Best Savoured Cold, Ch. 3

Porthos slid to a halt in front of Athos' body, raising a large hand that trembled slightly to hover a hair's breadth from the other man's nose and mouth. After an endless moment, Porthos sagged in relief, and d'Artagnan felt the air return to his lungs in a rush.

"Thank God," Porthos said hoarsely. "Thank God."

The large musketeer gathered Athos against himself carefully and lifted him enough to take the strain from his wrists. Athos' bruised, swollen face lolled against his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan, find the keys," Porthos said, and he immediately jumped to comply, searching the benches and tables scattered around the room; trying his best not to think about the implements of torture filling every available horizontal surface.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted toward the doorway. "He's here! He's alive!"

Aramis could not hold back the small noise of relief that escaped his tight control as Porthos' voice floated up the stairs to his ears. Stepping backward out of range of any kick or head-butt that Géroux might attempt, he allowed himself to split his attention between their captive and what was happening in the cellar.

"Is he hurt? How bad is it?" Aramis called, his eyes never leaving Géroux, and keeping the terrified girl in his peripheral vision.

"He's unconscious," Porthos shouted back. "We're getting the shackles off him now. I'll send d'Artagnan up to watch Géroux; then you need to get down here fast."

Red washed across Aramis' vision, and he ruthlessly clamped down on the urge to put a dagger through Géroux's stomach and leave him to writhe through the pain for hours. He would stand by his word.

"I will watch you hang," he whispered.

Géroux snarled and spit, the gob of saliva falling a few inches short of Aramis' left boot. Off to his side, Mathilde's sobbing grew louder.

D'Artagnan rushed up the stairs, and Aramis whirled without a backward glance and flew down the rickety stairway. He peered into the candle-lit gloom until his eyes made out Porthos' solid form, cradling a broken body in his arms.

"He's been beaten. And whipped," Porthos said in a strained voice. "An' something's badly wrong with his shoulder. I can't rouse him."

"Dislocated," Aramis replied grimly, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light as he examined the sickening bulge where Athos' left arm met his torso. "Just as well he won't be awake for this part."

Aramis removed his blue cloak and placed it on the filthy floor. "Lay him down on his back, Porthos. Support his head and neck."

Porthos eased Athos down wordlessly, making sure that his injured back rested on the blue suede and supporting the unconscious man's head in his lap. "You need my cloak for this?"

Aramis nodded, busy removing the strip of fabric he used as a sash as Porthos unhooked his cloak and rolled it up into a tight cylinder. Aramis handed Porthos the belt and took the wad of leather, kneeling at Athos' left hip. He placed the makeshift padding under his friend's armpit and gingerly straightened the injured arm, shifting position until he could brace his left boot on the rolled-up cloak for leverage.

"God," Porthos swore. "His wrists."

"You don't have to tell me," Aramis replied grimly. Normally, he would have used a grip on Athos' left wrist to carefully pull the arm back in its socket; however, both his wrists were a mass of bruises and slowly seeping blood where the shackles had dug in. He grasped Athos' forearm instead, muttering under his breath in Spanish whenever his sweaty hands threatened to slip.

Holding his breath, Aramis gradually leaned back, bracing his weight against the padding under Athos' arm. It always seemed to take forever for a dislocated shoulder to reseat itself this way, but the hotheads who insisted on violently shoving dislocated joints into place were as apt to render the injured limb permanently limp and useless as they were to cure it.

"I'm not sure whether to be relieved or worried at how relaxed he is for this," Porthos said.

"I'm going with 'worried'," Aramis replied through gritted teeth, still increasing the traction against the injured joint.

Porthos winced at the sickening, fleshy pop as the ball finally slipped back into its socket. Athos, on the other hand, didn't. Didn't react in any way, in fact - and Aramis really, really wished that he would.

He arranged the injured arm against Athos' chest and took the length of fabric back from Porthos, using it to bind the wounds on Athos' wrist and strap the arm in place in a rough sling. When he was done, he peeled back Athos' eyelids, examining his eyes as best he could in the flickering light. Even in the relative dimness, it was obvious that his pupillary response was uneven.

"It's not good, is it?" Porthos asked in a flat tone.

"He's severely concussed," Aramis said, "and God knows what else has been done to him. Stay there with him for a moment. I want to get him up on a table, closer to the light."

Aramis crossed the room to the largest of the rough tables. Looking down at the collection of leather-working tools there, he took a moment to think about what the various blades and awls could do to living skin, and immediately wished he hadn't. With a surge of blind anger, he swept an arm across the surface and sent the tools clattering to the stone floor. When it was clear, he yanked and tugged the heavy wooden construction over between two of the wall sconces that still held brightly burning candles.

"Here, I'll get his legs," he said, returning to Porthos. "Careful with his head. Place him on his right side, so we can keep those whip marks clean."

When they got their burden settled, Aramis grabbed Porthos' rolled up cloak and used it to pillow Athos' head. His face was a mass of bruises, and blood clotted around a wicked gash in one cheek.

"Too old to stitch. The skin is too damaged," Aramis said. He moved to examine the wounds on Athos' back where the whip had torn the flesh. "I can't stitch any of this. Christ!" He slammed a fist against the tabletop in frustration.

Athos didn't stir. Aramis gripped the edge of the table, and felt himself begin to shake. His eyes burned. Strong hands closed on his shoulders from behind.

"All right," Porthos said. "You can't stitch 'em. You want to clean the wounds and bandage them instead?"

Aramis allowed his head to droop forward for a moment, letting Porthos be strong for both of them. With a deep breath, he straightened, swiping the pad of his thumb over his eyes surreptitiously.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he said. "See if you can find clean water and strong spirits upstairs. I'll stay here and make sure there aren't any other injuries that we've missed."

Porthos squeezed his shoulders once and released him. "'Course. I'll be as quick as I can."

Aramis nodded wordlessly, and turned back to the prone form on the table.

Treville jumped down from the seat of the cart as soon as it pulled to a stop in front of Géroux's house on the Rue de Condé. His mind was a careful blank; he would not waste energy conjuring images of what he might find inside, no matter the temptation.

"Delmárre! Morand! With me," he snapped at the musketeers he'd brought with him. He pounded on the wooden door and called "It's Treville! We're coming in!", knowing better than to burst in unannounced on soldiers who were already likely to be on edge.

The door was unlocked; he pushed it open. D'Artagnan, Géroux, and a little girl stood in the large room that was revealed, forming three points of a distrustful triangle. D'Artagnan straightened as Treville and his men entered. The girl cowered further into a corner. Géroux - bound to the leg of a heavy desk - looked murderous.

"Athos?" Treville asked d'Artagnan, noting the lad's pallor.

"He's downstairs," d'Artagnan said. "It's... not good."

Treville nodded his understanding and turned to Morand and Delmárre. "This man is under arrest for murder, and attempted murder. Watch him." He waited for their acquiescence and crossed to d'Artagnan. "Come, d'Artagnan. We'll help Porthos and Aramis see to Athos."

"This way, sir," d'Artagnan said, and led him through a low door and down a flight of rough steps.

His lieutenant was laid out on his side on a table, his left arm and torso swathed in makeshift bandages. Porthos straightened as the two of them entered; Aramis remained bent over his patient, cleaning a wound on Athos' cheek. Athos himself did not stir; barely seemed to breathe.

"Captain," Porthos said, acknowledging his entrance.

Treville nodded in return, approaching the table but being careful to stay out of Aramis' light.

"Aramis? What are his injuries?"

"Concussion; a bad one, though his skull doesn't seem to have cracked," Aramis replied without looking up from his work. "He's been hit from behind, which probably rendered him unconscious, allowing Géroux to take him. He has also been beaten, mostly about the face and head, though there are a few blows to the ribs. Dislocated shoulder, which I've reset. A knife cut to the cheek; damage at the wrists and ankles from manacles. And he's been whipped."

"Has he awoken?" Treville asked.

Aramis shook his head and straightened from his work. "No. He's been deeply unconscious since we found him. The other wounds, while serious, are not life-threatening. But there's no way of knowing if he'll recover from the head wound and beating with his wits intact. Or at all."

Treville nodded his understanding.

"I spoke to several of Géroux's friends and acquaintances at the garrison," he said. "Apparently he and his family lived in Guyenne. His wife - a maid at the manor house - was caught stealing, and the local vicomte had her hanged without a trial. He fled to Paris immediately after."

"So this has all been about revenge against the nobility for the execution of his wife?" d'Artagnan asked, wrapping his arms around himself tightly as he leaned against the wall by the staircase.

"It would appear so," Treville answered. "It will be up to a judge to decide, but for now, he'll be taken to the Châtelet to await trial."

"What about the daughter? He had her following his victims to learn about their comings an' goings, but she was ignorant of what he was doing," Porthos said.

"There's something not quite right about her; with her mind, I mean," d'Artagnan said. "She seems a sweet child, but odd. While I was guarding them, she recounted whole conversations that she'd overheard between myself and Athos in detail, but she didn't understand the content at all. She was just reciting them by rote. It was really rather extraordinary."

"If she was part of his scheme, it will probably not go well for her," Treville said, under no illusions about the likelihood of a judge showing mercy to such a child who had no one to stand up for her. She'd be lucky merely to receive the same sentence as her father, in lieu of being burned as a witch.

Porthos frowned, and d'Artagnan looked ready to protest. Treville studied the two of them for a moment before making a decision.

"Of course," he began, pointedly maintaining eye contact with Porthos, "if such a child had someplace to go - someplace she could disappear from the sight of the authorities - things might be different. They'd hardly feel the need to expend significant resources looking for her. Mind you, this is all conjecture, since I was unaware that Henri Géroux even had a daughter. No doubt he was able to gather all the intelligence he needed on his victims through his contacts in the Cardinal's red guards and the musketeer garrison."

Porthos' eyes widened, and he exchanged a look with d'Artagnan. "Right... " he said, drawing the word out. "Aramis, do you need the two of us for the next couple of hours?"

Aramis, whose focus had remained on Athos during the brief exchange, looked up in slight surprise. "Help me get him on the wagon so I can get him back to the infirmary at the garrison. After that, it's mostly a matter of waiting and watching him."

Porthos nodded, and went to fetch a stretcher from the back of the cart.

An hour later, Porthos drew his mount to a halt near the edge of the Court of Miracles. Signalling to d'Artagnan that they should leave the horses and proceed on foot, he dismounted and tied the animal to a hitching post. He moved to stand by the younger man's gelding, reaching up to take Mathilde when d'Artagnan handed her down from her place in front of him in the saddle. Her eyes were red from all the tears she'd shed that day.

D'Artagnan slid down from the saddle and grabbed the meagre sack of Mathilde's belongings. He slung it over his shoulder and reclaimed the girl, taking her by the hand.

Porthos was glad of the budding trust that the girl demonstrated toward d'Artagnan, though his ears still rang unpleasantly with her screams of "Papa! Papa!" as Géroux was dragged away to prison. It was obvious enough that d'Artagnan was upset about what they were doing, but Porthos figured he knew as well as anyone that the alternative was death or imprisonment- and imprisonment was as good as a death sentence to anyone as small and weak as this child.

"Follow my lead," Porthos instructed, and d'Artagnan nodded his understanding. He continued to murmur reassurance to the girl, who clung to him tightly and hid her face against his doublet when masked figures surrounded them silently.

"I need to see the Queen," he said, stepping forward to meet them fearlessly. "Tell her Porthos has returned to walk among the beggars and the whores."

A few minutes later, they were escorted into the same room where Porthos had been taken after being rescued from execution for a murder he didn't commit. This time, though, his welcome was more immediately friendly, and he smiled despite the dire circumstances of the past day as he found himself with an armful of Flea.

"Porthos!" she exclaimed. "I must admit, I didn't expect to see you back so soon. Keeping a closer watch on your purse this time?"

He released her from the friendly embrace, moving her back so he could see her properly. She looked good.

"I'll give it freely this time, such as it is," he said. "But first, I need a favour."

She raised an eyebrow, her shrewd gaze falling immediately on the girl cowering at d'Artagnan's side. "Let me guess - it involves finding a place for a little sparrow with no place else to land?"

"You were always the one with the brains, Flea," Porthos said ruefully.

"This is Mathilde. Her mother is dead, and her father is a vicious murderer and used her in his schemes," d'Artagnan said, holding the girl's shoulders protectively. "She was completely innocent to what was going on, but that will not save her life should the courts gain a hold over her."

"I see," Flea said, and crossed to crouch in front of the girl. "And what say you, little sparrow?"

"I want Papa," Mathilde whispered piteously.

"She has the mind of a much younger child, Flea," Porthos said. "I'm not convinced she understands what her father has done, even after seeing him caught red-handed."

"She has hidden talents, though," d'Artagnan said. "Her father sent her to shadow his victims and learn about their lives and habits. She can repeat, very nearly verbatim, any conversation she hears; she also melts into the shadows like she's made of smoke. Surely these are valuable skills in the Court."

It was a clever plea, but Porthos knew it was also an unnecessary one.

"Never mind about any of that, Musketeer," Flea said, looking up at d'Artagnan. "All are welcome in the Court of Miracles. It is a hard life, but one we share with anyone who has need of refuge. Your so-called 'justice' will not find her here."

D'Artagnan bowed slightly to her, acknowledging the sentiment. Flea reached a hand forward to Mathilde, who took it hesitantly.

"Come, Little Sparrow. Your papa is lost to you now, but we will make you a place. Take your things and we will go and meet some of the other children."

Mathilde looked up at d'Artagnan with tearful eyes and allowed him to settle her small sack of belongings over her shoulder. He nodded at her encouragingly and said, "Go on, it will be all right." She studied him for a moment longer and turned back to Flea, gazing at her wild hair and feathered skirts with a slight look of awe.

"Flea," Porthos said as she rose, "I've brought some money to pay for food and upkeep. It's not much, but it's something."

Flea smiled at him sweetly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She flicked the hand that wasn't holding Mathilde's up into view, a small velvet purse dangling between her fingers. "Really? How thoughtful of you! Though I seem to recall telling you to keep a closer watch on it this time."

Unbidden, Porthos' hand leapt to his belt, only to find empty space where a bag of coins should be. He shook his head fondly as Flea disappeared with her new charge.

"Come on," he told d'Artagnan. "Let's get back to the others."

Two days later, Aramis stood at the front of the crowd in the public square at the crack of dawn. His skin was pale and his eyes bruised with fatigue and worry, but he stood straight and steady, head held high as the prisoner was led, stumbling, to the gallows.

He ignored the jeers and catcalls around him, holding his burning gaze unflinchingly on Henri Géroux's face; willing the man to notice him. Géroux's attention seemed focused inward, as if his soul had already started to tug at its bonds within his body, desperate to flee before the horror of the hangman's noose.

The guards manhandled their charge into position, handing him over to the ministrations of the executioner. As the black-clad hangman readied the hood, Géroux's vacant eyes lit on Aramis' sharp ones, seeming to come back into focus for the first time since entering the square, and the man blanched as the reality of his situation came to the fore. An instant later, the rough burlap hood closed over that expression of horror, hiding it forever.

A flush of something that might have been satisfaction flooded Aramis' chest, briefly displacing the heaviness that had lodged there over the past days.

The musketeer stood in silent, steadfast witness as the noose was placed, the lever was pulled, and the hanged man's legs and feet gradually stopped twitching and relaxed in to stillness.

"In nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti," he murmured, making the sign of the cross. Still ignoring the excited babbling around him, he resettled his hat on his head, turned from the gallows, and strode away toward the garrison.

Porthos turned his attention from the bed when the door latch to the infirmary rattled, unsurprised to see Aramis enter.

"Kept your promise, then?" he asked as his friend removed his hat, weapons belt, and doublet, hanging them neatly by the door.

Aramis nodded tiredly, before indicating the bed with a tip of the chin. "Any change?"

"He was muttering and thrashing around again earlier, but he seems quiet for now," Porthos replied.

The first time Athos had surfaced part way, rambling disjointedly about his wife and his brother with no seeming awareness of his surroundings, Aramis had proclaimed it a promising sign. That didn't stop it being painful to watch, though, and as the following twenty-four hours had dragged on with no further change or improvement, their morale was beginning to slip- especially the whelp, who didn't have as much experience with wounded men as either of the others.

Porthos reminded them both periodically of the hardness of Athos' head, and pointed out that at least his periods of semiconsciousness allowed them to force a bit of water and broth down his throat... even if he did fight them the whole time. Still, d'Artagnan was taking it hard. Twice, he'd woken from nightmares of finding his mentor too late and had to be reassured that he was, in fact, still alive.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked, his thoughts apparently mirroring Porthos' own.

Porthos indicated the younger man, propped up against the wall in the corner and fast asleep. "Finally gettin' some decent sleep. Thought he was gonna cry when you were gone and he had to be the one to hold Athos down while I got the broth into 'im, but he did the job an' did it well."

"Of course he did," Aramis answered, pulling a second chair over to the bedside.

"So, how do you think Géroux found out about Athos?" Porthos asked absently, smoothing the blanket where it hung over edge of the bed. "I mean, I know the girl was following him, but it's not like him bein' the Comte de la Fére ever came up in casual conversation."

Aramis shook his head. "I doubt we'll ever get solid answers. But Géroux worked for the red guards as well as Treville. It wouldn't surprise me if the Cardinal knew Athos' background- he has a finger in every pie in France. And if he knew, then I wouldn't put it past him to let the information slip to his men- scandal and all- as a way to foster resentment and make Athos more of a target for duels. It's not the first time he has been quarry for the Cardinal's schemes, after all, and Géroux was in a prime position to hear any gossip flying around the red guards' garrison."

Porthos nodded, before adding something that had occurred to him last night. "I was also thinking about Treville's records. The Captain knows about Athos. Knew since he accepted him as a trainee in the regiment, or so I gather. He's so thorough about keeping records that he could find the leathersmith's address in almost no time. How much do you want to bet that he's got records on Athos? And if you could sneak into his office to look for records about Savoy, Géroux could sneak into his office to look for records on Athos."

"It's certainly possible," Aramis allowed. "If I wasn't worried that we'd need to snoop through his cabinet sometime in the future, I'd tell him to hide his key better."

Porthos snorted, only to turn quickly back to the bed when Athos started moving restlessly. He gingerly took Athos' right hand in his, twining his fingers through the other man's; still red and swollen like sausages from the restricted blood flow caused by the manacles.

"Thomas..." Athos mumbled, thick-tongued. "Thomas... where-?"

"Shh, Athos," Aramis soothed, though Porthos knew he held no real hope that Athos would hear or understand. "It's all right. Calm yourself."

Athos' head thrashed back and forth. "Thomas," he moaned. "Thomas... no. No. Not Thomas. D'Artagnan?"

Porthos felt a jolt of excitement, and he and Aramis both leaned forward as if tugged upright by marionette's strings.

"Athos?" he asked. "Athos, can you hear me? Wake up!"

"Open your eyes, Athos," Aramis entreated. "Please. We need you to wake up now."

One of Athos' eyes was still swollen shut, but the other one cracked open, rolling a bit in the dim light from the single small window at the end of the room.

"Porthos? Ar'mis?" Athos asked, swallowing in an attempt to wet his tongue. "D'Artagnan- where is-? He... he was... upset..."

Aramis slumped forward, letting his eyes fall closed in relief. "He was upset that you wouldn't wake up properly, you dolt."

"I expect he'll be much better once he's talked to you," Porthos added, grabbing a clean rag from the table next to him with his free hand and lobbing it at the whelp's head. "Oi! D'Artagnan! Wake up - someone wants to see you!"

D'Artagnan clumsily swiped the rag away from his face. An instant later, his eyes went wide and he launched himself at the bed, stumbling against furniture in his half-awake haste.

"Athos?" he asked breathlessly.

Athos freed his hand from Porthos' and laid it clumsily over d'Artagnan's forearm. "Oh, good," he mumbled, letting his eye drift closed. "Was worried..."

"I'm not the one you should be worrying about," d'Artagnan managed in response, his eyes growing suspiciously bright.

Aramis smiled at him and eased him gently to the side so he could place himself in Athos' line of sight.

"He's right, you know," Aramis said. "Try to stay awake a bit longer for us. Can you drink some water?"

"Got... any wine?" Athos replied, blinking his eye open again.

"Now I know you're feeling better," Aramis responded dryly. "Wine will be your reward for keeping water and broth down today, my friend. Consider it something to look forward to."

"Tyrant," Athos said without heat, allowing Aramis to help him drink slowly from a goblet of clear, cool liquid. "So," he continued when he was once again settled back on the bed, "you found me, then."

"Did you doubt us?" Aramis asked lightly.

"Géroux would have had me believe that you three sold me out to him for a purseful of coins," Athos said, sounding more himself after the water. Porthos could detect the thread of humour in his voice, but it did little to soften the fresh flush of rage in his chest toward the dead leathersmith.

He forced it down, finding a smile and a quip for his injured friend instead. "What, for a few coins? Pfft. We would have required piles of gold and precious gemstones at the very least."

"I would expect no less," Athos replied with a half-smile.

"When you didn't show up at the garrison, Géroux tried to tell us you'd gone to La Fére," d'Artagnan blurted, as though the words had been pulled from him involuntarily.

Athos' eyebrows twitched together; then relaxed. "Really? What happened then?"

"Aramis pulled a gun on 'im," Porthos replied, deadpan.

Athos huffed out a breath that might have been laughter.

Did you kill him?" he asked.

"Not personally," Porthos replied. "We let the courts take care of that part. Aramis wanted to, though."

"And I seem to recall telling you earlier that if you thought you were being watched, you were damn well being watched," Aramis said. "Perhaps you'll start listening to me."

"I always listen to you, ami," Athos answered sleepily. "And then I ignore three-quarters of what has just come out of your mouth. Mostly for my own sanity, such as it is."

Aramis made an offended noise, Porthos grinned, and d'Artagnan hid a laugh, poorly.

"Well, try not to ignore this; I want you to get some rest," Aramis said. "I think it would be best if we wake you every few hours, for the time being. Someone will be with you at all times, should you need anything. Now, go to sleep, and try never to scare us this badly again."

"Yeah. You're quiet enough at the best of times," Porthos put in. "This was just too quiet."

"I'll certainly do my best," Athos said. "I can safely say that I would prefer to avoid similar circumstances in the future, if at all possible."

"I'm just glad you're awake," d'Artagnan said, his sincerity obvious.

Athos gave him that tiny half smile, and patted his arm.

"Ask him sometime how he saved your life by charming a thirteen-year-old girl," Porthos said.

"Indeed," Aramis confirmed. "Soon I'll have him completely trained, and no female will be safe from his farm boy wiles. Now... sleep, Athos."

"I look forward to hearing the tale," Athos said, eyes closed.

"Aramis, take your own advice," Porthos said. "You, too, d'Artagnan. I'll keep watch for a few hours."

Aramis smiled and clapped him on the arm, giving in gracefully. D'Artagnan wrapped an arm around Porthos' shoulders and squeezed, letting his relief and happiness flow through the brief embrace before following the older man across the room to claim two of the other sick beds.

Once they were settled, Porthos smiled and stretched his legs out to rest his ankles on the foot of Athos' mattress, angling his chair so that he could keep all three of them in view. He clasped his hands behind his head, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders for the first time in days.

Porthos would have helped Aramis take Géroux apart piece by piece without a second thought if that's what it took to get to Athos. Truth was, though, he almost pitied the man.

Everyone in this room had lost loved ones unjustly.

Aramis had seen friends killed in battle and lovers lost to court intrigue. D'Artagnan lost his father to a soldier attempting to blacken the name of the very man lying on the bed in front of him. Athos had seen his brother murdered at the hands of his wife. Porthos himself had seen his mother treated as property and then discarded like trash to perish on the streets.

Yet instead of succumbing to hatred, they had cleaved to each other, loving more deeply and strongly than ever. Whereas Henri Géroux - despite having a daughter who needed his support and protection - had buried himself in the past, obsessing over vengeance and sadism.

He could have nurtured his daughter, campaigned for justice for his wife from the King, lived, loved... even married again. Instead, he let down the one person who still cared about and relied on him, and now he was dead.

By the grace of God, though - or possibly sheer cussedness - the four friends lived to fight, and love, another day. And, in the end, that was all Porthos asked for.

For what more in life did any man truly need?