third very quickly and held it up for inspection.

The markers served two purposes, the first being the information that their friends were alive, and just as importantly, had given them a direction to begin looking. 

They had followed a trail of dice from the tavern up one road and down another, through back alleys and lanes, occasionally crisscrossing a road they had already been on, often having to stop and backtrack or cast about over long distances to find the next one, the job made much more difficult by the inky blackness of the night and the need to keep their lanterns half-shuttered.

Until d'Artagnan had glanced up at a whisper of sound, barely in time to catch sight of a boot heel whipping around a corner at a dead run. He'd chased after the fleeting glimpse immediately, but despite hearing the sound of boots ringing on the cobblestones, the close set streets had all echoed with the sound and d'Artagnan had spent another quarter hour flinging himself up and down every street in the vicinity, until he'd heard the retort of the pistol nearby by and stopped long enough to get his bearings and listen for any other sounds. 

The noise of the fight had come to him very faintly, heard only because he'd been listening intently for distinct sounds he recognized. 

"Why are you setting the place on fire?" he asked, barely above a whisper, as he bent to inspect the courtyard with the un-shuttered lantern Athos had handed him.  He glanced over in time to catch the clench of the bearded jaw and was instantly relived.  Clearly there was a purpose behind the arson, one Athos was not particularly happy about.  

It was another teachable moment, though Athos was in no mood to impart the hard-earned knowledge every Musketeer eventually came to terms with.  He did it anyway, the words ground out in his typically sparse style as he, too, scoured the ground, scuffing at anything that looked pebbleish.  "Maybe someone will come looking for this quintet; maybe not." 

The dead were clearly not the rogues and miscreants he'd taken them for in the dim light.  On closer inspection, every one of them had been of an age with the Venner.  Miscreants or merely mischief makers,  they had harmed his brothers and attacked him with lethal weapons - ancient lethal weapons, true -  deadly nonetheless; every one of them had been bright with a newly honed edge. 

He could make no sense, however, of five armed men, ostensibly guarding a pretentiously locked cellar, advancing with sinister intent apparently to do bodily harm.  Either it had been intended as a very elaborate ruse - for what purpose he could not discern - or the tail they'd set on him had not been very good at his job and Athos' entrance had caught them completely off guard.   

"If they were acting on their own, it buys us some time to conclude negotiations and get out of Berne."  Athos rubbed his forehead wearily.  "I just ... cannot fathom a reason five individuals would rush to die for an empty cellar.  Unless ..."  Athos trailed off.  Perhaps even now Aramis and Porthos were waiting for them back at the Rathaus, though given d'Artagnan's description of events, that would be nothing short of miraculous. 

"Unless what?  And if they are not acting on their own?"

This was not the first time Athos had wished d'Artagnan was a shade less bright.  "If not - and I should tell you I don't believe they were - we are still protected by our diplomatic status.  It is unlikely, though not impossible, they will throw us in jail here.  We would be escorted beyond the bounds of their city-state and refused re-entry."  Athos straightened, drawing d'Artagnan's attention again, as he'd meant to.  "If that should happen before we have found Aramis and Porthos, we will simply find another way into the city."  He did not address the unless what, hoping he had distracted the boy from the first question. 

d'Artagnan nodded sharply and returned to his own hunt.  The men were dead already, it wasn't like they were leaving them to be burned alive. 

Behind him, he heard Athos' rattling inhale of relief.  He turned as Athos rose again, holding another marker between his fingers.  "Aramis."  He held it out for d'Artagnan to see the outline of a miniscule ace of hearts card. 

"Thank God!" d'Artagnan whispered with complete and utter sincerity, closing his eyes briefly.  "So they were here!  Does this mean they might have escaped?"

Too smart by half.  "Doubtful."  Athos hated to quench the sudden blaze of relief, but under the circumstances, no hope was better than false hope.  "Check the street in front of the gate.  I will search the alley behind."

"Don't disappear on me again."  d'Artagnan found two of Aramis' markers headed up the street, into the heart of Berne.  Athos found one of Porthos' a good distance down the alley, headed back toward the River Aare.

They could not decide if the two had been separated, or if perchance they had been brought in through the back alley and taken out through the front gate.  It was a riddle they had no time to solve, Athos' presence was required in the halls of council on a timely basis and he had no intention of leaving d'Artagnan out on the streets alone, least he be missing three companions by the time negotiations wound up.  And he was determined, if nothing else, to bring France's part of the negotiations to an end today.  One way or another.

"We cannot continue.  Dawn will be breaking soon, we can't be seen hunting like this and we must be back to the Rathaus soon." 

The first faint flush of morning was already brightening the horizon beyond the river. 

"Won't they ask about Aramis and Porthos?"  d'Artagnan felt those touches of light as if they were fingers closing around his throat.  His head knew this hadn't been his fault.  Athos' corrosive anger, in combination with his youthful heart, said otherwise. 

"Likely."

"What do we tell them?"

"I will think of something by then."  The rapid staccato of boot heels on cobblestones slowed to assume the pace of an early morning stroll.  Athos tipped his hat as a farmer pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with fresh dug beets passed them by trailing wisps of fog.  "Early to market today, eh?" the comte observed, smiling at the man.

"'Eees a right 'un, ee is, always up afore the cock crows."

Athos laid a hand on d'Artagnan's arm as the youth startled.  An old man appeared out of the gloaming, practically on the heels of the farmer, the form matching the disembodied voice.  The farmer in front had responded only with a nod.   

"First'ta market garners the best spot!  We be the first 'un's here e'vry day, we do.  Youun's be the furrin'er's up at the Rathaus?" The ancient gentleman tottered to a stand-still, canting his head back to look them up and down.

"We are."  This time Athos doffed his hat and bowed, keeping a hand on the youth beside him, lest he bolt; d'Artagnan was quivering like an unbroken yearling.  "Out for a stroll before we head back to the negotiating table this morning." 

"Heard tell there were four of ya."

"Da, times awastin'!" the farmer called back, barrow, beets and body disappearing into the still inky blackness of the pre-dawn street.  

The old man shuffled off after his son.  "Don't ye be takin' all our sons off to war," he called back over his shoulder.  "We be a'needin' 'em here, ya know, to raise up more'n we got.  That Frenchie king's a'took too many a'ready... too many ..." 

The darkness swallowed up the old man, too, muffling the rest of his sing-song words. 

d'Artagnan drew the back of his sleeve across his face, swiping at the wet hair plastered to his forehead.  He was sweating profusely, despite the decided nip in the air. 

"A guilty conscience is not an asset in anyone wishing to serve the king," Athos observed quietly, waiting until he could no longer hear the squeaking wheel of the hand cart before stepping out again.  "The market is ahead, a few streets over."  He'd spent time with Treville's extensive collection of maps before their journey.  "I'd rather not publicize our presence any more than necessary and we need to go in the back way anyway."  He stood for a moment more, picturing the map again, then physically turned d'Artagnan.  "This way." 

They slipped in the back servant's entryway just as the sun crested the horizon, stippling the facade of the Berner Rathaus with an eerie crimson glow. 

Chapter Text

The note was delivered to d'Artagnan late in the afternoon.  He was a bit disoriented and it took a moment to realize the servant who had brushed by him had deposited a small, folded piece of paper in his hand.  He palmed it as discreetly as possible, but had to close his eyes as dizziness rocked him head to toe.  He might get away with passing out, since Athos had informed the contingent when they'd inquired after the missing Musketeers, that Aramis and Porthos had eaten something that didn't agree with them.  He could blame it on the same ailment. 

Athos was going to murder him anyway, for losing the other two Musketeers, so there was really nothing to gain by trying to stay on his feet.  Sadly, youthful pride had no tolerance for fainting, even as a distraction.  He murmured to a nearby servant that he was going to use the facilities, tilted a head toward the exit for Athos' benefit, and left the room hoping the careful placement of his boots would indicate anything other than the fact that his equilibrium was questionable. 

"... fity thousand francs, gentlemen?" Athos watched d'Artagnan leave.  "King Louis is not asking for troops at this time," he returned his attention to the table of city officials, "only the promise of aid should it come to war between France and Spain.  As you are aware, our queen has significant ties to  Spain, this makes France leery of any type of engagement involving arms with Spain, as it would be ... offputting to Her Majesty to be at war with her brother.  However, if that slim chance should come to fruition, it would be in Berne's best interests to side with the French.  We have, after all, maintained good relations among your confederacies for many generations." 

"We have discussed it, Herr Athos, that is our final offer.  We will provide the French army six regiments of self-armed soldiers, at a cost of fifty thousand francs.  France would pay the soldiers according to their rank and years of service for as long as our men wish to serve.  They may contract to your liege lord for a specified period of time or indefinitely, with the understanding that they are contractually obligated during their period of service, and subject to both French and Swiss disciplinary action should they fail in their duties." 

Athos, head swimming with fatigue,  took the parchment pushed across the width of the polished table, drawing it down into his line of vision.  Fortunately the contract had been drawn up in French, so he did not have to go through the ridiculous process of requesting a translator, since no one here was aware he spoke fluent German, but the lines of tiny, cramped script were hardly more than jots and tittles to his aching eyes.  Sleep deprivation was not helping his cause.    

His concentration - or perhaps that dragging fatigue - was such that he did not realize d'Artagnan was behind him until the youth had leaned over his shoulder with a glass of water.  Athos did not want water, but he accepted it anyway,  and found, to his surprise, a folded note in his hand along with the glass.  With five of Berne's most powerful citizens seated across the table watching his every move.  Internalizing a sigh, Athos slipped the note under the table and drew the contract to the edge.

Alas either his eyes or the note were too blurred to make out the looping, swooping handwriting.  When he lifted his head, he saw only the usual patient waiting in each pair of eyes trained on him.  d'Artagnan had moved back to the window. 

Inspiration struck.  "If I may beg your indulgence."  Athos lifted the contract.  "While I've been authorized to use my own judgment, the terms are beyond what I'm comfortable agreeing too.  Does the city keep carrier pigeons?"

"Yes, of course."

"Could you allow us a few days to put this matter to the king directly?  It is, after all, his personal coffers that will be financing this." 

"Of course," Herr Venner repeated, smiling widely, "We have spent several evenings hammering out our position, you must have the courtesy of equal time to come to your own decisions.  Let us adjourn for the nonce then, and I will send our fancier to your rooms say -- in one hour from now, by the clock?  Does that allow you time enough to summarize our position for your king?"

Athos glanced over the parchment, considering how long it would take to reproduce and add a few lines. 

"When the document was drawn up, we had fair copies made.  You are welcome to send that one along if you wish."

"That would certainly decrease the amount of time needed to pen a note to go with it.  Yes, an hour will be fine."  Athos rose, sliding the note and the contract to his left hand, and reached across the table to shake hands with each member of the Swiss negotiating team.  "Thank you.  Would it be acceptable if we spent the intervening time viewing the sights of your magnificent city?  None of us have been to Berne and we've seen very little of it so far." He needed an excuse to be wandering the city streets by day, poking into odd corners and back alleys. 

"It would be our pleasure to have someone show you around our fair city.  You will forgive if I intrude, my friend, but you look weary yourself.  I would once again offer the services of our Doktor for your friends, you have only to send one of the servants if you find they are still suffering when you return to your rooms."

"My thanks, but I hope to find them better when we return.  I will, however, keep your generosity in mind should we have need of a doctor."  Athos inclined his head, pasted a smile on his face and went to collect d'Artagnan.  Whose appearance worried him a great deal.

Because they made sure to tread carefully, their boot falls rang softly on the black and white marble floor, though they still echoed around the large, square room furnished only with the lengthy table and the few chairs needed to accommodate the negotiating parties.

d'Artagnan glanced up and down the empty hallway as they exited the room.  "The price of their freedom is leaving Berne without an agreement."

Athos drew out the note, read it quickly and returned it to an inside pocket this time.  d'Artagnan had reduced an entire page of rhetoric to a single sentence. 

"What now?"

Athos observed the youth was running a hand along the wall, apparently for balance, though for the moment, he addressed only the question.  "If fortune smiles upon us, the king will turn down their less than generous offer.  If Louis agrees, we will not be leaving Berne without a capitulation."

"And Porthos and Aramis."

"That goes without saying."

"Do you think someone at the table is holding them?"

"Do you?" Athos countered, glancing sideways at the youth.

d'Artagnan considered.  "No, the questions this morning about Aramis and Porthos seemed genuine.  No one pushed when you refused the services of their doctor.  If they'd been trying to catch us out, it seems to me there would have been a more concerted effort to have someone in our quarters."

"I agree, though they would not need to manufacture excuses to be in our rooms.  There are no locks," Athos pointed out.

"Yes, but entering our rooms without permission violates all the rules of diplomacy.  They would not disrespect our privacy.  Is it not a point of honor?"

"Despite what you were taught growing up, honor is less prevalent than your father would have had you believe.  Stick to your principles, d'Artagnan, but do not expect others to adhere to them." 

They were at their rooms and Athos opened the door with care, retrieving a short bit of straw he had placed strategically atop  the bolt.  "And be grateful when honor does manifest itself."

They had placed in a corner suite, with two bedchambers and a sitting room between.  The centerpiece of the sitting room was a curio cabinet that echoed the colors of the ornately paneled and gilded ceiling painted robin's egg blue.  The walls bore scenes of bucolic serenity elaborately framed by fanciful  gilt wood lathed into scrolls and curlicues.  Each scene marched with the next so if one stood in the center of the room and turned slowly, an entire bird's eye view  of a pastoral setting was revealed.  Starting at the door, the picture began with  a meadow, traveling left around the room to the foot hills of a towering mountain that  eventually merged with the meadow again on the back of the door. 

Porthos had inspected every one of the twenty-three drawers of the curio cabinet, disappointed when he found nothing but ink and parchment, though the drawer of inks turned up colors only Athos had seen before. Aramis had immediately sat down to dash off several sonnets to various amours with the shimmering metallics. 

He'd shrugged when Porthos had teased him, saying it was small thing only and cost him nothing, but would delight the women in his life no end.  

Now, Athos went straight through to the bedchamber shared by the poet and the reprobate.  Nothing disturbed in that chamber either, nor did he find his own marker - stamped with a jester's crown -  displaced when he went to inspect the room he shared with d'Artagnan.

The youth was sprawled in one of the uncomfortable, velvet-upholstered chairs in the sitting room, staring at the ceiling, though Athos doubted he was seeing the blue sky painted above their heads. 

Athos sat heavily in the matching chair on the other side of the large window looking down over the square of garden in the middle of the courtyard.  He just needed a moment - or three - before he got up to write a note. 

"Fifty francs." d'Artagnan's voice, edged with weariness as well, woke Athos from a light doze.  "Will Richelieu agree to it?"

Athos slumped forward, planting elbows on knees and his face in his hands.  "Of course; he won't be the one footing the bill."  He rubbed his aching eyes and straightened, shoving his fists into the small of his back as he rose.  "I don't expect the king to turn this down."

"Pray for bad weather?"

"Bad weather?" Athos echoed, leaving off his knuckle massage as he crossed the room to pull open the draw with paper, then the inks.

"Slower flying conditions."

"Good point.  Pray for bad weather and that God is on our side - though why he would chose our nefarious French master over these honest Swiss folk I could not fathom."

d'Artagnan ignored the treasonous remark.  "Someone here's not so honest."

"Yes, I find it very strange that the condition for release is no contract."  Athos pulled out the chair in front of the desk snugged against the corridor wall.  "Though from the little we've seen of the city, it does not appear Berne is in dire need of funds.  But then - why not just say no and be done with it?  Nothing about this makes any kind of sense."  He sat, dipped a quill in the black ink he'd uncapped and after a moment began to write. 

d'Artagnan picked up the discourse.  "I suppose this kind of ransom rules out the casual criminal element."

"The attack you described did not come about spontaneously."  The quill flew industriously across the parchment.  "Furthermore, it happened only after it became apparent it was likely we would come to an agreement."

"Which suggests someone on the council."

"Or close to it.  Was there sand in the cabinet?"  Athos opened the desk drawer.  "Never mind, it's here."  He drew out a small, decorative pounce pot and shook it over his brief note.  Behind him, he heard d'Artagnan's attempt to stifle an involuntary groan.  Two missing, one wounded, and his own energy seriously compromised by this debilitating chest congestion. 

They were in a major mess.

The left desk drawer produced the small, thin weatherproof leather tubes Aramis had used to house the sonnets for his inamoratas.  Athos had seen the beautifully illuminated parchments with the curling vines and flowers decorating the capitals at the beginning of each line.  They were works of art in and of themselves, never mind the original poetry their sharp shooter could dash off as though writing a market list. 

A tickle at the back of his throat warned Athos of the cough.  He shoved back from the desk and bent to hug his knees, wheezing with the effort to draw breath between the wrenching spasms.  The lower left side of his ribcage was a constant dull ache, any deep breath sparked shooting pains darting about like swordfish in that side. 

He had to resort to using the desk for leverage to get to his feet, but did so, half-staggering into the room he shared with d'Artagnan to find the tincture Aramis kept mixed up for a variety of purposes, but mostly as a pain killer.  It worked well as cough medicine too. The base was brandy, an old, potent brew their medic kept back specifically for dosing the Inseparables and the only medication any of them took willingly.  Aramis normally measured it out in spoonfuls. 

Poured into a glass, it had the rich gleam of polished cedar and the consistency of warm honey.  Athos knocked back a mouthful straight from the bottle, quieting the cough instantly.  The bed beckoned with a siren's wiles, tempting him to lie down for just a moment, just long enough to slow his thumping heart and ease the rippling ache in his side.  

But only the bottle escaped his implacable control.  Athos returned to the salon.

He rolled up his missive, together with the contract, and eased them carefully into one of the empty tubes, lighting a candle to seal it against the weather d'Artagnan was praying for.  The paper, ink and pounce were methodically stowed away in their various compartments and drawers as Athos considered the best way to confront his youthful companion.

A knock at the door distracted him, though d'Artagnan was unmindful of the reprieve. 

"Guten Abend, mein Herr."

Athos returned the greeting, bending slightly at the waist in imitation of the fancier at their door.  "Thank you for allowing us to make use of your coop, good sir."

"The pleasure is mine, Herr Athos.  Your message should arrive at our Paris location no later than midday tomorrow."

Athos blinked.  The regiment did not fly birds, nor regularly make use of the fancier's in Paris since the king had a vast network of message stations throughout France, many of them manned by Musketeers.   "Midday?" he repeated, reordering his thoughts.  "Please have it delivered to the Musketeer headquarters on the rue de Touron.  Make certain it is placed in the hands of Captain Tréville only.  Do not let your man in Paris leave it with a subordinate."

"Aye, it will be done as you say."  The man bowed again, took the thin tube Athos passed over and marched off down the corridor.

"That's not enough time."

Athos could hear the scowl in the youthful voice.  He closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment before twisting around to lean back against the solid oak.  "I sketched a quick outline of our predicament for Tréville.  He'll read between the lines. But I did not realize the birds were that fast."

"He said - the latest it would get there - does that mean we could have an answer as soon as tomorrow evening?"

"I suggest you pray for a spectacular storm."  Athos pushed off the door and crossed the room in several long strides, opting for the direct approach.  He did not have the patience to coax or cajole.  "Where are you injured?" he asked without preamble.  There was a touch of command in his voice, just enough to make the youth aware of his still simmering displeasure. 

Chapter Text

Translations

pied du roi - a unit of measure, literally the length of a king's foot

Chapter Eight - Debbie's Chapter

d'Artagnan did not immediately answer, though the scowl that started with a twist of the lips and scrunched the dark eyebrows told their own tale.

"If the words I'm fine come out of your mouth, you may find it difficult to eat for a few days."  Athos deliberately crossed his arms over his chest. "Because I will be sorely tempted to smash them back in."

"I am no worse off than you," d'Artagnan growled finally, though the concession was hard fought. 

"Need I remind you that we are on a mission and you have tacitly placed yourself under my command since you chose to accompany us?"  Athos studied the weary slump of the shoulders, noting the intransigence liming every line of the sprawled body.  "Don't make me order you."

Another sigh and, eventually, reluctant capitulation.  "Knife." d'Artagnan winced as he put two fingers to the base of his breast bone, "though based on the fact I'm still alive, it can't have punctured any vital organs."

The comte's eyes widened in alarm.  "For God's sake, you idiot!  I know damn well you've heard Aramis' lecture a dozen times already.  I shouldn't have to be repeating it now, in the middle of a hostile situation where you could drop dead on me at any moment."  Athos loomed over the youth,  the bubbling cauldron that was his anger only partially controlled in the face of this new threat.

d'Artagnan came to his feet as well, though slowly and with considerable difficulty.  "It's not that bad." He retreated a step, the backs of his knees folding him back down into the chair.

"We work as a unit."  Athos' voice was as chilly as the breath of a breeze wafting down from the snow-covered Alps.  "We depend on each other.  If one is disabled and does not account for it, that individual endangers every other member of the unit." 

d'Artagnan retreated as far as possible as the Musketeer's hands clamped over the chair arms and Athos leaned in so the pair of them were breathing the same air. 

"We're down to two and YOU DIDN'T THINK IT WAS IMPORTANT TO TELL ME YOU'D BEEN STABBED?!?!" Athos hissed.  He straightened and turned back toward the door of the suite.

"You can't send for the doctor."

The Musketeer stopped in his tracks, furious at this further impediment.  Because their baby Musketeer was absolutely correct; he could not bring in the Swiss physician without the risk of compromising their negotiating position until they had absolutely ruled out everyone on the negotiating team as a suspect.    

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan said again,  bitter regret seeping from the two sharp syllables.

Athos turned on a boot heel, his normally emotionless facade a cold, tight mask of fury.  "This will be the last time you withhold any kind of information, from any of us, or your career as a Musketeer - if you make it that far - will be very short." 

Gazes locked, glittering blue staring down repentant brown. 

d'Artagnan surrendered without terms. "Yes, sir," he responded quietly, all traces of his usual audacity eradicated from his voice.  Of his own accord, he slid carefully out of his jacket, then shirt, and rose to peel off the bandage he'd clumsily wrapped around his middle.

Athos, who had apprenticed with Aramis long enough to competently judge the severity of a wound, trod closer to inspect the jagged gash.  "It needs stitches."  God's chariots!  The still oozing stab wound was bad enough.  In addition, there was not a hand span of space above the britches hanging off the youth's lean hips that wasn't sporting wicked purple bruises. 

d'Artagnan turned reluctantly when Athos twirled his finger.  The Musketeer made no comment, but the breadth of back tapering to narrow hips was equally bruised. 

The bloody bandage trailing on the floor was soaked in a swathe that would have stretched the width of d'Artagnan's chest. 

"We'd best do this in the bedchamber."  Athos collected the bandage, wadded it against the wound and placed d'Artagnan's hand over it.  "Christ," he swore softly, wishing he had not taken the cough medicine.  A normal dose snuffed him like a candle, he'd taken less than half the usual amount, but even that little affected his ability to think clearly. 

Circumnavigating the difficult shoals of keeping the evidence to a minimum was going to be a problem. He could not use any of the provisions in the rooms - towels, sheets, blankets - but Aramis usually carried an extra blanket along with his medicinal supplies.  They would have to use that.  "Where did you find the bandages?"

This little contretemps had moved them beyond Major Mess into the category of Absolute Disaster.  He could sew up the wound, but it had gone nearly a full day without care.  Even if it was only a shallow puncture, a filthy knife might well lead to a slow, painful death.

"I hope you at least poured an entire bottle of alcohol over it." As stuffed as his nose was, the reek of cheap whiskey was what had woken Athos last night, the cloud of fumes enveloping both of them as d'Artagnan had shaken him fully awake.  Their youthful companion had never attempted to match any of them in their drinking games, whether from clean living or no head for it, no one had ever thought to ask.  He should have known immediately something was wrong.

"I did."  It was the first thing d'Artagnan had done when he'd crawled painfully back to consciousness in the dim light of the deserted tavern and realized he was losing blood at a painfully rapid rate.  He'd stripped off his jacket and shirt, grabbed a handful of rags and a bottle off the shelf behind the bar and poured the entire contents over the wound, then soaked the rags in another bottle and used them to try to stop the bleeding.  That had not been particularly successful, but it had gotten him back to the Rathaus. 

Athos turned his racketing thoughts back to the immediate need.  The wound was merely seeping now, but based on experience, messing about with it would start it bleeding profusely again.  "Where did you get the bandages?" he repeated, making a monumental effort to speak quietly when what he really wanted was to yell until the entire Rathaus was in an uproar, his Musketeers were produced, and a doctor had seen to their puppy.  For a moment, he thought his head might explode if he did not. 

"Stillroom," d'Artagnan muttered, swaying a bit.  Confession had wilted his starched spine.  He clamped his free hand over the arm of the chair to steady himself. 

"Stillroom," Athos echoed blankly. 

"Stillroom," d'Artagnan repeated, blinking  in an attempt to steady the slow and stately rotation of the room around him.  "You asked me where I found these."  His fingers twitched over the blood-soaked material pressed to his chest.  "They toured us by it when we first got here.  I didn't take enough to be missed if that's what you're worrying about."  He'd detoured by it, hoping to find it empty in the middle of the night.  Then doctored himself as best he could, rinsed the still sticky blood from his shirt, and taken the back stairs up to their wing of the government house.  He changed quickly before waking Athos. 

Athos had so many things to be worried about, missing bandaging failed to even register.  "Stillroom," he repeated yet again, knowing he sounded like those infernal parrots Aramis was so fond of.  "Find a place to sit until I get back.  Avoid dripping on anything." 

He had a vague recollection of the stillroom though he hadn't been paying much attention on their initial tour; still, he was fairly certain he could find it again without drawing too much attention. 

He collected his hat from the sideboard and slipped out of the room.  He'd long ago perfected the ability to disappear beneath that hat so completely that others rarely noticed his comings and goings.  The skill had come in handy during the years he'd traveled the continent landing wherever a spare bed could be had.  Especially as those beds had often been in the palaces and country homes of various foreign dignitaries with all the political and social intrigue such places engendered. 

He employed it now, as skillfully as if a magician had conjured an invisibility spell.  And was already contemplating how and where to get rid of the contraband, just in case it was someone on the Swiss negotiating team driving the unfolding events, as he returned to their suite.  He could not fathom why, though, since the benefit would be all to the Swiss in monetary terms.  And while the bulk of the payment would go to the city coffers, each man on the team stood to make a tidy profit off the transaction, as they would each be cut in on a percentage of the deal. 

The French were not planning, nor even expecting to go to war with Spain, this was a contingency plan only, the wheels purposefully set in motion as a precaution.  If the king agreed to this contract, Louis would be investing quite a sum of money against the possibility that his Spanish brother-in-law might violate the sacrosanct rules of political marriages.  Though on the other hand, the great political alliances brought about by marrying off children before they were even contemplating coitus were rarely cemented in bedrock. 

Athos took a moment to be grateful, as he entered the suite, that he did not have the ultimate responsibility for making the decision on whether or not to spend the king's money.   It was, however, ultimately his responsibility to get his team out of Berne and back to Paris.  Preferably with everybody whole in body and mind. 

He blinked in surprise as he crossed the threshold into the room of the missing Musketeers.  "Why here?"

d'Artagnan had dug out Aramis' extra blanket, collected the hair-curling whiskey from the sideboard in the parlor, set out all the necessary items for minor surgery, and laid himself out on Aramis' bed like a pagan sacrifice.  A further act of contrition, since the youth was inclined to stay as far away as possible during any surgical procedures. 

"Everything was in here already."

"That makes some sense."  Athos dumped his purloined supplies on the floor beside the bed, uncorked the whiskey with his teeth and knocked back several gulps straight out of the bottle.  A little Dutch courage, as the English would say.   He was not nearly as fond of sewing up people as their medic tended to be. 

Too late he remembered Aramis' warning not to mix the cough medicine with other alcohol.  No matter, he could drink circles around Aramis and Porthos together and still walk home most nights.  Surely this could do no more harm than an all-nighter.  Though he did not have the night to sleep it off.  He would have to be up and out again as soon as the city quieted.

"I should have brought the magic elixir Aramis uses for pain."  Athos, his gaze unfocused, touched each of the laid out instruments, trying not to hold his breath. 

d'Artagnan, as if reading the Musketeer's thoughts, shook his head.  "No, we have to be out again trying to pick up the trail as soon as it's dark."

"You're not going anywhere tonight."

"You're not going out alone," d'Artagnan countered, borrowing the same flat implacability with which Athos had infused his tone of voice.

Athos closed his eyes on a sigh.  "I have no doubt someday you will have the opportunity to order us all around; that day is not today, d'Artagnan."  It was his own small atonement for his earlier harsh words - though he had meant every one of them, just as he meant these now.  Porthos had been right back in that stable on the way to Calais, there was untapped potential in the youth from Gascony, very likely he would one day be ordering the rest of them around.  But Athos knew the cost of disclosure as well; he had learned the hard way that withholding put everyone in jeopardy.  "Nor are you required to suffer as penance."

"No." 

"You could at least take a swig of this."  Athos held up the hair-curling bottle.

"It would take more than a swig or even two to make enough difference to make it worthwhile.  Just get it over with, please."  The finality in the weary voice closed the subject of medicating and closed down that avenue of reprieve. 

Athos pulled over the chair hosting the implements, added the neat roll of bandaging he'd found in the stillroom and a small tin of powder he'd recognized as something Aramis used whenever he could get his hands on it. On the floor beside the chair, d'Artagnan had placed a half-filled basin of water. 

A stub of candle, as well as flint and steel had been set off to the side of the chair seat.  Athos struck a spark, lit the candle and ran the needle through it.  Aramis called it scalding, one of the strange things he'd learned from the writings of Hildegard von Bingen, an abbess of antiquity, though not quite as antiquated as some of the medical knowledge the healer had gleaned from the writings of the ancient Greeks. 

And since Aramis did it religiously, his acolytes were duty bound to follow his example.  Athos sucked burnt fingers, as he did not have Aramis' dexterity with either needle or flame.  He soaked a cloth in the medicinal alcohol, cleaned his hands, then rinsed them in the basin and threaded the needle. 

d'Artagnan watched the proceedings without comment, clamping his teeth together to swallow the hiss the first splash of alcohol startled out of him. 

The wound appeared to be a shallow, glancing cut, only rib deep, as though the wielder had sliced to cut rather than driven to puncture.  Painful, but not incapacitating, and thankfully without the telltale creeping redness and heat of infection.  Still the youth had grit and determination in spades.  He had quartered the city last night with equal if not fiercer intensity, without a single complaint. 

Athos, without a single glance at his patient, began the dreadful process of puncturing flesh in order to pull the jagged edges together.  He was better doing this on himself, and better by far having it done on himself, than doing it on someone else.  Which meant he was willing to give away a little piece of his soul if only it would provide a distraction. 

"Did the news of the siege of La Rochelle make it to Lupiac?" the Musketeer asked through gritted teeth.  Each poke of the needle caused his stomach to flip flop uncomfortably. 

"Was there a corner of France it did not reach?" d'Artagnan asked rhetorically. 

"I received my lieutenancy at La Rochelle, though it was neither earned nor warranted."

"If you expect me to believe that bit of calumny, you've got the wrong Gascon.  I'm not that naive." 

"That is unfortunate, because it's God's truth.  There was a shell of a tower that had not been completely demolished by artillery fire in the middle of what both sides deemed no man's land."  He had two stitches set and at least a pied du roi - a king's foot - still to go; though perhaps that perception was a bit distorted by alcohol consumption.  "During one of my drunken ramblings, I apparently suggested that the Inseparables picnic in that tower.  Porthos must have been drunk as a lord, too, because he started taking bets that we could hold it for an hour.  Once the betting commenced, we were committed." 

Athos rinsed his hands, swiping them quickly on a towel he'd smuggled out of the stillroom.  Not only was the wound bleeding again from his prodding and poking, he was adding new blood to the mix every time he stabbed the needle into the youth.  If he'd wanted to be a surgeon he would have applied to the Sorbonne rather than coming to the Musketeers.  

Aramis' continual opining that God did not require expiation was certainly not true in Athos' case.  He had come to the conclusion this was God's fiendish punishment, not only for his multitude of sins, but his unbelief as well.  He always seemed to be sewing someone up after one of his particularly stupid choices.

He'd killed five men and attempted to eliminate the evidence.  Though the chatter this morning, before the commencement of the bargaining again, had been quite interesting.  Herr Joos had been relating news of the fire to his underlings, and as Athos had suspected might be the case, the good Venner had been a touch pleased, going so far as to comment in a jolly tone that perhaps they should set fire to the entire section.  It would not only flush out the criminal element that plied their trade in the derelict alleys and lanes, it would create more building space inside the city.  Nothing had been relayed regarding signs of the fight in the courtyard.  Which had not surprised Athos either, as he'd been painstakingly thorough about erasing all evidence of the altercation.  Nor had bodies been mentioned.

Athos chose not to share that bit of news with d'Artagnan, but God was extracting his vengeance.  Nor did the comte voice the stern order to his stomach to behave.  H had three more stitches set and it was time to wipe his hands again.  Two more, he thought, might do the job, three at the most.

"We held the tower for the hour and then some, with a little subterfuge, and watched most of an enemy regiment dash itself to death against the walls at the base.  The ridiculous tale made it to the king's ears and he personally came to camp and bestowed the new rank.  Aramis and Porthos thought it was hysterical.  Tréville, I suspect, wanted to hang me for insubordination, though he's closer than I am with his thoughts, so I never did hear them.  But on the retreat, being the laggard that I am, I caught a saber slash on the back of my right shoulder." 

One more stitch to go.

"Naturally, I wasn't going to tell anyone of my stupidity." Athos had to wipe his hands yet again.  And clear the incision site as well with another splash of whiskey. "Two days later I was running a fever, the wound had become infected and I was having trouble using that hand.  I can - when necessary - wield a sword with my left hand.  However, it's a tad more difficult when you're facing several enemies in hand to hand combat.  Porthos and I were back to back; Aramis was two steps away with his back to both of us, so we were protecting his back as well.  Porthos had his hands full with the three he was holding off, Aramis had two more and I had just dispatched two of my own and was about to finish a third when the fingers of my right hand quit working.  My rapier slid out of my grasp like it had been greased.  I don't know if he heard me or felt something, but Porthos flung himself around and hustled my last harrier off this mortal coil, though it nearly cost him his life."

Done - thank God.

Athos sat back on his heels and picked up the towel again, using a corner to wipe away the cold sweat at his temples.  Done he might be, but he still had a point to make.  "One of the carrion opposing him took the opportunity to run him through from behind.  Straight through his thigh.  It caught a major blood carrier.  Aramis got us out of there and off the field, because I was worthless and Porthos had both hands clamped around his leg lest he bleed out on the battlefield.  Aramis saved both our lives that day.  After he sewed up Porthos, he dragged me off to the edge of the camp and delivered an impressive castigation, then ordered me back to the medical tent and let someone else clean and sew up my shoulder wound."

The Musketeer soaked a clean towel with the rest of the bottle of whiskey he'd taken from the sitting room side board and cleaned the wound again, praying his efforts had not been for naught. 

"I'm not stupid," d'Artagnan said through clenched teeth, "I got the message the first time."

"Good."  It never hurt to cement a lesson with real life experience though; the kid was smart, he might actually learn from someone else's mistakes without having to make them all over again on his own. 

"Did it really happen?"

Athos raised an eyebrow, though a hint of a smile twitched his lips.  "If you doubt me, ask Porthos or Aramis."  He shoved to standing and took the basin of wine-colored water to the window, checking the courtyard before making sure to pour it down the wall where the blood would disappear among the rust stains on the stone. 

"Can you sit in one of the chairs in the other room?  They're likely to bring dinner shortly."  He was already busy bundling up the soiled towels secreting them away in the back of the wardrobe until they could find a place to toss them in the river. 

Athos inspected d'Artagnan's shirt for blood stains, since the first bandage had been soaked through, and helped him into it when it appeared clean still.  Belatedly, it occurred to him that his diatribe the night before had very likely fueled the youth's reluctance to tell him about the injury.  Here was yet another guilty stain on his ink blotter. He did not want to think about how d'Artagnan had managed this long without aid.

He had not done well by his brothers this trip. 

It was obvious with the first step, d'Artagnan was reeling.  He needed to be in bed resting, not forced to sit up in a chair to keep up appearances.  "Never mind." Athos changed his mind mid-step and turned them both back toward the bed before they'd even made it out of the room.  "I'll tell them you've come down with food poisoning, too." 

"I can ... do this," d'Artagnan panted, turning to shuffle a pied du roi closer to the door. 

"I don't doubt that you can, but it's not necessary."  Athos, appalled by the little amount of force required to turn his companion back around again, offered a salve he knew would ease d'Artagnan's guilty conscience.  "Under the circumstances, I'm ordering you to back to bed."  The Gascon was stubborn to a fault, a trait they shared in common.  He would not, of his own accord, desist in the attempt to make it to the sitting room.    

d'Artagnan said nothing, but his compliance was readily discernible in the immediate release of tension between the taut shoulder blades and an unconscious easing of the tightly clenched fists.

A knock at the sitting room door proved the wisdom of the decision.  Athos left the youth lowering himself back down on the bed, right arm tucked tightly into his side as he used the other to balance the descent.  His wrist gave out though and he dropped the last little bit jarringly enough to produce a bitten off curse.   

A waiter, poised to knock again, stood beside a cart loaded with trays.  Athos opened the door far enough to allow the cart to be wheeled into the room,  exchanged pleasantries about the weather and accepted further condolences on the state of his still under-the-weather friends.  d'Artagnan supplied an artful groan - or more likely, groaned involuntarily - drawing the servant's gaze to the partially open door.  The man looked back to Athos with a grimace. 

"Illness always seems worse in the evening," the Musketeer said with a shrug.  "We're hoping for a rally soon." 

The attendant informed Athos that the cart would be collected later and that if he returned it to the hallway, they would not have to disturb the messieurs again.  The man backed away bowing as he wished Herr Athos a very good evening and a restful night's sleep. 

Athos closed the door firmly, waited for the footfalls to die away and opened it again, just a crack.  The corridor was empty.  He opened the door wider, stuck his head out, waited a few moments more, then whistled softly. 

Leaving the door open, he stepped back over to the cart, lifted the lid of a plate and inspected the contents.  The savory scent of roasted meet wafted up to his nose and behind him, the sitting room door shifted open a bit further as a ginger head craned around the edge, overtop of which a much larger black head appeared, both noses working the air.

"Come in mademoiselle, monsieur."  Athos opened the door fully, wafting a chicken leg before their noses to entice the pair into the suite. 

A moment more and the cat slid sinuously around the door, followed immediately by the dog, both happily accepting the invitation to spend an evening in the guest suite.  He should have asked d'Artagnan their names; the trio had been instant friends, the dog acting like d'Artagnan was a long lost playmate, the cat running to greet him every time they crossed through the Rathaus lobby. 

Athos left them happily eating off the plates he put down near the door, well back from the carpet, and went to check on d'Artagnan.  He'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of having to stitch up the youth, he had not noticed d'Artagnan had removed no other clothing apart from his shirt.  He lay half on and half off the bed, one booted foot still on the floor, a hand resting over the bandaged cut as if he'd been pressing on it, though the fingers were lax now. 

The youngster did not so much as stir as Athos worked the boots off, rearranged both legs on the bed and pulled up the covers, loosely tucking them around their worn out puppy. 

Returning to the sitting room, he collected a plate of food and took the chair opposite the one in which the cat sat daintily licking her paw before scrubbing it over whiskers and chin.  The dog, having sloped off to roast himself before the fire, was occasionally licking his chops as though dinner had been worthy to the last possible morsel of clinging taste.  They were company at least, and kept the atmosphere from becoming maudlin as Athos forced down food he had no desire to consume and contemplated his next move.  The cat finished with her after-dinner ablutions, hopped down and trotted over, tail spearing up like an explanation mark behind her.  A hop and a wriggle so she was draped over his thigh and she began to knead her sharp little claws on his knee, a contented purr rumbling forth that nearly matched the dog's whuffling snore. 

"Well," Athos remarked softly, rubbing the cat's ears, "if it's true, mademoiselle, that animals are a discerning lot, perhaps I'm not quite the iniquitous chap I had thought."  He sat for a long time, ignoring the needling pricks of those tiny claws as he let his mind wander over the events of the last day and a half.  He would not have believed it possible, but there was solace of a sort in their freely offered, undemanding companionship.  Yes, he had bribed them, but they had stayed even after he'd fed them.  He was oddly grateful for their presence. 

Athos shifted to draw the note out of an inside pocket, disturbing Mademoiselle la Chatte.  Disgruntled, she rose and stretched, butted her head against his chin and hopped to the floor to wander over to Monsieur le Chien, who rolled over to toast his other side and let her curl up between his outstretched paws.

"You have the life, my friends.  One another for company, servants to feed you and not a care in the world.  Perhaps one of you would exchange with me?  You live my life, I'll live yours? ... No?  I thought not.  I wouldn't change either, were I in your furry coats." 

Athos opened the sheet of paper and reread the letter that had been passed to d'Artagnan.  It was a lengthy diatribe against the French monarchy, harkening back more than two hundred years.   The underlying theme being the loss of Swiss lives in distant lands and foreign wars.  French kings and their arrogance came up repetitively.  All the way from the house of Valois, and the beginning of the century long war for control of the French throne,  when the Swiss Confederacy began supplying troops to Phillip the VI in 1337,  to Frances the First employment of a hundred and twenty thousand Swiss mercenaries, through the following Valois- Orléans and the Valois- Angoulême branches to the Bourbon line beginning with Henry of Narvarre and his personal Swiss guard.  Each king in succession castigated for taking sons of the Swiss Confederacy.  Louis, according to the author, was equally without heart, demanding further Swiss lives by right of his divine rule. 

Athos leaned his head against the back of the chair, staring up the gilded, sky-blue ceiling.  The summation, as d'Artagnan had conveyed so succinctly, was a demand for cessation of negotiations.  If Herr Athos and Herr d'Artagnan would leave Berne, their companions would be released to follow. 

Two particular thoughts kept circling in Athos' mind.  First, the letter had not been delivered until the Swiss had made an offer, though Aramis and Porthos had disappeared the night before the offer had been made, suggesting either someone on the council, or someone privy to the council's thoughts.  Clearly, the Swiss decision had not been made this morning, but he'd detected not a single eye blink that might have betrayed a conspirator and Athos had been paying particular attention.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead.  Over by the fire, Mademoiselle la Chatte lifted and turned her head, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him, before breaking eye contact to stretch and drape herself over the dog's paws, so she rested her chin on his muzzle.  The dog didn't even open his eyes. 

The second thing bothering Athos was the almost pleading tone of the demand to cease negotiations, and the implied, but not quite spelled out, threat in the last line of the letter - Tell no one of this, make your adieus and leave now, before decisions become regrets and further lives are lost.

What the author of the letter failed to take into account was that the economy of the Swiss Confederacy still largely depended on trading their sons for financial stability and personal wealth among the nobility.  France was probably the largest employer of Swiss mercenaries, but they were not the only European country to take advantage of the Confederacy's human trafficking. 

The old man in the fog marched through Athos' thoughts.  "...don't ye be takin' all our sons off to war.  We be a needin' 'em here, ya know, to raise up more'n we got."  And Madam Joos' loss; three sons dead on foreign soil.  The wonder was the Swiss were not a Confederacy in perpetual mourning. 

He went over the morning's meeting again in his mind, attempting to picture each face, each pair of eyes that had watched him from across the table.  And finally gave up.  Either someone at that table had stage-worthy talent, or none were guilty.  The negotiations were not being held in secret, though in general he assumed that the progress was not reported daily in the town square.  And yet, words exchanged over dinner or even in the privacy of a bed chamber where a valet or maid overheard ... suffice it to say the list of suspects could be endless. 

He rose, barred the sitting room door, leaving the cart and covered dishes inside the room in case d'Artagnan woke feeling hungry in the night, cracked the corridor door in Aramis' and Porthos' room should his furry companions decide to exit before he was ready to leave again, and fell into Porthos' bed exhausted.

He checked his internal clock against the late evening sun still slanting through the window, calculated he had three or four hours before he could even contemplate returning to the streets, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep before he could form another thought.

Chapter Text

Athos, conditioned to wake with the bells of Paris' cathedrals ringing the night offices, came to consciousness around the hour of Matins, though this predominately Protestant city was still and silent. d'Artagnan's prayers had gone unanswered, for the moon's smiling face bathed the room in a soft radiant light.  No storms on the horizon.  There might be a bird half way back to Berne already if Tréville had been too preoccupied to gauge the full contents of the note. 

Before his feet had even touched the floor, Athos' head commenced pounding as though an entire regiment of cannon maneuvered across the battlefield that was his brain.  He ignored it, though in combination with joints that throbbed in time with his heartbeat, pushing off the bed required monumental effort.  His knees buckled under him on the first try and he sat, head in his hands, for a moment longer before trying again.   The damn fever was back with a vengeance. 

In the other bed, d'Artagnan shifted with a moan.  He lay propped half-sitting against the pillows from every bed in the suite, one arm flung above his head, the other fisted tight in the blanket over his chest. 

Athos held his breath as the youth moved restlessly, turning on his side.  Shoving away his own discomfort, the Musketeer rose and crossed the room on  silent, bare feet, retrieving the brew he'd mixed up earlier. 

d'Artagnan had stubbornly refused the pain killer, but the comte had a few years on him and experience with a younger sibling. Disoriented and still half asleep, it might be gotten down before he was awake enough to reject it again. 

Athos padded back to Aramis' bed, perching gingerly on the edge so he could wrap an arm around the slender shoulders.  "Drink a little," he urged softly, knowing thirst would aid his cause. 

d'Artagnan swallowed half the cup before the sticky sweetness of the liquid registered in his sleep-fogged, pain-numbed brain.  "Damn you," he slurred, "you cannot ... go out ... alone ... it's the ... rule.  We go together ... or not at all.  Your ... rule ... Athos."

"Add it to my list of apologies to make."  Athos set the cup on the floor and used both hands to ease d'Artagnan back down against the banked pillows, grateful the youth felt no warmer than was normal for someone just woken from sleep.  If he could keep infection at bay, Aramis might forgive him for letting the puppy go so long without aid.  "Would you like some water?"

"No.  You better ... hope ... it works ... other...wise..."

"Otherwise?" Athos prompted wryly, turning and re-seating himself on the bed so he faced his patient.

The scowl d'Artagnan produced drooped a bit lethargically.  "Follow."

Athos, impatient to be off hunting their friends, tapped into that well of reserves he had often had to use with his younger, impetuous brother.  He could order and he knew it would be obeyed, but a few extra words would go a long way toward salving the injured youthful pride.  "The skies are brilliant tonight.  If the captain was otherwise occupied and forwarded the note to Richelieu immediately, we could have an answer by morning, and I do not expect the king to balk at the expense. Tomorrow we may well be in need of heroics; tonight we are not quite at point non plus.  What I need now is your cooperation in giving your body a chance to recover some of its equilibrium."

d'Artagnan ground his teeth in frustration.  "Then wait ... 'til ... tomorrow."  The elixir had not taken long to work, he could already feel his muscles slackening again in anticipatory repose. 

"Those brilliant skies will also make it easier to track if there are still markers.  A foot fall, a wagon wheel, a horse's hoof, even the mist that came off the river this morning takes a toll. They are purposely made to disintegrate."  Athos saw the shimmer of dread glistening in the dark eyes.  "Trust me, shared blood has bound us together in such a way that I would know if they were dead already.  They are not, so put that fear to rest.  We will find them."  Athos rose, a bit creakily, and with a groan, and patted a blanket-covered knee.  "Try to sleep.  I may need you to do the negotiating in the morning." 

The eyelids that had been sliding inexorably closed, flew open, then closed again on a sound that might have been a grunt or a laugh, Athos could not quite tell. He did not bother asking for an explanation.  It was the work of a moment to don his outer garments, stamp into his boots and belt on his sword.  He checked that his pistol was primed and ready, verified his parrying dagger was properly stowed and left the room softly jingling. 

Berne after midnight was a quiet city, unlike Paris where the denizens of the night were multitude.  Though there was no explicit curfew, the Bürgermeister kept a tight rein on his province so for the most part, Athos had the thoroughfares and lanes to himself. 

It took a bit, but eventually muscle and bone began to cooperate, his hitching gait smoothed out and Athos slipped through the shadows as if he'd been born to sleuthing.  He returned, at pace, to the spot where they'd found the last of Porthos' markers and began casting about again, checking the deep recesses and niches along the route.  Porthos' flick of the wrist or thumb sent markers a fair distance and he loved nothing better than playing the game. 

It was twenty minutes of scouting and scuffing before Athos found a new one, then another, and another and catching on to the pattern, was able to follow the route to the last street before the embankment fell away sharply toward the river.  The moon was still bright overhead as he negotiated the bank, finding at the bottom, a foot path still marked, though faintly, by several sets of boot prints, Porthos' among them. 

He found no further markers, but the footprints were unmistakable.  Porthos' physique alone meant any trail he left was unique, as the tread was almost always deeper than most others, but the big Musketeer quite liked the boots he'd been wearing and had had them re-heeled a number of times; they left a distinctive mark.  Athos sat on his own boot heels in the moonlight, studying the prints for a long time before he rose to follow them to their eventual end atop the mouth of an aqueduct he knew led back into the city.  From here, he had an excellent view of Nydegg Castle, an ancient pile reached by a bridge over the east end of the looping Aare. 

The fountains of Berne, he knew also, from those very detailed maps of Treville's, were fed from the river through a system of aqueducts.  Tonight, as he added his own boot prints to the churned mud atop the lip of the tunnel dipping down into the Aare, he waited patiently, watching the water level drop inch by inch until he knew that eventually the river would recede completely from the tunnel, leaving it - if not dry - at least negotiable at certain times of the day or night.  Satisfied, he scrambled up the bank and headed back into the city.

Guilt skittered in the shadows as he slid past the still smoldering ruins of the house he'd put to the torch last night.  But Athos slept with guilt every night; he'd learned to live with it.  He found the last place they'd turned up one of Aramis' markers and began the hunt again, kicking over stones, peering into empty rain barrels, quartering the street as though he'd lost pearls of great price. 

"What are you looking for?"

Athos, rapier in hand, whirled, frantically searching the shadows.  It was several long moments before the childish piping of the voice registered in his weary brain.  A voice from above. His gaze traveled up and up, to a second story window where moonlight gilded the silver blond head of a child, arms crossed on a windowsill, chin in his elbow, watching with bright, curious eyes. 

"My friend," he whispered back in German, sheathing his sword.  "I'm looking for my friend."  Only Tréville, and the Inseparables, knew the comte was a skilled linguist.  His extensive travels after the death of his brother and hanging of his wife, had further served to hone his abilities.  He tended to acquire languages the way other folk acquired sycophants and could pick up a dialect in a sentence or two and reply in kind.  

"Is that a real rapier?  The kind that kills people?"

"Shhhhhh, we don't want to wake anyone else.  Yes, it is.  Why are you awake at this hour of the night?"  Athos saw a small shoulder lift in a shrug. 

"Sleep is boring."

"Does your mother know you make a practice of hanging out open windows at night?"

"'Course not, I'm not stupid.  You looking for the buggers who passed by here last night, the ones hauling along one of your friends?  You're one of the Frenchies from up at the Rathaus, huh?  Saw yous at the masquerade.  Ma let me come out for awhile."

Athos held up a finger.  "A moment, my friend."  His rapid assessing glance took in the street, both ways, and the miniscule balcony fronting the window.  Before the boy could duck back inside and close the window, the Musketeer backed across the street and took a few running steps in order to gain enough momentum to mount the slightly curving support column. With a leap and a swing, he had one leg over that balcony railing, balancing with one booted foot on the inside, the other on the outside.  "Yes, I am staying at the Rathaus," he said breathlessly, the effort having cost more than he liked to admit. "Were you awake last night too?"

"Yep.  Two of 'em was hauling a man between them up the street.  I recognized 'im by 'is fancy hat.  They thought he was asleep, but he weren't, 'cause every now an then he'd flick something off into the side of the street.  Musta been for you to find," the boy said with evident satisfaction at his deductive reasoning.

Athos was happy to further puff out the small chest.  "That's exactly what I'm looking for.  But now that I know you saw my friend, you could save me a lot of time.  You've a keen eye for a lad, I'm sure you watched them as far as you could. Did they turn off where you could see them by any chance?"

The child grinned, the bright moonlight revealing two missing front teeth.  "Sure an you know I did.  They turned off on the Kesslergasse toward the Münsterplatz."

"Toward the cathedral?  You, my good man, have just saved me a lot of trouble."  Athos fished in a coat pocket and pulled out a coin.  "If you want to continue your midnight peregrinations, don't show this to your mother."

"How'm supposed to spend if she doesn't know about it?" the child asked logically. 

"Spend it on sweets and don't take them home." It was not his child after all, he would not have to live with the consequences of inciting insubordination. 

The mischievous look in the wide blue eyes brightened as the thought of smuggling contraband took hold.

"May I have the privilege of an introduction, sir?"  Athos handed over the illicitly earned coin with an out-of-character internal crow of delight and a very slight, precarious bow.

"I'm Peter."

"What's your family name, Peter?"

"Rorschach.  What's your name?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

 "Told ya, I'm not stupid. I know who you are, just don' know your name."

"I am the Comte de la Fere, better known in France as Athos of the king's Musketeers.  Will you keep my confidence, sir?"

"Sure," the boy grinned again.  "Least 'til you're outta town."

"You are a prince among men, Peter.  Should you decide to save this and add to it occasionally, you will live a long and prosperous life."  The gold livre he had passed over would ensure a decent start to the boy's cache. 

The coin disappeared inside the shadowy depths of the small room.  "Will I see you again?"

"I don't know my friend."  Athos held out his hand, completely engulfing the small fingers that unhesitatingly reached out.   "But the service you have rendered me has been invaluable.  You have my eternal gratitude."  He left a card in the small palm when he returned it to the windowsill.  "If you ever have need of my aid, send a message to Athos at the hôtel  known as the Musketeer Headquarters located on the rue de Tournon in Paris."

The youth inclined his head in the exact manner Athos had just moments ago.  "It's been my pleasure, comte."

"Remember," Athos whispered, as he turned to slide down the slight incline the supporting pillar provided.  "Our secret until we are gone."

Peter nodded solemnly, crossing his finger over his narrow chest.  "As God is my witness, your secret is safe with me."

"Good man."  With a deft turn and a quick twist, Athos was on the ground.  He looked up, touched his hat brim again, and an instant later was no more than one of the shadows slinking through the Bärenplatz to turn east on Kesslefgasse. 

Athos' mind was clicking through the bits and pieces of information he'd gathered.  Surely les imbéciles in charge of this operation had not gone to all the trouble of dragging the missing Musketeers through the city, and apparently the aqueduct, just to house them in the old guard tower cells. 

He should be so lucky; but he would check anyway.  He set off at a trot, though it was not long before he had to slow down again.  The ache in his side was back, and it was not from exertion.

Lady Luck, as usual, was not on his side.  Porthos, who had learned the art growing up in the Court of Miracles, had taught them all to pick locks faster than a cat could wink.  It was the work of a moment to insert the slender pick, turn the tumblers and slip inside.  Sadly, the cells were as empty as the cellar, doors hanging open on hinges that creaked when he swung one outward.  The stone floors yielded no further clues. 

Athos shifted his rapier in order to slump down on one of the sloping benches carved from solid rock.  A narrow slit of window far above his head slanted a bar of moonlight across the cell.  A moon sword;  if only he could pick it up and slice through the tangled threads of evidence

He had in his coat pocket, several more of Aramis' markers, but no solid evidence of where the missing pair might be.  The last marker had lain in the lee of the Mosesbrunnen on the Münsterplatz.

Aqueducts and fountains.  The Aare.  There was, in the plaza fronting the Rathaus, another fountain, the Vennerbrunnen.  If the Aare supplied the water for all the fountains in the city, the aqueduct from the river must lead to the fountains.  Which meant there had to be space beneath the fountains to service the piping. 

Much of Paris was built over quarries opened by the Romans to mine the limestone centuries of French monarchs  had used to build their various projects.  Perhaps, Athos mused, Berne had its own underground network of tunnels.  Likely whatever existed beneath the city could be accessed from the aqueducts, but surely there must be above ground access as well.  And where might that be? 

He sat for a long time recalling the details of Treville's maps of Berne, letting his mind spin out random thoughts.  He had never before had reason to be so thankful for the captain's love of cartography; if he overlaid several of them with his keen internal vision, he could picture the most likely spots in his mind. 

When he finally gathered his cloak about him and rose, the moon sword had vanished.  He closed and locked the tower door behind himself and set off to scout the various fountains throughout the city.  If there was a way to get to the workings beneath them, he would find it. 

Starting with the Mosesbrunnen he made the circuit of the five major thoroughfares, inspecting the buildings around every fountain and square from the Bärengraben at the west end, then backtracking to the east end of the Zähringerstadt, across the Aare from Nydegg Castle

His disheartening travels proved only that his bad luck was holding steady.  If there were places to access the aqueducts from inside the city, it was through shops or homes.  He'd found no doors or entrances that appeared to lead nowhere.  The one place he could be certain of the possibility of an above ground entrance was in the sunken Bärengraben.  The fact that there was a fountain on the grounds as well, sealed the deal.

If no message had been returned from Paris, and d'Artagnan was up to it, they would be making a visit to the bear park in the morning. 

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan slid gingerly from his horse, jaw set, teeth clenched against the jarring, and looped the reins around a low hanging branch.  "What makes you think they're here?" He slumped against his horse's flank, attempting to hide the fact that the stirrup was the only thing holding him up as he marshaled the strength to straighten.

"I don't. I found tracks last night down by one of the entrances to the aqueduct that feeds the fountains from the Aare." 

"Fountains," d'Artagnan bleated, uncaring that he sounded exactly like a lost sheep.  "The river behind the Rathaus? Then why are we here?" He was, at best, muzzy-headed, and at worst, not following Athos' logic - at all.  "You know where Aramis and Porthos are?"   

"No.  However, Porthos' markers ended at the river aqueduct entrance.  Aramis' ended at the Mosesbrunnen on the Münsterplatz."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand what that has to do with the Bärengraben." d'Artagnan pressed the heel of one hand to his aching chest, attempting to wipe away his confusion by running the other over his face.  It did not help; he was still baffled.

"I suspect there is an entrance to the aqueduct here in the bear pit.  I could go in from the river, but if there is access here, it cuts quite a distance off what I would have to travel if I start at the river.  I found nothing else scouting around the fountains in the city last night.  It has to be here."

"Here?" d'Artagnan squeaked.  "In the bear pit?"

"Aye." Athos sighed.  "In the bear pit."  He would not normally make the effort to explain; Porthos or Aramis would just except that he knew what he was doing and act accordingly. 

d'Artagnan, being new to the game, needed some bringing along, so he made the extra effort to put his thoughts into words.  Adjusting his hat, Athos leaned both elbows on his saddle, unaware that d'Artagnan was still gratefully hanging onto the stirrup.  "I spent a lot of time with Treville's maps of Berne before we left.  W e know the city uses the fountains for their water supply, I know there's an aqueduct fed from the Aare as well.  So by deduction, I assume there must be places beneath the fountains to facilitate maintenance.  What better place to keep a pair of reluctant Musketeers than below ground where no one can hear their racket?"

"You think they're being held in some mechanical room beneath one of the fountains?"

"I don't know anything for certain.  This could be a completely harebrained idea, but Porthos' boot prints ended at an aqueduct within sight of the castle.  I found the last of Aramis' markers by the fountain on the square in front of the cathedral.  They could be in the cathedral, or the castle or any place in the city for that matter.  Who knows if they're even together.  I'm just following a hunch."

"A hunch."  d'Artagnan had no experience with Athos' hunches; he was not impressed. "I don't like this."

Athos straightened, unhooking a coil of rope from his saddle horn.  "Neither do I." 

d'Artagnan raised his hanging-on hand from the stirrup to the cantle.  "So what are we doing?"

Athos said casually, "You're here to distract the bears while I try to get in."

"I'm what?"  It took a moment for the statement to register since the elder Musketeer did not repeat himself.  "Oh no. No no no!  Tréville would run me through with my own sword if I let you do something that stupid.  Never mind Aramis and Porthos!"  d'Artagnan pushed off his horse, though he staggered a bit.  "Athos, there has to be another way.  "

"There is; the aqueduct on the river.  Likely there are other entrances from the river.  I don't have time to search for them."

"If there are such places, surely there are other ways in," d'Artagnan argued snappishly, a cold, frightening chill racing along nerve endings. "Whoever does that maintenance isn't going through the aqueduct to do it.  That's dangerous and foolhardy!"

Athos slung the rope back over the saddle horn, his patience wearing thin.  "Perhaps.  But time is of the essence now.  We have a number of choices.  We can withdraw from the negotiations, leave town, and pray that whoever is behind this keeps their word and releases Aramis and Porthos.  Or we could announce to the Venner that our colleagues were kidnapped two nights ago in a stupid confrontation with some locals, hope that no one on the council is on this and that word does not get back to the perpetrator.  Alternatively, we can find them and complete our mission as we are expected to do. 

"This is the best lead we have.  If Aramis and Porthos were in that cellar..." Athos shook his head distractedly.  "What matters is that they were not when we arrived.  The fire must be the talk of the city today, to return there would be foolish.  This is the best lead we have and I intend to follow it."

"What do you mean if they were in that cellar?  You think whoever kidnapped them found their markers and laid false trails on purpose?"

Way way too smart; and Athos did not have time to argue the pros and cons of such thoughts.  "It's a distinct possibility." 

"Maybe it would be better just to tell the Venner."

A faint smile tipped the corner of the stern mouth.  "It may become necessary, but only as a last resort.  It is possible, even probable, that we could have an answer from Paris today.  There's no time to waste."  Athos hauled his saddle bags over his shoulder, collected the rope again and ducked under his patient steed's head to collect the Gascon as well.  "We have an hour, possibly two, before the keepers arrive. We need to make the most of it.  Come, I scouted the area last night; the west side has the most cover."

"There must be another way!" d'Artagnan planted his feet, endeavoring to hold against the hand on his arm dragging him forward, all the while shaking his head wildly.  "A man in our village was mauled by a bear.  He lived, though he was never productive again.  He sat on the green, a beggar, for the rest of his life.  No, Athos, I will not do this."

Twenty heartbeats and a deep breath and Athos dropped the youngster's arm. 

"What are you doing?"

The Musketeer was striding into the predawn dusk, in a moment he would disappear.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan stumbled after, already well enough acquainted with the man's mind to realize the comte's intent.  "Mon Dieu!  You are insane!"

Athos stopped abruptly, turning to lay both hands on his companion.  "We are under orders to acquire a concession of men and arms from the Swiss."  Gauntleted fingers tightened around d'Artagnan's forearms, stressing the importance of his point.  "You have watched and listened for a week now, and brought to our debriefs a unique and well thought out point of view.  You are capable of this or I would not ask it of you.  You must be prepared to take over the negotiations if it comes to it." 

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut. 

"This is what it means to be a Musketeer.  If you are put off by what we had to do two nights ago, or standing in for me today if necessary, then walk away now and do not look back."  Athos set his own face to sternness, though his heart tightened in his chest. 

For a moment only, d'Artagnan hesitated.  Athos would do this whether or not he accepted his assigned role.  "What do I do?"

Athos swallowed his sigh of relief.  "There was no time to go berry picking," he said, attempting a bit of levity.  It did not produce even a twitch of the lips from d'Artagnan.  Least he provoke yet another round of digging in the heels, he went on quickly, "I cut up the fish the kitchen staff sent up to break our fast this morning.  Dole it out sparingly so as to keep the bears attention as long as possible.  I need enough time to get in and find the entrance to the aqueduct."

"You are not planning a mere reconnaissance tour.  We're not coming back to do this later," d'Artagnan said despairingly. 

"That depends.  I will signal with the nighthawk call, twice if I think I can get in.  In that case, I may be gone for some time.  If I am not back by the time the keepers arrive, go back to the Rathaus.  If you receive word from Tréville, and I am not there, follow through as instructed.  If I cannot get in quickly, then I will whistle thrice.  Save enough bait back that you can distract them while I make my way out."

d'Artagnan's jaw was clenched again, though not necessarily in pain.  "I wish you would let me do this."

For just a moment, Athos softened, leaning forward to rest his forehead against d'Artagnan's as he slid a hand around the back of the youngster's neck.  "It is my job, and mine alone, but your concern is appreciated.  As a last resort, report to the Venner what has happened.  I do not believe he is involved, but you will have to use your own judgment as to when to apprise him if it becomes necessary." 

"I will pray it does not become necessary.  Let's get this over with."  d'Artagnan stepped away from the gentle hand embrace, hefting the saddle bags from Athos' shoulder with a grimace.  "Ewww, that's what I've been smelling."

"Hopefully it hasn't been in there long enough to have ruined the leather." 

They moved with that silence peculiar to men who had learned stealth at the cost of lives, hands spread across various accouterments that might announce their presence. 

"Where did you find rope?" d'Artagnan had slept through the collection of the length of stout cord Athos unlimbered from his shoulder.

"The still room at the Rathaus is stocked with more than just medicinals," Athos grunted, tossing the rope over the edge and tying it off around an iron fence post with a judicious jerk.  He would have to repel some fifteen or twenty meters, though in the scheme of things, that was nothing compared to other places where they'd had to climb or repel - often both - up or down sheer cliff faces.  He was over the fence in the blink of an eye, one hand positioned to guide the rope beneath, the other clasped above his head loose enough to slide, angled so he would touch down very near the inside wall of the bear house.

d'Artagnan moved rapidly back around to the middle of the pit.  "Wait!" he hissed, slinging the saddle bags over the fence before disappearing into the shadowy gloom beneath the trees.  He returned only moments later with a solid length of fallen tree branch in his hands, trotted back around to Athos' side and climbed up to throw the branch over the fence, down into the pit.  "This will at least give you a chance to fend off one bear at a time.  Swear to me, Athos, you will kill them if you have to.  You're better than any clumsy old bear."

"If I have to," Athos promised.  "Do not even think about following me down here should I be attacked, that's an order."

There was no answer to that, because order or not, if Athos was attacked d'Artagnan would be over the fence in a heartbeat.  He asked instead, "If you find Aramis and Porthos and have to come back this way, how will you get out?"

"We'll figure it out.  Do not, under any circumstances, draw attention by coming back here later."

"What will you do if you don't find them?"

"Pray." Athos loosed his fingers.  A useless folly since Athos' prayers never rose above his own head. 

d'Artagnan, that battle rush he'd recently become acquainted with coursing through his body, overriding pain and all good sense, dropped down and hurried back to his post.  He emptied the contents of the saddle bags out at his feet, unwrapped the chunks of cooked salmon and clambered up on the berm into which the fence posts had been set.  "Here bear, come bear," he called softly, scattering a handful of chunks near the sleeping bears.

The animals lay in heap, so entwined d'Artagnan was not exactly sure just how many there were.  He'd chosen this spot because of their proximity to the wall and he thought he could make out four heads. 

Behind him, the predawn murkiness was giving way to fingers of light feeling their way over the horizon.  On his right, Athos hung a third of the way down the wall, waiting for the sleepy bears to respond.

"Here bear bear bear." 

Three snouts lifted, sniffing the air.  The bear on the bottom swiped a powerful paw at its companions, shoving off two, sliding from beneath the remaining one and rose to prowl over. A second padded behind, both sniffing at the offerings.  A third one yawned and stretched, just like a human, before lumbering over to join in the sniffing.  The fourth, however, remained stubbornly curled up, though it opened one sleepy eye as a single shard of the sun's rays stabbed into the pit, bent by the tall cedars on the ring of hills surrounding the city beyond the Aare.  Dawn would be upon them shortly. 

The trio below began shoving and snorting over the pieces already on the ground.  Ten sweat drenching, parsimoniously propelled bait minutes later, the fourth - and largest - bear remained steadfastly unwilling to leave its comfortable repose. 

Athos could wait no longer; he dropped precipitously into the pit. 

d'Artagnan kept his gasp behind his teeth, though just barely, and tossed down a couple more chunks of salmon.  The three occupied bears, standing on their hind feet, paws waving, barely glanced in the direction of the comte as he reached the bottom and let go of the rope. 

The sleeping bear woke.  And shambled to its feet.

"Athos!" 

The Musketeer scooped up the length of tree branch, though he kept it down by his side as he moved toward the closed door in the middle of the circular structure.  On either side, sliding doors smelling heavily  of musk had been cranked to haft mast.  If he could not get the center door open, he would have to try one of the interior compounds. 

The bear kept coming.  Athos stopped and stood his ground.

Several chunks of fish landed on the stone floor behind the bear, who turned its head at the soft plop, apparently to see if it was interested in the offering.  It sniffed once before turning forward again, settled its ponderous fundament on the ground and shoved off to rise to standing, furry head pushed forward, tongue lolling as if to taste the unusual scent on the air.   

The bear shuffled forwards.  Athos took two steps backwards. 

Sweat rolled down the comte's temple, though he did not dare swipe at it.  Any untoward movement and the bear might decide it was time to break its fast. 

"Nice bear, good bear," he whispered, shoving his very real fear deep down inside, knowing the animal would sense it anyway.   "d'Artagnan has food for you.  You don't want to eat me, you'd probably die of food poisoning."

Across the pit, another long branch appeared over the top of the fence, a white flag speared on the end, several pieces of salmon skewered on the tip.  "Come on bear, you have to be hungry!  Come!  Over here, bear!"

d'Artagnan, shirtless and hair-raisingly hanging over the top of the fence to gain length, grasped the end of the branch. 

The three bears beneath danced backwards.  The bear reconnoitering Athos turned its head to watch. 

Athos raced to the door, dropping the branch to slide the picks out of his pocket and into the door lock with lightening speed. 

"ATHOS!"

The door sprang open, Athos had the presence of mind to tuck and roll as the bear's nose thrust him forward, though that made it difficult to draw his rapier as the bear charged through after him. 

Or tried to; it's girth was too great.  The bear stuck in the doorway, snarling and snapping its wrath, unable to reach its prey.  The beady eyes narrowed and as if it were capable of rational thought, the bear began to wriggle and stretch, gaining an inch. 

Athos sheathed his sword and stepped with alacrity to the first door.  He could hear d'Artagnan still entreating the other three bears, but for the moment he was as safe as it was possible to be in an inhabited bear pit.  He had time to pick all three locks if necessary, for there were three doors and the bear wasn't making much headway, surely it would take at least three minutes to free itself.

He set to work on the first one, found an enormous storeroom full of baskets filled with roots and nuts, dried berries, and apparently dried fish as well.  The smell nearly knocked him off his feet.  He turned to the next one, leaving the first door open on the off chance the bear, should it work its way loose, would glut itself on the unending supply of food rather than Musketeer.  The second appeared to be a store of weaponry, or perhaps bear handling tools.  Athos did not care, though he did shut that door before moving to the third.

Behind him, the bear snarled its outrage and popped through.  Athos slammed the third door behind himself with a whisker's length to spare.

It was pitch black, but his hands found the thick, heavy bar and slammed it down just as the door quivered to the weight of the bear throwing itself against this new barrier.  Athos leaned back against the door and tipped his head back, waiting for his heart to stop slamming against his ribs. 

It was several moments before he could draw enough breath to whistle, though he could not know if the eerie call that bounced around the echoing space could be heard beyond the thick, damp walls.  The door shuddered again, an ominous crack splintering the otherwise quiet darkness. 

No time to waste.  Athos turned so he could put both hands on the wall to his right and shuffled his feet sideways.  Almost immediately he encountered something solid.  A bracket his hands told him, and a torch.  He lodged his feet, pulled flint and steel from a deep pocket and struck a spark. 

The torch flared to life and he heaved a sigh of relief.  Gratitude swelled, a murmur of thanks to Aramis' God, for Athos did not have a keen appreciation for dank darkness and knew himself ill-prepared.  No time for self-castigation, though he should have thought to bring a torch. 

He whistled again, two short, sharp peents, hoping d'Artagnan heard the call and crossed the second round room to the arched opening opposite the door the bear continued to batter.  A fine mist hung heavy in the air, haloing the flickering torch as he put a boot on the first stair riser. 

Stone.  Wet stone.  His boot slipped and with nothing to stop it, slid into thin air.  The torch hit the stone floor before he did, though not by much, and extinguished.  He slid several steps before his feet found enough purchase to stop his rapid descent at the first turn of the circular stair case.  

He sat for a long moment, head in his hands, then squared his shoulders, untangled himself from his rapier and crawled back up the stairs on hands and knees to feel around for the torch.

No amount of coaxing or swearing prompted cooperation.  It refused to relight.  Several more minutes of fiddling with it only served to increase the mounting frustration.  Athos dropped it with a muttered oath and crawled forward until his fingers met the top of the stairs.  Sidling around, he sat himself down with one hand on the wall and began the descent, one step at a time, on his bruised backside. 

Time became measured in dull, thudding, anxious heartbeats.  He paused a moment to lean his head against the wall and closed his eyes.  Straining to see into the blackness was unnerving, better to close his eyes and go down by feel. 

Perhaps a hundred steps down, the walls began to narrow, the stairway twisting more tightly with each turn.  He stopped counting at two hundred but began testing the width of the space and was shortly able to touch both sides of the narrowing passage.  He debated taking off his boots, decided not to despite the slippery stone, pressed both hands to the wall and carefully rose. 

His gauntlets provided enough friction to make the last tight turns of the stairs much more rapidly.

Abruptly his boot landed jarringly.  His arms stiffened instinctively in an attempt to hold his balance, but neither the leather nor the narrow space lent aid.  His right foot slid out from under him, then the left, and Athos found himself sitting again, this time in a freezing puddle.  He rose slowly, slogged back to the stairs and sat down to empty his boots and try to orient himself with the help of those memorized maps.

Above, d'Artagnan still hung over the fence in an agony of indecision.  The trapped bear continued to snarl and growl and throw itself against something - though the Gascon could not tell from the sound exactly what the bear was hitting.  He hoped that meant Athos had escaped, though that comfort held only a degree of relief.  It could mean the Musketeer had found the entrance.  Or it could just mean Athos was trapped behind a door the bear might eventually break down. 

d'Artagnan glanced once toward the brilliant sun winking through the tree branches, then took the time to thoroughly inspect the grounds.  Satisfied he was still alone, he tossed his makeshift flag to the ground, clambered down from the fence and jogged around the perimeter of the bear pit to Athos' rope.  He had one leg over the fence again, the rope ready to play out between his knees when he heard the first faint pair of peents float up from the bear pit. 

He muttered Aramis' favorite curse as he slung his leg back over the fence and climbed down -with a little more care - to coil up the rope and throw it over his shoulder.  The second duo of peents underscored the acuity of his decision and d'Artagnan took up his spear and flag, ripping his tattered shirt from the end before breaking the stick across his knee.  He shimmied into his jacket, shoved the remainder of Athos' stash of salmon into the saddle bags, slung them over his shoulder and labored back up the hill to their horses. 

He waited, as he'd been told, until a pair of workman came ambling up the dirt pathway, large baskets of fresh fish secured over their shoulders.  He did not wait for their reaction to the trapped bear, mounting up and walking the horses into a gloriously brilliant sunrise that would make it difficult for anyone behind to see clearly enough to identify horses or rider. 

Chapter Text

An hour later, restored to some semblance of neatness, d'Artagnan opened the door of their suite to the coop master, who bowed as he extended the leather tube he held.  "Herr Athos' response."

"Merci, we appreciate the quick return."

"Excellent flying conditions." The man bowed again and turned on his heel.

d'Artagnan closed the door with a snap, though it had less to do with temper than terror.  He paced the length of the sitting room twice before willing his feet to stop before the window on the third turn.  He could not, however, control the trembling that smote his fingers as he broke the wax seal on the tube and drew out the single bit of rolled parchment.  He was in a foreign country, in an unfamiliar city far from home, with no one to rely on.  More than that, he bore the weight of the burden for following through on the instructions he would have given anything not to have to open.

Squaring his shoulders, d'Artagnan slid a fingernail beneath the seal on the scroll and spread its length between his hands.  It had opened sideways.  He adjusted it, then turned back to the window for better light.  The missive was written in a flowing hand, the letters neat and precise; any of the Musketeers could have told him it was in the king's own hand.  d'Artagnan neither knew, nor cared, whose hand it was in; the instructions wrought pure panic.

'You are authorized by the hand of the king, to proceed to the end of negotiations so long as they end with France as beneficiary.  We believe the Swiss to be reasonable; acquire as many men and arms as possible, at whatever the cost.  We will make a good faith payment, the balance to be paid on mobilization.'

He did recognize the addendum scrawled beneath in the captain's hand, 'Observe all protocol excluding loss of life.'

So Tréville had correctly interpreted Athos' cryptic note, but been unable to stall.  Likely the message had been delivered to him at the palace, limiting his options. 

d'Artagnan slumped down in the closest chair.  A month and a half ago his life had revolved around plowing and practice, both occupations solitary in nature since the passing of the uncle who had been his sword master. 

A month ago he'd been charged with the murder of an ambassador, Athos had been in prison awaiting execution on the orders of a capricious king, the Musketeer garrison had been in an uproar and Porthos and Aramis had dragged him along to scour the countryside in an effort to clear their friend's name.  Athos had been in front of the firing squad as they'd delivered the king's rescinded orders.  The reprieve, however, had left the cardinal stewing angrily and Tréville had sent them off to collect a 'package' from Calais. 

Less than a fortnight after they had returned to Paris with their 'package' - a priest who had fled to England for sanctuary - d'Artagnan had been involved in a duel that had landed him in prison,  not to mention coming very close to being blown to kingdom come. 

Not that his whole existence addressed a long span of time, but it had been the best month of his entire life!  Until last night. Now the entirety of the mission rested on his inexperienced shoulders and those shoulders slumped despondently. 

He was well aware the Musketeers considered him a little brash and a lot cheeky at times, but it would take a bit more than impudent audacity to pull off this charade.  The alternative was to throw himself on the mercy of the Venner, though, and he was not ready to take that step.  He would cover this afternoon as best he could and if Athos and company were not back by this evening, d'Artagnan would go back to the bear pit and follow.   

On the strength of that conviction, the Gascon straightened, set his shoulders and rose, though his hand went to his chest again. Ignoring the dull throb echoing the beat of his heart, he rummaged through the escritoire for paper, penned a note to the Venner, delivered it to the page on duty and headed for the stable to set up his cover story.

Chapter Text

"Good afternoon, Junge?" The implied question in the Venner's greeting was accompanied by a tilt of the head.  "Forgive my curiosity, but where are your countrymen?"

d'Artagnan pulled out the chair Athos had been using and sat himself down, hoping the smile he pasted on his face did not look as strained as it felt.  "Aramis and Porthos are still a little under the weather, Athos forbade them accompanying either of us."  He laid a tightly rolled parchment on the table and watched the Venner's eyes flick to it as it made the small swooshing sound of paper expanding.  "We were making use of your race track by the river this morning and became a little..." he hesitated, dropping his eyes to the table as though slightly embarrassed before glancing up from under his lashes, "... overenthusiastic."  He widened the guileless smile he'd practiced in front of the mirror.  "Our horses both lost shoes.  We were headed for the blacksmith when your fancier delivered the response from the king.  The answer being what it is, Athos decided I could use the experience and sent me to conclude the negotiations in his stead."  He pushed the doctored reply across the table and waited.

The note from Tréville had been carefully excised, the bottom edge of the parchment exactly as ragged as it had been previously, just half an inch shorter. 

The Venner read it, smiled, and passed it to the fellow on his right, who read it and passed it over to the fellow on his right. 

"Based on this missive, tell us what you wish, young master.  Shall we have the capitulation written up for six companies?" 

d'Artagnan had considered this as he'd walked the horses beyond the city gates to pry shoes off before leading them back to the blacksmith.

They'd been instructed to acquire six regiments of armed troops.  In principal, the Swiss had just agreed to the number, for a consideration of fifty thousand francs.

"With carte blanche, Athos said to ask for twelve companies, at a price you deem fair.  Upon our return to Paris, Cardinal Richelieu will forward a sum of five percent of the agreed upon amount as a good faith measure that the Swiss will continue to support the French if it should come to war with Spain.  The king requests a contingency contract of ten years.  If in that time he has not called upon the troops, the contract would be up for renegotiation with no recall of the good faith compensation." 

d'Artagnan crossed his arms casually on the tabletop as though this was just another bit of tutoring his mentors had foisted on him, not some desperately thrown-together counter measure because the three Musketeers were missing.  He could feel sweat trickling down his temple and prayed it would be unnoticed or at the very least attributed to his stated morning excursions.  Or even the novelty of finding himself at the negotiating table without anyone watching over his every move, monitoring his every word, jumping in with 'what he meant to say'.  He would be glad for any interpretation that did not recognize his bouncing knee or the intense desire to fist his hands in his hair and yank wildly. 

The Venner leaned back, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin in his hand.  "You remind me a great deal of my youngest son; he, too, thought he was invincible."  The man sighed.  "I suppose I should be offended that your elders have delegated you to the mopping up as it were." 

d'Artagnan stilled his knee lest it hit the bottom of the table.  "Athos did say something about experience in the twenty minute lecture on etiquette he subjected me to before patting me on the head and sending me on this errand."

Smiles up and down the table.  Internally, d'Artagnan wept with relief. 

"As it is already late in the afternoon--"

"Athos instructed me to apologize for the delay."  d'Artagnan bowed his head.

The Venner offered a dismissive wave.  "The little delay was nothing, I am just sorry your companions have been so ill and unable to enjoy your time here."  The smile bloomed again.  "I hope you enjoyed your morning exercise."

d'Artagnan resourced every bit of his newly acquired veneer of sophistication and merely smiled cherubically.  "We did indeed, though as you say, it was disappointing Aramis and Porthos could not join us.  We are hoping they will be well in time for the farewell ball your lady wife is hosting, Herr Venner."

"If they are not, then you must tell the comte to call upon my personal physician.  We would not want anyone missing one of on my wife's galas.  She lives to entertain and will be excessively disappointed as I believe she was much smitten by the one you call Aramis?"

"Most women are," d'Artagnan said, before he thought, then grimaced slightly.  "My further apologies, sir."

"None needed." The Venner laughed heartily.  "I am a fortunate man, Madam Joos has the capacity to love largely." 

d'Artagnan could detect no malice in the statement; if anything, the man sounded genuinely pleased with his spouse, though he rather thought if Madam was infatuated with anyone it was Athos, not Aramis.  Wisely, he kept that thought to himself.

"Berne is not large enough to guarantee even the six companies we initially discussed.  To field twelve companies, we will have to reach further afield, among the Confederacy's compatriots.  Do you have the authority to stretch your visit by a few more days?  We must send messages of our own before we can finalize our own response.  Shall we say - two days?  We will reconvene at eight of the clock on Thursday morning with an answer for you." 

The youthful ambassador came to his feet along with the rest of the contingent, bowing gracefully.  "I am sure that will be perfectly suitable, sir.   I will convey this information to ..." d'Artagnan was momentarily at a loss for words.  Strictly speaking, he was not a Musketeer, the three men he had accompanied were not his teammates; he was in truth, nothing more than a tag-along.  "To the Musketeers. Thank you for your consideration."

"I have no doubt we can come to terms that will be mutually satisfactory."   The Venner inclined his head complacently.  "I would adjure you again to acquaint yourselves with the city.  Do be sure and visit the Bärengraben,"  Herr Joos suggested, as they progressed toward the hallway door.  "All visitors love our bears.  If you wish, René will arrange for you to visit the park with one of the caretakers.  The bears are as tame our city grandmothers."

"Tame?" d'Artagnan echoed, praying his voice did not give away his complete and utter disbelief.  Nor the trapped and bubbling hysteria he must tamp down before it escaped in either maniacal mirth or mindless madness. 

"Oh yes, generations of bears have been born and raised in the Bärengraben.  They're just like big dogs." 

d'Artagnan cleared his throat, touching a finger to his brow.  He could not stop himself opening and closing his mouth twice as his scrambled brain sought a reply.  He settled on a half-choked, "I will suggest it to the others."

Either the Venner's mind was already turned to other things, or he was a kind man.  He appeared at least, not to notice.  "Send a note around to René if you decide you want to visit, he will make arrangements with the keepers and escort you personally, will you not Rene'?"

"It would be my pleasure, Herr Venner." René, an elderly man whose blond hair was shading to silver, his lean frame beginning to pad out, bowed from the waist.  "Just give a note to one of the Rathaus pages and they will find me.  'Tis an easy thing to arrange."

A part of d'Artagnan's split mind was laughing hysterically at their preposterous attempts to redirect the bears attention; while the other part was recalling the sound of splintering wood as the biggest had thrown itself against the walls inside the building.  He made his farewells quickly and peeled off to take the stairs up to the suite of rooms he shared with the missing Musketeers.  For the moment, his part in this charade was done.  He could do nothing but wait and pray until night fell. 

Almost grateful for the reprieve, the Gascon laid himself down upon Aramis' bed again. He had tried to rest on his own bed, but Athos being far neater than the other two, the chamber he shared with the elder Musketeer lacked the familiarity of the gentlemanly accouterments gracing chair backs, bed posts and the desktop in this room.  Strange comfort though it was, d'Artagnan was grateful for the bit of presence lingering in the personal items scattered about, lending the fiction that Aramis and Porthos would walk in at any moment.    His aching body was insisting upon respite, but he dared not sleep lest Morpheus refuse to release him 'til morning.

d'Artagnan fussed the pillows into a mound again and slumped back, though he did not close his eyes.  Fear kept poking its ugly head around the door jamb, smiling icily at the lone youngster, silently threatening all manner of ghastly outcomes.  In this, though, d'Artagnan's naturally buoyant, youthful optimism served him well; he stuck his tongue out, daring it to slither on into the room where he could grab it in both hands and choke the life out of it. Overwhelming odds were an everyday occurrence in the life of a Musketeer; in the end they would prevail.  He believed this as surely as he believed himself capable of earning a commission.

His eyes were sliding closed yet again when an idea slithered into his mind, hooking him like a fish on a line.  He did not immediately jump up and set it in motion, sliding around it from every angle he could think of before allowing it free enough rein to rise from the bed and write another note.  This one to René.

Chapter Text

Athos did not consider himself religious by any measure, but thanks to a tutor who had had little imagination, he was well acquainted with scripture.  He had never given much credence to the story of Jonah and the whale, though down here in an impenetrable pre-creation darkness, sloshing through the underbelly of the city, he had a moment of commiseration for the reluctant saint. 

Unlike his brothers-in-arms, the comte no longer had an impulsive bone in his body.  His undertakings were always well-considered and planned to the smallest detail.  At any other time, he would have ascertained the schedule of the fountain maintenance, known the exact hour the sluice mechanism that supplied the aqueduct was opened and closed, whether or not the tunnels filled completely, not to mention their exact layout.  He would have made a list of things to aid in circumnavigating beneath the city.  Like raingear and waterproof boots and multiple torches. 

Ill-prepared did not begin to cover it. 

But then, this was the first time said brothers had disappeared on him; the circumstances were not such that he had a great deal of time to invest in exacting details.  Thus was he slogging through water that had begun around his ankles and was now slapping sinuously around his calves. 

He could not divine whether this meant he had been down here a long time or the water was rising rapidly.  Time was a vacuous unit without meaning when one could discern only vertical placement.  But that was not quite true, his gloved fingers had never lost contact with the wall on his left; he was spatially oriented horizontally as well.  Though he did not feel solidly oriented in any direction whatsoever.  It felt as though the world might turn upside down at any moment.  At least in this empty void that was his reality just now, with only a slimy wall and skimming fingertips tethering his sanity. 

While all Musketeers were inured to less than optimal working conditions, that usually meant long hours standing at attention, sitting in the saddle, guarding entrances, exits and people, or tuning out the cardinal as he wore out his heart in the service of France. Not wading through freezing water from a snow-melt river that fed underground, pitch-dark aqueducts where you could not even see a hand in front your face.

He was feeling no pain whatsoever, mostly because he could no longer feel, period.  The freezing water had numbed every extremity, chilling him to the bone.  As it rose, the current was growing stronger as well, making it harder to keep his water-logged boots slogging forward along the slippery bottom. 

His hand on the wall met empty air, suggesting a recess. Athos backed up a step, pressing questing fingers harder to the wall so he felt the corner and turned his steps accordingly.  The soggy bottom began to incline and ten steps in, his left toe nudged something solid.  He bent to shape it with his hands and found a stair, followed by several further risers, according to his frozen fingers.  He could not reach far enough to determine more, though mounting the bottom stair, he could reach both hands to the walls. 

Frozen muscles protested every step, the burn of the climb an odd counterpoint to the numbing cold.  The staircase was similar to the one in the bear pit, turning tightly at the bottom, widening as it rose so it was not long before he had one hand on the wall and had to stoop to verify there remained stairs above him.  Logic said he would not step out into empty air; prudent fear urged caution no matter what logic said.  He was warm by the time he reached the wood door at the top.  It was not locked and a rush of moist air cooled the sweat the climb had raised as he opened it and stepped through, banging his head on something solidly hard.  His hat tumbled backwards, saved from bouncing back down by the stairs only because he'd kept hold of the door latch behind him. 

The door snicked as he yanked it closed and slumped over, hands on his knees.  He drew in a deep breath to steady himself and reached one hand up to explore the knot already forming on his forehead.  One more ache to add to the lot hardly mattered, though for a moment stars had populated his darkness.  It was not the blow that sent him to his knees, rather he knelt to locate his hat.  Dirt, his nose told him.  A sweep of his hand behind him and he had his hat again, though settling it on his head was not particularly comfortable.  He tilted it back, and still on his knees, shuffled sideways until he met solid wall again.  Also earth, shored up with half round timbers. 

A mechanical room, he observed silently, rising carefully to his feet again, holding his hands above his head.  A wise choice as it turned out, as they shaped the solidity of what he guessed were hollowed out logs spaced a meter or so apart.  He counted six across the space of about ten meters.  Back bowed to accommodate the height, Athos returned to the wall, feeling his way around the round room as it turned out.  It took two times to find the door, since his hands did not at first recognize the difference in the hewn wood of the door and the timbers shoring up the walls.  There was no lock, but it was barred from the outside and he had nothing with which to even attempt to lift it from the interior. 

It did not matter, neither of his missing Musketeers were here.  But here was his first bit of luck; he had been right about the mechanical rooms.

He slid down the door to the ground, removed his hat, propped his arms on his drawn up knees and leaned his head back against the door.  The maps would not coalesce in his head, they shimmered just beyond reach, his brain too weary to hold them, but if he was remembering right, this was likely the Storchenbrunnen, the bagpiper fountain in front of the hotel catering to traveling minstrels.  He could not recall any visible barred door in the buildings close by, which was nothing to the point.  He could have missed it in the dark, or as suspected, the city entrances were inside buildings. 

Athos rose carefully, minding his bruised noggin and made his way back down the stairs, shivering as he slipped into the water that in the time he had been out, had risen to just below his knees.  It would not be long before it was pouring into his boots, not that it would make much difference, since they were already soaked and seeping water. 

He explored two more empty circular rooms, the third one informing him the sluice gate in the mountain reservoir must have been opened, for the gentle swishing of the water through the hollow logs was now a muted roar.  The previous staircase had twined upwards as the first one had, but this was a series of right angle cuts stacked like children's blocks. 

Here his questing hands found a lantern.  Flint and steel sparked in the darkness, light sliding up and down the wick briefly before hissing out.  Patiently, Athos tried again, and then again - with no luck.  Investigation suggested the damp wick did not want to host a flame.  Returning flint and steel to his pocket, he very carefully tilted the lantern in an attempt to recoat the wick with oil, retrieved the sparking agents and applied it once more.  Still no luck.  It took two further tries before the wick was soaked enough to accept the spark.  Fortune, or grace - he did not particularly care which - yielded at last and the wick snatched the spark, flaring greedily to life.  With a whoosh it caught, parting the blackness rather like Moses' rod parting the Red Sea.

"Let there be light."  The sound of his voice bounced around as he lifted the lantern, the darkness rolling back like a receding wave, though it piled up in the corners of the large, square room with taunting verisimilitude. One small puff of air and the piled up waves would come roaring back to engulf the puny human attempting to check its reign.  And even that small light, too bright after so long in the atramentous dark, had Athos blinking back involuntary tears.  

His vision cleared and he had his first view of the mechanical genius only his hands had mapped thus far.  For a moment he was totally distracted by the feat of engineering as he beheld the maze of piping. The comte had been an avid student of anything suggesting mechanical workings, though having left that life behind, he had forgone pursuit of the pleasure.  It snuck up on him now, with all the wonder he had once experienced in the presence of mechanical brilliance.

When he shook himself free of the momentary bedazzlement, he tried the stout door, found it locked, and again, though the lock yielded quickly, barred.  He thought this might be the room beneath the Anna-Seiler-Brunnen, but could not be sure.  Alas, so far he had encountered no cold, shivering Musketeers inhabiting the darkness.

Shivering with more than cold this time, he waded back into the snow-fed Aare swirling lazy around his knees now.  Logic told him to turn back, but he was in this far, he could not go back without completing the circuit, no matter how long it took.  A half done job could well be a job that would have to be done again. 

Having light helped, but he went more carefully lest he drop the lantern or his footing prove false and both he and his light be doused.  It was not long, however, before he came to a split in the channel.  A sharp prow, seriously undercut and shored up with more timber and stone, divided the flow. 

A lengthy hesitation and a further battle with his weary mind sent him right toward what he hoped would take him to the Berner Münsterplatz.  To the left should be the Rathuasplatz and the Vennerbrunnen, if he was not totally disoriented. 

The water was mid-thigh by the time the seventh opening presented itself.  Without hesitation, Athos followed the curve of the wall inward, shedding water as the incline steepened to the foot of another set of steps his frozen booted toes registered too late.  He was going slow enough that he was able to stop himself with his equally frozen free hand before his face slammed into the stairs, but only just.  He twisted and sat his exhausted self down on the fifth riser, uncaring that he sat in the water still. 

He would move in a minute; for now, he had strength only to rest his head against the wall and try not to let the cold lethargy lull him into a false sense of security.  The allure of repose, though, proved too great.  Athos jerked awake and shoved himself up from the step, afraid he would give in to the siren song.  He swiped uselessly at the water pouring from his britches, turned and started the journey upward. 

A plebian sneeze caught him off guard.  The second, then a third he muffled in the crook of his elbow, waited a moment to be sure his shiver wracked body was done trying to betray him, not that there had been any sign of habitation thus far, and continued on to the top of the steeply winding stairs.

The door latch gave easily, no picks required, no bars on the other side. Athos found himself staring into the darkness of a long passage stretching beyond the range of the raised lantern.  Nothing for it but to start down it one trudging foot step at time.

With the return of light, his internal time keeper had been jogging to catch up.  Here it was only a minute or two before he reached the next door, this one made of the same timbers as the hollow pipes, bound together by iron strips.  Here too, no lock; the door swing open on well-oiled hinges, not even a squeak to mark his entrée.

Athos slumped back against the door he'd closed behind himself.  More stairs.  He did not know if his trembling legs would make it up this series of switch backs.  Regardless, he lifted a foot, though in the act of lifting the lantern, a very faint sound caught his ear.  His feet grew wings.  He counted twenty steps to a landing beyond which he could not see, but the sound drew him onwards with renewed energy. 

These stairs were a series of switch backs also, twenty steps to a landing and the stairs veered left, thirty steps more to another landing and the staircase veered right again.  Athos' knees buckled;  he had the sense to turn so his backside abruptly met a step as the faint sound became a recognizable voice lifted in song.

Chapter Text

Aramis the Irrepressible, singing the office of None, the mid-afternoon prayers, in Latin.   God, come to my assistance — Lord, make haste to help me, Athos translated without thought. 

Relief flooded every sensory receptor in his body, pouring like a soothing balm over his soul.  A soft laugh, perhaps of hysteria, perhaps just from the intensity of the release of stress, bubbled up from the dry well of Athos' religious experience. 

Aramis might long for spiritual transcendence, but his earthy sense of humor was fully intact.  The caressing notes, a pure tenor the air held lingeringly, even after the singer faded to silence, invested the free Musketeer with the strength to push off the stairs and start up again.

His still trembling legs would not let him fly up the staircase as he might have done, but fifty more panting steps and he was at the top facing another locked door just slightly beyond his skill level.  Porthos, he thought, fidgeting the thing impatiently, would have opened it in a trice.  It took several minutes and quite a bit of finessing before the latch gave and he stumbled over the thresh hold.

No windows, so the chamber was still below ground, but when he lifted the lantern this time, a satisfied grunt of acknowledgment followed a gusty sigh of relief. 

The lantern barely made an impact on a market-square-sized room full of life-sized statuary he would have to thread his way through to reach the distant other side of the room where there had to be a door, though he could not see it through the gloom.

Athos opened his mouth to shout and thought better of it.  If stealth meant the tally of dead bodies remained constant, he could repress his urgency for the width of the room. 

The faces of weeping angels shone briefly in the light of the lantern carefully held out before him.  He sidestepped reaching gargoyles, ducked beneath the golden trumpets of tall Swiss heralds, and stepped over various life-like animals marching two by two, though he did not see an ark among the fantastical creatures.  He passed by shelves of paintings crated and stored stacked apparently to a ceiling beyond the reach of the lantern, his squelching footsteps giving some idea of the height and depth of the room by their cavernous echoing. 

No hint of the river mist tainted the musty scent of ancient objets d'art a hundred years of curating had kept in pristine condition.  Athos bent to pat a last small bunny sitting on its haunches inquisitively sniffing the air with a squinched pink nose, its paws crossed over its chest.  The whimsical allure was too great to resist now that fear had loosed its inconvenient grip.

Gaining the other side, and a clear aisle, he moved quickly down the length of the room, set the lantern down and went to work with the picks again on the last door.  It swung open with no more than a whisper of sound and Athos slumped against the doorjamb.  He had to clear his excessively tight throat before he could speak, which had the effect of swiveling two dark heads, bent over a chessboard, in his direction.  "I'm tempted to murder the both of you and claim the Swiss did it."

The room was dimly lit, only two candles parsed the darkness of yet another underground room. One by the large bed against the west wall, one by the chess board Aramis slumped over, scattering the pieces like feed before livestock, eyes closed, the beads clutched in his right hand clacking emphatically as he prayed aloud.

Porthos shot out of his chair, knocking the remaining pieces, the board, and Aramis, galley west as he jumped up, though Aramis kept right on praying. 

"O God, of Whose mercies there is no number, and of Whose goodness the treasure is infinite; we render thanks to Your most gracious majesty for the gifts You have bestowed upon us, evermore beseeching Your clemency, that as You grant the petitions of them that ask You, You will never forsake them, but will prepare for the reward to come. Through Christ our Lord. Amen!" 

"Shades of Father Grandier?" Athos inquired lightly, locking his knees against their noodlish tendencies.

Porthos was across the room in a pair of heart beats, pounding Athos on the back as he passed him, shouting over the jubilant praying, "Where's d'Artagnan?"   The big Musketeer was at the first landing before he halted and turned back, panic contorting his features as he ran back up the stairs.  "Where is he?" he demanded again, grabbing Athos by the shoulders.

Athos threw up a hand, breaking Porthos' punishing grip.  "Hopefully at the Rathaus, though if we've had an answer from Paris, he could well be at the negotiating table trying to explain why he's the only one of us there." 

"Merciful Mother of God."  Porthos slumped against the wall beside the door in obvious relief. 

Aramis echoed the sentiment with heartfelt gratitude, bounding up to join them almost before his final amen.  "What day is it?  How did you find us?  Where are we?  Do you know who did this? Why are you wet? Is it raining?"  He grabbed a handful of jacket, intent on disrobing the soaked Musketeer.  "Where did you come from?"

"Aramis--"

"Porthos, grab the blankets."  Aramis stripped off the dripping coat.  "Cooperate!  You're shivering so hard you're barely keeping your feet under you.  You contacted the captain?  Why?  How?  Surely we can't have been here that long.  And you left d'Artagnan to do the negotiating?  What the hell is going on?  Do you know who’s behind this?" he repeated. 

Athos let Aramis take his coat, accepting the blankets Porthos swathed him in, though he refused to relinquish any further clothing.  He staggered to a chair, the cessation of the battle rush that had pushed him beyond his limits finishing the job on his knees.  They buckled as he sank down. 

"There’s a cheap, rather foul, burgundy, but it will warm you up a little."  Aramis went for the liquor, snatching a cup off the long dresser housing the food that had been left with them.  Porthos dropped to his knees and began stripping off footgear to warm Athos' frozen feet.  Aramis handed over the cup and started on the fingers of the free hand. 

It took several doses of the alcohol and a few minutes of vigorous hand and foot rubbing before Athos found his voice again.

"Tuesday," he said, clamping his chattering teeth together.  "It's Tuesday, I think.  It was ... dawn ... when we found the entrance ... in the bear pit.  It wasn't raining when I got in, but I lost track of time, it could be Wednesday by now for all I know.  What happened to the two of you? "

"Bear pit?  Entrance to what?" the pair exclaimed in harmony, gazes riveted on their shivering leader, completely ignoring Athos' question."

"The entrance to the aqueduct."

"The aqueduct?"

"Aqueduct?"  This time they were just a shade off unison.

Athos, in turn, ignored their traveling faire sideshow.  The corners of the room were deep in shadow, but it appeared to be a well-appointed place, not just some hole-in-the-wall prison.  Given its proximity to the treasures of antiquity next door, perhaps at one time it had been used by guards. "Treville's maps indicated the aqueduct.  It occurred to me that an underground mechanical room would be an excellent place to stash a couple of noisy Musketeers someone did not want anyone else to stumble upon accidentally. Your face looks like d'Artagnan's chest." He retrieved his right hand from Aramis, switched the cup to it and tucked his left inside the blanket.

Aramis repossessed the chair he’d vacated earlier, slinging it around to prop a booted foot and cross his arms over his knee. 

"We've not had an easy time of it on the other side of this either.  But before we go any further - are you both all right?"  Athos inspected each of them in the dim light.  Aramis had a black eye, and a cheekbone that looked like it had met a fist repeatedly.  Very likely the beard hid more of the same.  Porthos appeared whole, though appearances were ever deceiving. 

"I'm fine," Porthos responded before Aramis could reply. 

"Except for the nigh unto broken shoulder from trying to break down the door."

"Yeah, well, that's nothin' to the point.  This one," Pothos jerked his thumb at his companion, "got mouthy with them villains and paid the price for it.  Had me worried; he was unconscious a long while."  He tucked Athos’ feet inside the blanket as well and rose, pulling a chair out from the table. 

Aramis shrugged.  "Nothing else to do."  His expression, though, was rueful.  "I was frustrated.  There were only four of them, we could have taken them, even without weapons, except we were trussed up like chickens."

“Yeah, n’they kept a close eye on us too.  ‘Spect they knew there’d be hell to pay if we got lose.”

"Did you recognize anyone?  Somebody from the Rathaus?  Servants that might have waited on us at the opening ball or the picnic?  Anyone from the masquerade?"

"I didn’t,” Aramis said, tossing a questioning look in Porthos’ direction, “but they were all past the age where they should be messing about in this kind of business."

"I noticed," Athos said, putting his head back.  "You saw only four?  I met five ...  they're dead."

"Dead? What?  Where?  How did that happen? They were a bunch of doddering old fools!"

"They were smart enough to take us by surprise," Porthos pointed out disgustedly.  "Aside from that, ain't a man in this country hasn' seen battle if he's fit enough to serve.  They might'a been old, but they were cunning, and they knew their way around weapons, even if most of 'em were forged in the last century." 

"The key word being - surprise," Aramis said, rolling his eyes.  The acid in his voice would have eroded steel.  "We were minding our own business, waiting for the dart game that was supposed to happen.  We weren't unfriendly, but we'd hardly exchanged two words with anyone else in the tavern and the next thing I know the lights go out."

"Well, first that woman come over and plopped herself in your lap."

"Oh ... you're right, I'd forgotten her."  Aramis' brow creased as he touched the walnut-sized bruise behind his right ear.  "I don’t know who she was.  A tavern wench, I assumed, she sashayed over as if she'd been serving us all evening ..."

"Which she hadn't been," Porthos put in. 

"Which she hadn't been," Aramis echoed, his lips flattening with the recall.  "She sat herself down in my lap and that's the last thing I knew.  Did she say anything, Porthos?  If she did, I don't remember." 

"Nothin' I remember either," Porthos agreed, scratching his head in an attempt to recall the evening.  "There'd been only the one woman servin' and it weren't her, that's fer sure.  Looked nothin' alike."

 Athos put the cup down on the table, closing both hands inside the blankets.  "d'Artagnan mentioned a woman, too.  Who was she?  What did she want?"  If he'd killed five and Aramis and Porthos had seen only four ... maybe the entire band of miscreants were dead?  "What did she look like?"

"I -- don't remember," Aramis said, puzzled.  "I have a vague recollection of long, dark hair, I mean really long," he clipped his thigh with a bladed palm, “well past her backside.  But I can't recall her face at all."

"What was she wearing?"

"A ... dress?"  Aramis closed his eyes, trying to conjure the moment.

"With'n apron.  I remember the knot at the back of her neck," Porthos added, looking perplexed as well.  "Aramis not rememberin' a woman's face is unusual.  Specially one that sits in his lap, though she did have her back to both of us.  Maybe there was sump'in in the wine.  Never thought'a that.  Maybe that's part'a why ya slept s'long, too, Aramis."

"Possibly, but I didn't wake up feeling hung over, just had a headache.  Though there are drugs that dissipate in the system fairly quickly.  Anyway, she walked straight toward us from the bar," Aramis stated, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "No, wait, she came out from behind it.  There was a door ... I think she might have come through it.  Her head was down, but she came toward us with a ... with a sort of... bodily invitation if you know what I mean."  He looked over at Porthos.  "Am I remembering right?"

"Oh yeah!" Porthos crowed, "yeah!  She was all shimmyin' like, rollin' her shoulders and shoving out her bosom.  But she kept her face turned to her shoulder and her hands in the folds of her dress, or behind her apron."

"I didn't reckon her intent until she was right up against me," Aramis tacked on, "and then she turned and dropped like a boulder.  I barely had time to register I had an armful of female before everything went black.  But she was an armful; that much I remember."

"Anything else, Porthos?"

Porthos shook his head.  "Nah, nothing else to add.  Though ..." he thought for a moment, "I do remember thinkin' she was built a lot like Madam Joos."  His large hands shaped the air before his chest."Nice prow 'n all."

Athos' male ego dismissed the thought instantly; Madam Joos had made her preference crystal clear. "d'Artagnan said it seemed like the entire place rose up as if on signal when she sat in your lap."

"Weren't that many people there to begin with, place was kinda' empty," Porthos said.  "I remember bein' surprised that Rachid fella'd recommend a place like that.  I 'spect there mighta' been half a dozen men, maybe a couple more than that."

Athos rubbed his aching forehead, drawing Aramis' attention to the spreading purple bruise, though Athos batted away the healer's exploratory hand.  "d'Artagnan's account matches," he began, huddling deeper into the warmth of the blankets. "He said the two of you were hit from behind before either could even free a sword.  He says he was attacked as well, but doesn't remember the outcome at all, just waking up on the tavern floor.  Stabbed. 

"Stabbed?"  Porthos came to his feet, buzzing like an angry hornet. 

"And beaten pretty severely, but he remembers none of it.  Knife wound, not from a rapier.  And it was inflicted by someone who knew how to hurt without injuring badly."

"But why leave 'em?"

"We received a sort of ransom note Monday just after the Swiss tabled their final offer.  Whoever did this meant for him to be the bearer of the news that you'd been taken." 

"So you don't know who it is."  Aramis straightened, tucking his hands under his arms.

"But d'Artagnan's all right?" Porthos would not be turned aside from this line of inquiry.

Athos gave a half shrug.  "He's firmly in possession of the belief that this is all his fault.  And since, in my anger, I did nothing to dissuade him from that point of view, he's a mess, but the kid is a trooper.  He did not tell me he'd been hurt until I dragged it out of him yesterday afternoon.  If it's still Tuesday.  Feels like Tuesday a week."  The shivering, at least, was beginning to subside. 

"We've been to the negotiations and to church."  Aramis picked up the wine bottle, refilled the empty cup and drank it down himself.  "What could we have done to make someone this kind of angry?"  He touched his swollen face gingerly.  "We've hardly been here long enough to make a lasting impression.  I know I probably should have been smart enough to keep my mouth shut, but what the hell did d'Artagnan do to provoke that kind of violence?"  He tossed back a second cup with a grimace.  "What kind of ransom?"

"Quit the negotiations without a capitulation and leave Berne.  The note said you would be released to join us if we did.  Given what had happened to d'Artagnan, I wasn't going to count on the word of your captor."

"Someone on the council?"

"If it is, he is a consummate actor.  However, since you two disappeared the night before the Swiss brought a final offer to the table, it has to be someone either on or close to the council."

"Or someone with access to council information."

"That's still a lotta' suspects."  Porthos drummed his fingers on the table.  “''Sides the negotiations n'church, we been to a couple a parties 'n that picnic, too.  A lotta suspects," he repeated gloomily.  "But I ain't noticed anybody taking extra special interest in us - other than Madam Joos twisting your tail, Athos."

"And you did not recognize any of the men who held you?" Athos asked again.

"No."

"No,” Porthos said with finality.  “The puppy's all right though?" he growled, still unsatisfied.  It did no good to rage like a wild animal; he'd done that already.  Had the bruised knuckles and shoulder to show for it.  When Athos did not answer quickly enough, he bent forward at the waist, peering anxiously at the lieutenant.  "In't he?"

Athos opened his mouth, closed it with a scowl, then said, "He's resilient," and went on before either party could question further.  "Are you absolutely certain neither of you had seen any of those four men before?"

This time Aramis shook his head.  "The faces were all unfamiliar."

"Uhhhh, wait a minute."  Porthos slapped his hands on knees, eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted in a grimace.  “I mighta seen one of 'em after all... at the masquerade.  Sliding around the edges kinda oily like.  He was trying to get someone's attention, but bein' kinda coy about it.  Like he didn't wanna attract attention to himself.  Your friend the bald-headed one, Aramis.  I’d forgotten that."

"Whose attention was he trying to get?"

"Dunno.  It was a big crowd; coulda been anybody."

"When do you think you saw him?  Who was close by?"

Porthos squeezed his eyes all the way shut, trying to recall the torch lit scene.  "Mighta been the last dance.  People were lining up for it, the Venner and Madam Joos were at the heada' the line again ..." He scrunched up his nose as well - to no avail.  "Sorry, I just don' know.  Coulda been anybody in that line, Athos.  Never crossed my mind he might be up'ta no good or I'd of investigated."

"And that was the only time you saw him?  Not at the ball at the Venner's, not at the picnic - just the masquerade?"

"Nope, didn't see 'em either'a those places."  Porthos shrugged. 

"Well, that's a dead end then.”  Aramis scowled. "If you killed five, and we only saw four – we might have been left here to rot.  But - back to the bear pit - and the aqueduct.  And how and why did you get a message to Paris and back - even if it is Wednesday?"

"They keep homing pigeons.  The Swiss wanted fifty thousand livre for six companies of men; I needed some time to look for you.  So we sent a bird to Paris with a copy of the capitulation and asked the king if he wanted to spend that much money.  The man who came to pick up our note told us we could have a response back as soon as Tuesday.” 

"A lot faster than I would have thought."

"Yes, I wasn't counting on a twenty-four hour turn around.  If we've had an answer, d'Artagnan, is - or was - at the negotiating table.  But how did you end up here?  We found makers on both sides of that old decrepit house.  But yours," Athos looked to Porthos, "went out the back.  Yours," he shifted his gaze to Aramis, "went out the front.  There was a cellar, with a lock the size of a fist it appeared the Ancien Régime was guarding."

"A cellar?  In a decrepit old house?  That's where they dragged us to from the tavern.  You found m'markers?"

"We did.  Several hours after d'Artagnan brought back the news.  But neither of you were there by the time I arrived."

"That's 'cause when Aramis started run’n his mouth, they split us up.  One'a the cowards started in on him and the rest dragged me out and threw me in a cart.  With rotten turnips.  Surprised ya ain't said somethin' about the awful smell."

"Athos never offends inelegantly, my friend." Aramis' chuckle lightened the mood for a moment, though he sobered quickly.  "Must of been my tone of voice, since none of them appeared to speak French."

Athos lifted an eyebrow.  "Tone often transcends language barriers."

"See," Aramis laughed again, "never inelegantly.  Doesn't matter, I meant to offend.  Funny thing, though, none of them spoke much at all.  A few words of command - judging by the tone - from the leader of the group, but that was it.  Even the two left behind when the other two took off with Porthos only grunted now and again as they were attempting to rearrange my facial features." 

"You and that facile tongue.  One of these days, someone's going to try to cut it out.  But we're following rabbit trails.  Obviously you ended up here together?"  The question was intended to be leading. 

Porthos took up the tale again.  "I don' know what the hell they were doin', but we musta driven around upwards of an hour.  I know we passed the clock at least a couple'a times, and the church, 'cause the bells rung, and at least once I could smell the river, so we musta been close.  Once they threw me in the back, I was able to wiggle 'round enough to loosen the rope 'nough to get m'hand inside my coat and grab a few markers.  Difficult to throw'm though; I'm surprised you found any of'em at all."

"I found your markers at the top of the embankment, then your boot prints down along the path by the river.  It occurs to me that I did not find any of your markers down there though."

"That's prob'ly 'cause we were down there 'fore we went to the tavern.  d'Artagnan was wound tighter than a spool'a thread, so we went walkin' by the river."  Porthos cocked his head.  "All the way down t'the aqueduct and back.  Those prints got some'in to do with why you're sneakin' through the aqueduct?"

Aramis crowed in delight.  "Did they?  Brilliant!"

"More luck than brilliance," Athos muttered.  "Your markers ended in the lee of the Mosesbrunnen on the Münsterplatz, Aramis." He stiffed a sneeze in his blanket-covered elbow.  "Treville's maps were very detailed.  Berne uses the fountains for the city water supply, so there had to be workings below ground, and those would have to be supplied and serviced underground as well.  Short of breaking into buildings, I could find no way to get to them inside the city. The only other option, unless I went back to the river, was the Bärengraben.  According to Treville's maps, there is a fountain in the gardens surrounding the bear pit, so there had to be workings close beneath.  It was far closer to my goal than the river entrance clear down by the castle, so we took the fish the kitchen sent up to break our fast to the bear pit and d'Artagnan distracted the bears while I found the right door."

Aramis whistled softly.  "I'd call that brilliance.  But then - where are we?  I didn't get hauled here in a cart, I was dragged through the streets, and I remember hearing the clock chiming, too, but honestly, I don't remember leaving markers."  He removed his foot from the chair and went to collect his jacket from a hook by the heavy, locked and barred door on the other side of the room.  Rummaging in the lining, he produced a scant handful of the ace of hearts markers and stood looking down at them for a long moment before raising his head.  "Someone did - if it wasn't me."

Athos hummed, though not in a good way.  "Based on the cavernous store room next door, we are, currently, somewhere close to the Berner Münster, perhaps connected by underground passages.  Is it possible perhaps ... that the habit is so ingrained you left those markers without realizing it?  Your markers ended near here," Athos said again. 

"They did?"  Aramis returned the small buttons to their inner, hidden pocket.  "I don’t know.  Our arms were bound to our sides, though they did not bind our hands in addition.  Anything is possible, I suppose, but everything until I woke up here is pretty much a blur.”  He shrugged into his coat.  "We'd best be on our way.  And since that door," he jerked his head back the way he had just come, "is locked and barred from the outside, we’ll have to go back the way you came."  He headed for the door Athos had come through.  "Five dead men on a diplomatic mission does not bode well.  We'll be lucky if we're just stripped of our commissions.

"If it comes to light."

"What do you mean - if it comes to light?" Porthos liked his position with the Musketeers quite a lot, and did not want to imagine life without his brothers.  He found his coat and slid it on as well.  "What'd you do with the bodies?  Throw 'em in the Aare?"

"The fire was the talk of the town yesterday, but no mention of bodies."

Aramis swiveled back around, jaw sagging.  "You didn't!" 

"If it does come to light, I was solely to blame.  It was my decision to dispose of the bodies, d'Artagnan had nothing to do with it."

"Somebody's gotta know.  I'll eat my hat if that bunch were actin' on their own.  Surely whoever is in charge has realized their henchmen are missin'."

"Unless the leader was number five at the Spitalgasse house.  No one's been by to check on you?  You might have broken out by now." 

"They took m'picks, along with our weapons, and neither door is a bit'a kindlin'.  Nearly broke m'shoulder on 'em 'fore Aramis woke up. They knew there was no way we were gettin’ out."  Porthos took up the candle by the bed. "S’no, no one's come by since they threw me in here.  Aramis was already here."  He met the marksman's admonitory glare sheepishly, ignoring the warning.  "Tripped over him in the dark, thought he was dead.  Took a while to find candles and figure out he wasn’t." 

Athos heard every bit of the anxiety and dread Porthos had experienced in the diffident little speech.  He had no response.  He'd felt the same when he'd finally woken enough to comprehend d'Artagnan's breathless report. Nothing he could say could match the depth of anguish Porthos had experienced.  He said only, "Let's go."  He took up his own coat, thrown over the scattered pieces on the chess board, ditched the blankets on the bed and squelched across the room, dragging on the wet garment.  That produced another shiver, though he was no longer freezing.  He was, instead, stiflingly hot in the jacket.  No matter, shortly the snow-melt water of the Aare would cool him down again. 

Aramis took two steps and stopped.  "Wait.  Before we go rushing off, let's think this through."  He paused as if calculating.  "One way or the other, the negotiations must conclude.  You mentioned an answer from the king and d'Artagnan negotiating?"

"If Tréville was unable to stall and the king said yes, for all I know we could be in possession of a capitulation already.  I don't expect Louis to balk at the cost.  It's a contingency, he'll counter with a reasonable sum as a good faith payment, the balance to be rendered on the mobilization of men and arms."  

"Which means things could come to a head very shortly.  We should stay, Athos."

"No."

"He's got a point."  Porthos folded his arms over his chest.  "We're not leaving Berne with unfinished business."

"Our business," Athos stated implacably, "is to negotiate for men and arms.  If the king has accepted the terms of the contract, our job is to get that capitulation signed and return it to Paris.  I don't want to leave unfinished business either, but our duty is to our sovereign."  He did not say the words, but they rang in the silent room nonetheless.  Neither closure nor revenge fell under sovereign duties.  Athos moved to the open door and waited.

"It's not right," Porthos grumbled as he ducked to pass under the low lintel."Don' like it one little bit."

To swear allegiance to the king was to relinquish personal rights to the extent that the king's business superseded one's own.  It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, they left behind unfinished business at the expense of their personal satisfaction. 

No one liked it, least of all men who had been grievously harmed.  But there was no question of abandoning duty.  Athos held up the lantern, chivvying his no longer missing pair through the door ahead of him.   

Chapter Text

"Just part of the price we pay for the little bit of praise and glory we do occasionally receive." Aramis lifted the candle he'd collected as he stepped over the thresh hold and stopped in his tracks.  "By all that's holy!" he whispered, instantly enthralled with the bits and pieces shining back at him in the small pool of light.  He lifted the candle higher to inspect further afield, though it's meager light barely dented the darkness of the huge room.  "These things must be hundreds of years old!  The entire city could retire!  Collectors would pay a king's ransom for these things!" 

Athos nudged the healer's shoulder impatiently.  "No time to linger."  A week among this treasure trove likely wouldn't be long enough to uncover its hidden gems, but they did not have a week, or even an hour to spare.  He would have been glad of the time himself, but it was not meant to be.  He closed and locked the door, much more easily this time, with two more candles providing light and urgency no longer oppressing his mind. 

Porthos grabbed Aramis by the arm and pulled, though gently, mindful of the various bruises. "Come on, no time to gawk."

Aramis went, regretfully, but he went, following Athos through the maze, out the second door they locked behind themselves, and down the crooked staircase straight into the water.

"God's teeth, it's cold." Aramis' teeth were chattering instantly.  Their room had been adequately warm, though not overly so, but the water, almost to his waist, took his breath away. 

"Any idea how long it will take to get back?"  Porthos had to shout to make himself heard, the roar of the water through the tunnel sounding like a rushing wind.  His booming voice crashed against the timber-reinforced ceiling rolling around them like thunder.

"None."

"But you do know the way back?"  Aramis headed crosswise to the other wall, presumably for support.

"Yes."

"To the bear pit?" Porthos' jolly tone made it sound as though they were on holiday. 

"Yes."

"And how're we gonna get outta that?" 

Perhaps he had misread the holiday tone.  "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."  Athos had purposely not brought up the bear pit again, though he had been mulling it over non-stop.  If they could get Aramis up, and Athos made it as well, then together they could pull Porthos up.  If, that was, the bears could be dissuaded from eating them.  He'd gotten in without much trouble, and there was that roomful of bushel baskets of dried fruits and nuts and pails of salted fish.

They would contrive. 

Somehow. 

He hadn't been out of the aqueduct long enough to even nominally dry off, which meant the water was rising even more swiftly than he'd realized when he had waded out.   

"Stop!" Athos yelled only minutes into the battle against the current.  "We can't make it through this."  The water was practically pushing them backwards, even Porthos was struggling to make forward progress.    "We'll have to wait on the stairs until they've closed the water gate."

Porthos hesitated for a moment only.  "You're right.  No use doing the villain's job for 'em."  He grabbed for Aramis as the marksman lost his footing and went under. 

Aramis came up sputtering, swearing and swiping at his face.  "Merciful Father, it'ssssssss cccccoldddddddddd!"

Porthos caught the back of Athos' jacket as the current tried to pull him under too, and hauled them all back to the opening, pushing Aramis up the stairs beyond the water line, dragging Athos behind.  They slumped together, a cold, wet, shivering heap of temporarily defeated Musketeers; Porthos in the middle, Aramis and Athos huddled as close as possible without being in his lap.

"We should douse the lantern and save the candles," Porthos observed some time later.

"The wisssseeeee and foooooolish virgggggins."  Aramis' teeth were still chattering, despite the shared body warmth.  His own candle had been lost when he'd lost his footing.

"Huh?"

"Biblical reference."  Athos coughed, checking the inside pocket just to be sure he hadn't lost the flint and steel before blowing out the lantern.  "A lesson on preparation."

"Right."  In the pitch black darkness, Porthos unerringly put his arms about his companions. "Next time we go on a diplomatic mission, we got to be as prepared as if we're goin' into enemy territory."

"Should have been anyway."  Athos rose, raining water.  "Budge up."   He shoved at Porthos' knees, who pulled Aramis with him as he scooted over to let Athos sit down on the other side of the marksman. 

"Youuuuu shoouddd be in the midddle." Aramis shouldered Athos. 

"Ulterior motives," Porthos chuckled.  "You're always the warmest of the lot of us, get you warm and you'll help warm us up."

"Youth and clean living," Athos intoned dryly.

"d'Artagnan is not here," Aramis sputtered again, though with a degree of mirth the dunking had not engendered. 

"Right." Porthos matched their leader's dry inflection perfectly. "An all that bed sport keeps the blood flowin'."

The silence that fell was neither brooding nor uneasy.  They were as safe as it was possible to be down here, cold but free, and they were used to endless waits.  Waiting was at the top of a soldier's duties, to be accomplished with a minimum of fuss and bother. 

"Let's go up further, might be nominally warmer," Porthos suggested, when Aramis' teeth had finally stopped chattering and Athos was no longer shivering. 

"I don't want to move."  Though Aramis let them pull him up.  They clambered back up to the first landing, feeling their way in the dark, and sat again, with Porthos in the middle, establishing that whoever's turn it was to be in the middle had to go check the water level every now and again, and passed the time going over and over the few facts they had. 

"You said d'Artagnan received a note," Aramis remarked two water checks later.  "Who gave it to him?"

"A servant passed it to him."

"Where?"

"In the Hall of Council, he was at his usual post by the window."  Athos, in the middle, straightened.  "I'm an idiot.  That must mean it has to be someone either on, or connected to the council!"

"Not necessarily, anyone on the street could have passed a note to an attendant out on errands or loitering near an entrance.  Did you talk to the servant?"

"No, stupidly.  It never occurred to me."

"Doesn't matter.  Less'n it's a rank amateur behind this, that note would'a passed through several hands a'fore it reached the servant who giv' it to d'Artagnan," Porthos said with authority.  "We never passed a note to the intended by our own hand, that'd give the game away, guv'ner." 

"We still should have tracked him down and asked."  Athos rose to go for his second check of the water level.

"I'm worried about 'em," Porthos said softly, as their leader disappeared around the corner.  "He's wound tighter than d'Artagnan."  He could feel Aramis nod his agreement.

"Maybe it would be best to collect the capitulation and be on our way."

"I don't think so.  We leave here without answers, this'll gnaw away at him like rats in the gutter."

"You're probably right.  And he's gnawed enough as it is."  Aramis was thoughtfully silent for a few moments.  "You know, it occurs to me, d'Artagnan's role in this has been played; he's expendable now."

"Damn!"  Porthos was off the step like a shot, pulling Aramis up after him.  "High water or not, we're goin'."

Athos met them coming down, at the first turn of the stairs, holding the lit lantern high.  "The water is receding, it will likely do so quickly now.  It's still at thigh level, but we can manage and I dislike leaving d'Artagnan to deal with this alone any longer than necessary.  I told him to go straight back to the Rathaus and leave the room only if the coop master returned.  That doesn't mean he'll stay there." 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged another of those speaking glances they so often shared.

"He listens like a two-year-old," Porthos grunted, as the pair of them moved around Athos to trot down the stairs.  "Let's go."

Chapter Text

They made better time, though the current still dragged like pulling anchors in their wake, but tempers mixed with a judicious bit of terror served to get the old battle rush charging through their systems and take the edge off the chill.  They were climbing the tight, winding steps up to the Bärengraben in far less time than Athos had thought possible, though perhaps making the return trip with light and company had made it seem quicker.

He slammed a hand against the door at the top, stiff arming Porthos who was about to throw it open and barge straight through.  "There was a bear in there at dawn. Caution would be wise."

There came no growling, snuffling or even snoring when he pressed his ear to the door.  He opened it a crack, prepared to throw his weight against it if the bear appeared.

Nothing.

He'd cracked it a bit wider when a hand in his collar yanked him backwards and the door was thrown wide, reverberating as it cracked against the inner wall. 

"Ain't in the mood for caution," Porthos snapped.  "Work the blood up, it would, goin' a few rounds with'a bear.  Too bad there ain't any."  He turned in a circle, looking up. 

The tower was dark, though not the pitch black of a windowless room, rather it was the dark of night.  Athos and Aramis popped through the opening together. 

"Which one's the way out?" Porthos demanded.  "They're locked again. Gimme a pick."

Athos, who would normally have been quietly reading the larger Musketeer the riot act, reached into an inside pocket, drew out the pick and it handed it over without a word.  "That one."  He pointed.  While he could open the door fairly quickly, Porthos - practically born to lock-picking - needed barely more than a second before they heard the snick. 

The Court of Miracles raised Musketeer cracked his knuckles with a satisfied grunt and handed the tool back over his shoulder.

"Wait!" Athos hissed.  "Before you open that, we need a plan."

"Too late."  Porthos had his head out the door.  "Someone's conveniently left us a rope and the bears are all over in the .... d'Artagnan!" 

Five dark heads jerked up. 

"Porthos?"  Only one of them spoke.

Porthos, despite his size, could run like the wind.  He was sprinting across the yard before the outside door splintered against the wall.  Athos and Aramis, barely two steps behind, could only catch glimpses around Porthos

"STOP!  WAIT!  PORTHOS!  WAIT!"

Porthos was in the middle of the pack, grabbing fistfuls of fur to toss aside snarling bears as though they were stuffed toys.  He grabbed a shouting d'Artagnan around the waist, shoving the youth behind his bulk and  threw up his fists, facing four growling, snapping bears.

d'Artagnan grabbed Porthos' arm and hung on.  "STOP!  LISTEN TO ME!  THEY'RE TAME!  DON'T HURT THEM!"  The other hand was pressed to his chest where Porthos' snatch and grab had torn stitches.  "Stop, stop!  All of you stop!" 

Athos plowed into Aramis who skidded into Porthos while trying to translate d'Artagnan's screeching and avoid a bear.  The Inseparables went down in a heap of flailing limbs, d'Artagnan on the bottom. 

"THEY'RE TAME!"  The shrieking from the bottom of the pile finally registered.  The writhing heap of Musketeers stilled. 

"Get off me," d'Artagnan grunted, shoving at the suffocating weight grinding him into the dirt.

Porthos was first to roll off, pushing Aramis and Athos off himself as he staggered to his feet, glaring at the bears.  All of four of whom had backed off and sat watching the spectacle as though the trio had been hired for their entertainment. 

"They're tame," d'Artagnan huffed, rolling to his side, still holding his chest as he got his knees under him, then his feet, refusing Porthos' aid.

"You're bleeding."

"Because you ripped open the stitches, you oaf!"  d'Artagnan stood swaying for a long, dizzy moment.  "You're alive."  As though it had only just registered, a bloody handprint smeared upwards across a cheek devoid of color as his knees buckled.  "Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... not oaf..."  He ran out of steam so great was his relief, sagging boneless against Porthos' tall frame.  Though it was only a moment before he pushed off, wiped his bloody hands on his shirt and threw his arms around the taller man.   "You're safe!  Thank God!  Thank God!"

"But not with a very loud voice."  Athos, still lying in the dirt where he'd rolled off Aramis, said distinctly.

Porthos was very careful to refrain from cracking ribs with his expansive hug, but his own relief was a great as d'Artagnan's and he could not help lifting the youth off his feet.  d'Artagnan bore it without complaint, so grateful was he to be back among his friends.

The big Musketeer squeezed the youth once more and set him on his feet, attempting to dust off the dirt d'Artagnan had collected.  "You're sure a sight for sore eyes!  We thought you were dead!"   

"I had no idea when I went to get Athos, if you two were dead or alive."  d'Artagnan spun around to rush to Aramis.  "Move Titania."  He shoved at the bear sniffing the still sprawled Athos and wrapped his arms around Aramis, pounding him on the back, heedless of the tug and pull at his chest.  "What happened to your face? Are you both all right?  Who did this? Athos, where did you find them?"

Aramis, laughing, hugged the youth with as much enthusiasm as Porthos, then drew back to inspect d'Artagnan in equal measure..  "At least I'm not dripping blood.  I think we should get you out of here before the bears decide they're not tame after all."

"Tame." Athos rubbed at the bear slime on his face with a filthy hand.  "Between sunrise and sunfall they were tamed?"  He sat up, propping his wrists on his spread knees as one of the bears snuffled a nose in his ear.  He swatted it away, but it had apparently found something intriguing, it only grunted and used its weight to lean into him so he had either to get up or let the bear snuffle his ear. He got up and collected his hat, slapping it off to rid it of some of the dirt.  "Is it still Tuesday?"

"Yes, it's still Tuesday and we have a capitulation.  The council has agreed, in principal, to supply the French army with twelve regiments of armed soldiers, with a percentage of the final price to be paid up front, the remainder on mobilization.  Berne can't field that many soldiers though, so they've sent messenger birds to the surrounding cantons to make up the numbers."

"Twelve!" Porthos exclaimed.  "I thought we were only askin' for six?"

"Twelve?" Athos repeated, though his voice was beginning to sound ragged around the edges.  "We were only asking for six; you got twelve?"

d'Artagnan shrugged.  "The response from Paris stated cost was not a factor, that we should bargain for as many men as possible.  I thought - maybe - if we went home with double the number we were asking for, we wouldn't be in so much trouble."

Athos clapped his hat on his head, reached to snag the puppy by the wrist and pulled him into a hug as well.  "You did good; damn good, d'Artagnan." He had to clear his throat and what came out was scratchy at best.   "How did you know the bears were tame?" He turned them both so they were following Aramis toward the rope hanging just about where he'd thrown it over ... oh, at least a decade ago.  Had it truly only been this morning?  He glanced over his shoulder at the bears, sitting placidly on their haunches, heads swiveled to watch their entertainment take leave.  Porthos was petting one of them as though it was Monsieur le Chien back at the Rathaus. 

"The Venner suggested a visit to the bear pit, so I took him up on it.  René arranged it this afternoon."

"Perhaps there is some Gascon dialect I failed to employ when I told you to stay in the room."  The chiding might have carried more weight had it not faded to a croak at the end.

d'Artagnan replied anyway.  "You said you were leaving it to my discretion."

"I said," Athos imparted twitchily, though every third or fourth word dropped an octave, "that I would leave contacting the Venner to your discretion. René is from the Butcher's Guild.  Suppose he had been behind this little plot and we came back here to find bits and pieces of you being fed to the bears?"

d'Artagnan pulled away, planting his feet as he turned to face Athos.  "As it happens, it's not René, I'm not bear fodder and you have a way out and a short ride instead of a long walk back to the Rathaus." 

Porthos smacked both of them upside the head as he passed between them.  "Stop yer bickerin', both'a ya's.  This is no way to conclude a successful rout of the plottin' parties.  We won this one!  Or this round at least.  Aramis, hie yourself up that wall so we can be gettin' on with this escape." 

"Excellent plan, Porthos.  Not to mention standing around in a bear pit discussing this raises serious questions about our sanity.  Tame or not, they're wild animals and the smell of blood and the rising tempers is agitating them.  Thank you, d'Artagnan, for your forethought in being here to meet us."  Aramis was halfway up already, moving hand over hand, using his feet for purchase against the wall.  His cold, wet hands slipped as he reached the top and he slid halfway back down.  Undeterred, he started up again and in short order he was on the inside ledge and then over the fence.  He heard a whinny in the distance and leaned over the barrier.  "You managed the horses by yourself?"

"Only two," d'Artagnan leaned his head back to respond.  "We'll have to ride double."

"Not like we haven't done it before. Athos, what's the rest of the plan?  Do we ride in rattling rapiers, or steal in stealthily?"

Athos had been considering this for much of the trip back through the aqueduct.  "Stealthily for now. It could stack the deck in our favor."  This last came out as little more than whisper.

"What?" Porthos was trying to send d'Artagnan up the rope next.

"He said it might stack the deck in our favor," d'Artagnan repeated.

"M'all for stackin' the deck." 

"The two of you should go up, the bears won't object if I'm the last to leave."

Athos shook his head, indicating Porthos should go next as another coughing fit wracked him.

Porthos shrugged and started up the wall.

d'Artagnan, realizing his miscalculation, folded his arms over his chest and went on the defensive.  "Fine thing it would have been if you'd gotten back and then couldn't get out of the damn pit.  I couldn't leave the rope dangling here this morning when I went back to the Rathaus.  So I had to be here when you got back, whether you'd found Aramis and Porthos or not."

Athos, who had been holding the bottom of the rope as Porthos went up, flicked the frayed end against his gloved hand, holding on to a sigh.  "I will not belabor the point, but you need to learn the difference between taking dangerous chances and calculated risks."

"Coming out here was a calculated risk." d'Artagnan was trying hard to match his mentor's dispassionate tone, but he was not a puppy and did not intend to roll over.  "We agreed neither of us suspected anyone on the council.  Herr Joos mentioned the bears were tame and suggested I ask René to arrange a visit.  I thought it would kill two birds with one stone:  I'd get out of the room, where I was suffocating with worry," he muttered, "and I could make sure I was here when you came back.  With rope."

"That bear this morning was not just out for his daily constitutional."  The rope jerked in Athos hand though he didn't even glance up.  He had said he would not belabor the point, and d'Artagnan's argument was reasonable. 

"No, but we both saw what we expected; a wild bear charging prey.  When in reality, she was just coming over to inspect you.  Titania is mother to the three cubs, Peaseblossom, Cobweb and Mustardseed.  You were a stranger, she just wanted to be sure you did not pose a danger to her children."

"Queen of the faeries."

This non-sequitur had the effect of jolting d'Artagnan from his single-minded defense.  "What?"

"The bears are named after characters in a play by an English poet."  The rawness of Athos' throat was increasing with every word his mouth shaped. 

"All right."  d'Artagnan waited a moment, in case the elder Musketeer had more to add. When he didn't, the Gascon continued, "Anyway, the first thing the keeper said was 'don't run'.  A mother bear with cubs can be very aggressive when aggravated and running tends to aggravate Titania."

"How does the keeper get in?"

"Through the food storeroom.  There's a staircase that comes up on the back side from an underground tunnel.  The entrance is up the hill a ways.  It's unlikely you would have noticed in the dark.  But they keep it double locked, to discourage the bear baiting youth of Berne."

"Quicker to go out this way then."  Athos wrapped both hands around the rope and started up the wall.  He paused to glance back down at the shadowy figure dappled with starlight.  "My apologies."

"For what?"

"Underestimating you - yet again."

"Athos-"

The lieutenant was already scrambling over the fence.  "Hurry up," Athos called back down, "Porthos has collected the horses.  We're just waiting for you."

d'Artagnan tried out a harassed Tréville harrumph.  At the very least it kept him from groaning with each flex of his shoulders as he scaled the wall. 

Chapter Text

Translations

eau du l'ours - scent of bear

"d'Artagnan, wait."

They had dismounted in the deep shadows of the alley alongside the Rathhaus, d'Artagnan already starting away with the horses, when Porthos called him back.  Pulling the front of the youth's jacket closed, Porthos slip-knotted the leather ties and clapped him - gently - on the back.  "Best not be showin' up in the stable all bloody-like, though I 'spose you could blame it on the bears."

"Oh." d'Artagnan, cross-eyed with weariness now that this terrible, no good, rotten day was finally coming to a close, was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other.  The state of his clothing had not crossed his mind.  He combed a hand through his hair, though that only disheveled it further, and nodded his thanks to Porthos.  "I'll be up shortly."

"We'll wait here until yer in the back door."

"No need."

"Humor us," Aramis said softly, as Porthos, despite his size, blended into the nighttime shadows like a chameleon.  "Just don't spend an hour chatting up the hostler."

"Not a chance, I'm starving." d'Artagnan urged the horses forward.

The cool night air carried the Gascon's voice back to them almost without diminishment.  "Thanks for puttin' them up for me, Didier.  His High and Mightiness went in the front again 'n left me with the job, as usual."

The hostler was an old man, they could hear him speaking, but the words were indecipherable. 

"In't that the way it always is?"  d'Artagnan's laugh was merry and bright.  In the dark, Porthos grinned at the impersonation.  "That boy's gonna go far."

"Of course he is, he's got good teachers."  Aramis slumped back against the wall of the Rathaus. 

"You okay?" Porthos asked, leaning back too, so they were shoulder to shoulder. 

"I will be.  Just the cessation of the battle rush, I'm suddenly and completely exhausted."

"Yeah, m'feelin' it too; 'spect we all are.  Thought Athos was gonna cough up a lung before we finally got outta the water, 'n d'Artagnan looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over." 

"He's in, let's go."  Aramis pushed off the wall as d'Artagnan sauntered in through the back door.

Naturally, the Gascon's friends, Mademoiselle la Chatte and Monsieur le Chein, prowling around the servant's entrance through which d'Artagnan entered, immediately attached themselves to him, insisting on escorting him upstairs.  He waited in the hall where the side door intersected with the main hall, kneeling to pet the animals who thoroughly sniffed every bit of him they could reach, the cat standing up to butt her head against his chin.  He suspected it was the ursine smell attracting them, but they made for good cover since the entire staff knew the animals had taken to him.  And that meant he was able to keep an eye out and motion Porthos and Aramis on their way as they came through the door.  He gave the animals each a last pat, and with the coast clear, followed the Musketeers into their suite.

d'Artagnan was shoving the door closed behind himself when it shoved back, and it was not the animals, who'd snuck in beside him.  He moved quickly out of the way, allowing Athos to enter behind him. The quartet stood staring at each other for a moment before releasing a collective  pent up sigh of relief.

Athos flicked off his hat and sent it sailing across the room to land unerringly in the spot he'd been leaving it on the sideboard.  d'Artagnan, who'd forgotten his new chapeau, immediately wanted to try it himself, though he was too tired to put forth the effort.

"Sanctuary," Aramis breathed softly, skirting the rug in the middle of the parlor, pulling off wet clothing as he did so. 

Athos yanked the bell pull by the door as Porthos followed in Aramis' footsteps.  "We've been telling everyone the two of you are sick, something you ate and it's being plaguing you for the last two days." 

"If you don't stop talking, you're not going to have a voice left soon," Aramis advised, though he had no expectation his advice would be heeded. 

"We need --"

"Baths and food," d'Artagnan supplied.  "I'll take care of it.  You're dripping on what appears to me to be a very expensive carpet, though you'd have more experience with that than I ever will."

Athos raised an eyebrow and with no hat to tip, he bowed slightly.  "What did you tell Herr Joos about my absence?  And what did the keeper have to say about finding the bear inside the tower where it didn't belong?" 

"I pried shoes off both our horses, told him we'd been racing and that we'd been on our way to the blacksmith to have them re-shod when the fancier found us.  So long as the fancier, the blacksmith and the bear keeper don't tell anyone I was alone, the story will hold up.  If for some reason any of them are questioned ..."  d'Artagnan didn't bother stating the obvious."Titania must have gotten out before the keeper arrived.  He made no mention of anything untoward having happened today."

"As long as no one is suspicious, there should be no reason to ask questions.

The youthful jaw clenched, but d'Artagnan let it lie.  "Are you all right?"

Athos gave him 'the look' and disappeared into their bed chamber. 

The servants readily brought a tub and hot water, the largess of these guests being such that there was general bedlam in the service hall any time the bell from the visitor quarters rang now.  Two large tureens of soup followed shortly, accompanied by fresh bread, cheese, boiled eggs and a bowl mounded with raspberries. 

The cook even trotted up the stairs to deliver a just-out-of-the-oven cherry pie to personally accept their thanks and gratuities.  He bowed his way out, his forehead practically scraping the floor, as he proclaimed over and over how glad he was that Herr Porthos and Herr Aramis were finally beginning to feel better. 

The tub went into d'Artagnan and Athos' room again.  Aramis was in and out quickly, Porthos used the same water, since beneath their filthy, muddy clothes, they'd already bathed in the Aare's icy tributary below the city.

"d'Artagnan, use Porthos' soap when you wash up.  It got rid of the rotten turnip smell on him, it should be equal to the eau du l'ours you're wearing.  Try to keep the remaining stitches dry though." Aramis was still toweling off as he took charge.  "I'll tend to re-stitching you as soon as I'm dressed.   Athos, in the tub.  Porthos, pour some of the hot water into the small kettle and dump the rest  in with him, then see if you can find the camphor in my bag.  It only needs a few drops.  Put in some of the dried valerian too."

Porthos, too, had apprenticed under Aramis the healer, long enough to know what herbs were useful for what maladies.  He rummaged for the things Aramis had directed and added a few drops of the peppermint oil as well, then pulled out the mortar and pestle too, and set to work grinding bark of slippery elm.  He mixed it with boiling water, added a twist of honey from the jar Aramis carried, poured in a tot of the medicinal brandy and delivered it to Athos.

"Still won't taste very good, but it might keep ya from losing your voice altogether."

"Don't slug it," Aramis warned.  "It works better if you wait a bit between swallows, gives it more time to coat the throat."

Athos sipped dutifully, and without complaint, especially as it instantly soothed the painful burning desire to cough non-stop. 

d'Artagnan, bathed and in the last of his clean clothes, allowed Aramis to poke and prod at the wound, though he was very grateful when the healer quit, pronouncing it free of infection and healing well.  "Nice embroidery, Athos." Aramis could 'see' Athos' grimace behind his back; he was well aware of the comte's reluctance to engage in anything requiring needlework unless it involved parts of a saddle.  "Porthos, some of that medicinal brandy might come in handy with this one too, before I start sewing again.  It's just a few," he assured the youth.  "Not much damage done."

d'Artagnan only blinked  in the candlelight.  He could hardly keep his eyes open so tired was he, but he was hungry too and wanted this over and done with so he could fill his stomach and fall into bed for the first good night's sleep in days. 

"Sorry 'bout the whole thing in the bear pit," Porthos offered guiltily as he brought over the brandy.  "It sure looked like them bears were mauling ya as we come outta the tower.  Didn't mean'ta hurt ya m'self."

"I know.  It was part of the reason I went back.  I didn't want the bears to get hurt either, if one of them took exception again like Titania did this morning."

"This morning?" Aramis asked as he ran his needle through the nearest candle flame, threading it competently.  "What happened?"

d'Artagnan, happy to be at some remove from the steady draw and pull of the needle, however slight, regaled his audience with a harrowing narration of the morning's encounter with the bears.  His description of holding his breath as Athos whipped through the tower door with Titania practically shoving him through, and his enormous relief when the bear stuck in the opening, had Porthos guffawing. 

"You've a gift for storytelling, youngling," Porthos laughed, wiping away tears of merriment. 

"All I could see was the bear's arse, and then she popped through," d'Artagnan continued mildly.  "I thought Athos was bear meat for sure.  I heard a door slam and the bear roar and then nothing for the longest time.  I was trying to decide if I should go see what was happening when I finally heard Athos' signal.  Let me tell you, I was gulping air like a landed fish when I was finally able to breathe again."

"You made it so as I could see it as if I was there!" Porthos exclaimed, still chortling as he tidied up after Aramis, gathering up the used bandaging, handing over the salve along with a new roll of cotton lint.

Aramis, grinning as well, blotted the fresh blood with the tail end of the roll and tore it off.  "Done," he said, moving so d'Artagnan could sit up.  "Keep this dry," the healer directed, wrapping a wide swath around the lean torso, "and stay out of the bear pit."  This provoked a chuckle as he'd intended.  "In a couple of days, you should be good as new again."  He tied the ends neatly, tucked them in and ruffled d'Artagnan's hair. 

"Athos?" Aramis handed d'Artagnan the shirt he'd made him take off and rose to check on his other patient.  "You cooked enough?" 

"We should have asked them to send up a raw steak for that eye," Athos observed as he rose from the tub. 

"No use.  Two nights ago it might have helped, but not likely now.  I've got some salve I'll put on it before I go to bed.  It's not as bad as it looks."

"Mmmhmmm," Athos agreed politely, taking the towel Aramis thrust into his hands.  "Go eat, all of you, I'll join you shortly."  If he could conjure the necessary will to shuffle his feet further than the bed.  Or any kind of pleasure at the thought of trying to swallow anything solid.

Neither d'Artagnan nor Porthos had to be told twice.  They headed immediately for the parlor and the waiting repast. 

"The soup will go down easily at least, and Porthos, in his foresight, ground up  enough of the elm bark to make up several more doses.  I have some other things that will quiet a cough as well, so if the elm doesn't work, don't be a bloody martyr and go slinking off to cough beyond my hearing." 

Both eyebrows went up.  "When have I ever--"

"You haven't," Aramis interrupted, "but only because you haven't been sick like this since I've known you.  Let me just remind you of what you already know:   You will regret it if you make me chase you down."  He headed for the parlor, too, having had the last word.

Athos waited until the door closed behind the healer.  "Devil's spawn."

"I heard that!"

Chapter Text

Translations

dénouer - to untie, the precursor of dénouement, which did not come into use until the mid-1740s.  My further apologies as I'm sure I have not conjugated it properly to imply untying. 

laisser passer l'eau sous les ponts -  to let water flow under the bridge/ (colloquial) let it go

d'Artagnan's second near miss with falling into his soup bowl prompted Aramis to declare it was time for everyone to seek their beds.  They shoed out the dog and cat, who snuck in with d'Artagnan, barricaded all three doors and fell into bed exhausted.  Three of them to lie staring at the ceiling by the light of the round-faced moon peeping in the windows.  Their fourth was truly asleep before his head touched the pillow, though it was neither a dreamless nor an easy slumber. 

d'Artagnan did not wake, however, as the Musketeers did, at the first knock on the sitting room door shortly after the sun launched the new day. 

Athos was up first, dragging on britches and pulling a shirt over his head, signing to Porthos, who shambled out of his room, to back up and close the door. 

"Herr Athos."  The messenger on the other side of the door bowed.  "Herr Joos requests your immediate presence in the Hall of Council."

"Immediate," Athos echoed, in a shade less whispery voice.  "Of course.  I'll be there in quarter of an hour." 

The man cleared his throat uncomfortably.  "I ... I am to escort you, sir."

"Then you may wait."  Athos shut the door on the 'escort', shrugging at Porthos' 'what was that about?' face, and returned to the bed chamber to make himself presentable.  Wearing a beard saved so much time in the morning; splash a little water on the face, scrub at the teeth with a bit of willow bark, tame the hair by donning a hat and no further facial grooming was required. 

Porthos and Aramis were dressed and waiting for him in the sitting room when he reappeared. 

"What does he want?"

"You know as much as I do.  Maybe he has the contract ready."

"It's barely seven o'clock.  He wants to sign contracts at this hour of the morning?" Aramis whispered, mindful of the man on the other side of the door.  "Not likely."

"I'm not likin' this at all," Porthos grumbled in an undertone.

"The only way to find out is to go down and see what he wants." Athos belted on his sword, checked that his pistol had dried out, stowed his parrying dagger and stamped into his boots. 

"We're goin' too," Porthos stated, reaching for the door.

Athos' hand stayed him before he could open it.  "They're not going to ambush me in the Hall of Council."

Porthos growled, low in his throat.  "I don' like this at all," he repeated.

"They might arrest me, but that's all they can do at this point.  If that does happen, I would ask you not to interfere.  And send a message immediately to Tréville." 

"If they'd allow it.  You don't know anything for certain." Aramis was of the same mind as Porthos.  "We should go with you."

"No.  It may still work to our advantage that you remain - for the time being - too ill to leave our rooms.  I want the element of surprise."  Athos loosed his rapier, flicking off the safety that kept it contained in the scabbard.  "If I'm not back within the hour, or marched away through the courtyard," he said without inflection, "then please do come looking."

"We'll give you twenty minutes," Porthos said decisively.  "An then we're comin' for ya."

Athos scowled, but accepted the compromise.  If all the Venner wanted him for was to sign documents, it wouldn't take fifteen minutes. 

Athos ran a hand through his hair, clapped his hat on his head and exited the room.  He did not wait to be 'escorted', he took the back stairs down two at a time, to the second floor.  Here, a long hallway attached the guest quarters to the Rathaus proper, where the Hall of Council took up the entirety of the second floor.

His escort was trotting to keep up with his long stride and he made no effort, as he usually would, to accommodate the man.   Reaching the end of the hallway, Athos took a left, paused only long enough to yank open one side of the heavy double doors and strode through into the echoing chamber.

"Herr Joos, Madam Joos," he greeted, removing his hat to bow.  "I beg your pardon for appearing in such a state of dishevelment, but your messenger made it sound .... urgent."  Apparently he had not been summoned to sign the capitulation for the French delegation.  He did not fish for reasons, just spread his feet and stood waiting, hat in one hand, the other resting lightly on his sword. 

Madam Joos was enthroned in the Venner's chair, though it was turned away from the table, towards the entrance.  The Venner stood beside her, hands behind his back, feet also spread wide. 

The Venner flicked a finger and the servant behind Athos closed the door. 

Athos saw no weapons, but he did not advance further into the room.  Even a small hand pistol could kill a man at this distance, though he would have some warning and could potentially duck back through the door for cover.

"What is wrong with your voice?" Madam demanded crossly. "I can hardly hear you."

"My further apologies, madam, I have acquired a bit of a sore throat and seem to have lost most of my vocal abilities overnight.  I will endeavor to make myself better heard."  He bowed again, and since she'd opened the dialogue, asked,   "To what end has my presence been commanded?"

"My wife has confessed your sins, sirrah!"

The finger of death slid down Athos' spine, chilling him more thoroughly than the Aare swirling through the aqueduct.  His mind instantly began calculating the probability of success in dueling with a Swiss Venner who had probably served nearly as many years as a soldier as Athos had been alive.  The Swiss were bred to the bone soldiers; the boys wielded wooden swords almost before they could walk and cut their eye teeth on the fearsome Swiss halberd. 

"My sins are legion.  Pray tell, of which of them do we speak?"  Athos strolled closer, partly so he did not have to strain to make himself heard, since his voice was barely above a whisper, partly the better to observe body language and facial expressions.

Madam did not lean back in the chair, she sat upright as a queen upon a chessboard, hands folded loosely in her lap, no hint of tension or stress visible in the line of her shoulder or arms, not even about the serenely composed mouth.  Had she told the Venner of the carnal pleasures of their night together?  Why?  And if so, what did the man want?  To defend her honor at this late date? 

"This is difficult and will surely be awkward for both us, but she is insistent."

Athos remained still as a statue, though surprise suffused another of those uncomfortably uncontrollable blushes. 

A twinkle brightened the Venner's stern gaze at this involuntary evidence.  "You have proven your sagacity at the negotiating table repeatedly;  I expect you know very well what we discuss."

Athos' stiff spine softened, again without his permission, but relief would not be denied.  This was not going to be about five dead men.  "You have the advantage of me, sir." 

The Venner inclined his head in concession.  "Very well then, I will lay out my hand.  Kami tells me she has made it perfectly clear you are welcome in her bed.  And that you have ignored all of her lures.  Do you require remuneration?"

That made him blink, though his mind blanked to the extent he could not form a coherent reply.  It required effort to keep his jaw from flapping.

"Come, I know you have travelled the courts of Europe.  Kami has told me of your meeting in Moscow, you are no prude."  The Venner moved to stand behind his wife's chair, crossing his arms over the ornately carved back. 

Athos rubbed at an eyebrow, his diplomatic skills having abandoned him in his hour of need.  "I'm flattered ..." he began, since some response seemed required, but he could not shape his tongue to further words.

"I can sweeten the deal, either personally, or, if you are that patriotic," the Venner smiled his approbation of this thought, "for your king."

Words!  He needed words that would not come.  Athos the Imperturbable did not realize his gaze was beseeching.

The Venner smiled kindly.  "I can see you are confounded by our proposal.  Perhaps you are wary of my reluctance."  He inclined his head as regally as an old, deposed lion.  "Have no fear on that account, my lord.  I was blessed to marry a young wife and sire three fine sons before I was disabled."  He beamed with the fierce pride of the Swiss, not the least discomfited by his revealing speech, while certain parts of Athos shriveled at the thought of exposing such vulnerability.  "I cannot deny my wife what I should have been able to provide her now, can I?  On the contrary, both Kami and I would be pleased by your acceptance of this commission."

Athos was hot and cold and a bit nauseated, though he could not decide if illness made it so - or the situation he found himself in.  It explained why only his presence had been requested and was so far from what he had expected as to be laughable.  Only no one was laughing.  Least of all, himself. 

"We have caught you by surprise; that is to your credit.  Shall we say ... this afternoon.  Madam's carriage will pick you up at the Rathaus at 2:00?  Would that suit?  Oh, and, if desired, the Junge would be welcome as well."

Madam flushed prettily, bowing her head, though a tiny smile of triumph flickered across the otherwise composed features.  "Do your companions remain indisposed, my lord?" she inquired softly, raising her head to look Athos squarely in the eye.  "Perhaps, if they are feeling better, they could join us for dinner."

Impaled on a look.

The missing words lined up behind Athos' clamped jaw quicker than a Swiss regiment called to formation.  He bowed with courtly elegance and loosed them.  "Madam, perhaps we should invite them down now, to break our fast prior to our assignation. They were anxious to accompany me when I was escorted from the suite."

He saw the flicker of alarm and knew a dread such as he had experienced only once before in his life.  "Herr Venner, please have your servant request the presence of Aramis and Porthos.  If d'Artagnan is awake, he may come as well, but do not have them wake him.  He is recovering from a wound inflicted Sunday evening and, frankly, I would rather he sleep through this dénouer."

" Dénouer?  What do we untie?"  the Venner's handsome features lost their ruddy hue.  All color drained from his face, but he did not move.

"I do not have words to put this delicately, sir; your wife is attempting to blackmail me into her bed."

"Blackmail?" 

Athos watched the gentleman literally lose height.  The chair blocked his view, but he could imagine the knees sagging as the broad shoulders hunched.  The Venner aged before his eyes, the fine lines and wrinkles that had marked the man's face with hard-earned wisdom and grace sagging with a bone-deep weariness. 

It had been there all along, Athos saw now, buried beneath the gift of affability and charm.  The currents in the room ran deeper than the Aare. 

The old man sighed, shuffling a bit behind the chair as he clasped his hands in a gesture Athos could only translate as supplication, though when he spoke, the Venner courteously met the comte's gaze directly.  "What has she done now?" he asked despairingly.

There was more a stake then he understood, but Athos could not yet deduce what it might be.  "Madam, do you wish to wait for proof, or shall we will deal with this between ourselves?"

If the Venner had deflated, Madam appeared to puff up like a pouter pigeon.  "You accuse me wrongfully, sir.  I have no need to blackmail anyone into my bed!"  She rose with all the majesty of a ship-of-the-line under full sail.  "What I did, I did for my people, not for your presence in my bed.  Though I sought the easier route, thinking to convince you to abandon your campaign to sacrifice more of our sons on your battlefields, by seducing you!" 

"The sad thing is, madam, I would have come willingly to your bed had I understood the rules of the engagement.  Though even your considerable charms could not have seduced me to break trust with my sovereign."

"That merely makes you as much a fool as he, my lord, if you choose willingly to accede to his whims!  For centuries," she flung the word at him, then shrilled it again, "do you hear me?  For centuries the Swiss have supplied soldiers to the French kings!  For centuries, you have returned them to us on litters and biers, slung over the backs of horses as though they were worthless commodities!  Unmendably broken you said your heart was - like the Junge who worships in your wake, you do not have the experience to understand unmendably broken!  It may be true you have no heart, my lord, for a man who can hang his own wife must be totally without feeling, but that is not brokenness, sirrah!  That is willful withholding of affection and compassion!  You cannot begin to understand the impact of grief on the wives and sisters and daughters of our country!"

Beneath the comte's calm exterior, a shaft of empathy pierced the roiling wrath, though it did not stay further words spoken in a deadly whisper.  "Five men are dead by my hand, sir, because of your wife's machinations."

Madam Joos sat abruptly, the ship's prow heaving.  "Five men?  Rachid?"

If possible, the Venner's face turned a whiter shade of pale.  He moved now, shuffling like an old man, to draw out one of the lesser chairs at the table and sat heavily, head in his hands, a defeated foe.  "Madam, what have you done?  How does Rachid come into this?  You had best tell me everything." 

Madam Joos was mad. And her husband knew the extent of her illness, though it appeared he had not been complicit in his wife's schemes.  Athos shifted uncomfortably.  He had the words now, but lacked the fortitude to utter more of them in the face of the overwhelming distress flowing from the Venner in such waves the comte thought it might flood the room and drown them all.  He floundered in it as well, the resurrected white hot anger swamped by the ocean of anguish. 

The door opened behind his back.  Had it already been twenty minutes?  No servant had appeared to convey his own summons, but he did not need to turn to know who had entered the room

The Venner lifted his head, and gasped, propelling himself from the chair. "My God, Kamille, what have you done?  The French king will grind the Swiss Confederacy beneath his heel!  This offense to his subjects, under the flag of diplomacy no less, cannot go unanswered! What have you done?"  He sank back, clutching his chest.  "How is Rachid involved?"

"He is dead then?"  Madam did not answer her husband's inquiry.  She leaned forward slightly, knuckles white where they grasped the chair arms.  "Tell me, I must know!"

Athos kept the internal battle off his face as Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan  flanked him on either side, the fading echo of their footsteps ringing in the suspended silence of the moment.  "If he was among the men who guarded a house on Spitalgasse, then he is most likely dead."

"No one was supposed to be hurt!  No one!  Certainly not Rachid!"  A short, sharp wail sliced through the room, cut short as madam stuffed her fist in her mouth.   She bit her knuckles as a fountain of tears overflowed, running silently down her cheeks.  "The men he told me he had employed were headquartered on Spitalgasse.  He is dead."

"Rachid?" the Venner whispered.  "You dragged Rachid into this?  And he is dead?  God help us all."  He rose again, the stark shock of betrayal branded indelibly on his countenance.  He tottered the few steps to his wife's chair and wobbled to his knees, taking her hands between his own to chafe them gently.  "You must tell me what you've done, my darling.  I will do all in my power to make it come out right, but you must tell me what you've done."

Madam's eyes were glazed, her luscious mouth a trembling moue, her hands, held fast between the Venner's, likewise afflicted.  The best stage actors on the continent could not hope to portray such a picture of unmitigated torment.  

Herr Joos sighed.  "She is gone beyond us for the moment."  He folded the tremulous hands carefully into her lap, pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the French contingent.  "Rachid was an old and dear friend; she must have convinced him to aid her in whatever scheme she had concocted." The Venner was blinking back tears."He was not at the opening ball, but you may have met him at the luncheon after services on Sunday.  Do you know if he was among the five dead men?" he asked calmly. 

Athos cleared his throat in an attempt to clarify his thready voice.  "Yes."  He could recall the face clearly now, slack in death, and match it up with the animated features of the man who had glowered at him across the patio for much of the after-church luncheon. 

"The fire on Spitalgasse?"

"Yes," Athos repeated, undecided if he was grateful or annoyed at the lack of censure in the Venner's tone.  "I could not afford to leave a trail of dead bodies in my wake."

"Yes, I can see that." The Venner looked away briefly.  "Rachid would have appreciated the Viking burial.  He was a man without family of his own.  He too, lost children, and his wife died of grief.  They had much in common, he and my wife.  He was Kamille's most constant paramour."

"And the others?  What of them and their families?" d'Artagnan squared his shoulders, sticking his thumbs in his sword belt. 

Aramis kicked him in the ankle. "Shhhh," he hissed quietly. 

"No." d'Artagan sidestepped.  "I will not be shushed.  I've spent two days in hell thinking I'd gotten Aramis and Porthos killed, helped set a fire that burned five bodies, then had to sit across from you yesterday at that table and pretend nothing had happened!  I will not shush."

"I am sorry for your pain, Junge.  May we all sit down?  I can see you have been ill-treated as well, Herr Aramis, yet I cannot imagine my wife or my best friend sanctioning such behavior."

"He will not tell you so, but d'Artagnan was injured in the fight at the tavern as well," Athos repeated.  "If it would not embarrass him to death, I would ask him to show you the beating he, too, received, in addition to being sliced with a blade." 

Herr Joos shuffled backwards until the backs of his knees met with the front of the chair and subsided into it.  "You must tell me from the beginning."

Aramis laid a hand on Athos' tense sword arm as the comte drew breath to speak again. 

"Athos, as you may be aware," Aramis interrupted, "has been ill since we arrived.  Yesterday he spent much of the day in the aqueduct beneath the city, looking for us.  The lung infection he had just about conquered has returned with a vengeance."  The marksman folded his arms over his chest.  "I will speak for him."

"I thought it was you, and Herr Porthos, who were ill, Herr Aramis."

"That was a fiction made up to cover our disappearance.  Porthos and I were abducted from a tavern across the river from your race track, where we had repaired Sunday evening," Aramis paused, "on the advice of Rachid."

The Venner sighed. "I do doubt his involvement; it is just the crazy kind of scheme he would enjoy.  What I cannot fathom is his involvement with the kind of violence your face, and apparently Herr d'Artagnan's injuries, suggest."

"I did not see him among the lot who were responsible for this assault." Aramis indicated his face.  "Nor did I see him at the tavern."  He glanced across at Porthos, who shook his head.

"I woulda recognized him too.  I didn't see 'em either."

"Your wife, however, was at the tavern.  I'm not sure why, unless she wanted to see the deed done," Aramis said baldly, "But she was there.  Porthos and I were knocked out.  We both woke in the cellar of an old house, with no knowledge of what had happened to d'Artagnan.

" Are you injured, Herr Porthos?"

"Just'm pride," Porthos replied stoically.  "Thinkin' we mighta avoided this whole mess somehow, if we'd been on the lookout for the signs."

"You might have avoided all of this if you'd just told me your companions were missing, Herr Athos."  The Venner ran a shaky hand over his face.  "We have known for years now, that Kamille is a little unstable, but nothing like this has ever happened before.  On her worst days she is inconsolable.  On her better days, she is a creature of light and passion such as can't be contained.  She is fashioned of Toledo steel; she would not bow to her grief as Rachid's wife, Birgitta, did.  But neither was she able to overcome its mark upon her soul."  He lifted his voice and called for the servant.    "Halvar!  In this, my lord, I will not be dissuaded.  I should have insisted on calling for the Doktor when you first mentioned an illness.  Perhaps had I pressed, lives might have been saved."

"I did not know who, if any, among the council, might be involved."  Athos' lips thinned, though the beard hid the acknowledgement.  "We have no need of a physician either.  Aramis is more than a competent healer.  He has already dealt with the multiple injuries suffered."

"I understand your reasoning; it does not lessen the burden of guilt.  Had you been fully assured of my allegiance, it is possible none of this would have happened."

The servant appeared with a towel over his arm.  "Sir?"

"If it has not been done already, see that the kitchen has sent up food for our guests to break their fast this morning."

"Yes, sir."

Herr Venner waited several moments, head tilted, listening.  "Good.  If I cannot send him for the Doktor, that will at least keep him from listening at the door for a bit.  Go on, Herr Aramis.  You woke in the cellar, without the Junge?"  

"We were taken separately to a place further into the city and left there until yesterday, when Athos went questing through the aqueducts and chanced upon our hidden room."

"Rachid had charge of the antiquities removed from the cathedral as the Reformation marched on our borders."

"Indeed."  Aramis continued.  "We made our escape through at least one of the rooms in which the art is stored, returning here through the aqueduct and the Bärengraben where d'Artagnan met us with horses for the journey back to the Rathaus.  Are you aware, Herr Venner, that Berne could support its entire citizenry on the proceeds of the sale of those antiquities?"

"The Bärengraben?  I see there were ulterior motives when the Junge asked René for a tour yesterday.  You are to be commended on the discipline and resourcefulness of your team, Herr Athos."  Herr Joos picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt.  "Of course I am aware of the value of the property we store, but it is our heritage and not for sale. I suppose I will have to inform the Bürgermeister of this business, he will have to appoint a new keeper of the keys.  And I must find out, if I can, who the other men were.  But that is the work of later, now we must finish this."  He sat straight in the chair, hands resting on the chair arms, and inclined his head to Aramis.  "Your succinct summary raises as many questions in my mind as it answers.  The most important, though, I must beg your further indulgence in asking."  The faded blue eyes shifted to Athos.  "Is there any reparation I might offer that could possibly assail this breach of etiquette?  Will you require that I hang her, Herr Comte?"

A deep breath and Athos dredged up the words that had flown again, along with enough voice to declare them.  "For my own sins, sir, I am accountable; no others.  I can be neither judge nor jury."  

"Only you can make that decision, Herr Joos," Aramis stated quietly, affirming their united stance., though he not quite certain d'Artagnan agreed. 

"I would not have you think she is monster."  The Venner reached across both chair arms to pluck up the still trembling hand. 

"Herr Venner ..." Athos began. 

The shock had passed.  Herr Joos was regaining control. 

"I must have the  members' signatures affixed, but the capitulation will be delivered to your suite within the hour.  We have already had responses from four other cantons; that is enough to back our pledge.  You will have your twelve regiments and I will personally contribute half the agreed upon cost to the city coffers.  Will that suffice to make amends with your king?"  When he rose again, the mantle of leadership had resettled itself about his person.  His stance was solid, his mien though set, unreadable, the grooved wrinkles and lines reflective of strength and character once more. 

Athos considered a moment.  "Do you attempt to bribe our silence in this matter, sir?"

The Venner's lips twisted in humorless irreverence.  "God no, I would not dare ask that of a man required to hang his own wife."

Athos experienced Porthos' surprise as a tiny jerk of the broad shoulder budged up against his own in solidarity.  Aramis, budged up as close on the other side, sighed infinitesimally. d'Artagnan's head jerked toward him like a wild animal suddenly sensing a predator.

"We will be required to make a full report, as our captain is already aware of the situation. Whether or not the king is informed will be at his discretion.  Nor could I venture to guess what Louis' reaction might be should the situation come to his attention."  Athos broke ranks to move toward the Venner.  "I am sure, under the circumstances, you will understand when I tender our regrets in the matter of a closing ball."  He extended his hand as he stopped in front of the man.  "Though our association has been brief, your exemplary conduct throughout has been a lesson to all of us, but especially to me.  I am sorry that it closes on this discordant note."

"And I as well."  Herr Joos returned the grip in full measure as they shook hands."You are a hard bargainer, comte, and a born diplomatist.  I hope your king knows what a valuable asset he has in your quartet." 

Across the room, Porthos covered his snort with a cough, sidestepping before Aramis could catch his ankle. 

"Thank you, sir." Athos turned away, then turned back abruptly.  "Porthos' and Aramis' weapons were taken, mostly likely by your wife, or Rachid.  They are valuable in their own right; however, Aramis is much attached to his pistol, it has sentimental value as well.  We would like them back."

"I will have them found and returned with the signed capitulation."

"Thank you.  There is one other thing ..."  Athos withdrew a cinched sack from a coat pocket.

"If it is within my power to do, consider it done."

"There is a boy in the city, his name is Peter Rorschach.  He lives behind a second story window on Kramgasse."

"I know the family."

"What are his circumstances?"

"He is an only child, allowed to run free much of the time, as his mother must work.  She was widowed before Peter was born."

"May I leave this with you?"  Athos put into the Venner's hands, a fat leather purse.  "If there is need the mother cannot meet ..."

Herr Joos looked down at the weight in his hand.  "I may assume that Peter was instrumental in some way in finding your comrades?  Was it he who pointed you to the aqueduct?  I have hauled him out of there numerous times."

"You may, and no, he did not."

Herr Venner tucked the offering away in a pocket, well aware that to dismiss it would be tantamount to dismissing the French contingent.  "Rest assured I will see it done.  May fate deal with you more gently in the future, Herr Athos."  He rose, taking his wife by the arm and drawing her to her feet.  "I know it is a jaunt back to Paris, safe journeying gentlemen.  Rest assured we will answer when your king calls, be that next month, or ten years from now."  Together, the Venner and his lady wife, began a stately retreat.

Madam brushed past Athos, her downcast head turning briefly, eyes slanting up to meet his gaze.  Her lips shaped the words, "I knew you had a heart," though not a whisper of sound escaped. 

Athos' jaw clenched against the malice in that gaze, though he gave no other acknowledgement. 

"Did she say something to you?" d'Artagnan, turning to follow the departure, glanced over his shoulder at Athos.

"No."  Athos' boot heel smeared a black splotch on the marble where it ground into the floor as he turned and strode out of the room, heading in the opposite direction of the Swiss couple.

"You knew about his wife?" Porthos snatched at Aramis' arm before he could follow suit.

"He told me about only because he was concerned Madam Joos would try to use the information to muck up the negotiations."

"When did this happen?" d'Artagnan cocked his head inquiringly. 

"What difference does it make?"

"Just wondering.  It might have been her opening salvo.  Had we all known, maybe we'd have watched her closer."

Aramis' bruised face produced a lopsided scowl.  "Let it go, both of you.  It's over and done.  Laisser passer l'eau sous les ponts."

"Right, water under the bridge.  I get it, but a'lotta other things make sense now."

Aramis' only response was the lift of an eyebrow. 

"Fine, make like one'a them 'Gyptian sphinxes.  But d'Artagnan's right.  One'a ya shoulda told us."

Chapter Text

Translation

deniers - pennies

They packed. 

And waited.

Waited some more.

And then began to pace. 

d'Artagnan, then Porthos, at least, passing each other as they made separate circuits of the sitting room. 

Athos retreated to his usual seat by the window.

Aramis withdrew to that private place he could carve out with or without solitude.  He collected the drawer of inks and sat to pen a few more sonnets to hold against any future small contretemps he might encounter.  Escape came in the form of tiny birds trailing wisps of ribbon and lace they wove into nests tucked into tree branches, luscious woodland bouquets growing out of capital letters, and small forest animals frolicking around the edges as though the poetry nestled in a shaded forest glen.   

"I don't think we should have let her off that easy." d'Artagnan, his ire growing with each stretched minute that passed, said woodenly. 

Athos stirred himself from his brooding.  "What would you have had me do?"  He'd been thinking much the same thing.  Five men dead, three of his own seriously injured, and he'd let her walk away without so much as a slap on the hand.  What had so changed him in the last five years?  What had wrought such a difference in his perspective that mercy supplanted justice?  Was he wrong to leave Berne without forcing action of some sort?  Did he have the right to demand justice for the dead when he'd been the one to murder them? 

d'Artagnan stilled.  "I don't know," he admitted reluctantly.  "It's not like she's a soldier subject to military discipline."

Aramis wiped shimmery lavender ink from the nib, set aside his pen and turned upon the chair.  "In a way she is, though.  The women of the Swiss Confederacy bear much of the burden of keeping things running at home while their men folk are away.  That too is a kind of soldiering, though I doubt even they think of themselves in that manner." 

"What she did was wrong," d'Artagnan reiterated, his entire posture conveying his sense of grievance.   

"What I did was equally wrong."

d'Artagnan swung around.  "You defended yourself against armed men.  Where's the wrong in that?"

Athos let silence do his work again. 

"You didn't have to kill them," the youth admitted, "though how could you know that in the heat of battle?"

"I let anger interfere to such an extent that I did not perceive the situation in its entirety.  Five men are dead because of it.  I am as guilty as Madam Joos in this affair."

"No French jury would hold you accountable for your actions."  Porthos stopped his pacing as well, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest.  "There was no malice aforethought in your circumstances.  It was the middle of the night, you were attacked, you defended yourself.  Madam, on the other hand, conspired to cause harm, if not specifically to people, at least to the negotiations."

"Would a jury of her peers hold her accountable for the fact that five men are dead because she plotted to save the youth of her country?  Could she foresee that her plot to sabotage the negotiations would turn into something far more deadly?"

"She should've been able to, she's a soldier's wife, with three dead sons," Porthos countered. 

And a maimed husband, Athos put in silently, though he kept the words to himself.  

"And if she couldn't foresee it, then her co-conspirator, who most assuredly saw military action, should have warned her."

Athos rose and turned to the window, steepling the fingers of his right hand on the cool glass.  "I have tried to think what it might be like to be old and thoroughly used up, of no use anymore to the country you have served your entire life, sacrificed children for, perhaps even one's own vision or limbs or passion ..."  He turned to face his brothers.  "What might that drive me to do?"

"Empathy is the devil of a bedfellow, but it's what shapes our humanity."  Aramis swung back around to his inks.  "I am glad to see you employing it in this situation."

Porthos closed the width of room between he and the Gascon and slung an arm around the youth's shoulders.  "You're not wrong to desire resolution, youngling," he said affectionately.  "But not every situation admits a solution.  Sometimes you have to walk away frustrated and perhaps even a bit angry.  If you dwell, it will become a festering dark spot on your soul.  Learn to let these things go.  We did what we came for, now it's time to walk away and leave madam's punishment to whomever gets her in the afterlife."

d'Artagnan sighed.  He could hear the imparted wisdom, but did not have the experience yet to understand it.  Athos' wife was bothering him too, but he had enough wisdom of his own to know now was not to the time to raise that subject. 

"Aramis?"  Athos joined Porthos and d'Artagnan, as did Aramis when he turned and saw the intent.

They huddled together, shoulders just touching, and Athos put out a hand to in the inner circle.  "I have a whole raft of sins to atone for on this trip.  May I make a blanket apology to the three of you and just say how sorry I am that my leadership skills failed so abominably on this mission?"

"I dunno, suppose that depends on whose perspective yer lookin' at it from.  I'm thinkin we're alive and not too much worse for wear after gettin' kidnapped by a crazy woman and navigating the aqueducts and a buncha bears.  We're goin' home with a capitulation for twice the amount'a troops we were askin' for.  I don't know if I can except your version of events, Athos.  Regardless ..." Porthos laid his big hand over Athos'.

They ignored the knock on the door as Aramis took d'Artagnan's arm and guided his hand to lay atop Porthos', then layered his palm on the top. 

"We're in this together," Porthos said, directing the chorus.  "One for all ... and all for one." 

"What happened to every man for himself?" d'Artagnan asked, shaking off his morose attitude like a dog shedding water as the quartet broke apart and Athos went to answer the knock.

"Different situations call for different mottos."  Porthos grinned.  "Get yer stuff, I 'spect this means we'll be leavin' shortly."

Athos was indeed accepting the leather incased capitulation and the missing weaponry.  He closed the door and leaned back on it for a second, looking a bit like an angry porcupine sprouting sword points and pistol barrels instead of quills. 

Porthos unlimbered the weapons, passing along Aramis' when the marksmen had tidied up the desk and put away the inks, though not without a covetous sigh or two at leaving them behind. 

They left the rooms as they had found them, though perhaps they had left their mark as well, for Aramis and Porthos' room smelled of bergamot and cedar and perhaps there was the lingering scent of medicinals in Athos and d'Artagnan's room. 

The staff would be delighted with the generous largess they'd left behind as well, and of course, Monsieur le Chein and Mademoiselle la Chatte presented themselves to bid their adieus, stropping d'Artagnan's ankles and slavering slavish wet kisses upon his face when it was presented at their level.  Athos, too, received a share of devotion, though he did not have d'Artagnan's appreciation for the wet, slobbery dog kisses. 

And then they were on their way, trotting sedately through the town, d'Artagnan lifting his hat with great enthusiasm, to every citizen of Berne who stopped to wave them on their way. 

They all pulled up short when Athos stopped suddenly, swinging down with a verve that belied the feverish condition Aramis' knew him to still be in, next to a street urchin of dubious features.  The youngster's tongue was darting out to lick a smeared brown substance from his face, along with his grubby hands. 

To the surprise of his three companions, Athos hunkered down on his boot heels so he was face to face with the child.  "Master Peter, I almost passed you by without acknowledgement.  I did not recognize you behind all that chocolate."

The boy grinned hugely.  "Best chocolate I ever had, sir, 'cause it was-" he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "smuggled like."

"I should not be encouraging you, I suppose, but contraband is always sweeter, I've experienced this myself.  Would your mother allow you to ride with us to the castle, do you think?"

The boy's eyes widened.  "She wouldn't care, s'long as'm home by the time she gets back from working."

"Then perhaps we should clean you up a little, I'm not sure if my horse likes chocolate or not."  Athos produced a handkerchief and proceeded, to the utter astonishment of the three still mounted and blocking half the street, to clean up the child and stuff away the foul looking cloth.  "Here you go."  Sliding his hands under the boy's arms,  he rose with the slight weight and hefted him into the saddle.

"I see you found your friends," the child said pertly, as he settled himself comfortably. 

"I did, in no small part thanks to you.  Gentlemen, may I present Master Peter.  We met very late Monday night, when he should have been in his bed sleeping.  He affirmed that one of you, at least, was still alive, and pointed me in the direction of the Münsterplatz where I found the last of your marker's, Aramis.  Master Peter, this is Aramis, the marksmen and healer of our small company, Porthos, whose size alone should inform you of what he's good at, and d'Artagnan, the newest member of our band." 

"How come you're not wearing a blue cloak too?" the astute young man craned his neck around to inquire of d'Artagnan, as Athos swung into the saddle behind him and urged the horse forward again. 

"Because I'm not a Musketeer." d'Artagnan bowed from the waist. 

"Not just yet, he will be though," Porthos said, bowing as well. 

"Soon," Aramis added, inclining his head. 

"Well, I like your hat, it's got a real pretty feather."

"Merci, monsieur.  I like it too."   

"I want to be a soldier, just like my da when I grow up.  Musketeers are soldiers, aren't ya?  That blue cloak is your uniform?"

"It is," Athos agreed as they reached the edge of town and his companions fell in on either side of him. 

"Maybe I'll come and be a Musketeer when I grow up."

"Then you will need to ask for Captain d'Artagnan when you come to Paris," Athos informed his passenger.  Anyone will be able to direct you to the hôtel he will be in charge of, located on the rue de Tournon in Paris." 

Beneath his hat, d'Artagnan blushed fifty shades of pink. 

Porthos chuckled, jostling his mount closer to clap d'Artagnan on the back.  "By the time the little shaver's grow'd up, I 'spect Athos is right; you'll be in charge of the Musketeers."

"I wonder..." Aramis turned in the saddle the better to observe the effect of their predictive assumptions on the Junge.    "Will we have to retire in order to leave room in the garrison for all that conceit?" His grin negated any suggestion of taunting, gentling the observation to companionable teasing. 

"Maybe, since I'm not sure the garrison will hold three such self-important people.  I will have to retire all but Athos, as he has no conceit to speak of," d'Artagnan shot back without missing a beat. 

Porthos gusted a great sigh of relief.  "Better," he said, apropos of nothing, though no one needed further translation to understand.  Aramis was usually the peacemaker in their small company. 

On the Berne side of the river bridge, Athos reined his steed to a halt again and swung down to lift Peter from the horse.  He did not crouch this time, but extended his hand to the youngster man to man.  "I must thank you again for your assistance, monsieur.  Keep that card I gave you and if someday, you do truly want to become a Musketeer, find me in Paris and I will make it happen."

d'Artagnan hopped from his horse as well as Porthos and Aramis sat watching. 

"Perhaps you will do me a favor, Master Peter?" d'Artagnan dropped to one knee before the boy.  "The hat is a little big for me, I must either hold it on my head for the entire trip home, or lose it on the way to Paris.  If you keep it and bring it to me when you are grown, it will serve two purposes.  It will keep my hat safe, and I will know you by its delivery and honor the debt we owe you, sir."  He held out the hat with both hands. 

The boy did not immediately take it, though one hand crept out to slide over the feather, then pet the canted brim.  "I just told what'd I'd seen, and the comte already gived me a reward.  I don't know as I should take your hat, too, for such a little thing as I did."  The eyes that lifted to meet d'Artagnan's held a wealth of longing to possess that hat, but the small hand removed itself and was shoved behind the child's back.

"Please?"  d'Artagnan reached for that clenched fist and set the small, still slightly grubby fingers around the edge.  "I would be honored."

The uncertain frown was edged out by a glorious smile as longing overcame reticence and the hat changed hands.  d'Artagnan guided the hands up to set it on the completely engulfed, small head, tipping it back so he could bask in the bright smile.  "If you ask your mother to help you put some leather strings on it, you could tie it on so it doesn't fall off, or wear it hanging down your back."

"I could do that!  Thank you, monsieur d'Artagnan, this is real swell.  The other boys will be sad they didn't get in on the action!"

"Don't forget, though," d'Artagnan said, rising and putting his hand out for a firm handshake as well, "it's only on loan, you have to bring it back to me."

"I won't," the youth replied reverently, holding on to the brim. 

"We have to go, we have a long trip ahead of us, but I look forward to seeing you again in a few years."

"Do me a favor, Master Peter?"  Athos gathered in his reins and mounted, firming his grip when his horse attempted a few dance steps.

"Anything!" the youngster enthused, forgetting in his enthusiasm for this new adventure, to keep hold of the hat.  In consequence he slapped both hands to the crown. 

"Stay out of the aqueduct so you live to come to Paris."

The bright face fell for a moment, before a rueful grin spread across the round countenance.  "I can do that." 

"Promise?"

"I promise, comte.  Mum doesn't like me going in there either.  She'll be glad of the promise too." 

"d'Artagnan will ask you if you kept it."

"I don't break my promises, sir.  I didn't tell a soul about our meeting, just you like you asked.  And I won't break this one either." 

"Good man."  Athos let out the rein allowing his horse to prance forward a couple of steps.  "Gentlemen, we must be on the road."

Peter stepped back, d'Artagnan mounted, and with parting grins and waves, the Musketeers were away like the wind.

"Safe journeys, monsieurs!" 

The future Musketeer stood holding his new hat and waving until even the dust of their leaving dissipated, then turned and trotted back into town counting up the deniers he would earn charging his friends for an opportunity to wear the hat of a real Musketeer.  Well, a soon to be Musketeer anyway.

~*~