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The water level was dangerously high. Hadrian, floating, his weapons and wet clothes dragging him down, stared at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. Royce emerged, his mouth opened to catch the air after so many minutes submerged.
“I have a good news and a bad news.”
“First the bad news.”
“I can’t open the door.” He was irritated by it. “It’s not because of the water, the lock is just unbreakable. Da Vinci knew what he was doing. Damned dwarf…” Then, he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just though the bad news was the fact we flooded the room we’re supposed to protect from the flooding.”
“I didn’t think I needed to point out that. You’re not stupid. Well, not so much, at least.”
“I admit I don’t feel very intelligent in this moment.” Hadrian coughed water out his mouth. “I also have a good news and a bad news.”
Royce frowned. “Wait, you haven’t asked me my good news.”
“Because there isn’t any.”
“Not true.” Royce patted his cloak, where now was placed a closed, rounded box. “I get Da Vinci’s projects.”
“Unless it is written there how to go out from here, I don’t consider it a good news.”
“Well, you grumpy, let’s hear your good news then.”
“The water had stop flooding, so we won’t die drowning.”
Royce send a concern look to the slot they fell from, with the thought of Gwen still on the other side in his mind. “Good to know that the only death that awaits us is now suffocating for lack of oxygen.”
“Yeah, that was the bad news.”
Their bickering helped Hadrian not to drown in despair. In his career, especially since Royce had become his partner in the musketeers, he had come near to death many times, so it was kind of a habit. But for the first time the situation appeared irremediable and the presence of Gwen with them worsened the feelings of despair.
He was about to speak, when Royce tilted his head. “What?”
He never got an answer: a whirlpool formed in the water in front of them, first smaller, then it increased until it pulled them with it. There was little to grab in the room and, in any case, the force of the water was too strong. They were both dragged with the flow, through the room’s portal now opened. Hadrian braced himself from the impact, his body slammed first against a wall, then flew in the air and crashed back in water again.
Hadrian fumbled, agitating his arms to stay on the surface, but there wasn’t a close ceiling upon him, only the clear dark sky. In the dark around, he recognized one of Venice’s canals, the little one just behind the palace they had sneaked in. He rolled around in the water, trying to point out Royce’s figure.
“Royce!”
“I’m here…” The tone indicated that he was alive, but not at best of his condition. Hadrian saw that he was floating a couple of meters from him.
Hadrian made two stroke in his direction when dark gondola appeared from the corner, the little lamp illuminated only a portion of it. Two people were upon him, one that rowed and the other with a foot on the wood, searching the water. Only when he bent down to reach for Royce Hadrian recognized him.
Ballentyne.
“Thanks, boys.” In his hand was now the box with Da Vinci’s projects. “I would never grasp it without your help. You really were the best.”
“Let it go,” Royce murmured once Hadrian joined him, Ballentyne’s gondola sailing from them, with him still laughing maniacally at his victory. “We can steal that back from that idiot in a flash, and it wouldn’t be half hard that this. We need to get Gwen.”
Hadrian nodded. He grabbed Royce by the armpit and dragged him on the bank. Royce shook his head as he was a cat. In the flood, he’d hit his head and now a small bump was on his forehead, but when he stood up, his legs didn’t tremble. And his steps were secure as he marched back at the building’s entrance, with Hadrian following him.
But once there, with the front swamped by Governor De Lur’s soldiers, Royce halted at the sight of a unconscious woman in one of the soldiers’ arms. Even from afar, she was completely soaked, her dark hair loose dripping water.
When the soldier shook his head, Hadrian realized Ballentyne had stolen from them much more than the projects.
***
His mother left him with a list of recommendations and advices.
His father, instead, gave him only a recommendation: not looking for Luis Guy Seret.
Despite the grieving and understandable desire of revenge, there was no point of making even more of an enemy of the head commander of Cardinal Saldur, one of the France most powerful men. For the time being, the focus should be on making a name for himself and join the musketeers as a defender of French monarchy.
Mauvin had every intention to respect his father’s will.
But then, like fate was joking with him, their paths intertwined by accident. Mauvin had just dismounted from his horse to find an accommodation for the night when he spotted Luis Guy.
Paris was the biggest city of France, it should be difficult to meet people by mistakes, and yet here it was. His face was unmistakable in Mauvin’s memory.
Luis Guy dressed in black and red clothes, the church’s colors, and mounted a muscular black stallion with decorated reins. At both his side, two of his soldiers, dressed in the same way and with a light armor. Their walk was leisure but steady, an indication they weren’t in a hurry but with a destination in mind.
I’m not crossing his path, Mauvin thought, but it doesn’t hurt just to be informed of his whereabouts, right?
He would face him sometimes, especially if he managed to join the musketeers, so having information on his opponent was a wise option.
Mauvin’s horse was tired by the long journey that had brought Mauvin from the far province of Gascony to the France capital and it wasn’t used to trot in the crowded street of Paris. Even Mauvin wasn’t used to be around so many people: running after Luis Guy and avoiding crashing on people blocking his path.
A thug stopped his run as someone grabbed him by the collar. Self-conscious, Mauvin wriggled free with the result the man responsible fell on his back on the mud road.
“Dear God, look what you did!”
Mauvin raised an eyebrow, perplex, as he fixed the collar of his shirt. He was the one who had been grabbed first.
“How do you intend to clear your mess?” The man said. He stood up, observing his clothes and hands dirtied with mud.
“My mess? You grabbed me!”
“Of course I do!” The man gestured at two women behind him. “That was your doing?” And since Mauvin kept looking with a very puzzled expression, the man added, “in your running you stepped on this fine lady’s gown and spill wine on the other fine lady there.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Mauvin said with sincerity, even if, he thought, much could have been avoided if people remained out of the street.
“And, in the end, you even ruined my clothes. They were the best I have, you know.”
“Really?” Mauvin observed him from head to toe and his incredulity was clear in his tone. He looked over his shoulder: Luis Guy wouldn’t be on sight for longer, so he rummaged in his pocket and took of a silver coin, one of the few his parents reserved for him. “Buy another one.”
The man reddened. “Do you think that’s enough?”
“I don’t think laundry takes more.”
The women behind snickered, which didn’t raise the man’s mood. A second later, he took off his glove and threw it in the ground.
“If you refuse to repay for your wrongdoing, I don’t have any choice but to challenge you,” the man said. “In Place Sainte Germain, at twelve o’clock. You may have not enough money to clean my clothes, so you’ll clear my honor.”
A duel on his first day in Paris wasn’t what Mauvin had planned but he would be damned if he stepped back by a challenge, even if the man in front of him didn’t appear formidable at all. He grinned: he hadn’t use his sword on the journey and it itched to be put on service.
“Fine by me. But now I have to go.”
By the time he resumed his pursue, Luis Guy and his men were nowhere to be seen.
“Why not?”
After meeting so many noble folks, it was still a mystery for Hadrian how many of them were at the top of their society. As much as he liked Viscount Albert Winslow, he worried about his wellbeing most of the time.
“I don’t see why I have to fight a guy I don’t even know and that he doesn’t do anything to me.”
“Because we’re friends and friends do favor to others?”
“Let’s not become too excited.” Royce snorted. “We’re acquaintances at best.”
“After all the good affairs I provided you!” Albert cried dramatically, hands waving around.
Royce was impassible. “You gained as much as us.”
“Well, recently my income decreased substantially. At least you may aid me in other ways.”
The situation was desperate if Albert had the guts to argue with Royce, who usually was able to shut up loafers with only a glare. And if it didn’t work, Alverstone is a good alternative Hadrian decided to intervene before it came to play.
“You’re supposed to know King Amrath forbade duels in Paris. Why you asked for it?”
“I had no choice! I was trying to convince those two fair and very rich ladies to sponsor me. They won’t if they think I can’t stay for my honor.”
“So fight for it.” Royce lifted his glass in a cheer.
“I can’t! You know I never got sword lessons!”
“Guess you’ll die, then, but with your honor intact.”
Albert was sweating, pacing around, and Hadrian wondered how he didn’t realize there was no way to convince Royce. “I don’t even have a sword!”
“Well, that’s easily amended, Hadrian can lend you one of his.” He smiled pleasantly. “And people said I’m not kind.”
Albert’s shoulders slumped down and when he turned again to Hadrian he had that expression as a kicked puppy, mouth bent down and chin dipped. Hadrian knew on the spot that he was doomed, but then Albert scored the final point.
“I’m going to die. Even if that guy is awful, he can’t be worse than me. How will you feel after? Will you at least come to my funeral?”
“You don’t have money for a funeral, Albert,” Royce said.
Hadrian sighed deeply. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, no.” Royce rolled his eyes, while Albert hugged Hadrian, faking heavy sobbing and muttering gratitude words. “Why are you always like this?”
“Listen, it’s hard to feel this useless, okay? Albert is right. At least I can help a friend.”
Royce grimaced. “He’ll die with a stab in his back nevertheless sooner or later, but do you do.” He stretched his arms, gulped down the remaining of his drink and stood up. “Let’s go, then. We won’t be late.”
“Wait.” Hadrian frowned. “Are you coming too?”
“Sure. How can I be there to say ‘I told you so’ when you two got arrested by the Cardinal’s men if I wouldn’t be there?”
Place Sainte German was a small square with only one access entry created by two-store tall residential houses, with balconies in all the length of the second floor. It was the perfect place for a duel, giving people wide spaces to observe the two contestants.
Mauvin was getting exciting. He had his sword pulled out for exercises even before his opponent arrived, followed by two other men.
“I saw you at least were polite enough to show up,” the Viscount introduced himself. “As it is within my rights, my good friend here we’ll fight in my stance.” He gestured at the big, blond man at his right, who was definitely a brute fighter, at least judging by the three swords he brought with him.
He frowned. “That’s your foe? But it’s a kid!”
“I’m not a kid!” Mauvin protested. He was twenty-one, while his father joined the musketeers at sixteen. He already waited too much to made a name for himself.
Ignoring Mauvin’s outburst, the other man, the one with black hair and black cloak, shook his head. “How low you fell, Albert, fighting a kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” Mauvin repeated, his rapier fending the air with elegant movement as he stretched his arms, getting ready. “My name is Mauvin Pickering and I didn’t pick any fight, but for sure I can end it. With any of you.”
“You’re not from here,” the black cloak man stated.
“I arrived today.”
“You sure don’t lose time.” Then, at the blonde man, he added, “be fast, it’s almost lunch time. And I want that bottle of Montemorcey Albert promised me.”
“I don’t understand why I’m the one fighting but you’re the one taking the reward.”
“You can afford by yourself that cheap ale you like to drink.”
The blonde man shook his head. “I’m Hadrian Blackwater, and this fine and funny gentleman is Royce Melborn, my second. He’s here mainly to judge me.” He drew the sword on his right side, the long one. “Well, I’m sorry about this, but Albert is a friend…”
Mauvin stopped his arm and lowered his rapier. The names turned in his head and fell down slowly. “You’re the two Musketeers!”
“Were,” Royce snorted.
“I heard about you. My father used to be a musketeer too. To be honest, I’m in Paris to become one.”
The musketeers were the personal soldiers of the French royal family, known for their skill and the difficult tasks they accomplished. Becoming one wasn’t an easy achievement. Among them, Blackwater and Melborn (surname: Riyria) were the best, at the point they were called ‘the Two Musketeers’ as it was a role assigned only to them. Mauvin grew up with the tales of their victories.
“Too late for them. I mean, even if you weren’t about to die soon, it’s not profitable to be one these days, nor safe.”
“What my buddy is trying to say,” Hadrian said, with a glare at Royce, “is that they don’t hire musketeers anymore. They cut the funds to give everything to the Cardinal’s guards. And to be honest, recently the salary is shit.”
Definitely a news that didn’t arrive in the countryside. “Well, then,” Mauvin said, stretching his shoulder. “If I can’t become a musketeer, at least I can fight one.”
He put himself in position, but the chance to charge never happened. Royce turned his head away as the sound of steps filled the air. Twenty soldiers with the Cardinal’s color trotted in the plaza, leading by a man mounting a black stallion, and surrounded the three men.
“Sentinel Thranic, what a pleasure,” Royce commented.
Thranic perked from his horse, a sneer on his face. “How low the Musketeers fell. A duel against the rule of His Majesty.” Then, he straight up and addressed the entire square. “Everyone involved in this is under arrest by his eminence’s orders.”
“Just a second.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “I told you so. Now defeat them and the kid so we can have lunch.”
The moment he finished the sentence, other twenty soldiers joined the first group, closing any escape route and blocking their movement better. Hadrian shuddered and smiled apologetically. Royce rolled his eyes.
“Okay, new plan. We let them arrest us.”
“For real?” Mauvin asked, incredulous. He still had his sword out, while Hadrian sheathed his own.
“Hey, at least they feed you in prison.”
The Two Musketeers turned to face the soldier so they could disarm them, while the Viscount, Mauvin noticed, had conveniently disappeared in the crowd. He didn’t plan to get arrested on the first day, but… The moment a soldier approached him to take away the reaper, his body reacted by itself.
Maybe it was because they wore Luis Guy’s colors, maybe it was the long time since his last swordfight, but instead of deliver his sword, Mauvin launched an attack.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m out.”
Hadrian watched him slipping between two horses, using their vicinity and his speed at his advantage to break through the siege.
The Cardinal’s soldiers’ response was immediate, as they unsheathed their swords in unison. “Kill them all!” Thranic ordered, with the satisfaction of someone that got what he wanted.
Hadrian had no choice: he used the hand he was extending to grab the nearest soldier’s wrist and giving him a good kneeing. He then recollected the fallen sword as the soldier fell to parry another attack. Hadrian sliced his way to the soldier that owned his swords.
“Sorry, those are mine.”
Not very elegant, Hadrian knocked him up with a first. He didn’t have the time to strap back his spadone, but he felt better with the familiar weight of his blades. They had been his best friends for years and, as much as he tried to escape for that life, fighting was what he succeeded in.
Forty soldiers were a little bit too much even for the legendary Blackwater of the Musketeers, and definitely not the best way to recollect back his training. The Pickering kid was holding his ground – it wasn’t a lie that his father had been a musketeer to.
Hadrian lifted both hands and blocked two soldiers. A twist of his wrists and they were disarmed, then he pulled out one of them with a kick. He heard steps behind him and turned as another soldier rushed in his direction. Hadrian might stop him at the price of letting his back uncovered. Then a familiar cry of pain said to Hadrian he was safe.
As he turned after defeating another opponent, he saw Royce with Alverstone drawn and already bloodied.
“Weren’t you leaving?” Hadrian grinned. “You can’t live without me, right?”
Royce glared. “I want to be the one to kill you.”
They moved back to back, their weapons raised. Slowly, Mauvin retreated to their direction, until the three of them formed a group surrounded by black and red soldiers. Thranic was the only one still on his horse, but he appeared less sure now that they were holding their ground.
Royce smirked. “The one who defeats less soldier pays for lunch.”
“With which money?” Hadrian asked.
“The one I’m stealing from that idiot,” Royce replied and he stepped in Thranic’s direction.
Most of Mauvin’s battles had been one to one against his father. There had been some occasions with Fanen joined them, or some father’s friends passing by, but that was Mauvin’s first really group fight. And together with the Two Musketeers no less!
Mauvin was loving every moment.
His rapier cut thought the air in elegant motion, it clanged against the soldiers’ swords as Mauvin danced in the square, parrying and slicing and breaking the opponents that tried to stop his path. The familiar sound of blade against blade around him told him Hadrian and Royce were faring well enough.
From the balcony and around people started gathering to witness the battle; their cheers underlined any hit score from Mauvin, Hadrian and Royce, so who they were rooting for was pretty clear. Some public was caught inside the square, but the more the three fend off Thranic’s man, the more they advanced, trusting themselves to observe the battle nearer.
After defeating another soldier, Mauvin caught sight of a young man with delicate features and light brown hair at his shoulders. His green eyes and his mouth were opened in silent awe. Despite the sword too big for his size strapped at his belt, he didn’t make any move to join the fight, remaining near a doorstep as an escape route.
“Enjoy the show?” Mauvin beamed at him.
The man blinked, surprised to be addressed directly, and then his face reddened in silent outrage.
Cute, Mauvin thought.
A soldier dashed towards Mauvin, who dodged and tripped him, then kicked away the sword and, at the same time, parried the slash from another one.
“Hey, I’m trying to have a conversation here,” Mauvin protested in amusement, without breaking eye contact with the other man. “So, what’s your name? Are you free for lunch?”
“Maybe it’s better you keep attention to your opponent,” he said, with a frown.
“I prefer keep attention to you,” Mauvin replied. His rapier cut the forearm of a soldier. “Just give me a minute. Unless you’d like to give me a hand.” He dashed towards and the two soldiers coming for him crashed one into another. “Can you even draw that sword?”
“Of course I can!”
Mauvin peered out to cut a soldier’s belt: his pants lowered and he tripped on himself. “Then maybe we can have a friendly spar later.”
Two soldiers remained in front of him but none of them appeared happy to attack, giving the states of their comrades. As Hadrian and Royce finished their own battles, they preferred a retreat. Mauvin turned and smiled.
“I’m all yours.”
The other raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this cocky?”
“Only on Thursday,” Mauvin replied. “Or when I want to impress someone.”
“I guess it’s Thursday today, because I am definitely not impressed.” The man reserved him a patronizing smile. “It takes a lot more than a few swings of a sword, here in Paris.”
And with that, he left.
The last soldier fell on his ass as the slash from Hadrian’s part disarmed him and the strength unbalanced him. He passed the gaze between Hadrian and Thranic, whose face had twisted more and more with the increasing number of his defeated force. Then, the man spotted Royce, who ambled in his direction, the tip of Alverstone dripping blood.
With a scream, the man scrambled away. It wasn’t the only one: those still able to move were leaving as fast as they could, clogging up the only available street. Thranic watched that mortified retreated with a disappointed look, but the expression that prevailed was the rage when his eyes returned on Hadrian and Royce.
“The Cardinal will be informed of your disrespect, be assured of it.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian whispered to his friend, who grimaced.
“I didn’t plan to. Well, not in front of everyone, at least.”
They watched Thranic trotting away as he hadn’t just been defeated by only three men. He wasn’t far enough when the crowd around and on the balconies started chanting “Musketeers! Musketeers! Musketeers!” adding another layer of disgrace at the entire battle.
Hadrian sheathed his swords and raise a hand in greeting at people. “I almost forgot this feeling.” A smile tugged his lips unwillingly.
“Oh, the time we can scrounge meals and drinks everywhere.” Royce pulled up his dark hood.
Hadrian scolded. “You really have this particular talent of ruining the poetry of everything.”
“I called it being realistic.”
“The polite way of saying you’re an ass.” Ignoring him, Hadrian strode towards Mauvin.
He was unarmed and was cleaning his dirtied rapier with a piece of fabric tore up from a soldier’s uniform. His eyes were still focused on the door where the boy he was talking to had disappeared.
“You got it bad, huh.”
Mauvin shrugged unashamed. “Not all battles are as easy as a swordfight.” Satisfied with his cleaning, he threw away the piece of clothes tapped the tip of the blade against Hadrian’s chest. “So, shall we resume our duel?”
“Well…” Hadrian looked around. “Albert isn’t here anymore, so I guess his honor is already lost. I think I can call this a day.”
“Oh, fine.” A disappointed snort, then Mauvin sheathed his sword. “It’s been fun, fighting with you.”
“You have a place to stay?” Hadrian asked, polite.
“Not yet. I just arrived in Paris when I got caught in following Luis Guy and then this entire duel affair…”
“Luis Guy?” Royce flanked Hadrian’s side. “Good choice of enemies, if you want to live shortly.”
“He-” Mauvin stopped and made a coy smile. “I have ambitious.”
“A polite way to say suicidal wishes,” Royce replied. “Do you also have coins?”
“Something.” After rummaging in his pocket, Mauvin counted ten silver coins in his palm.
Royce snatched them from his palm and made them clank before making them disappear with a swift movement of his fingers. “They’re enough. Come, you’ll stay at our place.”
Their place turned out to be a hovel. And not even theirs. Apparently it was a former abbey that, after burned down, had been rearranged in a two-rooms and a stable and delivered to the last living monk that had refused to live and spend most of his time copying books on parchments. The rooms were filled with scrolls and candle stump sat the point that walking inside was a challenge to dodge.
“This is Myron,” Hadrian introduced the monk to Mauvin. “Myron, Mauvin.”
Myron’s handshake was firmer than Mauvin expected from such a thin and shy man. “Welcome! Please take a seat…” As Royce and Hadrian sat in what were probably their reserved chairs, Myron observed intently the others, where columns and columns of parchments were piled up. “Okay, you can stay here,” he decided, taking a handful of strolls. “Just let me move from here LISTA DI LIBRI.”
“Thanks.” Mauvin sat down in a chair that screeches dangerously under his weight and felt that his family’s farm was a noble residence in comparison. He’d thought the musketeers would have some personal accommodation at the royal palace.
“He’ll stay with us for some time beings,” Hadrian informed Myron, while collecting a bottle from the floor al checking if there was still something inside. “At least until he gains back what Royce stole from him.”
“Oh.” Myron looked around, reflecting on the matter. “I’m sure we can find some space… somewhere.”
Royce was rummaged on a cabinet, frustrated. “There is still a free corner on the other room.”
“No, I used it to store the Antapodosis.”
“The attic?”
“I had to rearrange all the Erodoto's hisotia so there’s not space anymore. I do think there may still a place in the stable…” Myron patted his bottom lip. “Ah, no, not if you need the place for another horse to… Don’t worry, I’ll find a spot. Maybe I can move the entire Carmina Burana collection over the Frank Villain collection.”
“Are we sure this is safe?” Mauvin asked, eyed at one candle very near a pile of books.
“No incident has ever occurred to us.” Royce resigned that no more wine was on the house. “Here, Myron, go buy me Montemorcey.” And dropped the coin on the monk’s palm.
“Maybe something to eat too,” Hadrian added.
“Won’t be better move all this books on, you know, a real library?” Mauvin lifted a parchment that had impromptu fallen into a pool of wine. Or blood, it was hard to tell in the dark. “They looked expensive to risk damage.”
“Oh, there is no problem about it. Myron will re-write them if something is lost,” Hadrian commented, with a shrug.
At Mauvin’s puzzle shrugs, Royce took a casual book from a pile and asked, “page seventy, second paragraph of Vita Karoli.”
Myron recited it by memory immediately, without any faltering. Then Royce throw the book to Mauvin. “Can you read?” Mauvin nodded: Myron hadn’t missed a word of the book.
“Myron remembers every single book he has read,” Hadrian said. “Pretty cool, eh.”
“Oh, heh, it’s nothing. I just like reading.” Myron mused. “But I can’t move until I finish rewrite all the books lost in the fire… Ah, if I move away the Camina Burana I can find enough space…”
“The meal first, Myron,” Hadrian said gentle.
“Ah, sure, sure. Can I buy some ink too?”
“Why not?” Royce said. “They’re not my money. And until there’s enough for Montemorcey…”
Once Myron was out, Mauvin turned to Hadrian. “That’s it? These are the Musketeers? Living to the mercy of a nice monk, occupy less space than a pile of book, drinking all days and avoid fighting if you can?”
“It could be worse,” Royce commented.
“How so?”
“We could have no wine.”
Mauvin watched Hadrian with a plea. “But you are the Two Musketeers! You climbed the Crown Tower to steal under the Pope’s nose! You save the Duchess of Marseille from a mob by yourself! You discovered the conspiracy around the Bourgogne Fiend!”
“They paid us good at the time.”
“Is all a question of money for you?” Mauvin snapped.
Royce’s face shut down. “Everything is about money. Now maybe you believe in heroes, true love and loyalty but the world is filled only with selfishness and hunger of power, and that’s the results. The sooner you understand, the better will be for you.” He tilted his head towards Hadrian. “He was like that, once. Now is cured.”
Hadrian shrugged.
“But…” Mauvin started.
“I’m going to take a piss,” Royce announced, and trumped out of the room before Mauvin could formulate his objections.
“Listen,” Hadrian said, as he leaned forwards, “Royce may seem a cold-blooded bastard, but deep down-”
“I am a cold-blooded bastard,” Royce yelled from outside.
“Yes, and with an irritating advanced hearing.” Hadrian rolled his eyes. “What I mean is that you only know our victories. But defeats were a lot more, for us.”
Hadrian brushed the bottom of the glass with his index finger, then continued, “I was like you: I dreamt of being a hero, saving the world, getting the girl. But the only thing I was good at was fighting, so I joined the army. All I did for long was kill.” He sucked his finger. “When I was proposed for the musketeers, I thought it was my chance to be better. But defeat after defeat, you understand all you are is a murder, a thief and maybe a liar to yourself. And what remained is only a good drink.”
“And the king? That loyalty remained.”
“The king.” Hadrian sighed. “He lost everything when the queen die. Year after year, the Cardinal and the Lord Chancellor gained more power under his nose. That’s the reason he didn’t defend his own army anymore. So, yeah.”
Mauvin wondered what was going to tell his parents? They saved for years to give him the chance of making a name in Paris, but if there was nothing worth fighting for?
“Don’t be so sad. Maybe you’ll get better than us.”
“I don’t even want much. Just be proud, fight for the king’s name like my father did. Then gained a land, some savings maybe, and get a family.” Returning home, making his father proud.
“See?” Royce was still outside. “It’s all about money for you too.”
Hadrian snorted. “An advice: if you don’t want Royce to hear, just do not speak.”
“One last thing, Your Majesty.”
Amrath Essendon, the King of France, slammed his big hands on the golden wooden desk. “Oh, no, Percy. I haven’t stood up for three hours. If I remain sitting here for another second I’m going to explode.”
And he threw a very irritated look to his brother-in-law and Lord Chancellor. Percy Braga was the most efficient man he’d ever known, but it also meant he was a workaholic and picky. How he could also be an accomplished swordsman was a mystery, but no wonder he looked so old even if he was ten years younger than Amrath.
With sweet tone, Cardinal Saldur said, “This won’t take long, and it won’t even request the chair.”
At that, Amrath stood up and paced the room. Saldur was always able to get on his good side. Sometimes he felt Saldur was governing more than him. Sure, Amrath himself trusted him and Percy to do most of the common work for the kingdom.
“So, what is it?”
Saldur and Percy exchanged a look. “We were informed that a fight broke out between your musketeers and my personal guard.”
“Which one of my musketeers?” Amrath asked, well knowing the answer.
“Blackwater and Melborn.” Of course. It was always about them, his best and worse men. “And a young man who called himself Mauvin Pickering.”
“Pickering?” Amrath frowned, digging into his memory. “As Leo Pickering?”
“It may be his son,” Percy said.
Ah, old Leo. Amrath remembered a young, skilled swordsman that fight for France when Amrath was still a prince. It was a pity that he had to resign from his position after his marriage, but he couldn’t blame him. Lady Belinda was lovely. Sometimes, Amrath missed the idea of having a friend around instead of parasites he couldn’t trust.
“It would be nice, to meet his son,” he commented, self-conscious.
“Not sure, if he hangs out with such scoundrels,” Saldur said. “Your Majesty, the kingdom has enough problems. What will our people think if the different forces of our army fight with each other? What will our enemies? This is the time for a firm hand, no matter who will be affected.”
Amrath sighed. Saldur always appeared so reasonable and Hadrian and Royce were so independent most of the time.
“I took the liberty to summon the three of them,” Percy said. “So Your Majesty can punish them according.”
The summoning wasn’t unexpected, especially since the messenger talked about “Sir Melborn, Sir Blackwater and the new guy”. But still irritating. Recently, being at the king’s presence meant a scolding on the good days, an accusation on the bad ones. Even if Royce couldn’t deny that some of the accusations might be not far-fetched, at least the ones about the silvery disappearances from some noble houses.
In this case, he planned to blame everything on Mauvin. For once, it was the truth. If Amrath was on good mood and would avoid to be influenced by the Cardinal, they had a serious possibility to be let alone for the time being, or send somewhere to get rid of. A mission outside Paris meant they would have the possibility to request some funds.
“His Royal Majesty, King Amrath Essendon,” the chamber man announced.
As the door opened, Royce, Hadrian and Mauvin fell on their knees. While the other two kept their gaze low, Royce’s eyes wandered around. The king, with his crown and his long red fur mantle strolled in their direction. Predictably, his two guardian angels were there too, Saldur on the right and Braga on the left, one step behind him.
Amrath stopped in front of them, but didn’t ask them to stand, or at least lift their head. Not a good sign. Another bad sign was the following sigh: Amrath always did that when he had to order something he didn’t like and did nevertheless.
“I have the most respect of your skill and all the good things you did to my kingdom.” And yet it didn’t prevent you from discarding us over one mistake that damaged them more than France. “But those are difficult time, with the delicate relationship we have with England.” So difficult Ballentyne would be there in few weeks. “It is important to give around an impression of union, no matter if you’re part of the musketeers,” what musketeers? They basically didn’t exist anymore, “or the Cardinal’s guard.”
God, it was such a rigid discourse it was obvious someone put inside Amrath’s mouth by someone else. By the smile tugging the Cardinal’s mouth, it wasn’t hard to guess who he had been. It was Saldur’s doing, in the past, that cut most funds from the musketeers over Hadrian and Royce’s failed mission, basically destroying them.
“For that reason, it is my decision that you…”
Royce had tilted his head to the side, earing the sound of steps in the distance. Three people, one female, by the sound of the heels on the marble, barely muffled by the long gown that brushed on the floor.
Stepping on Amrath’s sentence, no one else than the Dauphine of France, princess Arista, made in entrance in the room. His brother, the heir to the kingdom, crown prince Alric was with her and behind them the ever-present bodyguard Hilfred, a man that belong not to the musketeers nor to the Cardinal’s guard. He answered to no one but her.
“Your Highness!” Saldur exclaimed, spotting her. “What a surprise.” His face betrayed his discomfort.
Arista reserved Saldur a saccarine smile. “Your Eminence. Uncle.” Raising her red gown with both hands, she greeted her father politely. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just want to see with my two eyes the brave men that defeated the Cardinal’s guards.”
“Those men…” Saldur began, but was cut off.
“Alric was there and saw everything.” Arista nodded at her brother. “What it was, three against forty? Or was it four hundred?”
Hadrian turned his smirk in his usual charming smile and lifted his head to look at her. “Only forty, Your Highness. Slow day.”
Arista chuckled. “I hope you’re not punishing them too hard, father. Having the hands and hearts of such capable men is an advantage for France. Even if,” She tilted his head and looked specifically at Mauvin, whose face was drained of all blood since her arrival, “maybe someone will benefit from a little more of good sense.”
Amrath frowned. “Alric! How many times I have to tell you that you can’t go around Paris unattended?”
“I was armed.” Alric waved the scold away with a snort and a wave of his hand. “And, as you see, I was perfectly safe.”
“We’ll talk about this.” Amrath turned to Saldur. “Forty men?”
“Well, Your Majesty, the report wasn’t precise about the causality. But as we discussed about, it is fundamental-”
“You sent them looking for my son?” Amrath interrupted him.
Royce was enough of a liar to recognize the expression on Saldur’s face. No, they didn’t know the prince was there. He and Hadrian were the primary target, but now it was unclear with admission would be consider better from Amrath.
“I’m sure Sentinel Thranic was assuring the wellbeing of the Dolphin-”
“And surely sent an army on the street won’t create any problems!”
“Your Majesty…” Braga intervened. “Maybe the Cardinal’s guard only mistake was to be excessive in their protection of the prince, but we must focus on the main point which is the unity on the kingdom…”
“Uncle is right,” Arista said. “I’m pretty sure this is only a misunderstanding. Since Alric is fine I don’t think any other action are necessary.”
“I’m not sure.” Alric paced in front of Royce, Hadrian and Mauvin, a satisfied smile on his face. “They gave me a good show and they won the battle. I think they should be rewarded.” He stopped right in front of Mauvin, who couldn’t resist of meeting his gaze. “Some coins, maybe? It is outrageous that our musketeers go around dressed as street rats.”
“You knew!” Mauvin accused as they strolled outside the palace’s gate.
“Know what?” Hadrian replied, with an innocent expression.
“You also know what.”
“Oh, you mean the little fact of you flirting with the Dolphin of France? The crown prince? The heir of the Kingdom?” Hadrian punched his right palm. “Yeah, we know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“It was fun.” Royce shrugged. “You managed to do worse than Hadrian and he basically flirts with everything that breaths.”
“That’s not true. I never flirted with you.”
“That’s because you know I would have stabbed you.”
Mauvin released a groan of frustration and gestured his hands in the air, but in the end he didn’t bit back. Hopefully, no news of it would reach his father. Or worse, his sister. Lenare was merciless and would never let him live with the embarrassment.
“I can’t believe it…”
The worst thing was that Mauvin’s statement remained: the prince was cute. He was even more charming when he smiled so cocky and self-assured. Well, maybe not at him, but Mauvin kinda deserved it, didn’t he? Ah, his sister was right, saying that Mauvin had always too high expectations.
“I don’t know why are you complain,” Royce said. “You got the money you needed.”
“And I guess you’re a musketeer now,” Hadrian added. “So… congratulations?”
“Only because His Highness was mocking me,” Mauvin replied. “I didn’t expect to start my career with a knock-back. You know, if I have saved him, maybe…”
“Results are more important. Stop with this honorable bullshit. You’re worse than Hadrian at his age.”
“You didn’t meet me at his age, Royce,” Hadrian pointed out.
“Lucky for you. I think I would have killed you for sure.”
They kept bickering as they mounted back to their horses to return to Myron’s home. Mauvin followed them back in silent. Maybe not everything is lost. True, he was a musketeer now, apparently. He had some money, more than he started with. And he had been invited as official guards at the party for the England’s ambassador, so that was something.
And the prince and the princess had come to their aid. The prince had talked to his sister about him and not in so negative terms, otherwise they wouldn’t have defended their action against the Cardinal’s guard.
Mauvin remembered Alric’s cocky smirk and giggled inside.
The proof having the Dauphine on their side was that Royce had enough money to bought the last arrival of Montemorcey. The cons were that they also had to buy a new clothes and attend events at the Royal palace. It wouldn’t be so bad – free food! – if the next event schedule was the arrival of the England ambassador, who was no one other that Lord Archibald Ballentyne.
Saying that their relationship with Ballentyne was sticky was an understatement.
To avoid participation Royce tried, in the order, to be arrested, to be sick and to be dead, but then Hadrian said “don’t you think it’ll be plenty of ladies wearing jewelry?” and that convinced Royce that he could bear Ballentyne after all.
Sometimes Royce hated how much his partner know him.
So the two of them found themselves in the ranks of the few musketeers remained in the palace courtyard, waiting for the England embassy for the welcoming. With them there was Mauvin too, with his new green dress and his mantel and his typical musketeers hat with the feathers. For Royce dress code had always been a suggestion, so he wore black without a hat as usual. Hadrian was in the middle: blue elegant uniform but not hat.
“He’s coming or not?” Mauvin whispered. Royce understood his annoyance: his legs became stiff for the long time standing and he hated be there in the opening. Habit of a thief.
“He likes make people wait,” Hadrian explained. “He feels powerful.”
“Let me guess, he’s not married.”
Hadrian’s remark was cut off by a gush of wind so strong that the hats around flied away from those head not ready enough to grab them. Royce’s instinct took over and he crawled down, hiding behind a group of Cardinal’s guards. Rumors were too strong as people yelled around.
“What the fucking hell is that?” Mauvin asked.
When Royce lifted his eyes, he saw the keel of a ship over their head. It should be impossible, but the ship was flying in the sky, right over the courtyard. Then an anchor fell down, between the running soldiers, and the ship slowly landed in front of the palace entrance.
“The airship,” Hadrian said, to no one in particular. “So he managed to build it after all.”
“Thanks to our projects.” Royce regained his position at his partner’s side.
“Technically they were Da Vinci’s, we just stole them.”
A catwalk connected the ship to the ground and Ballentyne, with his usually frilly clothes and his smug made his entrance. King Amrath welcomed him, surely not pleased by the show-off; at his side, even Saldur and Braga were annoyed. For once, Royce shared their feelings.
Stiff and ordinary discourse were exchanged as Amrath and Ballentyne walked towards the entrance, the soldiers falling on their knee at their monarch’s passage. Royce hated the idea of being on the first row, too easily to spot, but hoped Ballentyne would be too busy to gloat over his airship to notice them.
“Look who is there too.”
Apparently it was Royce’s unlucky day.
“Fitting you’re on your knee, like the last time we saw each other.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian whispered to him once Ballentyne went over.
“Not even a little stab? I know where to hit only to hurt.”
“Friend of yours?” Mauvin inquired, with a suspicious expression. Apparently he always found a new way to be disappointed by them.
“More of a foe, which, in Royce’s case, are the same,” Hadrian replied. “He kinda hates us.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s because we once stole the letters that ruined his marriage proposal,” Royce said.
“And because another time we put the severed head of his spy in his bed,” Hadrian added.
Mauvin chuckled, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
Hadrian shot a look at Royce, who nodded. None of them had any intention to talk about the last time we’d crossed path with Ballentyne, it was still too painful. With a look at the airship, where the crew was retreating the catwalk, Royce wondered if Merrick was there.
Mauvin was wandering in the garden with the hope of ‘casually’ meeting the prince after lunch when he heard someone calling his name. The king, flanked by a contingent of attendances, soldiers and chambermaids, was coming in his direction. At the sight, Mauvin bowed.
“Keep me company, will you?” the king said, gestured at him to stand.
“My pleasure, Your Majesty.” Then his mouth run. “Weren’t you with the ambassador?”
The king snorted. “Ballentyne was tired from the long journey, as if he walked from London. I doubt I’ll see him before dinner.”
He turned towards the garden path towards the lake. Mauvin flanked him, while the rest of the group followed them from behind. They sauntered surrounded by the perfect brushes that lined up the path of the courtyard, smell of cutting grass and flowers filled the air.
“So, how are you faring here in Paris? Are you settling?”
“Fine, and yes. Hadrian and Royce are showing me the business. They’re very… welcoming.”
The king laughed. “This is a lie. But I’m glad to hear it.” Then his gaze lost in his thought. “You’re really Leopold Pickering’s son?”
Mauvin nodded. “My father always talks about his time as a musketeer. He says he met you.”
“I was a lot younger then, and the dolphin. Ah, old Leo!” A soft smile enlightened his features, most of the time darker of worries. “We were close, at the time. I joined the army, wanted to have some experience of real life.” A chuckle. “Most of the things we did back then would be illegal today.”
“By my father’s tales, they were illegal back then too.”
“That is true!” The king laughed and Mauvin found out he liked him. “I was sad when he decided to leave. We dreamt of the time I would be king and he would be one of my musketeers, maybe one of my nobles. But the idea of him marrying an Englishwoman clashed with the loyalty requested and I wasn’t strong enough to convince my father of Leo’s good intention.”
Mauvin threw a look over his shoulders, wondering if the group was listened. “But you gifted them to the Galilin land in Gascony. We are very grateful.”
“That’s the least I can do for him.” Amrath smiled. “And I didn’t resent him. If I have a woman like Belinda, maybe I would have given up my kingdom to.” Then, realizing he was speaking about Mauvin’s mother, he added, “they’re fine, right?”
Mauvin wondered if it was the moment to talk about the problem his family had faced in the past. But if his father hadn’t want to ask for any help from the king, he wouldn’t be the one to disrespect his decision.
“They’re good. They’re very happy together.”
“And you’re the only son?”
“No, I...” Mauvin stumbled a little over Fanen’s name in his mind. “I have a little brother and a sister.”
“They will be welcomed here at the court, of course.”
A smile tug Mauvin’s lips at the thought of his family. “Weell, Denek would like to, of course, but he’s still too young. And Lenare… I don’t want to have to challenge to a duel his wannabe suitors. They’ll be to many and give me a bad rep.”
“If she’s beautiful even half of his mother, that’ll be pretty likely.” Amrath laughed.
His steps slowed down and his gaze wandered in the far until he spotted another group on the opposite side of the garden, heading towards the porch right in the middle of the clear water. It was the Dolphin with his entourage, which was composed mostly by young ladies dressed with elegant color. It appeared like a peacock with his opened tail.
“My children lost their mother early. I fear my grief prevented me to be the father and the king they deserved,” Amrath said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t do more for your father, but I hope…” He reserved Mauvin a warm smile. “Maybe you can be for my son what your father could have been for me.”
“I will my pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“It’s time to put an end on this,” Saldur said, once he and Merrick were safe on his private office, a room big with tall marble walls and a map of Europe on the floor. “I have been able to control the king until now, but his children are growing up. The princess is becoming especially irritating in her attempt to influence her father.”
Saldur sat on his lavish armchair, settling better his red gowns and intertwined his hands. Merrick joined him, but his attention was caught by the chess board at a corner of the desk, which a game was on stalemate. He watched it on his head slowly tilted.
It would be easy to just kill the entire royal family and get over with it. Unfortunately, the last attempt failed, killing only the queen, and had presented Saldur with a big problem: not every noble would accept Braga as heir, since he was the king’s relative only by marriage.
Exeter, the king’s cousin, had support in South France, where his lands were, and he was enough arrogant to make clear he would fight for the throne. A civil war wasn’t something beneficial to Saldur. And killing both the Essendons and the Exeters would be a little bit suspicious for a swift inheritance for Braga.
“So, you have a plan for me?” Saldur called for his attention.
Merrick took off some of the pieces from the board then moved a pawn: it was a checkmate. Only then, he sat down and said, “Yes.”
“Don’t lose time, then. Tell me!”
“You are fortunate, because my plan involved the Dauphine.” Merrick began rearranging the piece on the board to prepare a new match. “Have you heard of Degan Gaunt?”
“Isn’t he that Scottish Nationalist that tried to blow up the Royal Palace last year?” Saldur frowned. “King Ethereld hasn’t caught him yet?”
“No, because Professor Esrahaddon is protecting him.” Merrick placed the black tower down. “Not that I told him that, of course.”
“So Esrahaddon is a traitor and you’re a spy. What does it have to do with me?”
Merrick rolled the white queen in his fingers. “The Dauphine has had secrecy correspondence with Esrahaddon for years.”
“For real?” Saldur had never knew about it: Arisa was resourceful to escape his surveillance.
“Their conversations are pure intellectual and philosophical.” Merrick’s tone was of mildly annoyance. “It’ll be nice spicing things up, perhaps with forged letters where they talk about Gaunt and about the little trivia that she, by blood, has some rights over the England’s throne.”
Saldur smirked. “A foreign princess talking treason with a traitor. Doesn’t look good.”
“It’ll look even worse after the king was killed.” Merrick hit the white king with the white queen. “With the letters as proof, you can trail the Dauphine for her father’s murder and have her executed. Both you and Braga will be clear from any suspicious.”
The two white bishops were now in the center of the board. Saldur looked at them. “Will the nobles being convinced by your forgery? I’m not doubting your talent, of course, but they have fickle personality. Even if Arista is unpleasant, they may be persuaded to stand by her.”
“They won’t if you can prove the letters are real.” For the first time, Merrick looked at him. “The Dauphine possesses a very expensive and dedicated object everyone knows about, right? Her golden brush.”
Saldur nodded. The brush was a work of art, entirely in pure gold and decorated with pearls and diamonds on the back. The king had gifted his daughter for her eighteen birthday and she kept it safe in a safe in her room.
“I wonder how it will look if the Dauphine says, in one letter, that she’s sending the brush as money for Esrahaddon and that said brush isn’t any more in her room?” Merrick had again the white queen his hand, rolling it in his fingers.
“And the prince?” Saldur asked, placing the white king upside again on the board. “He’ll be the heir.”
“This entire fake conspirator will disrupt any relationship between France and England.” With the back of his hand, Merrick hit the white pawns. They rolled out of the board. “I heard the Dolphin is spoiled and prone to anger. I’m sure he’ll be persuaded Ethereld is protecting other responsible of his father’s murder. He can be persuaded it was all a ruse from England to weak his kingdom.”
Saldur reflected. “I admit Alric hasn’t show any talent for ruling. The sudden death of his father will leave him vulnerable.”
“And in war, who knows what can happen to a young, grieving monarch.” Merrick stole the white king from Saldur’s hand and turned it upside down. “I consider I already gave you the means to win a war against England?”
“You did.”
“Good.” Merrick smiled satisfied and relaxed for the first time, crossing his legs. “Once the Dolphin dies too and Braga wins the war in his stead, his lineage won’t be questioned anymore.”
Saldur watched the disrupted board with a frown. “Won’t Ethereld try to avoid conflict? Esrahaddon and Gaunt are his opponent after all.”
“I have the means to convince him that it was mostly the Dauphine’s doing to steal his throne.” Merrick put a black pawn and a white one near each other. Then threw the black tower over the board. “But I’ll have to sacrifice Ballentyne, if problems arise.”
“Ballentyne has been useful for now.” Saldur collected a bottle of wine from a cabinet. “But every good chess player knows that someone sacrificing your best pieces is fundamental to winning the war.”
“Correct.”
Saldur poured two glasses. “To our collaboration?”
“I’ll need guarantee before starting,” Merrick stated. “A signed paper will do.”
“I’m sure Braga won’t have any problem to do it. He’s the one becoming king.”
Merrick smiled. “Long life to His Majesty, then.”
And they tilted their glasses together.
Since the king had given his approval, or so Mauvin had taken it, he felt enough daring to walk towards the patio.
It was a big wooden structure place right in the middle of the lake, at the end of the palace garden. It was covered by light tent that protect from insect but not dark enough to hit whoever was inside. The floor was covered with carpets and cushions, where people sat comfortably. Short, round and small table were arranged with sweet, fruit and wine glass.
The Dauphin of France sat right in the middle, a filled glass languidly in his right hand, while he left a maid used her fan to cool the air around him. As he tilted his head on the side, he spotted Mauvin on the bridge that connected the patio with the gardens.
“Your Highness!”
Alric put the glass down and whispered something to the lady at his left. She giggled. Then he stood up, moved aside the tent and went to face Mauvin in the middle of the bridge. Mauvin took off his hat and made a low bow.
“You got a decent dress today.” Alric stopped a meter from him and observed him from head to toe.
“Thanks to you, Your Highness.”
“But green was in fashion last year. You should have chosen blue.” Alric, of course, wore an elegant blue silk dress with silver embroidery, now that he wasn’t hiding his identity anymore. He smiled at little, daring, waiting for Mauvin’s move.
Mauvin put back his feather hat. He liked it, as a symbol of his role. “I’d like to apologize for my behavior when we-”
“Ah. I see it’s not Thursday today.”
Alric smiled satisfied. Somehow the fact that he remembered Mauvin’s joke made him more attractive. Mauvin can’t help but grin.
“Don’t worry, my dear musketeer.” Alric stepped forwards, nullifying the distance between them. His fingers brushed over Mauvin’s chest, the fingertips pressed lightly over the fabric, his tone low and his face near. “I’ll bear no grudge against people unable to impress me.”
And with that he left, returning to his patio and his laughing friends, which with no doubts would be talking about Mauvin. He remained still, wondering if Alric would ask him to join him, but when it didn’t happen, Mauvin turned to his heels and went to look for Hadrian and Royce.
***
Arista found the forged letters before their time. But still too late: the golden brush, that she held dearly as his father’s gift and kept safe in his room had disappeared. The impromptu use of that cherish object offended her more than the attempt to frame her.
Words aren’t enough to show our gratitude for your wonderful gift. We know it wasn’t easy for you to separate from such a wonderful gift, which testify the importance you held our mission. A single diamond of your golden brush will fund Degan’s army for months. I promise I make sure it would be used well to honor you.
The imitation of Esrahaddon’s style was so sloppy that it was hilarious. She snorted amused, though the situation was serious. Her mind reflected on the implication that letters brought.
“We should burn them, Your Highness,” Hilfred proposed. He and her lady-in-waiting Melissa where the only she shared the story with. “Before someone else finds them.”
“It would be useless.” Arista tossed the letters on the desk and stood up, dusting her red gown. “My brush is gone and that is their proof. They will find a way to point it out.”
“We may recover it.”
“Yes. That is ideal.” She walked to the window and placed a hand on the glass. “But it’s probably on his way to London right now.”
In her mind, there is no doubt Ballentyne’s presence was involved. And they would try to make her treachery as realistic as possible, giving the brush to Esrahaddon when the occasion arose. The clock was ticking fast, faster than she expected.
“We know of someone familiar with the London Tower,” Hilfred said.
“Yes.” Arista arrived at the same conclusion. “Let’s go.”
Unlike his brother she hadn’t the habit of sneaking out of the palace; when she put over her black cloak with her black hood she felt even more the conspirator they wanted her to be. For once Hilfred anticipated her path, as he knew the guards’ shift.
They walked in the dark and long hallway of the palace, the moonlight casting strange shadows on the mirrors when they passed, their steps soft, no lamp or torch in their hands. Their destination was her father’s wing, where a passage for attendants brought them directly to the kitchen.
The moment she opened the door, a light blinded her.
“Arista!”
“Uncle.”
He stood in the middle of the room, in his nightshirt, parchments under his left armpit and the lamp on his right hand. He observed her with a frown.
“It’s very late. What are you up to at his hour?”
“I can say the same,” she replied, offended by the accusing tone in his voice.
But it wasn’t hard to understand his presence: he always worked late and he had a habit of remembering work to do in the middle of the night, much to his father’s displeasure.
“I forgot I need those documents ready for tomorrow.”
“I can’t sleep, so I thought to go for a walk, maybe grab a book from the library.”
The tension was palpable, the excuse weak. His uncle raised an eyebrow at her attire, which she hadn’t changed since dinner, too focused on her letters, and the black cloak. The truth wasn’t dangerous per se: leaving the palace might be unwise and conspicuous, dangerous even despite Hilfred’s presence, but not treacherous. Alric did it all the time.
However, her situation was different. Everything would be used against her.
But his uncle decided not to inquire more. “You should ask for a brew and then lay down. I can-”
A female scream tore the air around them. Hilfred drew his sword and advanced at her side, but the sound came far inside his father’s wing. The scream tuned down, turning into the continued whining of someone who had difficulty breathing. Arista remembered a similar sound, the one her father had emitted after her mother’s death.
She eyed her uncle, whose expression darkened in worry. He was an accomplished swordsman, but he hadn’t his weapons with him.
“The guards should be there soon.”
But Arista didn’t want to wait. She pivoted on her heels, the black cloak wavering behind her as she rushed towards the wailing sound. Hilfred and his uncle followed suit, so her steps were lightened by the lamp still in his uncle’s hand. But there was no need since she remembered the path. It wasn’t a surprise when she found herself at the entrance of the royal chapel.
One of his father’s chambermaids was there, on her knee, her face twisted in horror and her mouth still emitting these tearing sounds. A tray with a cup and a teapot had fallen from her hands and now lay disrupted around her. The same with the lamp: the oil slick on the pavement was still inflamed. Hilfred took off his cloak and used it to extinguish the fire before it expanded.
Arista got around the chambermaid and stepped inside the royal chapel. Her fists tightened and her eyes widened in shock when she saw her father on the floor in front of the altar, lying in a pool of blood, a knife sticking out his back.
The shock of Amrath’s death was enough to startle Mauvin completely awake despite the sudden wake in the middle of the night. He eyed Royce and Hadrian, whose expressions darkened but they still looked unruly, even if they sleept in their clothes. Only Myron, that used to write at night, appeared vigilant but confused by the entire ordeal.
“Let me get this straight,” Mauvin said, once Hilfred finished recollecting the latest events. “The princess wants us to run to London, find where Ballentyne held her brush, steal it and then rush back here so she won’t be accused of her father’s murder?”
Hilfred remained serious. “And in less than a week. She doubts she can hold her trial for more.”
Mauvin lifted his eyebrow, unsure if being incredulous or happy for such trust in his skill. Then, with a shake of his head, he remembered who his comrades were. It had been said they had already penetrated inside the impenetrable London Tower.
“Why should we?” Royce asked.
“Well, you’ll be paid.” Hilfred’s answer revealed his perplexity. Of course, for him was all a question of loyalty. Mauvin agreed with him: that was why he wanted to be a musketeer in the first place.
“That’s the bare minimum,” Royce replied. “But I don’t work with such a deadline. And we’re already on probation, it is too risky for us.”
“But we have to do it!” Mauvin protested. “The musketeers’ role is to aid the royal family.”
“And she saved us recently,” Hadrian added.
Royce scolded. “We wouldn’t have been in trouble in the first place if it wasn’t for you two.”
Hilfred’s face remained on stone. “She said you may not be too inclined to accept her request.”
The three of them looked at him, expectantly. There was a ‘but’ in that sentence, and it came directly from the Dauphine.
“She said to tell you to consider this,” Hilfred continued. “If she is condemned and executed, only Alric will remain between you and the Cardinal. And she doesn’t consider far-fetched that Alric too may incur sooner an ill fate too. What will happen to the musketeers then?”
“Ah.” Royce settled better in his chair. “So it’s either we help her enraging the Cardinal or we do nothing with the risk of still having the Cardinal on our tail.”
“She’s not wrong.” Hadrian hummed. “Saldur already hates us and I’ll take any chance to destroy us completely.”
“We need to do this,” Mauvin added. “The Dolphin will need his musketeers when he’ll become king.” He wondered how Alric had taken his father’s death and wished to have insisted more on becoming his friend so that he could have been with him.
Royce muttered something under his breath that sounded like swearing that made Myron cross himself, and then added someone about regretting the time he was convinced to join that ill-organization the musketeers were. But there was a smirk on his face that told Mauvin he was already calculating their odds and the possibility to fuck over Ballentyne again.
“Good! So after me… One for all…” Mauvin lifted the closed punch, but Royce and Hadrian just looked at him, impassible. “Never mind.”
“It’s better you come with you too,” Hadrian said to Myron, as they collected back their weapons and other goodies that might aid them during their mission. Royce had an unsurprising collection of picklocks.
“Me? To London? Oh, no.” Myron shook his head. “I’ve never been outside Paris.”
“You can’t stay here. The Cardinal’s Guards know we live here and they won’t be kind to anyone helping us.”
“But-”
“And they won’t probably mind burning down this place to rat us out,” Royce added. He gained a scold from Hadrian, as Myron started trembling a little, and even Royce seemed regretful. “Well, it’s the truth.”
Hadrian placed a hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Your sovereigns need you. And with enough reward, you may even be able to build back the abbey or at least a better place to store your books.”
That seemed to convince Myron, even if he still kept his head lower and his hand tightened in his robe. Royce stopped him by putting some scrolls inside his bags.
“Not even the Bible?”
“No.”
“Let me take at least this Saint Agustine's letter. No, better the Rubruk's travel journal. Wait, can be useful…?”
Hadrian grabbed Myron by the collar and gently dragged him outside, while he was still trying to stuff scrolls inside his small backpack.
“Ah, one last thing,” Hilfred said, as they moved outside to collect their horses. “Her Highness also want you to kidnap her brother and bring him to London with you.”
They blinked at him. “Wait wait… she wants us to kidnap the Dauphin of France?”
“The king of France, now, I guess,” Royce said. He was done with everything.
“Right.” Hadrian glared at him, then turned his attention to Hilfred.
“Why?” Mauvin asked. He’d already started on the wrong foot with Alric, he doubted a kidnapping would gain him any points.
“Her Highness is afraid a murder attempt may be done against the Dauphin, taking advantage of the confusion around her trial,” Hilfred explained. “He’ll be safer with you. Besides, he’ll be easier convinced of her innocence if he collects the brush from Ballentyne by himself. Otherwise, the Cardinal may influence him the wrong way.”
“And if the Dolphin is nowhere to be found, it may delay her trial and give us more time,” Royce guessed.
“Exactly,” Hilfred confirmed.
“But the Dolphin will be the most surveilled man in the kingdom right now, given what happened to the king.” Hadrian rubbed his unkempt beard, then he understood and his expression fell. “He isn’t in the palace right now, isn’t he?”
Hilfred shook his head. “Her Highness knows where to find him. Come with me, I’ll show you.” He mounted his horse. “His absence might have saved his life.”
Hadrian grinned at Royce. “And you complained about my female friendships.”
Mauvin didn’t listen to his growled answer. He was too focused on the thought of Alric, alone and in danger in the middle of Paris, and spurred his horse immediately after Hilfred’s.
In his life as a musketeer, especially as Royce’s partner, Hadrian had faced the most diverse bizarre and embarrassing situation. But he had to admit, storming into a room where the Dauphin of France was peacefully sleeping with his lover with the intention of kidnapping him was one of the strangest.
Their attempt to be inconspicuous was ruined by Myron first, that by mistake made Mauvin trip against a piece of furniture. The confusion made Alric stir and, noticing where he was, grabbed in the dark for his nightshirt, still unaware of their presence.
The movement woke up his girl too, and she definitely saw them. Her scream pierced the silence suddenly, startling them and Alric, who froze, his hand still clasping the nightshirt, his naked body barely covered by the sheet, while she hid behind him.
With a snort, Royce lightened a candle: the dim light was enough for everyone to recognize the others’ features. Alric’s eyes narrowed in recognition.
“You.” His gaze was fixed on Mauvin, who fidgeted under the stare.
Mauvin took off the hat and bent his knee. “You Highness. You had to come with us, for your own safety.”
“My father sent you?”
Mauvin darted his gaze on Hadrian, as a silent request to help dispatch the tragic news. “Your sister,” he answered instead. It was the truth after all, and a quieter one for now.
“I don’t take orders from my sister.” Slowly, Alric put the nightshirt on and stood up, ignoring the girl behind him. “Normally I won’t mind, because I don’t like spending the night here. But now I think I’ll do it. Leave.”
“Your father is dead,” Royce said flatly.
That made Alric pause. “My… father?”
“He was murdered,” Royce continued, while the girl gasped in horror. “Someone stabbed him in the royal chapel.”
Alric blinked again, as the words didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand.”
Mauvin had put back his hat and his hand flinched as he wanted to reach for Alric, comfort him, help him to understand. Alric’s face was on Royce, as he expected a sudden revelation.
“Blackwater! Melborn! Pickering!” It was Luis Guy’s voice, coming from outside. “Deliver your weapons and surrender. We guarantee your safety.”
Mauvin jumped away from Alric. “How did he find us?”
“Probably they knew where the prince was and they took a lucky guess at where we are.” Royce moved, back on the wall, and slid as near as possible to the closed window, so he could peer from the side and not put his head on the open. “Or they intercepted Hilfred on his way back to the palace.”
“Can we fight them?” Hadrian asked, but inside he knew the answer. Even from afar, he could see the street was now enlightened by numerous torches.
Royce shook his head. “Horsemen, at least thirty. Both Luis Guy and Thranic are here. They’re taking precautions.”
“I’ll count until ten,” Luis Guy said again. “Do not make me charge or we can’t guarantee the safety of everyone inside.”
“Yeah, sure.” Royce snorted. “They’re whispering about killing us the second we step outside. They have archers too.”
Hadrian did no doubt Royce’s words, his partner had the ability to hear from a long distance. If Luis Guy was giving a different order to his men, Royce could hear it even behind the glasses.
“Oh, this is absurd.” Alric strolled to the window and opened it. “I’m prince Alric and this is-” His face peered for a second before Royce grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the floor. A second later, an arrow flew into the air, crossing the space where Alric’s head had been and got stuck on the opposite wall. The girl screamed.
“They won’t hesitate to kill you and call it an accident,” Royce stated.
Alric’s eyes stuck on the arrow. “B-but I’m the pr…” His voice stumbled on the word as his mind tried to process the information he was receiving. Outside, Luis Guy counted.
“We need to leave, now,” Hadrian stated, looking at Royce, who nodded in agreement.
Mauvin kneeled down again near Alric, but he scrambled away, his face was pale but his eyes darting with closed range. He stumbled to regain his balance, stepping backwards. Hadrian drew his short sword and hit him in the head with the pommel. Mauvin was fast enough to grab the unconscious body before it fell on the floor.
“Why?”
Hadrian shrugged at Mauvin’s incredulous stare.
“We don’t have time for this.” Royce threw a last glare outside. “Mauvin, take the Dauphin. Hadrian, the sword. Myron, the clothes.”
Still unsure but a little bit relaxed now that he was tasked with Alric’s safety, Mauvin moved to put Alric on his shoulders. Myron recollected the spreader clothes while Royce tossed Hadrian the royal sword. Hadrian’s gaze fell on the girl, still on the bed with a sheet around her body.
“What’s your name?” he asked, with a reassuring smile.
Her eyes shifted from Mauvin, to Royce, to Hadrian. “Tilly.”
“Tilly. I’m Hadrian and I’m a musketeer. These ones too. We need your help to save the Dauphin’s life from the men outside.”
“Are you sure?” Royce asked. He wasn’t prone to ask for external help.
“If we just left, they may kill her too,” Hadrian pointed out. There was a time when Royce wouldn’t have care, but now it was a habit to indulge his partner’s generosity, so he nodded.
Tilly’s expression was still of disbelief, but she had probably recognized them and between the arrow and the gentle way Mauvin was taking care of Alric, she made up her mind. With the sheet wrapped around her body as a nightshirt, she stood up with her bare feet.
“What shall I do?”
Royce explained to her.
When Luis Guy ended his count and was about to order his men to launch fire arrows, from the window at the first floor Tilly threw him down the content of her pit. Her aim wasn’t as good as Royce would have preferred, but it was enough to scare Luis Guy’s horse and unbalanced him.
Then they busted out of the stable, horses launched in unstoppable gallops. The archers, arrows ready, couldn’t react to such a sudden arrival and the horsemen hadn’t their swords ready yet. The musketeers disappeared in the dark street of Paris, running away.
They ran all night, heading to Normandy. Royce had left them with the intention of confounding their pursuers, while Hadrian and Mauvin kept their direction straight. Despite the rash, they weren’t as fast as they could because both of them had passengers: Myron shared the horse with Hadrian while the Dauphin’s still unconscious body was tied against Mauvin’s back.
Mauvin could feel the warmth spread through his cloak’s fabric and the way Alric’s face tumbled against his shoulder as the horse jumped an obstacle. The position was uncomfortable and Mauvin dreaded the moment his precious cargo would wake up and realized his situation.
Their relationship hadn’t improved since their first, embarrassing meeting, but before the king’s death, Mauvin had hoped the sideswipes were a form of sympathy or flirtation. Now he had no idea how Alric might react to the musketeers’ decision to side with his sister and agree to kidnap him, even if it was for his own safety.
But he would protect the Dolphin, with his life if necessary.
The first dim of the dawn illuminated the horizon when Alric stirred, a strangled sound emitted from his throat. Mauvin halted the horse immediately, but Alric was already wriggled in panic against the ropes, his legs kicking the horse with the risk of startling it. From that position, he couldn’t see who was tied up to.
“Your Highness!” Mauvin called.
“I’ll have you flogged to death! Release me this instant!”
Hadrian was on his side, a knife in his hand and cut the restrain in a swift and expert movement. Alric retracted and dismounted in a not gracious movement, falling backwards in the grass. He squinted his eyes to adapt them to the dim light as he assessed his situation and the fact that he was in the middle of a forest, unarmed and with only his nightshirt and a cloak to cover him.
“I have your clothes, Your Highness,” Myron supplied. His tone was kind, shy, but it only created a surge of rage in Alric.
“You had sentence yourself to death.” He stood up with all the dignity he could gather, his naked feet in the dirty soil. “Bring me back now.”
Mauvin dismounted and, as he approached him, he was the victim of a very angry glare. “We can’t,” Mauvin said. “Just… listen to us. It is important. Please trust me on this.” It was almost a plea.
“And why should I?” Alric replied, taking a step backwards, ready to escape. “Since the first time, you haven’t done anything but disrespect me. And now you…” His hand went to his head where Hadrian had hit him.
“Just-” Mauvin gripped Alric’s shoulders, kept it near. “Please.” He just needed Alric to calm down, to listen, to see that Mauvin was only trying to help.
Then, all fight in Alric’s disappeared. Mauvin could feel the moment his body shut down. Alric looked at Mauvin and for the first time he wasn’t a cocky expression or an outraged one. Alric looked lost, younger than ever was, his green eyes searching for reassurance.
Mauvin wanted to hug him, to console him, but he couldn’t. He was his musketeer.
“My father… is dead?”
Royce joined back the group later on. Alric heard the sound of hoofs and then the hushed voices of the others as they recollected the situation. Alric didn’t move from his reserved position at the edge of the camp. He sat down on a rock and looked at the slow flood of the stream.
He had no idea how to act in such a situation. He’d been so sure, in all his life, that his father would have died at old age, giving Alric plenty of time to grow up, enjoy his life and very late learn how to be king. And now people expected him to deal with his father’s murder, the destiny of France and a possible conspiracy and war against England.
Arista’s plan was another complicacy. Alric couldn’t say he and his sister were close and, sure, she was ambitious and on some occasions might have enjoyed putting Alric in difficult positions, showing off that she considered herself a better candidate for the throne. But he never considered her so cold and cruel to kill their father and fuel a war.
A part of him wanted to order the musketeers to return him to Paris and once. But another part of him wanted just to disappear not to face the consequence of all that mess. That, together with Luis Guy’s arrow, tipped the scale on Arista’s suggestion.
“We need to move,” Alric heard Royce say. It was loud enough that Alric was sure Royce was talking to his benefit too. “I may have lost them, but they won’t stop. And they may know where we’re heading to. Go call him.”
The sound of flattened grass. When Alric lifted his head, Mauvin was there, cautiously a meter from him, with a serious expression. Of course they send Mauvin, as if Alric was easily swayed by a pretty face.
Not that he considered Mauvin pretty. Not with his messy dark hair, that pierce black eyes and the self-assured smile.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Highness.”
It was unexpected. They didn’t have time to indulge in sorrow.
“Have you ever lost someone?” Alric asked.
Mauvin’s eyes widened and Alric could see his expression shifting from surprise to pain to decision.
“My brother Fanen.” Clearly, the name still pained him. “Luis Guy killed him.”
“How? Why?”
“My family… We aren’t rich, but we manage. Until we have a few years of bad farming. We asked for a delay of taxes.” Mauvin’s eyes shifted to the right, searching his memory. “They didn’t concede it. That’s when Luis Guy arrived with his men to steal the little it remained. We tried to fight them, only the two of us. Before my father intervene, Fanen was dead and I was wounded.”
Unaware, Alric had stood up and reached for him. A lot of questions were on the tip of his tongue, wondering why Mauvin’s father hadn’t called for the king, for his mercy. Or maybe he had and Alric’s father had ignored it because he couldn’t interrupt the church’s decision. Given how Mauvin fight, Alric wondered how many of Luis Guy’s men died before they managed to hit him.
“I’m sorry.”
Mauvin’s hands were on Alric’s back, dragging him forwards. It took a second for Alric to realize that, ignoring all etiquette of not touching a member of the royal family, on pain of death, Mauvin was hugging him. A comforting gesture that Alric needed, as his body relaxed and his head sank into Mauvin’s chest.
Alric couldn’t cry, as much as he wanted to. He is the king now, he had to be strong, reliable.
But he wondered if, despite being the king, could indulge in the idea of having a friend.
When he separated from Mauvin, too soon and too late, his eyes were completely dry.
“If I need to come to London with you, I want my own horse.”
Their journey to Calain proceeded with no trouble. Royce provided in a not very legal manner a horse to Alric so the Dauphin soon-to-be king proceeded fast together with the musketeers. They didn’t have many chance to chitty-chat, but when Alric’s gaze fell on Mauvin there was some sense of safety there which melt Mauvin’s heart.
The decision to hug him had been a sudden impulse, so Mauvin was happy to see it accounted for a new trust between the two of them.
But when they reached Calain, they found it crowded with Cardinal’s guards. The serious figure of Thranic with his black and red uniform was clearly visible in front of the docks.
“How did they find us?” Alric asked, in a way that suggested he was blaming Royce for it.
“They clearly know about our intention to recover the brush,” Hadrian said. “This is the port we had to use if we hope to arrive in London in time.”
Hadrian was right: there were too many soldiers for a mere coincidence, or a lucky guess at finding the men who kidnapped the Dauphin. Mauvin scrutinized the surrounding: not a good place for a battle outnumbered.
“I’ll distract them,” Hadrian offered. “I’m the only one that can hold them off long enough for you to escape.”
“That’s ridiculous and it will only get you killed,” Royce replied. “I’ll be the one creating a diversion, one that will allow me to run away before they catch me while you fly away.”
“Both of you are indispensable for the success of this mission.” Mauvin shook his head. “We need the Two Musketeers. I’ll let them chase me.”
Since everyone was offering, Myron murmured, “But what if I-” but he was promptly cut off by three loud ‘no!’. Myron’s safety was not in discussion.
“You’re all wrong,” Alric said, once assessing the situation. “I’ll be the bait.” He frowned at the word, but nodded. “That’s the only way.”
“Absolutely no,” Mauvin stated.
Alric glared, but Royce added, “We already witnessed that they’re not above killing you.”
“Sure, but they want to use you as a scapegoat.” Mauvin just admired how suddenly calm and self-assured Alric seemed after that moment of weakness. “They want to kill you first and foremost, so if any of you get caught it’s over. However, I am the king: they’ll be more careful.” He crossed his arms. “My sister may be smart, but bringing me along without authorization in a rival country isn’t the best solution for avoiding conflict, so maybe it is best if I remain here.”
While Hadrian and Royce shared a look, Mauvin understood they agreed with Alric’s suggestion as the best idea. He’d become pretty good at reading their silent conversation, but he didn’t like the answer.
“We’re supposed to protect you,” he said to Alric. “If anything happens to you and I’m not there…”
“Have a little faith in me, will you?” A confident smile tugged Alric’s lips, and Mauvin was defenseless against it. “Right now, stopping Ballentyne and recovering the brush is of the most importance. We need to stop any attempt at creating a war between France and England. I have to protect my people. If something happens to me, you can still manage to complete the mission.”
“If something happens to you, there is no France,” Mauvin pointed out, a desperate attempt to keep him close.
“Of course there is. The people will still be there, and they won’t be forced to fight and die for a war no one wants.” Alric’s expression was sweet but decisive. “I’ll have you protect my sister and my kingdom by revealing this conspiracy.”
They were all witnessing the king Alric was about to become, something Mauvin admired and couldn’t stop, nor he wanted to, no matter the risk.
“Besides.” Alric took off Mauvin’s feather hat with an amused smile. “This looks better on me.”
It was true.
Mounting a horse, with the cloak covering his body and the feather hat, Alric could easily being mistaken for Mauvin, even if he was shorter and less broad in the shoulders. For good measurement, Royce climbed on a balcony and, hiding his voice, yelled, “Look! Pickering!” which lured away the church’s soldier. Thranic was the first one to move, ordering his men to follow the musketeer.
And Mauvin could only watch as the horseman with his hat flew in the distance followed by black and red men.
Sometimes Hadrian felt like a babysitter, no matter how big they were supposed to be the others. But looking at Mauvin (twenty-one) who was for the first time on a ship and jumped around with the sailors to observe the horizon, or a Myron (thirty-five) who was listened to the most made-up stories the sailors were ready to tell him laughing of his reactions, well, it was impossible to not feel like that.
And then, of course, there was the worse baby: Royce (thirty-eight) who, after vomiting his gut and his soul, was now there, wrapped in his black cloak which did nothing to hid him on a ship. He was pale than usual and his bad humor was hidden by his usual scold.
Hadrian decided to risk his life.
“Are we going to speak about the elephant in the room sooner or later?”
Royce glared.
“Do I need to spell it out loud?” Hadrian ignored him. “We know our real opponent isn’t Ballentyne. He’s just the distraction. If-”
“Do not say that name.”
“Which name?” Hadrian feign ignorance.
“Who?” Mauvin trotted near them, sweat on his forehead and hands red for using too much ropes.
Royce passed the gaze between the two of them, but his attempt to look menacing was completely destroyed by a new surge of nausea, and the slipped away to not throw up in front of everyone. Hadrian would jest with him if it would have been a normal journey.
But it wasn’t. Hadrian himself wasn’t above the urge of transforming the mission in something more personal like revenge and the only reason he didn’t do that was out of respect for Royce’s feeling.
Mauvin looked at him. “Not to pry, but what is it about Ballentyne?”
Hadrian wondered if he should speak. It was still an open wound for them, but it was true it would be very hard to keep that story out of that new mission.
“Three years ago, we were in Venice for an assignment.” Hadrian took a barrel and used it as a makeshift seat. “We had a tip that Ballentyne wanted to steal some Leonardo Da Vinci’s projects to create a powerful weapon which would put England in advantage in a possible war and we were assigned to anticipate him.”
“Was it the airship?”
“Yes.”
Mauvin’s expression lightened in understanding. “It was the mission you failed that let the Cardinal downgrade you?”
“It was a good tip.” Hadrian nodded. “But in the end, it was a trap.”
Mauvin sat down next to him, closer. “What happened?”
“The projects were held in a surveilled locked building full of traps created by Da Vinci himself.” Hadrian watched the horizon. “We intercept a letter about it that told Ballentyne had found a way to flood the main room. In that way, the administrator would have been forced to intervene and clear the area, leaving the path free for smugglers.”
“The letter was fake?”
“More or less.” Hadrian gritted his teeth. “They wanted the room flooded, but they weren’t able to do so. It was our own intervention that made it possible. We thought we were impeding it, instead we caused it.”
Mauvin brushed his palm. “But then, why didn’t you take advantage of the situation?”
“We were too busy saving our own life.” A surge of sorrow suffocated Hadrian for a while. “There was only one place for initiating the flooding, but once it started, the place closed with everyone inside trapped. It was the security system to avoid the water to surpass a certain level.”
“They wanted to kill you,” Mauvin understood, in horror.
“Two birds in one stone, really.” Hadrian snorted. “We managed to find an exit point, but that allowed the water to drain in the main room and Ballentyne to steal the projects.”
“Clever, if you think about it.” Royce had returned, soundlessly as usual, making both of them flinch. “Unfortunately the necessity of my demise really lowered my appreciation of the plan.”
Hadrian sustained Royce’s stare: no point of hiding he fully know the other would have been able to listen the entire conversation.
“Since you spilled the bean, you can at least say all the truth,” Royce said.
He hid the pain better than Hadrian, who rubbed his stingy eyes. “There was a woman.”
“Of course there is,” Mauvin said, but his humor lacked bites.
“Name’s Gwen. A gypsy we’d met in a previous adventures of us.”
“In which she’d saved out life,” Royce pointed out. “The first time.”
“She did.” Hadrian couldn’t help a smile. “She had a pleasure house in Montmartre, where she hosted us while in Paris, but she travelled with her group in all Europe, so she could aid us if we need it.”
“And she was in Venice?”
Hadrian closed his eyes, remembering Gwen’s figure with her pink and violet dress, her smile behind the glass as they explained the plan, Royce completely smitten by her.
“She insisted to come. She was in that closed room with us. She sacrificed her life for us.”
Royce was toneless. “The only way to escape from that was if one person keeps manually a grid opened. She told us she would be able to follow us and insisted about it. She lied.”
Mauvin didn’t break the silence for a while, sank in thoughts, as for the first time he realized his suffering wasn’t unique. “Without her, one of you would have died.”
“One of Gwen’s ability was reading the tarots.” Hadrian tilted his head to look at Royce. “I always wondered if she knew beforehand and she knew she was walking to her death since the beginning.”
“Does it matters?” Royce asked.
Hadrian didn’t answer, because the truth would pain him more.
“Don’t you want your revenge?” Mauvin asked, at last.
“The situation is a lot more complicated.”
And Hadrian had no intention to explain it. Venice’s was Riyria’s story, but what had caused it was Royce’s personal one. He wasn’t going to violate his partner’s privacy like that. It was the reason even Hadrian didn’t know in fully the details of that event.
“But we’re about to face Ballentyne. That’s-”
“Ballentyne isn’t the problem,” Royce stated. “It’s the man behind the entire plan we need to be careful about.” And, looking Hadrian straight in the eyes, he said, “Merrick Marius.”
Despite being tempered by the grieving for King Amrath’s death and the concern for Alric’s whereabouts, Mauvin couldn’t hide his excitement for his first mission as a musketeer, as he sat at the table with the others, the map of the London Tower unrolled in front of them.
“This is the most accurate one I manage to put it,” Royce said, “thanks to our old floor plan and any information Myron collected in the past days.”
“I used the Diary of a Traveler by LIBRI and also the LIBRI, which was a very hard romance but it felt very accurate to me.” Myron counted the books on his fingers.
“You read strange books, for a monk,” Mauvin pointed out, making him blush.
“Surely Ballentyne modified things in the meantime.” Hadrian tapped the edge of the parchment.
“For sure we know he keeps his airship there, probably docked here.” Royce drew with his index finger a circle near the wall of the tower. “The three city walls and the ditch surely remained. The garrison will increase its usual number of two hundred soldiers, just for us.”
“I’ll be personally offended if it isn’t at least doubled,” Hadrian said.
“Ballentyne’s commander, Breckton, can call until five hundred men at once.” Royce scolded. “Happy?”
“Definitely.”
Mauvin studied the three walls. “You have already been there once, right?”
“Yes, the time we stole the crown jewels,” Hadrian stated, serious.
Myron exchanged a look with Mauvin. “When you speak like that, I can’t say if you’re telling the truth or not.”
“Never mind.” Royce waved his hand. “We can’t use the same tactic twice.” He tapped the most internal wall. “Normally, I will climb the wall. At night, no one can spot me and almost no one expects me to be able to do so. Hadrian is good for a distraction, luring the guards away so I can slip inside.”
“Ten or twelve soldiers at once aren’t a problem for me,” Hadrian stated. “I don’t fight an entire garrison, but I’m good at giving the idea I can. And if I do so, they tend to overkill with the reinforcement.”
“But Merrick knows our tactics. He definitely advises Ballentyne to order his men not to move from his safety boxes.” He tapped an area on the last floor of the tower. “Two or three men I can defeat, but more than that I’m at disadvantage.”
“We may use the fact that those soldiers can’t move. If we steal a uniform…”
“Yes, I guess you may infiltrate the group and I can be the diversion.” Royce eyes scanned the maps.
“The space is narrow inside the tower, there can’t be more than fifteen, and they may not be able to call for help if you’re good enough to lure everyone. I can defeat them and then you can climb safely.”
“But Ballentyne knows our faces. He’s an idiot, but if well advised, he may pass a description to his soldiers.” Finally, Royce noticed Mauvin waving. “Yes?”
Mauvin had the impression Royce was doing it on purpose. “He doesn’t know me.”
And Mauvin was self-confident enough to propose a battle one against fifteen.
“Yes. Thank you for your input.” Royce returned his gaze to Hadrian. “Merrick knows us too well. He probably already predicted all our possible decisions based on our previous mission. We need to do something we never do, subvert his expectation. We need to do something we have never done and we won’t normally do.”
“Like what?” Hadrian asked.
Royce turned to Mauvin. “Ballentyne doesn’t know you. So you can infiltrate his garrison. That’s our ace card.”
Mauvin blinked. Then turned to Hadrian. “Did I stutter before?”
“No, he was just being an ass, don’t worry.” Hadrian sneered.
“You wanted to be a musketeer?” Royce asked. “Well, this is it.”
Mauvin grinned.
“Royce is coming,” Merrick stated.
Archibald paced in front of his windows. “You know for certain?”
“I just received the confirmation.” Merrick sat at the desk and arranged the pieces on the board. “But I’m not surprised. The Dauphine asking them for help was the certain outcome.”
“Well, then I’ll be ready to receive him.” Archibald punched his palm. “I’ll double the men in the tower. Ask them not to move, no matter the confusion. I put archers on every wall.” He snorted. “I want to see Royce climbing a wall with arrows in his body.”
“Do that and they’ll surely take the brush,” Merrick said calmly.
“What?”
Merrick tapped the black queen with his index finger. “Royce is aware of my presence here, and he’s aware I know him very well. He won’t use his usual simple tactics.”
“Well, then?” Archibald crossed his arms. “What I’m supposed to do?”
Something was unnerving in Merrick’s calm. The man acted as if everything was a chess game and people were no more than pawns, without counting that in reality, real lives were at stake. In his presence, he felt like a child. At least Saldur had the decency of valuing him.
“If this entire story comes out, Ethereld won’t hesitate to have me execute.”
“Every good gamble has its risk.” Merrick let the white king roll out the board. “Your prize for this success is great.”
“It is.” The thought of it made Archibald’s skin itches in expectation. Finally, the place he deserved will be his.
“I hope you remember me when you’ll have entire England.”
Hearing Merrick says it out loud was too much. “Someone can call it treason.”
Merrick smiled. “And how do you call it?”
“Opportunity.”
“Very well.” Merrick stood up and placed three black pawns in front of Archibald, on the decks. “Close all the entrances, shut the windows, put men at every door, and, most of it, tell them to be careful with anyone of their comrades. If one of the musketeers manages to enter, it is sure they’ll find a way towards the brush.” Then, he slammed the pawns out of the desk.
“Consider it done. I have Breckton on the lead.” Then, as he noticed Merrick heading for the door, added, “You don’t stay?”
“As much as I enjoy a mental challenge with Royce, I have another important thing to attend.” Merrick stopped, but didn’t turn to face Archibald. “With my advice, I think you have everything in control.”
“Sure. But don’t you want to be here?”
“Not really. I have the most faith in you.” This time, Merrick turned and his tone tried, and failed, to be reassuring. “You’re like a tower, My Lord. Not the most important piece of the board and the one that can go in only one direction. But with my indication, it is the right direction. The one taking down the king.”
Archibald hated the metaphor. He hated, even more, the patronizing tone. But he needed Merrick for his expertise, and Merrick knew too much.
“Royce was supposed to be the king?”
Merrick shook his head. “Of course not. Royce is the queen, free to do as he pleases. And taking down everything and everyone in the meantime.”
However, there was some affection there.
“And you?” Ballentyne asked. “What are you?”
“My Lord.” Merrick smiled, and it was feral. “The trick is that I’m not on the board.”
Myron wasn’t even acting. His sorrow was real when he saw all the parchments on the ground, the mud already taking most of them. His attempts to collect and reload them in the cart were frustrated by the rest of the merchants that wanted to deliver their goodies inside the first wall. They screamed and swore, which only increase Myron’s uneasiness.
Mauvin, from his hidden niche on the main door, would feel guilty if he wouldn’t have known those parchments were mostly fake and the entire cart disruption was a farce.
“Are you ready?” Hadrian, next to him, whispered. Mauvin nodded: the chain mail itched and he wasn’t used to the English uniform, but it would do.
A division of the tower garrison marched through the door, aimed for the confusion Myron generated. When the last row was there, Hadrian launched and grabbed from behind one of the soldier, pressing the mouth with his big hands. Swiftly, Mauvin took the place on the group before anyone could notice. He spared no second glare to Hadrian, who would take dispose of the now unconscious soldier.
The troop marched in the plaza right when a superior officer reached for Myron. Breckton, Mauvin deduced, by the others’ description. He patted Myron’s back and offered him and handkerchief to clean his face, before turning to the group.
He scrutinized them with a composed look. His voice was commanding, but not unkind. “Four of you, come here and help this monk to free the road. The others, keep going. Formation 6-2-1.”
Mauvin had no idea what that meant, but hopefully following the others would be enough until he managed to slip away and took off the uniform. He marched at the side of his unlike comrades until they were gained access inside the first floor of the London Tower.
There, the troop took off their bayonets and started rushing around. Before Mauvin could imitated them or at least tried tom they surrounded him, aiming at him.
Mauvin lifted his hands, disappointed. “Damn, I was hoping in something a little bit challenging.”
“Sorry about that.” Breckton’s voice came from behind as he strolled calmly in their direction. “But I know every man under my command and my lord specific order to keep attention to strangers.”
He was a good man, just like Hadrian had said. His only fault was being English and under Ballentyne’s order. They’d discussed about informing Breckton of the conspiracy, but apparently the man was too loyal to be convinced. Mauvin understood him and felt a surge of sympathy even if he’d just being caught.
Out of respect, he didn’t struggle when the soldiers disarmed him, stripped him on the fake uniform and cuffed him with heavy manacles. Luckily, it was the standard garrison sword and not his one: Mauvin would have hated losing his father’s rapier.
Catching Royce at the first attempt was wishful thinking, but Archibald couldn’t help but admit he felt a little bit disappointed when Breckton entered in his office dragging his prisoner with him. He wasn’t even Hadrian, but the youngster, the new one Merrick had talked about. With only his undershirt and his arms behind his back, that musketeer didn’t appear formidable at all.
“Are the infamous Riyria fallen so low they have to rely on a kid for doing their dirty work?” He circled around Mauvin like a cat with a mouse.
“Not a kid.”
Archibald smiled. If the kid got angry and talked, all better. Merrick and Saldur weren’t the only one able to manipulate people, obviously.
“I’ll tell you what you are,” he said. “Right now, you are a foreign entering illegally in King Ethereld’s property. And being so clumsy to being caught.”
The musketeer didn’t answer, but pressed his lips together and turned his eyes away.
“This is a death penalty offence.” Archibald leaned leisurely against his desk. “Your country won’t do anything to save you. Given I’m sure your orders came from someone that is about to be trial for treason, they’ll disown you soon enough.”
Again, no answer, only a slight movement of the eyes, as he observed Archibald from below.
“The only way to avoid ending up with your head on a pike is to confess.” Archibald bent a little down and marked the words. “Where are Royce and Hadrian?”
The silence was understandable, but Archibald hated it. “Do you think they’ll come for you? They won’t. You won’t be the first one they left behind.”
That caused a reaction and for the first time the musketeer struggled under his restraint, his eyes warmed with anger.
“The truth hurt, eh?”
“Will you give me immunity?”
Ah, here it was. Archibald gloated inside. No loyalty in Riyria, so it wasn’t unsurprising. “That depends on the value of your information.”
The musketeer hesitated, swallowing down. “They’re already inside. I was supposed to be their bait, so you will focus only on me.”
Archibald eyed Breckton. “They couldn’t have slipped inside.”
“Coulnd’t they?” A smirk. “There were merchants in the plaza just a second before you caught me. And do you think the monk was just an accident? They’re probably heading for the caveau right now.”
It wasn’t implausible. Riyria had proved many times to be able to slip no matter their security. Archibald had trusted Merrick with his insight, but now they appeared just good advices and nothing more.
“Breckton!” he yelled. “Call your men, go check immediately. Close all the door to that corridor. There is still the troop in front of the caveau as I ordered, right?” But they wouldn’t last, not if Hadrian was inside.
“Yes, my lord.” Breckton’s expression was still composed despite his obvious lack of judgement about the monk and the merchants. “But, with all due respect, it may be unwise to move all troops. It may be a trap to free some entrance for them to enter.”
Archibald glared at him. He hated Breckton, with his smartness and his composed behavior. And he hated even more when he was contradicted by him, especially if he was right.
He grabbed the musketeer by the collar of the shirt to drag him nearer. “If you lied to me, you’ll wish to be executed once I’m finished with you.” Then, he shoved him away and he tripped on the ground. “Go check, Breckton. But do it with prudence, if you must. And bring all these men with you. You may need them.”
“As you command, my lord.”
Breckton gestured at some of his men, who marched after him outside. Some soldiers remained, taking care of closing the door to avoid everyone leaving or entering without permission.
Archibald crossed his arm, watching as the musketeer tried to stand up again, his movement sloppy because the restrained hands. The soldiers didn’t move to help him. When the tower bell ring for midday, the sound resounding clearly in the office, he resigned and slumped back on the floor.
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “I am the bait.”
Archibald snorted.
“Just,” the kid continued, “not for entering in the tower.”
There was a cocky smile now on his face. Archibald blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you look outside the window, Archie?”
The nickname sounded like a mocking. Of course Riyria hadn’t hidden the fact that Archibald hated being called with that. The challenge was clear in the use of the word, so, without taking the eyes off his prisoner, Archibald circumnavigated the desk and tilted his head near the glasses.
The view from his office was on the main courtyard and the three city wall, but the sun was blocked by something that floated in front of it. Archibald’s eyes bulged.
“That’s my airship!”
A second later, the cannon shoot.
When the bombing stopped, Mauvin lifted his head. Around him, there was destruction. The door behind was completely diverted, the walls spotted with holes. Some soldiers had been hit and lay now on the floor, weeping. The ones unarmed were still on the floor, covered in dust, coughing and trembling as they tried to stand.
Ballentyne was still alive, if frightened, crouched under his desk with his head covered with both arms. Glasses from the devastated windows covered most of the area around him. The big silhouette of the airship was visible outside, floating near the facade.
Mauvin stood up with a jump. With his hands still clasped behind the back, it would be an easy jump. He calculated enough the distance, then dashed forwards. His boots clattered the glasses before he jumped on the windowsill and used it for pushing himself in the air.
“No! Stop him!” Ballentyne yelled.
Behind him, Mauvin heard the sound of swords being drawn and pistols being loaded, but it was too focused on his immediate demise: his push was too low, it wouldn’t manage to landed aboard as he expected. His body slammed against the side of the airship.
Before he fell, two strong hands grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him upstairs.
“Gotcha.” Hadrian smiled, like a child. “Myron! Gets us out of here!”
“Aye Aye Captain!” Then, with a shy smile, Myron added, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Does he know how to steer a ship?” Mauvin asked, after regaining his breath, his heart beating hard against his chest.
Hadrian brought him far from the railing, as Ballentyne’s men were shooting in their direction, hitting the wood of the bow. “Well, I don’t, and you don’t, I guess, and at least Myron knows the theory.”
“I’ve read all travel journal by ships.” Myron’s eyes were on the horizon in front of him, hands firm on the helm. “Never got the chance to practice, though. But I have faith God will guide my path.”
“Thanks to the All-Mighty,” Hadrian stated, and Mauvin couldn’t tell if he was joking or trying to exorcize the risks of their plan by being sarcastic.
“Amen,” Mauvin answered. He was definitely sarcastic.
With a slice of his short sword, Hadrian cut the chain that connected Mauvin’s manacles. Now he could move his arms, but the heavy iron cuffs remained.
“For that, you have to wait for Royce,” Hadrian said. “He has never taught me how to pick locks.”
***
The way to be successful in a chess game was to see at least three moves in advance. Merrick prided himself to be able to see at least five moves in advance, and not only in the game but in real life, which was why he was so successful as a scheming. He was good in anticipating people’s reaction and action.
Even before proposing his plan to Saldur, he’d known what would be the outcome.
He’d knew the princess would have asked the musketeers for help and that they would have been forced to accept, so he’d moved the pieces to trap them in London with Ballentyne, just to have them lose time.
He’d also knew the princess would have tried to contact Esrahaddon despite the dangerous of her situation. But Merrick had intercepted enough letters and studied enough her character to realize she would try to advise her friend and her dearly professor of the danger he would be in. If someone was framing her using him, he was in danger too.
Which wasn’t far-fetched: Merrick appreciated the Dauphine’s smartness. He was also going to use it at his advantage.
If he hoped to have King Ethereld on his side and push him into a war against France, he needed to give him a scapegoat. And he had the right person for the job.
“My Lord.” Poe joined him in the carriage, assuring with wariness that he wasn’t being followed.
“So?” Merrick asked.
“You were right, as usual. I saw Royce in Esrahaddon’s office.” His voice lowered. “I was therewhen he arrived, cleaning the library. They kicked me out and I didn’t trust myself to remain nearby, to not be caught sneaking, so I don’t know what they talked about.”
“You did good.” Merrick already knew: Royce suspected the brush might be already hidden somewhere in Esrahaddon’s possession and he wasn’t take any chance to miss it. “Then what?”
“I didn’t see Royce again, and the professor kept on with his life.”
“And so shall do you,” Merrick ordered. “They’re acting normal just not to raise suspicious. I’m sure Esrahaddon will move soon enough.”
And as he predicted. Professor Esrahaddon left the college in the middle of the night, a dark cloak to cover his figure. Without taking a horse or a carriage, he headed outside the city, to the hills up north. His movements were wary, fearing to be followed.
Despite his prudence, he didn’t notice Merrick pursuing him. After all, he was trained for those kind of mission. And he expected Esrahaddon’s move since he’d let him receive the Dauphine’s letter – the code was nice for an amateur, but elementary to crack down. She warned him, so Merrick was sure Esrahaddon would move to warn Degan Gaunt.
The chasing ended two hours later, once Esrahaddon reached a thin crevice, almost invisible outside because of the big tree raising in front and the thick vegetation that grown around.
It was astonish that the hidden place for the most wanted man of England was so near a big city like Oxford, but Merrick approved it. Better being in a place no one would suspect of. And it was a nice place too, because from outside it was almost impossible to see inside and an army would have find hard to enter giving the narrow passage.
Merrick suspected no many people were inside, but still too much for only one person. But he had no intention to catch Gaunt, for now. Just have enough information to pass to Ethereld later.
However, he walked nearer when he noticed Esrahaddon was taking too much time to leave, trying to catch some conversation. There was a minimum risk that the crevice had another exit point.
“Come, Merrick.”
Royce.
He shouldn’t have been there.
Merrick walked inside as if the situation didn’t surprise him. The crevice widened in a cave with a small hole on the ceiling that let the moonlight enlighten the rock walls. Royce stood there, back against one wall and arms crossed, eyed him behind his hood.
“Esrahaddon left from the other side.”
“I guess much.”
“Should I be disappointed you underestimate me so much?” Royce let his arms lose and took two steps forward. “Do you really think the same trick will work two times? You want to use us to trick Esrahaddon in revealing Gaunt’s hideout, so I used it to reveal you.”
Move and countermove. This time, Royce anticipated Merrick’s better. Merrick expected Royce could have guessed he hadn’t left the brush with Ballentyne, or that he would try to deliver it to Esrahaddon to make the con complete. He hadn’t expected Royce using it against him.
“Where is the brush?”
No point in resisting. Royce was stronger and faster as a fighter, and in the dark he was even more at advantage. Merrick took out the brush from his pocket and stretched the hand. Royce grabbed it and tucked it inside his cloak. Then, he drew Alverstone, the blade glinting in the dim light.
“You wait long,” Merrick said. “I expect you to look for me soon after Venice.” He’d tried to be irretraceable as possible, but deep down he was aware that, if Royce would have looking for him, he would have find him nevertheless.
“Because of Gwen?”
Merrick nodded. “I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t a revenge because of Jade. She wasn’t supposed to be there. But the scale is balanced, now. You have no reason to hold back.”
Royce’s expression didn’t change. It wasn’t dark or threatening, just serious, a quiet acceptance. “If she wouldn’t have been there, I would have to decide between dying or let Hadrian dying. Do you think it would have been better?”
It was a weakness, considering Hadrian less. Merrick somehow had still problems processing the way Royce had found a new, more successful partner in someone that was so profoundly different from him.
“Your death was a causality I keep in consideration,” he said. “But I also had enough faith in you to think you may have find another solution to save you both.”
A small smirk tugged Royce’s lip. “Tell me: if it would be me or Hadrian, what do you think I would have chosen?”
“You wouldn’t have. Hadrian would have chosen for you.”
But the reply surprised Merrick. “I wouldn’t have let him.” Then, he breathed. “I know you didn’t plan for Gwen. It was Arcadius. He told you about the flooding, did he?”
“Yes. And I told him how I planned to use it.”
Merrick remembered how Arcadius had been convinced of the importance of the mission for France. Despite being an old musketeer, the man wasn’t as loyal to the royal family as he should. On the contrary, in his mind a war against England was more important for him, to restore the pride of France in Europe, even at the cost of his pupil’s despair. Merrick didn’t understand all of his thinking, but it had been useful.
“But he didn’t tell me about Gwen. I do not know why he did that.”
It was a move that made no sense.
“I do.” Royce’s tone was of quiet acceptance. “I would have marry her and leave the musketeers for good. Arcadius didn’t want that. He helped me, he trained me, he wasn’t ready to let me go so easily.” He snorted. “A pity his plan turned against him and the failure he caused was the failure of the musketeers too.”
Arcadius was a smart man; Merrick had enjoyed some chess play with him. But sometimes, he had been blind to some obvious consequences of his moves.
“You didn’t kill Gwen.” Royce put Alverstone away. “I did. I’m not killing you for that.”
The certainty of his demise was so profound in Merrick that the confirmation of his survival froze him for a second, which Royce took advantage to surpass him and heading toward the exit.
“If you let me live,” Merrick said, “we’ll face each other again in the future. You know I won’t be kind enough not to play with your life on the line.”
Royce stopped but didn’t turn. “Then I’ll repay you with the same courtesy, without any more debits between us.”
But there was still a debt. Merrick pulled out his pocket a small rolled parchment closed with a red ribbon.
“Take this.”
“What is it?”
“A proof you may need, signed with Lord Braga’s sigil. It was my assurance… now it’s yours.” There was no trick in Merrick’s offer and Royce understood, because he took the parchment without looking at it. “But this round ends in a draw. Since you came this far for Esrahaddon, you won’t be in time for the Dauphine’s process.”
At that, Royce smiled. The feral smile he used after a successful mission and that Merrick remembered very well.
“I have a fast ride.”
When Merrick left the cave, few minutes after Royce, the silhouette of the airship was still visible in the clear sky, heading towards France.
It two one second for Royce to open Mauvin’s manacles with his picks. Mauvin relaxed once his wrists were finally free and he brushed them to regain better their mobility and their blood circulation. Red marks stood out on the skin, but they wouldn’t scar.
“I didn’t teach you because it’s a too refined art for you.”
“Maybe you should admit you suck at teaching.”
There was something soothing in hearing them bickering again. Royce glared at Hadrian, but it appeared more like an affectionate gesture.
“Rather tell me: what about Merrick’s paper?”
“Well, basically Braga admits in it to hire Merrick for a conspiracy against the Royal Family,” Hadrian said. He had hidden it in his breast pocket. “Sure he can claim it is a fake, but with his sigil and his writing style, no many people would be convinced.”
“Well, well.” Royce crossed his arms with the satisfied expression of a cat that just got a mouse. “So in the same mission we save a prince, a princess, the entire France, humiliate Ballentyne again, surpass Merrick in a mind game and even get this wonderful ship.”
Mauvin suspected the fact that the airship didn’t make Royce seasick as normal ships had something to do with his good humor.
“A definitely successful mission.” Royce turned to Mauvin. “You’re lucky. You got an easy one.”
“An easy one?” Mauvin repeated, eyes wide.
Hadrian, with an amused smile, nodded. “Definitely an easy one.”
“It’s unthinkable! An outrage! Treating like that the Dauphine of France! What are we, barbarians? Or worse, English?”
Lord Valin’s tirade brought a smile to Arista’s lips. It hadn’t happened anything she hadn’t expected to, but seeing that not all nobles were immediately smitten with Braga and Saldur’s hypothesis was refreshing. Even if they didn’t like her much, they weren’t ready to jump on their side.
“They didn’t even let you attend your father’s funeral! What will the others think of France? And now this… this farce! This abomination! This mockery of a trial!”
Again, nothing unexpected. Arista knew that a king’s murder wasn’t something to be taken lightly and the court couldn’t wait too long for a funeral and an investigation. Only her brother’s disappearance delayed the inevitable. Her father’s burial should be followed by a coronation, but how to proceed without the Heir and with the other heir suspected of treason?
“They should be outside looking for the Dauphin, not here accusing you of such dreadful things. Their insistence about Alric’s death is suspicious.”
Arista took Valin’s hands in hers. “I appreciate your concern, truly. And I’m confident that with such men like you on my side and with God’s mercy, the truth will prevail.”
But, inside her, she couldn’t help but worry. It was Alric’s jacket the one they had found, bloodied and pierced, in the forest outside Paris.
“What if Alric is really dead?” she whispered to Hilfred, as they were called again into the courtroom. “What if I miscalculated and send him to his death?”
Hilfred’s loyalty prevented him from squeezing her hand in a comforting gesture. Instead, he said, “You send Melissa to check, and she reported that the musketeers took the Dauphin in custody from his lover’s house before the Cardinal’s guards. They will protect him.”
She had asked them to. Objectively, Hilfred was right. The jacket might be a fraud made by Royce and if the musketeers would have failed, Saldur wouldn’t have hesitated to reveal Alric’s body in the trial. So she needed to assume they were still unarmed and on their way to completing their mission. But it was hard not to worry, and not to wonder if Alric would forgive her for her actions.
The only thing she could do now was to gain time: they hadn’t talked about Esrahaddon’s letters yet, but when they did, it would be over. No noble would stand on her side if she failed to present the brush.
“Lord Valin,” Saldur said, once everyone had taken place in the courtroom. It was the first time he took the lead, which had delivered to Braga at first. “We are aware of your discomfort, and believe me, it is shared. One week ago, we have a king and a clear succession. Now our king was murdered, the Heir possibly dead too and suspiciously fell over the Dauphine. It isn’t a good situation.”
Valin crossed his arms, refusing to be involved in the parade. “Yet, we’re here.”
“We are, because out duty forces us to find the truth. No one will be happy than me to discover this is all a misunderstanding.”
Saldur left his seat near the judge and Braga and strolled towards Arista, who sat with Hilfred on the first bench, alone. His smile seemed sincere, sweetly.
“I saw your birth,” he said. Arista didn’t let him touch her hands, and he didn’t press. “I don’t want to believe any of it. But, as a religious man, I think we need to consider the heart of everyone involve in here and try to take the best path.”
Arista remained silent.
“Our Lord and Savior looks at all his children with mercy, even the ones that lost his way,” Saldur continued. “And where men can’t find forgiveness, he will. Won’t be better for everyone to let it go of the burden and embrace God’s forgiveness?”
“Speak clearly, Eminence, please,” Arista said. “I’m just a silly woman who possess nothing of your wisdom.”
Saldur concealed the snort soon enough. “My suggestion is for you to confess your sin, Arista, and I’ll grant you the forgiveness of God. Won’t you like to spare all your subjects,” and he widened his arms to embrace the public around, “to continue this painful trial?”
Of course they wanted her to confess. Her own words would be difficult to discredit later, while the letters were more a risk, especially if the musketeers were on their way to recover the brush. Unexpectedly, that give her strength.
Time. She needed to gain more time. She looked outside the window, giving the idea of reflecting on it. Clouds were swirling around, the sun came and went in the not-so-clear sky.
“I’m sure the judge will be merciful too,” Saldur pressed, taking Arista’s silence as a surrender. “Maybe you have been… misguided. We can understand it. We can accept it. The law won’t be harsh on you.”
“Very well.” Arista stood up. Her face was serene, but her voice cracked a little. “You all know my mother died in a fire when I was little, and I barely escape death thanks to my bodyguard.” Her hand gestured towards Hilfred. “My father was the king so he couldn’t give me the love my mother used to. Nor he lull me at night, or told me fairytales.”
Her head lowered down, her pain sincere thinking about her father and the few but important moment they’d shared together. The fact that they were using his brush to hurt her was enraging her.
“But he loved me very much and he proved it, many times, in his own way. And I loved him too. I would never hurt him.” He lifted her head and looked straight at Saldur. “I swear, I didn’t kill my father. Please, God, on your mercy and wisdom, as men are fallible, give us a sign, protect your daughter and all us from falsehoods.”
The room stilled. A second later, a ray of light from outside enlightened her figure, her golden embodiment glinting with the risk of blinding people looking at her. The room exploded into chaos, people screaming about the God’s will or witchcraft or other intelligible things.
“Order! Order!”
Braga called for the guards to clear the courtroom until the people wouldn’t regain their composure. Arista retreated back in her room.
“That was incredible.” Hilfred’s admiration was genuine.
Arista shook her head. “Just a little bit of luck and the knowledge of the palace well enough to anticipate where the sunrays would fall.”
The trick wouldn’t last. As soon as they would be called again in the courtroom, Braga would take the letters in consideration, and there would be no miracle to convince the nobles, not even the ones that now were convinced of her innocence’s sign. But she gained time.
Now everything was in the musketeers’ hands.
The voices were hushed. Mauvin didn’t mean to pry, but he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation either.
“You’re angry with me because I didn’t kill Merrick,” Royce was saying.
Hadrian laughed, humorless. “Not at all. I’m angry I didn’t kill him.”
A pause. Then Hadrian continued, “What? Do you think I don’t want revenge too? I loved Gwen. Not as you did, but she was family. I dreamt of gut the man that put her at risk.”
Another pause. “Why didn’t you do it?” Royce asked, and his tone was resigned.
“Because Merrick is your friend. Whatever happened in the past between you two, is yours. I have no intention to stick in it.” A sigh. “Unless you want me to.”
The sound of steps moving around. “Do you think I should have killed Merrick?”
“You know, I’m happy you didn’t in the end.”
Royce snorted. “I’m turning soft.”
“You’re becoming a better person.” Hadrian patted him. “If I recall back what you were when we met the first time… And look at you now! Being all merciful and such.”
“Don’t get used to it. Merrick is an exception.”
“Gwen was too. And Myron. And Arcadius, in a way… And Mauvin, too, I guess? And of course, I am the biggest exception.” Hadrian’s tone was amused. “Looks like you have many exceptions to your rules.”
“Keep talking, I dare you.” But the tone was affectionate. Then, out loud, “Come, Mauvin, I think you heard enough.”
Since Royce had probably heard his steps long before and decided not to interrupt his conversation with Hadrian, Mauvin wasn’t ashamed when he perked out the corner. “Myron wants you on the main deck.”
They shared a look between them, the confirmation of a long friendship that needed no words, then stood up to follow Mauvin. Myron was still on the helm.
“What is it, Master-at-arms?” Hadrian asked. He liked getting along with Myron’s knowledge of ships.
Myron pointed at the horizon. “That’s strange.”
There was an accumulation of white clouds that moved irregularly and had some dark spots here and there “A storm coming? We can avoid it, I think.”
“Not a storm.” Royce’s expression darkened. “No, no,” he anticipated Hadrian’s question. “I’ll let you the surprise.”
They focused on the cloud. They started dissipating as another airship emerged from there, big and armed with cannons and soldiers. At first Mauvin guessed it was Ballentyne, pursuing them, until he noticed the French flag over the sails. After that, it was easy to spot Luis Guy on the main deck, just at the side of the figurehead, Thranic behind him.
Hadrian swore under his breath.
“We should have expected it,” Royce said. “Merrick worked for the Cardinal since the beginning. Of course he copied Da Vinci’s projects.”
“But their airship is bigger.”
Royce shrugged. “Maybe Merrick delivered Archie only part of the project. Or hired a better engineer to improve them. Not a surprise, in any case.”
“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Luis Guy yelled. “And you can’t escape this time.”
“Are you sure?” Hadrian replied. “My experience told me dimensions aren’t as important as the ability to use it.”
Luis Guy wasn’t amused. “Do not fret your demise, shall we?” And he gestured behind him.
One of the soldiers dragged a bound and gagged Alric on the desk. He wore the same clothes of the last time Mauvin had seen him, without the jacket, and they were now ragged and muddied. Dry blood spotted on the right side of his forehead and dripped down his cheek, but other than that he appeared unarmed.
And absolutely furious.
“Are you ready to surrender now?” Luis Guy asked.
“Oh, this is a problem.”
Royce crossed his arms. “They have to be extremely confident of their success if they have no trouble taking the Dauphin hostage.”
“Our options are very limited now. We can surrender, but with zero guarantees that they would let him go.”
“They wouldn’t. They’ll accuse us of his murder. Surrender isn’t an option.”
“But if we fight, we may kill the Dauphin by accident. Or they’ll kill him if they’re losing.”
“We have to think about France.” Royce took off the brush and rolled it in his hands. “If the prince dies but we’ll still be able to report back to Arista, we’ll stop the war against England and she may be able to succeed her father as the Queen.”
“But that won’t give Saldur and Braga more power, using the fact she’s a woman against them?”
“Maybe. But we’ll be alive to help her, and she will be too. If we fail, both she and Alric will die.”
Hadrian breathed heavily. “We’re choosing the better between two worse?”
“Basically.”
Mauvin listened to the conversation with wide eyes, at first unable to interrupt them, then enraged by the decision they were about to confirm. “No! We can’t abandon Alric.”
“Saving him is too risky,” Royce replied. “France may survive without him, but not without him and Arista.”
“This isn’t about France.” Mauvin snapped the brush away from Royce’s grasp and lifted him in the air, yelling towards the other airship. “An exchange! The brush for the prince!” He walked towards the parapet. “I came aboard your ship with the brush while the Dolphin came aboard ours. Once he’s safe, I give it to you.”
The others watched the discussion without intervening. But when Luis Guy moved to order his men to lower a catwalk, Royce said, “Do you realize they’ll attack us the moment they grasped the brush?”
“And they’ll kill you too,” Hadrian added.
“Well, that’s accidental. Any hope for France will rely on us escaping now.”
Mauvin knew. It was well aware of the risks, even if he had enough faith in the Two Musketeers to be less worried about France’s destiny. But he didn’t want to lose Alric. He couldn’t.
“Tell me you would have done the same thing as me if there would have been Gwen on that ship.”
The silence that followed was the answer.
Alric was beyond fury. In the last few days he’d been kidnapped, manhandled, hurt and kept prisoner as if he wasn’t the fucking Dolphin of France. Being used as a hostage for an exchange was the last of a long series of humiliations that brought him to his limit, with his mind only capable of thinking scenario after scenario about how he would torture those that had wronged him.
But when he was pushed on the catwalk, still bound and gagged, all his attention focused on Mauvin.
They strolled carefully towards each other and met right at the center. Mauvin’s expression was attentive, as he scrutinized Alric from head to toe. Alric expected him to talk, to give him one of his cocky remarks, but then Mauvin turned and continued his path towards Luis Guy’s airship.
Alric had to focus on his steps not to fall overboard, so he could turn his head only when Hadrian’s strong arms grabbed him and lifted him aboard. Only then he could look back, but they’d already closed the cargo hold, hiding Mauvin’s figure from sight.
As soon as Hadrian cut his restraint, Alric tore the gag apart. “I’ll have them tortured to death. And the quartered!” He was trembling, the rage and the adrenaline mixed together.
“Myron, take us out of here!” Royce ordered. The airship veered abruptly to the side.
“What? No!” Alric sprang to his feet. “We need to save Mauvin.”
“We don’t have time.” In the time Royce jumped to the nearer cannon, Luis Guy’s voice resounded in the air as he ordered his men to shell against the musketeers. The airship trembled dangerously as it was hit.
“Mauvin surrender to give us a chance.” Hadrian’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “We must not waste his sacrifice.”
With that, he was out, dashing to the below deck to put the other cannons in action. Alric stood there, fist close in rage, hating to be powerless. He strode near Myron, that despite his red face and the sweat that rolled down his forehead, kept the helm secure.
It was clear they had few chances: Luis Guy’s airship was bigger and had greater firepower. If they were hit on the wrong side, they wouldn’t be able to float anymore. And that imagining the airship would remain intact, which wasn’t a certain outcome.
Gunfire exploded in the air. Royce swore as the airship’s bottom cracked. The airship tilted dangerously to one side. Myron stood by grasping the helm, while Alric lost his balance and rolled on the deck.
“Hadrian! Are you okay?”
“Fine!” came di muffled answer. A second later, he appeared in a rush, covered in wooden dust. “But the cannons on the right side are gone.”
Alric pushed a hand on the railway to steady him. As infuriating as it was, they needed to escape, because they couldn’t fight at such a disadvantage. He scrutinized the sky, searching for an idea, until he spotted a group of black clouds, enlightened from time to time by thunders.
“There!” he pointed. “We can hide there!”
Myron looked at Royce, who nodded. “Not a bad idea. We’re lighter-”
“Now that we lost our firepower, even more so,” Hadrian added.
“-and inside there it would be harder to follow us.”
Myron immediately rolled the helm on the left, to steer the ship in the right direction. Royce climbed the tree and arranged the sails so they caught the wind better. The other airship was momentarily blocked in his way by the strong gush that came suddenly, but it was still on their tail.
“What do you want to do, Your Majesty?” Royce asked, as he landed back on the deck. “The storm may give us some time to escape, but it isn’t a certainty.”
Alric looked at him while his mind recalled the last events, the way Luis Guy’s men pursued him as he’d impersonated Mauvin. And even when they’d recognized the mistake, they had pushed his head on the ground, wounded him, almost killed him.
“I want them to die. I want them to suffer, and then die,” he said. “And I want to save Mauvin.”
“Don’t look at me.” Hadrian shook his head at Royce’s inquiring look. “I don’t get to decide for you to complain about my suicidal desire or my obsession with good deeds.”
Royce scolded, but there was a smirk on his face. “I haven’t beaten Merrick at his own game just to be defeated by the likes of people like Thranic. And now I have the legal authorization to kill him.”
They didn’t kill him immediately, as Mauvin had expected. They just took the brush, disarmed him and knocked him down. When Mauvin’s head stopped spinning enough for him to be aware again of his surrounding, he found himself in the main deck, restrained by his arms by two soldiers.
The sound of gunfire had momentarily stopped and the airship was flying steady. Luis Guy was there, a foot on the parapet as he scrutinized the horizon, the brush glinted inside his breast pocket.
Following his gaze, Mauvin spotted the musketeers’ airship. It was damaged, but still able to sustain itself in the air. By its course, it was clear they were heading voluntarily towards the storm in an attempt to escape their pursuers. But they looked so slow Mauvin feared they would be reached.
Do it, do it, do it… And relief fell upon him when the airship disappeared inside the black clouds.
“What do we do, Sir?” Thranic asked.
“We follow them,” Luis Guy answered. “The Cardinal gave us freedom with the Dolphin, but if he reaches Paris with the musketeers it may be a problem.”
“You’ll never take them there.”
Mauvin’s attempt to discourage him was met only with a dismissal look from Luis Guy, who still didn’t order his execution, as he commanded his men to get ready to face the storm. Perhaps he believed that Mauvin’s presence would prevent Riyria from attacking.
Once inside the storm, the musketeers’ airship was nowhere to be seen, while around him there was the blackness of the clouds, the deafening sound of the thunders and the blinding of the lightings that crackled all around them.
“Sir! Over there!”
Everyone lifted their gaze upon them, Mauvin included, in time to see the other airship shooting in their direction from above, their remaining cannons pointed at the airship’s balloon.
“Second round!” came Royce’s voice over the thunders, a second before the bombing started.
They hit the stern and one of the tree connected to the balloon. The backslash made the airship roll on the opposite side and unbalanced the people on the deck and the soldiers around the cannons. Lightning exploding near made it unsteady.
Luis Guy slipped on the floor, his head hit the parapet. Taking a chance of it, Mauvin kicked the leg of his first captor, then decked the other against the upper deck’s wall. He collected back his sword. Around him, the soldiers were too focused on the airship attack, so he leapt forwards and stripped the brush from Luis Guy’s pocket.
“After him!”
Thranic noticed his action, but too late. Mauvin dodged a soldier as he parried with another one, then throw himself inside the below desk. He closed the door after him and locked him. It wouldn’t hold, but Mauvin didn’t plan just to hide.
If only he could get Myron’s attention from the helm, he might be able to return on board…
The attack from below had put the other airship in a difficult position, unable to answer the fire from a bottom angle. But if it was enough to slow it down, it would take more to effectively disable it. Once they finished the little firepower they had left, Royce and Hadrian moved on the parapet, keeping their balance despite the storm infuriating around them, which made difficult for Alric to remain steady.
Royce’s dagger was already in his hand. “Ready?”
“To the boarding!” Hadrian winked at Myron, who smiled.
And they were out. Royce leaped on the airship balloon’s, his hand able to grasp the leather fabric, Alverstone piercing and cutting through it. Despite the difficult position, Royce moved on the balloon like he was on the ground, his gestures a flawless dance as he kept making hole in the balloon, puff of air swirled around the cuts.
Instead, Hadrian had used a rope to land on the airship’s desk. His main aim wasn’t to defeat the crew, which was too numerous even for him, but to impede them to hit Royce as he ended his job. That was an acceptable task, because some men were too busy steady the ship in the storm while other still tried to bombard the other airship.
Once Royce was satisfied with his job, he landed next to Hadrian to give him a hand. The airship was losing altitude because of the balloon’s disrupt, but not fast enough to have a crash. Myron followed the course as both airship emerged from the storm.
Alric peered up from the parapet: Mauvin was nowhere to be see. They were now flying over a big city Alric didn’t recognize, but big enough to have his own cathedral. The enemy crew was throwing overboard the cargo in order to regain altitude. As much as it was reassuring seeing the cannons go, they risked hitting people below.
And they couldn’t be allow to escape or to crash over the city. Hadrian and Royce were still fighting in the middle of the chaos.
“Myron! We need to do something!”
Myron bit his lips, observing the airship’s keel brushing the bellower’s roof. “I may try something I read once…”
“Well, do it! Fast!”
Alric regretted not having asked what Myron meant the moment he realized it, but it was too late to stop it. Myron let the airship drop at the same height of the enemy one and the drove it against the other. They were made slow by damages and the remaining of the storm, so they didn’t destroy each other, but the other airship was pushed against the cathedral’s roof and stuck there, the spires making a good docking space.
Alric, who had been throw against the parapet by the force of the impact, opened back his eyes and free his head by his protective hands. He glared at Myron, whose trembling hands were still on the helm, then climbed over the parapet.
On the other desk, the hit had thrown everyone down, including Hadrian and Royce who weren’t on Alric’s sight, but not all of them had been knocked out and they were slowly regained their feet. With the two airships so intertwined, they could get on board easily.
Alric realized he’d basically delivered himself back on his enemies’ hands, if he didn’t do anything.
One of the soldiers realized it too, and eyed Alric with a grin of satisfaction. Alric recognized him immediately: it was the same soldier that had managed to grab hold of Alric’s horse during his escaping attempt. Humiliating memory returned back, the way he’d been kicked and dismounted, kept in the dirt with his head pressed down.
Anger surged inside him. Before the soldier was near enough, Alric sprang to action. He collected from the ground an abandoned sword and launched. Surprised by the sudden movement he couldn’t anticipate, the soldier wasn’t ready enough to parry as Alric stuck the blade in his neck.
The soldier staggered back, gurgled something incomprehensible then fall down, the sword standing out his body. Alric looked at the scene and panted, the adrenaline seizing his body, until he felt a hand grabbing his neck.
It was Thranic.
“Well, princeling, that was a bad decision.” His sword was dangerously closed to Alric’s neck.
Then Thranic halted, his mouth half-opened as a line of blood slip out his lips. He released the sword, and Arlic, and drop on the ground death, revealing the figure of Royce with a bloodied Alverstone drawn and a satisfied grin on his face.
“I save you, so this isn’t illegal, right?”
Hadrian flanked him, his swords out too, his gaze fixed on their airship. “Smart idea, but you could have warned us first.”
“Sorry!” came Myron’s voice.
Alric regained a composure he’d lost, his legs still trembling but steady enough to sustain him. “Where is Mauvin?”
Mauvin groaned, his body complained about the blow he just received. It was confusing at first: one second he was running away while Luis Guy was shooting at him, one second later he’d been thrown out of balance and now he was on the ground, his bottom body stuck below a pile of cases from the cargo that had dropped on him.
In the crash he lost both the brush and his sword, that lied on the floor in front of him, but out of reach. He tried to crawl away, using his nails to pull himself, when he saw boots strolling in his direction. He lifted his gaze in time to see Luis Guy towering over him, the gun aimed at his head. But when he press the trigger, nothing happen.
“You’re lucky, it’s empty.” Luis Guy threw away the gun and bent down to collect the brush. He kicked away the sword as he walked away.
With a frustrated grunt, Mauvin trashed his body, his nails dug on the wooden floor. The cases were heavy on him, but he kicked one enough to pull his body out of it. His muscles throbbed and he was sure that he would be covered in bruises soon, but nothing was broken. He rushed outside, taking only the time of gripping his sword.
The airship had landed on a church’s roof. While there was still some commotion on the main deck, Luis Guy had thrown out a rope from the stern and was now walking at the edge of the sloping roof, with the clear idea of disappearing in the city’s crowd. Mauvin looked around for a way to reach him and saw another rope dangling from the sail.
He grabbed it, the pushed with his foot to gain speed. He flying in the air, twisted around and then jumped down. He rolled a little and grabbed with hard one of the spire to pull him up. He was now two meters in front of Luis Guy, effectively blocking his path.
“Give me the brush.” Mauvin’s sword was drawn and ready.
Luis Guy gave him a mild-annoyed gaze. “If I have to kill all the Pickering boys, I will.”
That was unexpected. “So you remember me.”
“Of course.” The tone was cold. “I expected a fight against a former musketeer, but you were so kind to come first. After that, your father was too busy saving your life than opposing me.”
Mauvin tightened the grip on his blade but didn’t move. This wasn’t about revenge, even if he wouldn’t mind taking it. This was about France, and Alric, and being a musketeer. “Give me the brush.”
“Fine, then.” Luis Guy pulled out his own rapier.
The two faced off on the roof. Mauvin was the first to launch an attack. Luis Guy was skilled, every slash parried and counterattack, the blade slicing on Mauvin’s clothes. He was fast enough to avoid being hurt, but he was forced to step back.
Then Luis Guy advanced and pull out another short sword. Mauvin twisted and gripped the other’s wrist while still parried the other sword. He disarmed Luis Guy by tightened the grip, but the effort left him a little bit defenseless, so he couldn’t avoid the kick Luis Guy gave him.
Mauvin lost his balance and fell down, rolling on the sloping roof, but he was fast enough to grab the gargoyle at his right side before dropping entirely from the roof. Luis Guy was there, waiting for him. Mauvin dodged the first slash and dashed forwards to recollect his rapier who had lost in the fall.
His father’s rapier.
He brushed the hilt with the tip of his feet to lift him in the air, grabbed him in time to parry Luis Guy’s sword, but the backslash staggered him and made him lose the grip of the rapier, who flung in the air above him. Mauvin blocked the sword with his own hand, the blade digging in his palm as Luis Guy pressed forwards: if he couldn’t cut Mauvin, he would throw him out of the roof. Mauvin’s feet were dangerously near the edge of the gargoyle they were fighting on.
“You shouldn’t have left the Gascony,” Luis Guy said.
Then the rapier fell down and Mauvin’s hand clasped it and then pushed it, piercing Luis Guy’s clothes until his heart.
“You shouldn’t have killed my brother.”
Before Luis Guy’s dead body dropped down, Mauvin snatched back the brush and the kicked him. He didn’t look at him as he descended towards the ground, a loud sound to end the fall.
“Mauvin! Mauvin!”
The Dolphin was there, unarmed, climbing down in his direction, with Royce and Hadrian behind him, to assure he wouldn’t break his neck. There was a relieved smile on his face.
Grinning, Mauvin raised his arm: the golden brush glinted in the air.
The way her uncle was reading Esrahaddon’s letter was too theatrical for Arista’s taste, but the rest of the public was enthralling by it. She expected it: the court loved drowning in gossip and scandal. Finally, the trial was becoming interesting.
Braga stopped just before the last, incriminating letter. “Do you want to say something, nephew? I’m not happy to read these, you understand me.”
Sure you aren’t, giving you spent the last two hours reading all of them until the last details. “No, uncle. I don’t deny a correspondence to Esrahaddon, and it was nothing illegal. He is an Oxford professor.”
“But you have to admit, some of his insinuation are… a little bit daring.”
“Yes. You don’t have my answers at those.”
The audience wasn’t buying her explanation: the letters were a mixture of real and forged, so the little hint about Gaunt and the England throne were already there. It was hard to believe she wasn’t aware of speaking with a possible traitor.
“I don’t have your letters, but I assure everyone, I have enough to prove how your reaction was.”
A dramatic pause, that created tension in the room, before grabbing the last letter and declaiming it with a great wave of gasp between the public. Even Lord Valin, for the first time since the beginning, seemed uncertain.
“Where is your brush, Arista?”
She grabbed his skirt: it was over. She’d done everything she could, but in the end she couldn’t stop time. The only remaining hope was that Alric still lived and somehow could prove her innocence later on to avoid the war.
“Hey, what’s that?”
The sudden exclamation brought Arista to her feet: everyone was looking outside the window. The sun was clouded by a round object that was falling dangerously against the palace’s backward gardens. The more it came nearer, the more it was recognizable. Chaos erupted in the courtroom.
“It’s Ballentyne’s airship!”
“He’s come for the princess?”
“is this an invasion? A declaration of war?”
Upon all the voices, Braga and Saldur who peered from the windows to order their guards to be prepared for an attack. Red and black uniform lined up, swords in hands. When the airship crashed unceremoniously on the ground Arista noticed it was heavily damaged.
Hadrian and Mauvin, swords drawn, jumped down the parapet to face the Cardinal’s Guards. With them, a monk that fall down with not so much grace behind them. Arista’s heart fluttered and she felt Hilfred held his breath on her side.
“Those traitors!” Braga gritted on his teeth. “Capture them! They kidnapped the Dolphin!”
“What’s going on, gentlemen?”
Alric sauntered with grace from a hole in the airship; the clothes he wore were English style, not his usual fashion, but clean, and he appeared unarmed but for the bandage on his head. He raised an eyebrow at the guards and they shifted uncomfortably. Hadrian and Mauvin moved at his side, sheathing their blades.
His sudden appearance increased the confusion. Arista didn’t miss the look Saldur and Braga exchange, evidently putting off balance by it, before the people flooded outside the room to welcome the Dolphin’s return.
“Alric!” Braga rushed before everyone else. “We thought you in danger, or even death!”
“We’re so pleased to see you unarmed,” Saldur echoed.
Arista remained a little bit on the sidelines. Royce’s absence at Hadrian’s side was suspicious to say at least.
“This confusion is my fault.” Alric completely ignored the two by addressing directly his nobles. “I wanted an airship since the first time I saw it and asked the Musketeers to help me recovering one. We were on our way back when Myron,” he gestured at the monk, who lowered his head courtesy, “warned me about my father’s murder.”
“So the Musketeers didn’t kidnap you?” Lord Valin darted his eyes a second on Braga, remembering his early accusation against Arista.
“Dear Lord, no!” Arlic’s expression shut down as he turned to Saldur. “But someone tried to kill me and that was the reason I am so late. Your men, Cardinal. Luis Guy and Thranic.” He self-consciously touched the bandages.
Saldur paled. Instead, Braga was fast to react. “Sire, it is clear there is a conspiracy against you and your father. It appears more people, even before our best men, were involved than we thought. We were about to prove who was responsible.”
“And who is the man that corrupted even the most infamous guards of the kingdom?”
“A woman, Sire. I’m afraid it is your sister.”
Arista expected Alric to look at her, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look surprised. “Do you have proof about this, I guess.”
“I have.” Braga delivered him the letters and Alric took all his time to read and examined them thought, one after another, while the nobles around became hasty. “We were about to proclaim our judgement on this.”
“These could be fake.” Alric gave them back at the end of his examination.
“It is easily proved, Sire.” Now Braga’s tone was more and more assured. “If the brush is missing…”
“Lord Valin.” Alric turned to the man. “Can you please go to my sister’s room and recover it?”
Since Lord Valin was the most upright men around, no one, not even Braga and Saldur, could complain he was chosen to the task, because no one would believe him of any conspiracy. The presence or absence of the brush would be untied to his presence. Two guards accompanied him still. He was back in ten minutes, the decorated iron box in his hand.
Lord Valin opened it in front of everyone: the brush was there as usual, placed on the red silk. It brighted as it had been cleaned recently. Arista released the breath she wasn’t aware to have kept.
In the meantime, Royce had slipped soundlessly next to Hadrian and was now smirked like a cat.
Alric was bored. “Well, it settled it then. Let’s talk about the real traitor now.” He took a piece of parchment from his breast pocket and deliver to Lord Vailin. “I personally recover this letter from Luis Guy’s body when the musketeers saved me from his assassination attempt.”
The more Lord Valin read, the more his face reddened in fury. He waved it in the air, addressing Braga. “Lord Chancellor! This is your writing and your signature! You were the one ordering the Dolphin’s assassination and the frame of the Dauphine.”
The nobles erupted, every single one of them piling on Lord Valin in the attempt to read the letter. They couldn’t plea, like Arista did, because the document came from the future king himself and no one was ready argue with him. Even Saldur realized it because he stepped away from Braga.
“I helped you all this time, for the kingdom’s wellbeing…” Saldur grabbed Arista’s hands. “Your Highness, I beg your forgiveness, I was fooled too.”
She was merciful enough to give him a patronizing smile.
Being abandoned by his closest allied and with his soldiers lost in battle, Braga’s destiny was sealed. So, instead of accepting it with grace, he drew his sword and dashed. Hilfred put himself between him and Arista, but Alric was his primary objective. The blade was intercepted mid-air by Hadrian, who had strangely use his big spadone.
“Be careful!” Arista yelled. “He’s a great swordsman!”
Hadrian grinned. “I heard it before.”
The two faced each other in the round of noble, Alric who didn’t do anything to stop them. Hadrian was taller and more muscled, however his way of moving had the same trim elegance of Braga, despite the big sword he was swinging around.
Braga parried every move, but it was clearly at disadvantage and forced to step back. The more he realized, the more his attack became frantic, the more Hadrian managed to counterattack them. Until Braga launched an attack that surpassed Hadrian’s defense, but right when the blade should have pierced Hadrian’s side, he moved his spadone fast from the right to the left hand and with a strong movement, he disarmed Braga.
The spadone continued his course and severed Braga’s head. The nobles around screeched and moved not to be hit by the spurt of blood. Braga’s body fell on the ground in the pool of his own blood.
“Apologize, Your Majesty.” Hadrian scrolled his bloodied sword. “Maybe you would have wait for a trial.”
“It’s fine. Will someone clean this mess?” Alric stepped forwards and took Arista’s hand in his own, with a smile. “Now that this situation had been resolved, we have a coronation to prepare, right?” He tilted his head to Saldur. “Since I missed my father’s funeral.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Right away.”
“And send someone to repay my airship.”
Before returning in the palace, Arista eyed the Musketeers, who haven’t moved from their initial position: Royce and Mauvin were bickering about something. Hadrian reserved him a warm smile.
***
When his sword landed on the side of his last opponent and the public roared, Mauvin grinned at his family that was watching the competition for the sideline. His father beamed with pride and that was the best reward Mauvin could even ask for. Sure, he had to bear his sister’s suitors, about whom he already had a possible list of duels, but it was worth having his family there, until he was granted the permission to a leave for returning home.
After greeting his opponent, Mauvin left the field and trotted towards them. His mother welcomed him with a long, bones-breaking hug while Denek, hyper excited, jumped from one side to another and pleaded to become a musketeer too.
His father, instead, said, “That last attack was sloppy. You were lucky your opponent didn’t see it or he would have blocked it and then counterattack from below.”
It was expected, from him, from a man that had taught them to use the sword when they were barely able to walk. But he was also smiling and Mauvin dwelled in the familiarity of all that.
“Never rest, he? That is a good attitude.” Cardinal Saldur was there, patting Mauvin’s left shoulder as if they were long friends. “This one is really a good fighter.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
“I may have some tasks for someone like you… and your other two comrades, of course. Your skill will be put in good use.”
Now Mauvin understood why Hadrian and Royce sneaked away at the first occasion from the coronation’s feast. The fact that Saldur trapped him with his family’s presence wasn’t a coincidence. Mauvin doubted he’d resigned his aim at the France’s throne and separated the new king from his trusted men was the first step, even if, for someone that didn’t know the entire story, Saldur’s proposal might be an honor.
“Thanks, but I already have a job.”
Saldur’s face tightened a second. “Of course. But you may regret it.”
“Maybe.” Mauvin tilted his head towards the main grandstand, where Alric was trying to shake off his nobles and attendants and leave. “But not today.”
“Very well.” Saldur nodded politely, but he trumped away with irritation.
“Do not stir problem,” his father warned Mauvin.
“I try not.” For his benefit, the entire Luis Guy affair wasn’t public, and Mauvin hadn’t said anything: after all, that wasn’t revenge but his duty as musketeer. “Can you excuse me a second?”
He ignored Lenare’s sarcastic sneer as he strode away: Alric had finally lost his entourage and was now heading towards the gardens surrounding the main path of the palace’s courtyard.
When Mauvin reached him, Alric sat on a marble bench below a violet broom pergola, his heavy crowd and his red fur mantle that he had to wear for the crowning ceremony abandoned on a side. Despite the elegant clothes, he looked a lot like when they’d first met.
“Enjoyed the show?” Mauvin asked, luring his attention.
Alric’s surprise expression turned into a smirk. “Are you always this cocky?”
“Only on Thursday.” Mauvin sat down next to him. “And when I want to impress someone.”
“Oh, so you’re trying to impress me?” Alric bent near, their faces closer.
“No, it’s Thursday.”
Alric emitted a gurgled that was a hidden laugh, then shook his head. “Well, good, because I’m not impressed.”
“If I’d want to impress you, I would do this.”
Mauvin slid his hands on Alric’s face, first a brush of the fingertips, then he cupped it entirely. Alric didn’t staggered back when Mauvin kissed him.
With a box of Montemorcey and a barrel of ale, bot stolen from the banquet, Hadrian and Royce were privately drinking at their success, far from the pomp court that was celebrate the coronation. From their envied position on the palace’s roof, the people below appeared small like ants.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t love it.”
Hadrian made a face at his glass. “It’s the best I have in a while, true, but not so exceptional.”
“I meant our success,” Royce pointed out. “We save a princess from an executed, you get to play hero against Braga, the kingdom celebrates you… It is the kind of good deeds you love.”
“Well, you got your fair share out of it. One hundred gold?”
Royce snorted. “Which I will use to find another place to stay. Now that Myron can rebuilt his monastery, I doubt we’ll have more place there.”
“We may buy lands. In the country land.” Hadrian stared at the horizon. “Bourgogne, maybe. Have a nice tavern there, a honest job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Royce huffed. “You love this job. Especially now that we’re being restated as the main kingdom’s force and the princess herself wants you at the palace service. Besides, you will be a bad bartender.”
“Not as bad as you.” Hadrian gulped down the ale. “So, then? What do you plan?”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? Royce never had the big dreams of Hadrian and, most of the time, his actions were only a mean to survive, and hopefully in a way that allowed him some goodies, like his favorite Montemorcey.
Only one time he saw his future.
“I would have marry Gwen, you know.”
Hadrian wasn’t surprised. “You should have done it sooner.” There wasn’t judicial, as an admission of guilty, more a personal regret. “She was a saint, waiting you pulling your head out of your ass.”
“I was busy helping you pulling your own out.”
Royce hadn’t told him about the truth behind Gwen’s death, and didn’t plan to. What was the point? The man was a long gone.
“If you plan to stay here and defend the kingdom from the Cardinal’s plot, you’ll find yourself on Merrick’s path again.” Royce settled better his position. “And you’ll be killed at the first occasion. Maybe it’s better if I stick around for a while.”
Hadrian smiled. “You love this job too, don’t you?” And since Royce didn’t answer, he dipped his glass. “One for all.”
Royce grunted, but clinked his own glass against the other. “All for one.”
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