Dying by the sword (12 page)
Read Dying by the sword Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
D’Artagnan, in turn, took his finger to his lips, in the universal gesture of recommending silence and said, in quite a low whisper. “There’s a crowd outside. Don’t speak. You boom when you speak.”
Porthos nodded and looked an enquiry at D’Artagnan.
D’Artagnan sighed. He said, thinking as he said it. “Well . . . You can’t get out. Not through there. There is a crowd out there too. So . . .” He chewed on his lip, thinking, as he looked around the darkened smithy. There was a candle burning on one of the forges, its light too little to make it beyond a circle perhaps as tall and wide as D’Artagnan himself. Well, and a little more of it making it, attenuated some distance. He could see the swords overhead and, near the embers on the hearth, a pile of something that might be coal or metal. But that was about it, except for the light of the embers. There was a crowd outside the door. Porthos couldn’t leave without being stopped by the crowd. And since he was Mousqueton’s master, things could get ugly rather quickly. He would not put it past the crowd to try to arrest Porthos. And one of the ever-obliging guards of his eminence might be nearby. The last thing they needed was to be arrested or worse, to fight a duel in full view of a lot of people, a duel that could—at a stroke of the King’s pen—become their last.
No. Something more cunning must offer. And, as D’Artagnan thought it, the plan presented itself, emerging from his head like a rather shifty Athena from Zeus’s head. He grabbed at Porthos’s gold-lace edged sleeve. “Listen,” he said, standing on tiptoes to whisper as close as he could to his giant friend’s ear. “Hide behind that pile of . . . whatever it is, there. And I will . . . do something that will bring the crowd in here. They don’t have torches. At least not yet. The moment they enter here, you mingle with them. Remember, I’m your servant—” and at Porthos’s look of rebellion—“your other servant. And as such, you were looking for me, and I’m a bad, bad boy, and in a lot of trouble.”
Porthos looked doubtful. “But—” he said.
“Not a word. My name is Henri Bayard.”
A look of relief in Porthos’s eyes battled with a stubborn expression of confusion, but D’Artagnan, no matter how much he knew his stubborn friend’s need for concrete explanations was not so foolish as to spend his time—now—explaining to Porthos why he must be Henri Bayard.
At any minute, someone—perhaps the big, brave guy—would open that door. Worse, they might think to get torches, and then they would see Porthos and D’Artagnan and . . . all there was to see before it could be hidden.
“Go,” D’Artagnan told Porthos, in the tone that brooked no dissent. “Go. Now. Do not wait. Run.”
Porthos hesitated a moment, then ran to hide behind the pile of material, whatever it might be. D’Artagnan hoped it was not coal, as it would seem rather odd when Porthos reemerged—for him to be covered in soot. But then again, D’Artagnan was entrusting the success of his plan to a man whose mind worked in such an odd way that people not familiar with the inner architecture of his thoughts often thought him dumb, or at least simple.
But Monsieur D’Artagnan père, other than wise advice on ghosts, had also told his son that when going into a duel, one must always fight with the sword he had. There was no use, and it would only lead to no good, to keep wishing after the sword he couldn’t get. Porthos was the accomplice he had, and it was up to D’Artagnan to make the most of it.
Taking a deep breath, he blew out the candle on the forge, then let out a long, haunted scream, and after it, “Help me.”
At the scream, he fancied he heard feet scurrying away, but at the “Help,” the door was pushed open. In the doorway stood the big man and behind him ranged his friends and neighbors.
D’Artagnan, hoping it looked natural, threw himself down as though he’d lost consciousness. The steps approached. The big man knelt down. “What’s wrong boy? What happened?” He put his hand, roughly, on D’Artagnan’s neck, and announced, in tones of relief, “He lives.”
Xavier was there too, on the other side, and D’Artagnan had a brief moment of panic, as he realized the story he’d told the Ferrant family in no way accorded to what he’d given Porthos. But there was nothing for it, now, and he blinked, and pretended to come to, and said, in a trembling voice, “There was a creature . . . very tall and dressed all in white, and a red light enveloping him, as he stood at that forge there.” He pointed. “And he was . . . beating something. Looked like a sword made of men’s bones.” He shuddered at his own imagination and was quite glad to see not a few people in the crowd hastily crossing themselves.
“It’s the devil,” one of the men in the crowd said. “Come to collect the soul of whoever murdered Langelier.”
“A likely story,” Porthos’s voice boomed, from the back of the crowd. Arms crossed, Porthos forced his way amid the locals, using his shoulder as a battering ram, as he was known to do in any crowd, Monsieur de Treville’s antechamber included. “More likely you were in here to take a look at the scene of the crime, Bayard. And you left me without a servant to get me my dinner.”
“You’re his servant?” Xavier asked, his voice trembling. “But I thought you said you were going to be Monsieur de Treville’s servant.”
“Oh, he is that,” Porthos said, and at that moment, on a wave of relief, D’Artagnan could have clasped him in his arms. “But the captain is letting me borrow him until Mousqueton is freed.” Even in the dark, it was possible to see the glare he gave the gathered crowd, as though daring them to say that there was another outcome possible than Mousqueton’s freedom. “But Bayard thought he was too good to be the servant of a mere musketeer, didn’t you, rogue?”
He reached down, and with a realism that D’Artagnan couldn’t have anticipated, got a firm hold on D’Artagnan’s ear. “Up you come. I need someone to take a letter from me to the Princess de—” He stopped, as though he’d just avoided committing an indiscretion. “You know well who. And then we must pick my outfit for the encounter.”
The crowd—possibly daunted by the idea that Porthos, whose suit managed to shine even in the scant light of the embers and the little coming in through the open door, might have a better, more impressive suit that he kept for encounters with princesses. And Porthos, holding fast to D’Artagnan’s ear, and pulling it just a little too high, and a little too fast—just enough, D’Artagnan judged, to look as if he were dragging him—led him to the door of the armory and down the street.
No one followed them, though D’Artagnan could hear them arguing, still within the shop, the words “ghosts” and “murder” emerging now and then.
“Porthos,” D’Artagnan said, after a while. “It might interest you to know that this is not one of my favorite modes of walking with a friend.” And to his friend’s blank look, D’Artagnan sighed. “You are holding my ear, Porthos.”
“Oh,” Porthos said, letting go of D’Artagnan’s ear. He looked over his shoulder, then back at D’Artagnan. “What are you doing here, D’Artagnan?” he asked. “And why are you calling yourself Bayard?”
D’Artagnan calculated in his head the chances of Porthos understanding what he meant in the time available and without too much argument, and sighed when he could not raise the number above less than a chance in a million. Not that Porthos was stupid. Porthos was in no way stupid. But his mind worked on concrete details and on small points, and he would want D’Artagnan to explain why exactly he’d chosen the name Bayard, or else why he’d picked that exact color of russet suit from Planchet’s wardrobe.
Instead, D’Artagnan shook his head. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “For now, tell me what you have been doing? How came you to raise that racket in the armorer’s?”
Porthos gave him a sheepish look and shook his head in turn. “You see,” he said, and opened his big hands, as though to illustrate his helplessness, “I found that I couldn’t drop hammers on my head.”
D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows and gave his friend a level, attentive look. “You had for a moment considered that this might be a good plan?”
Porthos sighed. “Not a plan,” he said. “Not a plan as such. It’s more . . .” He bit his lower lip as though in deep consideration. “You see, I thought it was odd that if a hammer had fallen on Mousqueton’s head it should not have dashed his brains out altogether.”
“If it were a glancing blow . . .” D’Artagnan said.
Porthos looked at him, with that air of mute misery he displayed when he was trying to think of words. Porthos could think of everything at all, but words caught on his tongue and refused to flow out as did the words of normal men. He hissed in frustration, and D’Artagnan waited for the words, looking at Porthos, betraying no impatience.
“You see . . .” Porthos said, and again he opened his hands, to show his lack of weapons, or perhaps his utter helplessness before the alien foe that was language. “I have been at Langelier’s before, and I had an idea, though I confess I’d never looked very closely, that the ceiling beams were too high. They could not be reached with a hand.”
D’Artagnan frowned. “You mean, you could not extend your hand and reach the beam? But surely, Porthos, one cannot reach most ceiling beams with one’s hand.”
“Of course,” Porthos agreed, amiably, but his tongue came out to touch his lips, and he made a grimace like a man in pain. “But I mean that you can’t touch whatever you hang on the rack that you hang from the beams.”
“Thereby making it impossible for anyone to retrieve a hammer easily,” D’Artagnan said. “And making it so that no artificer in his right mind would hang a hammer from such a rack.”
“Yes,” Porthos said with audible relief. “You understand.”
“Yes, I believe I do. And so you slipped away to go to the armorer’s and verify the height of the ceiling beams without telling us what your intentions were.”
“Did I not?” Porthos said, looking guilty. “I thought I had. Only I was thinking very hard on it, and it didn’t seem to bear the trouble of explaining.” He looked down at his feet. “I hope I value Aramis as I must, his being one of my best friends, and the noblest man in the whole world, excepting only Athos and . . . and perhaps yourself, D’Artagnan.”
“No, don’t strain your courtesy,” D’Artagnan said, fighting hard not to laugh. “It is not fair to include me in the same class as Athos or even Aramis. Let’s establish our two friends are the noblest men who ever drew breath and go from there.”
“Well, yes. And I know Aramis is my friend, and a kind friend too. But he asks questions, and he would want to know what I was going to do, and why, and he would . . . push me half to death, before I could explain what I was about to do. And by that time I might very well be confused on the why and the when.”
D’Artagnan nodded. He’d seen the process many times. “And Athos would try to convince you it was too dangerous.”
“You understand,” Porthos said.
“Oh yes, I understand, for you see, he tried to convince me it was too dangerous for us to go out at all, by ourselves, for however long it took to solve this murder. And then he tried to convince me that he could come with me and pass as a plebeian in this neighborhood.”
Porthos looked at him in shocked horror. “Good men,” he said. “They are. And noble, and Athos is so learned. But sometimes I wonder . . .”
“Where he gets his ideas,” D’Artagnan said. “Yes, so do I.” He spoke entirely without irony. Oh, D’Artagnan was cunning enough, and he understood the complex words that frustrated Porthos’s tongue and ear. But he also understood how Porthos’s mind worked better than he understood Athos’s or Aramis’s minds. Perhaps because he and Porthos, though noble born enough, had not after all, been raised as high nobility. It was a different country, almost, the level of pride and honor at which Athos had been brought up.
Porthos gave D’Artagnan the smallest of smiles, as though gratified to be making common cause with the Gascon, then shrugged. “At any rate, when I got there, I lit my candle, and I realized that there were indeed no hammers hanging from the upper racks. Nor should there be, since they could not be easily reached. You needed this hook thing I called the shepherds crook, just to remove the swords from their hooks.”
“So it was unlikely that Mousqueton could grab a sword quickly without anyone stopping him, and, therefore, it is unlikely he was stealing it.”
Porthos looked pained. “I have learned,” he said, primly, “that it is never a good idea to say it is unlikely for Mousqueton to steal anything at all, D’Artagnan. When I first met him, he managed to steal my monogrammed handkerchief from my sleeve, without my ever feeling him touch me. And I know at least one case where he stole two pigeons in a cage from a shop where they were the only livestock.” He shook his head. “Not that I intend to speak of these cases to anyone.”
“Please, do not,” D’Artagnan said. “No one needs to know who doesn’t already.”
Porthos touched the side of his nose in a conspiratorial way. “This I know,” he said. “But you see, I thought it was still possible that someone who didn’t know Mousqueton—particularly someone who didn’t know Mousqueton or myself—would say that he had asked Monsieur Langelier for the sword, and then run him through suddenly when he least expected it.”
“They wouldn’t say that if they knew Mousqueton or yourself?”
“No, because anyone who knew Mousqueton would know that he would never run a man through like that, in cold blood. And anyone who knew me . . .” He shrugged. “Anyone who knew me would know that I have no money for an expensive sword. And, what’s more, would know Monsieur Langelier knew it also.”
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