From beneath came the sound of shouted encouragements. “There’s life in Aramis yet.” And “For a priest, he doesn’t fight badly.” And, of course, “He is right, Athos does leave his right shoulder shamefully uncovered.”
All of it followed by the clink of coins that indicated bets were being made and paid by the mass of musketeers down there, in the waiting room.
Aramis tried to ignore them, as he concentrated on pushing Athos up yet another couple of steps, an intention that Athos resisted with his not inconsiderable skill at parrying. In a way these mock duels were harder than the real duels, where Aramis could simply have tried to thrust his sword through his opponent’s heart. But he would never injure Athos, or not voluntarily.
Together, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and even the newcomer, D’Artagnan, had dueled and bled. Their friendship had been cemented by a hundred instances of mutual defense, a thousand shared secrets. They could no more kill each other than they could commit suicide. One would feel much like the other at any rate. And not killing Athos while forcing him up the steps was harder than it would have been to kill just about anyone. After all, they’d practiced and fought together so long, each knew the other very well and every move could be anticipated.
It was easiest of all to fight each other to a standstill. To get through, Aramis must block every thought and move that didn’t have to do with sword and footwork, and the unyielding body in front of him… He must forget it was Athos. Only remember he must not kill him. He must…
With swords clashing, in the sound of metal, and, with their swords gripped between them and held upright, with too little room to move, Aramis pressed forward with his body, forcing Athos up one step, two, another… Very quickly.
And then Athos recovered his balance. And on that balance came the ineluctable fact that Athos weighed more than Aramis-his rather solid mass of muscle and bone still looked lean enough but was by far more hefty than Aramis’s gracile figure. Once Athos had firmly planted his feet, Aramis could not budge him.
Athos speaking through his teeth said, “Will you claim forfeit, Aramis?”
From his voice, it was hard to tell whether it was a taunt or he truly meant for Aramis to forfeit the game and concede defeat, even though the younger musketeer was nowhere near losing. From Athos’s maddened dark blue eyes, too, it was hard to tell if he even remembered what humor was.
“Sangre Dieu, Athos,” Aramis said. “Would I forfeit?”
“Well,” Athos said. “Then I have no choice but to make sure you lose.” And on that the larger musketeer gave his friend a shove.
Aramis caught himself quickly. A foot behind to recover his balance, and no harm really done, and then, from the door to the antechamber, a familiar voice calling, “Aramis!”
He turned, without even thinking. He turned, half ready to scold Porthos for interrupting him at his game, and then he saw Porthos.
The huge redhead whose ancestors, doubtless, had come to the coasts of France in long ships, was not dressed in the style in which he usually permitted himself to appear in public. That was the first thing strange about it all, because Porthos was vain as a peacock and his normal attire in public was twice as bright as any bird’s plumage. Aramis could not remember his friend ever having appeared in public in this attire of worn linen breeches and a tunic that looked like a beggar would disdain it. No. Aramis had seen Porthos in these clothes, but only in the practice room, in the privacy of Porthos’s own lodgings.
In the normal course of things, Porthos would rather- much rather-die than be seen in public in this shabby a display. But, worse, the face above the clothes looked like Porthos had already died. Pale and bloodless, with a greyish tinge to the lips, Porthos’s skin made his eyes look unnaturally bright, his hair and beard a screaming scarlet stain.
“Porthos,” Aramis said. And thinking no more of his duel or his potential forfeiting of money to buy enough drinks to fill the Seine-or satisfy Athos-he jumped over the elaborate railing of the staircase and landed, sword still in hand, in a hastily cleared space in the hall below.
Too late he realized he had probably forfeited the contest, and was not reassured by the sound of Athos’s landing on the mosaic floor behind him. Not reassured as far as losing the contest, but at least reassured by Athos’s support. He heard Athos sheathe his sword and remembered to sheathe his own.
The crowd was parting between him and Porthos. Though they were all musketeers, battle hardened and ready to defend themselves against many foes, few had the body to obstruct Porthos’s progress. The sheer bulk of Porthos would clear the way. And few of them would stand in front of Athos or Aramis either.
So as the crowd melted away and pressed out of their path, on either side of the room, Aramis and Athos met with Porthos.
Porthos was silent-which in itself was strange, after demanding their attention so forcefully. He looked from one to the other of them, and then at the staircase and the railing over which Aramis had jumped. He frowned, as though trying to make sense of something particularly difficult. “Sorry I interrupted your game,” he said.
“The game matters not,” Athos said. “We can finish another time.”
And, as Aramis let out a breath, relieved at not being held to forfeit, Porthos nodded. “It’s very important, see? He’s dead.”
“Who is dead, who?” Aramis asked, his impatience tempered by concern. He would easily have been the first to admit that his friend was inarticulate and had a difficult time expressing himself. But today Porthos seemed inarticulate even for himself. As if he were in shock. And why would Porthos be in shock at someone’s death? Death was their profession and their companion, walking by their side night and day.
“Who is dead? Who?” he asked, in alarm and, lowering his voice, as the horrible thought occurred to him that he’d not seen the young Gascon since last night. “Not… D’Artagnan?”
But Porthos’s eyes widened in surprise, as if D’Artagnan’s death had never occurred to him, and then he shook his huge leonine head. “No. Not him. The boy. My apprentice. ”
Apprentice? Frowning, unable to understand of what Porthos spoke, Aramis realized that other musketeers were listening in on their conversation and that a hushed silence had fallen in the room.
Before he could think what this meant, he heard a well-known voice yell, from upstairs, at the entrance to the captain’s office, “Athos, Porthos, Aramis.”
Aramis turned to see a musketeer-who had been in conference with the captain-skulk down the stairs. At the top of the stairs Monsieur de Treville stood, glaring down at them.
Though he was as olive skinned and as short as their friend D’Artagnan, who came up barely to Aramis’s shoulder and no more than to Porthos’s chest, there was not a man in the room that wouldn’t swear Monsieur de Treville was at least twelve feet tall. And each and everyone of them would have allowed himself to be-cheerfully-cut into ribbons for the captain.
Which was why Aramis’s breath caught in his throat as the captain said, “If the three of you, gentlemen, would come in to my office, I’d like to be a part of your conference. ”
Without a word, Aramis turned to obey. And found that Athos was already ahead of him, running up the stairs. But he had to reach for Porthos’s arm and pull before the giant musketeer realized he must obey. That he hadn’t jumped to the captain’s order meant something was very wrong indeed.