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“I don’t like this,” Porthos said as they made their way down the unsavory alley leading to the back of the butcher’s shop. “Not at all. If this pompous ass has been spying for Isabella all this time...”
“Well, at least we caught on to the ruse fairly quickly,” Aramis replied in a philosophical tone. “And it isn’t as though we’ve told anyone where Ana María is located. Besides, there’s still the possibility that the duc is completely innocent, and has indeed become the victim of a kidnapping.”
“That’s not much better, from a tactical point of view,” Porthos grumbled, feeling surly and out of sorts about the whole situation.
“Ana María is in danger every moment of every day,” Aramis said. “As are all of us who have thrown our lots in with hers. It’s frankly amazing that this sort of thing hasn’t happened sooner.”
The buzz of flies and the cloying odor of offal combined to let then know that they were approaching their destination. Porthos shook his head. “It’s not the danger that bothers me. It’s the thought of it happening on our watch. Being our mistake, you know?”
Aramis patted him on the shoulder. “Just as well we still have a chance to salvage things, in that case,” he said, and pointed across the damp, dimly lit courtyard at a rickety set of stairs set haphazardly against the back of a building.
By unspoken accord, they fell silent and kept to the shadows as they skirted around the open space, until they reached the base of the stairs. Aramis led the way onto the steps and Porthos followed him, taking care to tread lightly and not to let his weapons belt creak or jingle. He allowed his eyes to rove around the surrounding buildings, watching for danger as Aramis assessed the rooms ahead. The stairs terminated in a walkway that stretched along the length of the second story, and the window with red shutters was roughly halfway along it. Still moving silently, the pair crept past the first two doors. Aramis positioned himself to peer cautiously through the gap between the painted shutters and into the room, looking for movement within. After a moment, he caught Porthos’ eye and nodded.
The duc was inside.
Porthos eased past Aramis on the narrow walkway to examine the lock and hinges on the room’s wooden door. The ironwork was of surprisingly sturdy construction, but the wood itself was cracked and dry where the hardware attached. He indicated with an economical hand gesture that Aramis should stand back and be ready. With a quick prayer that the wood of the door would give way before the wood of the walkway did, Porthos rammed his shoulder against the edge of the portal, and was rewarded with the sound of splintering boards. The lock held and the remaining unbroken boards of the door still barred their way, but a strong kick aimed just under the handle sent the whole thing crashing open with Porthos half-falling into the room behind it.
He was aware of a cry of surprise from within. An instant later, the duc flailed to his feet from a chair set by a desk in front of the window. Alexandre de Vendôme lunged toward them, wild-eyed. Lamplight flashed against metal in his hand as Porthos regained his balance, barely in time to meet the clumsy charge.
A line of stinging pain sliced across the outside of his upper arm. He growled in irritation, batting the stiletto out of his opponent’s grip and hurling the smaller man to the floor in a heap. The duc froze at the slide-click sound of a pistol being cocked, and Aramis stepped smoothly to Porthos’ side, sighting down the barrel at his head.
“That’s quite enough, Monsieur le duc,” Aramis said. “I do believe we need to have a little talk. Porthos, are you hurt badly?”
Porthos flexed his left arm, feeling a slow trickle of blood and the mild burn of a shallow cut rather than the sickening pull of a gaping wound.
“Nah,” he said, fixing his eyes unblinkingly on the duc and letting his lips part in the slow smile that he had been told on more than one occasion was terrifying to behold. “Nothing to worry about. It’s just a little prick.”
He could hear the smirk in Aramis’ voice through the thin veneer of false concern as the other man addressed their prisoner. “Oh, dear. I do believe you’ve made Porthos angry.”
The duc finally found his voice. “What are the two you doing here, accosting me in my private room! How did you even find this place?”
“We’ve got spies everywhere, don’t we, Aramis?” Porthos said, not allowing his disconcerting smile to slip for an instant. “Why don’t I keep an eye on our friend, here, while you have a poke around. Make sure there are no incriminating documents lying around the place. Or, y’know, pilfered silverware.”
“What an excellent idea,” Aramis said, ignoring Alexandre’s offended cry of “How dare you!” and offering Porthos his pistol.
Porthos cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately. He was well aware of the role he played in such encounters, and in this case he actively relished it.
“Not necessary,” he said in a gravelly tone, still maintaining his unnerving eye contact with the man at their feet.
Aramis shrugged and returned the pistol to his belt, before turning away and beginning a thorough search of the room. The desk yielded an unfinished letter instructing the staff at the duc’s estate on their duties during his forthcoming absence, which Aramis read aloud for Porthos’ benefit.
“So, planning a journey, eh?” Porthos asked, moving a step closer to the duc and looming over him.
“That’s none of your concern,” the man said, a faint tremor entering his voice.
“Hmm,” Aramis said noncommittally, and continued his methodical search.
One of the two chests at the foot of the low bed contained clothing for traveling. The other contained a motley collection of weapons, pouches, and bags. Aramis pulled out a set of saddlebags and opened them, rifling through the contents.
“My, how interesting!” he said brightly. “This bag appears to contain the documents and agreements signed by Valois, the Comte du Maine, and our good selves over the past several days. Now, what earthly reason would a man have for taking these papers from safekeeping and packing them as if for travel?”
The duc paled, looking from one of them to the other. His mouth opened, working soundlessly for a few seconds before he said, “I... I was threatened. Someone suspected me! I... I had to flee immediately or risk exposure! Surely you can understand that?”
Porthos let his chest puff out, making himself look even bigger and more intimidating. “So of course, rather than—say—burning the evidence and informing your allies of the threat, you decided to gather all of these papers together and keep them on your person. That’s brilliant, that is. Aramis, we should have put this one in charge of military tactics!”
“Sadly, life is littered with such lost opportunities,” Aramis replied.
“Are all the papers accounted for? He hasn’t sent any ahead by messenger?” Porthos asked, hoping against hope that they weren’t too late to contain the threat.
“Of course the papers are all here!” said the duc. “Of what do you accuse me, you mercenary brutes?”
“Mercenary brutes, is it?” Aramis said with some amusement. “Careful, now—you’ll hurt my associate’s delicate feelings. And, of course, you must excuse me if I prefer to check the documents for myself.”
Aramis took the saddlebag and seated himself at the desk, pulling out the sheaf of papers and smoothing them out. Porthos continued to train a gimlet eye on Alexandre, as Aramis sorted the documents into piles and examined them one by one, presumably rearranging them by date and tallying them with his memory of the previous several days’ discussions.
“I do believe we’re in luck, Porthos,” he said when he was finished. “Everything appears to be accounted for.”
Porthos quietly let out the breath he’d been holding. Aramis picked up the saddlebag and rummaged around in the bottom to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. After a moment, he froze, and slowly lifted an object out of the bag. From his position, Porthos couldn’t see what it was, but Aramis let out a bark of startled laughter.
“What is it?” Porthos asked.
Eyes still crinkling with mirth, Aramis held up his prize—a shining silver ingot.
