Dying by the Sword

The Palais Cardinal; The Shadow of a Shadow; The Devil by the Tail

“IF you’d wait here, monsieur,” the Cardinal’s servant said, bowing deeply, as he led the musketeer away from the antechamber, the counterpart of Monsieur de Treville’s musketeer-packed waiting room.

The Cardinal’s antechamber was, perhaps of a less bellicose nature. His men were less noisy, less provoking, less enthusiastic. Not that the guards tended to be less fanatic in their devotion to their master than the musketeers in their loyalty to Monsieur de Treville, and not that many of them didn’t serve out of conviction. In fact, when occasion had come to engage them in words, Athos had often found that they served the Cardinal out of absolute belief that he was the best thing for France and that under his capable hands the kingdom would become the first power of the world, the envy of all of Christendom.

And it might well be so. Athos was intelligent enough and learned enough to concede that Richelieu had done much to restore a treasury and a prestige squandered in the wars of religion and destroyed in a thousand internal and petty disputes. None better than him to agree that Richelieu could be said to be better for France.

At any rate, it would be very hard to be more damaging than the previous two monarchs, who had sowed dissension like a bountiful crop and well-nigh brought the kingdom to the verge of tearing itself in two. Richelieu-for though it made Athos gnash his teeth, it could hardly be imagined to be Louis XIII-led a prosperous and stable France, where people could at last imagine they had a future.

But the future they had was not the future Athos wanted. Oh, he was neither as remote nor as deaf to what passed about him as he pretended to be. He knew what the people said on the street-that Richelieu had curbed the power of the great noblemen. That he’d given the sons of merchants and accountants a place in leading France. That he made it impossible for the princes to squander what the artificers made.

What Athos saw was different. Surely, some noblemen had grown too great and, used to a weak royal authority, had become little princes in their own right. And clearly, though he would never say it aloud, Athos was impartial enough-in his own mind-to admit that simply to be born to a great house, or a great position, didn’t necessarily qualify one to carry that position. Look at Louis XIII who let his minister reorganize the kingdom and his life, while he played at cards, or complained of being bored.

But he also couldn’t help thinking that this new class coming through-these functionaries, these smart accountants, the sons of men who didn’t know their grand-fathers’ names, would be no better. They might be cleverer, but nobility had always been able to hire the clever to do their bidding. But at least nobility-when things worked the way they were supposed to-was raised, if not conceived, in the expectation of being of service to those under their power. That meant even the ones who did not behave responsibly felt they should.

But only let these newly educated functionaries out into the multitudes. They would feel no obligation to be of service and, like Richelieu, everything they did would be for their own aggrandizement.

Athos felt his lip curl in disdain as the servant who appeared to be Richelieu ’s secretary led him from the crowded antechamber into a private chamber, surrounded by tall bookcases, with a writing desk pushed against a wall, in front of the sole window. There were upholstered chairs. Just two.

“If you’ll take a seat, Monsieur le Comte,” the Cardinal’s secretary said. “His eminence will be in instantly.”

Athos opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t want to know how the Cardinal’s secretary knew a secret he would have killed to preserve, but he wasn’t about to show his discomfiture, either. Instead, he sat down, and looked incuriously towards the nearest bookcase, which showed many of the titles his own bookcase had sported, back in his domains.

It seemed to him it took an unduly long time for the Cardinal to join him, but he hadn’t expected anything else. After all, he’d come, by himself, to the enemy’s lair. He knew the enemy would try to enforce his superiority, or at least the superiority of his hand. Athos, who played card games-even when he always lost-knew he’d have done the same himself.

But at length the gentleman appeared. “Monsieur le Comte,” he said, and smiled slightly as he crossed in front of Athos and towards the desk by the window. A candelabra rested on the desk, casting the light of six candles upon various sheaves of paper and all that was needed for writing, including quills and ink bottles. Selecting a piece of paper and an ink bottle, the Cardinal spoke, offhandedly, over his shoulder. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Athos, who had once been a voluble and near garrulous child, had learned in his later life to be quiet, almost taciturn, as sparing with his words as though they were debts he must pay back, once spent. “I believe you know, your eminence,” he said.

Cardinal Richelieu wrote broadly, with an expansive gesture of the hand, then folded the sheet and sealed it. “What am I supposed to know? How may I help you, milord?” Leaving the sealed sheet upon the desk, he turned around, his fingers interlaced at his midriff, his bright dark eyes filled with curiosity.

Not, Athos thought, curiosity to know what brought Athos here. No. That he knew, and Athos would swear to it. He was, however, interested in seeing how Athos would react to his slighting manner-how Athos would respond.

And though Richelieu was a very different type of person from Athos’s late father-in fact, the late Count de la Fere would have hated Richelieu as well as everything he stood for: his camaraderie with the lower classes and the casual way in which he pushed aside the older families of France-in that moment he reminded Athos of his father.

Athos’s father had been one of those people never very at ease near children. An only child, who in turn had sired Athos late in life, Monsieur Gaetan Count de la Fere had treated Athos as an object of intense scrutiny-at a distance-until Athos had been breeched. And then, suddenly, Athos’s father had decided that Athos was a man, or at least a youth. It was as though nothing existed, in the late Count’s mind, between the mewling infant and the striding man. And so, he’d expected Athos to be proficient at horseback riding, competent enough with a sword for the honor challenges that might befall any noble, and cultured too, so that his speech wouldn’t lead his inferiors to sneer at him.

Athos, a dutiful son, had learned the riding and the sword fighting from the masters provided and, though struggling, always managed to exceed the prowess of those far senior to him. Even the Latin and the Greek pressed upon him by yet another set of masters, the poetry, the diction-even that he learned, and effortlessly.

Of the rituals and demands his father enforced on him far too young, there was only one that Athos had resented, but that one he had resented absolutely and with a raging hatred. Because every night, from the age of seven or so, he’d been brought into his father’s study and sat, across from his father, at a table that had been designed as a chessboard, and upon which elaborate, expensive china pieces were set.

Athos didn’t resent that his father expected him to play chess. He didn’t even resent that the late Count gloried in winning games over his small son. What he resented-the memory that still made the bile rise at the back of his throat-was that the rules of the game had never been explained to him. Night after night, he’d sat there, and learned all the moves by trying them the wrong way first. Night after night, day after day, he’d brooded on the losses. And every night his father smiled at him, with the exact same smile that the Cardinal was now giving him.

Something to the movement of the Cardinal’s eyes made Athos realize he’d been inching his hand towards his sword, and he pulled it back by an effort of will. The day after his father had died, in a ritual composed part of grief and part of relief, he had taken the beautiful intaglio chess table, and all the chess pieces. He’d smashed the chess pieces in the depths of the garden, before setting fire to the table.

Now his fingers itched for the fire to set beneath the Cardinal’s feet, but he bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth, instead, holding it till he tasted blood. But he pushed a smile onto his lips, and what he hoped was a pleasant expression into his eyes, and looked up at the Cardinal. “Do you truly mean, your eminence,” he said, filling his voice with wonder, “that I know more than you do?”

There was a dark shadow beneath the Cardinal’s gaze, just like the first time that Athos had managed to take Father’s queen. For a moment, Richelieu was discomfited enough to show frustration. And then the urbane mask descended again. “I suppose,” he said, with the ill-grace of someone who has been bested, “you come about the servant?”

“The-Oh, yes,” Athos said, as though the recollection cost him effort. “At least, the servant is part of it.”

The Cardinal’s eyebrows shot up and Athos had to avoid grinning. He thought the Cardinal’s expressions could be much like Aramis’s, remembered that Aramis’s mother had once loved the Cardinal, and thought all in all he would not make the comparison near his friend.

“Well, I say part of it,” he said, “since Monsieur de Treville seems to believe there is much more involved. Something about a conspiracy or correspondence.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You know I don’t listen to court gossip, so your eminence cannot possibly hope for me to remember all the details, beyond the fact that somehow poor, light-fingered Mousqueton has delivered himself into the midst of a plot.” He opened his hands. “Truly, not difficult. It seems one cannot cross the street these days without falling into a plot against your eminence. I would wonder-do you not?-what one could be doing to bring about such hatred.”

The Cardinal smiled, a pale lips-only smile. “Keeping back the deadwood of the old noble houses,” he said, his eyes full of insult.

“Oh, then,” Athos said, feeling quite proud of himself and, in fact, quite Aramis-like. “It is a good thing that all the branches of one’s own tree are in good working order.”

For a moment, for just a moment, he thought the Cardinal was going to choke, but he didn’t. Instead he narrowed his eyes at Athos. “Monsieur le Comte, let us make an end to the fencing. When it comes to fencing you are better with steel than with words, and you see, I have long ago given up the sword, in trade for the cross and the rosary.”

“I see,” Athos said. “And I see you expect everyone else to do it as well, through your edicts.”

“My edicts…” He opened his hands, in a show of helplessness. “I do what I can, Monsieur le Comte, for France. I would keep her young men alive. I would keep them from dying in senseless duels.”

“You would keep the young noblemen incapable of defending their own honor,” Athos countered, parrying expertly. “Till all they can do is put an end to their own lives.”

“On the contrary. Their lives will be better than ever. They are encouraged to come to court. The king’s palace shall be the most glittering gathering in the house.”

“To the court where they can be kept dangling, hoping for royal largesse. In other days they would have been supported by their own domains, and remained there, making sure their domains were taken care of as they should be.”

“Ah, you can’t blame me if not everyone’s mind is of a provincial turn.”

“I can blame you when everyone’s mind takes a mercantile tone.”

“Objections to wealth, Monsieur le Comte? Is it because you have none? Perhaps the cousin who has charge of your estates needs to be replaced by yourself? Perhaps it is time, enfin, to return home.”

“I will let you know when I feel such a desire,” Athos said. And managed a smile through his tight lips. “And until then, perhaps we can discuss Boniface?”

“Boniface?” Richelieu asked. And he’d got Athos angry enough that Athos enjoyed the shock and surprise behind the word.

“Certainly,” Athos said. “Porthos’s servant. Boniface is his given name, only changed to Mousqueton by Porthos, who thought Boniface didn’t quite fit such a belligerent master.”

“Indeed. Monsieur du Vallon and his reasoning are ever such a delight.”

“Indeed they are. He often sees through things other men take for granted. I would not disdain him.”

“Disdain him? Monsieur le Comte, you injure me. I’d never underestimate any of you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are all such different temperaments and have such complementary abilities. And yet, you’re also versatile and so often exchange roles. Take you… I’d have said if you needed guile and planning, you’d have provided yourself with an escort more capable at such. Your friend Chevalier D’Herblay. Or perhaps that young cunning Gascon. So why alone?”

“Because, your eminence,” Athos said, inclining his head in a perfunctory bow and, tired of sitting while his foe stood, standing in turn, “I have not come with guile. Or with any complicated plan. I have, in fact, come to offer your eminence my services.”

“Your services?” Richelieu said, and now sounded completely shocked. He couldn’t have looked any more surprised had Athos grown a second head right there, in front of him. “Do you mean to tell me…” His hand reached for the chair opposite the one that Athos had just vacated, and held onto it, as if for support. “That you are ready to abandon Monsieur de Treville’s service, and you chose mine instead?” He looked up at Athos’s face with a speculative, evaluating look. “I’m honored beyond my deserts, but won’t your friends resent it? Won’t they think some pressure must have been brought on you to change allegiance so dramatically? Are you doing it for the freedom of this… what is his baptismal name? Ah, yes, Boniface? Because if you are, noble though it is, I must tell you, the exchange is a bit high, a count for a servant.”

Athos should have been offended. Athos was offended. That he would consider trading the allegiance to Monsieur de Treville, who guarded the King himself; that he would ever think of letting the Cardinal put his stamp on him. Richelieu must be mad. Only of course he wasn’t. What he was doing was trying to anger Athos, to see what lay behind the hand Athos clutched to his chest. And Athos, unlucky at cards though he might be, was not such a bad strategist. “No, your eminence. Considering all the good people in your service, Monsieur de Rochefort and all those fine sword fighters-what is the name of the one that D’Artagnan wounded two days ago? I can’t quite remember, but I hope he’s doing well. Has he recovered from his wound?”

The Cardinal’s face betrayed only the slightest hint of annoyance before closing into a placid look. “No. If you mean Herve, poor fellow, his Maker has called him home.”

“Oh. You have my sympathy. The poor man. And twice D’Artagnan’s age too. But at least he’ll be joining his comrade who helped him fight D’Artagnan and who died of his wounds at the scene of the duel.”

The Cardinal made a gesture of impatience, hastily suppressed. “But if you haven’t come to offer me your services, may I ask…”

“But I have come to offer you my services,” Athos said. “I said so.” He lifted a hand, as he saw Richelieu open his mouth. “No, pray, allow me to explain. I came to offer my services, but without leaving Monsieur de Treville’s service. No, before you seek to insult me by insinuating I am willing to spy for you, let me stop you. There are insults, your eminence, that will make me forget that you’ve given up your sword.”

“I trust your honor better than that, Monsieur le Comte. You would not kill an unarmed man.”

“I wouldn’t trust my honor, Monsieur le Cardinal. I am, in fact, human, and flesh and blood can only stand so much.”

The Cardinal inclined his head. “I won’t accuse you of wishing to play a double role, then,” he said. “At any rate, it is more likely that your friend Aramis or your friend D’Artagnan would succeed at such a game. But if you want to take up my service without giving up Monsieur de Treville’s, what else am I to understand? I have enough people to guard entrances and doors, and if you mean that you’ll stand such a sort of double shift, again, much as I regret to tell you, it is not the thing that is worth the life of a servant who murdered someone.”

Athos wasn’t about to argue that Mousqueton hadn’t murdered anyone. At any rate, he would bet that Richelieu knew that already. Instead, he inclined his head, and looked at the pattern of the carpet upon the floor for a while before speaking. “No, no. While I am a good guard, I claim no particular acuity. After all, it was past my guard that the Duchess de Dreux was murdered. Forbid the thought that your eminence should likewise succumb to murder while I guarded the entrance.”

Richelieu shuddered, the shudder unmistakable, then focused his gaze on Athos, with renewed sharpness. “So you know of the conspiracy to kill me. I assume Treville told you so. And Treville being Treville, and no more likely to understand conspiracy or plotting than you are, I presume he foolishly told you that I am holding Mous-ah, Boniface, to get the Queen to confess to her part in the conspiracy.” He raised eyebrows at Athos. “Do you play chess, Monsieur le Comte?”

“No, your eminence. My father did. You remind me a great deal of him.”

This got him a quizzical look. Then the Cardinal shrugged, minimally. “Ah? Very well. However, I am sure you know that a Queen is worth more than a pawn. The trade won’t be made.”

“I quite understand,” Athos said. He allowed his more typical smile, tinged with a good deal of bitterness to elongate his lips into a smile. “I am not one of those who reposes a great deal of belief in the natural benevolence of women.”

A long enquiring look back, and Richelieu opened his hands wide, not quite in a show of helplessness, but more as though he were laying out a hand of imaginary cards. “What, then, do you propose to do?” he asked. “I have something you want-that is your servant back. And you have, presumably, something to offer me in return, else your coming in like this and wishing to deal would seem even more foolish than it is.”

Athos allowed a dry chuckle to escape him, without betraying the slightest expression of amusement. “A good description of the situation, your eminence. And the only answer I can make is that I’ve come to strike a bargain with the devil.”

The eyebrows went up. “Truly? How strange of you to seek him in the home of a churchman.”

“Not so strange, when you think about it, your eminence,” Athos said. “I do not listen to gossip, but one cannot help but hear some portion of it, as one goes about one’s business.”

The Cardinal said nothing. This meant, Athos supposed, the time for talk was over. He nodded, as though acknowledging the end of a part of the game and the beginning of the other. As much fun as it might be to needle the Cardinal, Athos had come here for a purpose.

He opened his hands in turn, displaying his palms. “I want Mousqueton’s freedom. Mousqueton’s freedom and his exoneration from these ridiculous charges.”

“And I want a strong France where noblemen can’t challenge the power of their sovereign,” Richelieu said. “We all want things. The question is, what do you propose to do about it? And what can you do about it?”

“In return for the freedom and life of Porthos’s servant, I offer my services in unraveling the conspiracy against your eminence.”

A surprised look. “Oh? I thought you meant to offer me something of value?”

Perhaps Athos deserved that, for the unprovoked insults against the Cardinal, or perhaps this was just the way of the Cardinal’s enjoying himself in turn. Athos bowed his head slightly, in acknowledgment of a hit, and answered back, “I’m sure it has value enough. You are aware that in the last year we have unraveled murders that baffled everyone else.”

“And bested me not a few times? Yes. But for that, you had the help of your friends. Am I correct in saying that this time you are on your own, and that none of your friends knows of your effort, much less is prepared to help?”

Athos opened his hands, displaying his symbolic cards. “Alas, I can only offer myself,” he said, while in his mind he calculated things quickly. There was D’Artagnan, on whose loyalty and cooperation he was fairly sure he could count. And there was Porthos, who would protest at the idea of doing anything for the Cardinal, much less anything to defend the Cardinal. But he would do it, nonetheless, for the sake of Mousqueton. And Aramis… ah, Aramis. There was no telling what Aramis might do. Even when he told you what he was going to do.

Not that Athos didn’t value Aramis as a friend-he did. And not that he believed that Aramis would knowingly betray him, or any of them. Their friendship had been tried in too demanding a course for him to have any doubt that they did indeed stand one for all and all for one.

It was more the way that Aramis’s mind ran, deep and convoluted and often hiding from himself what he himself thought. Aramis knew of the conspiracy and, in fact, Aramis might be part of it. Athos didn’t think so, at least not knowingly, because much as Aramis despised Richelieu, he did not condone of murder. A man he wanted out of the way would be challenged to a duel or manipulated into exile. And if neither of those applied, then neither would murder.

And yet, he might very well refuse to help save the Cardinal’s neck, or work only halfheartedly to save it. “I can’t promise my friends, or not yet,” Athos said.

The Cardinal watched him. Finally, he nodded. “I cannot give you the servant’s liberty without some surety you can do what you promise,” Richelieu said. “So this is the deal I offer you, Monsieur le Comte. I shall promise you nothing will happen to the boy for the next week. No torture, no condemnation. But you must deliver me the conspirators meanwhile or…” He clasped his own neck, with one hand, as if to indicate hanging.

Athos nodded, staring. It wasn’t till he was outside the Palais Cardinal-having crossed the great antechamber where all conversations stopped at his approach and didn’t resume again till he was too far to hear their words-that Athos thought there was another outcome the Cardinal hadn’t considered, and one for which he was sure of his friends’ approval.

He could discover who had, in fact, killed the armorer. And then Richelieu would have to free Mousqueton.

Meanwhile, he had a week. A week, and Mousqueton would be safe meanwhile. And he could work to find the real murderer. If he needed to pry into the conspiracies of the court to find something to keep Richelieu quiet meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt. The court was so rife with conspiracies, he was unlikely to find anything concrete.

He was putting on his gloves, preparing to go back to his lodgings, when he heard a soft cough behind him. “Monsieur Athos?” a well-known voice said.

Athos pivoted on his heel, to see Rochefort, the shadow of the Cardinal and, many said, the Cardinal’s evil genius. He was looking at Athos with an expression of interested amusement in his single eye. His other eye socket was covered with a patch. The last time they’d seen each other alone, Athos had held the upper hand. He rather suspected that Rochefort imagined he had it now.

“Yes?” he said.

“His eminence asked me to have a talk with you. If you would follow me.”