By this time all eyes were focused on the two men. Tension gathered more tautly in the air, waiting and shivering to see blood spilled. Or spoiling for a fight. D'Artagnan followed Porthos' lead and bought drinks for the rest of the guests and focused his efforts on distracting everyone's attention from Athos and Aramis.

The blond-haired man swallowed tightly, almost as if it were hard for him to do so, as if something were lodged in his throat. "I'm sorry, Aramis," he finally said very quietly. "I didn't know." Athos pushed away from the table and rose to his unsteady feet. "If you'd be so kind as to help me to my room, I think I should sleep this off." Aramis nodded and went to assist his friend. As the pair passed the proprietor, Athos and Aramis both flipped him several pistoles and said, "Sorry about the mess."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Porthos halted Aramis. "Is he going to be all right?" Porthos asked, his tone uncharacteristically sober.

"He is still asleep," Aramis informed both his fellow musketeers. "I told the caravan leader that since our duty was discharged, he was welcome to leave us, and we'd find our way around Marseille and back to Paris. My guess is Athos will not be getting up until at least midday at any rate. Even then he is probably going to be suffering from a nasty headache. I daresay we will not be leaving any sooner than tomorrow." Aramis glossed over the hangover with his customary aplomb.

The other musketeers nodded. D'Artagnan addressed the would-be-priest. "What'd you say to him?" Concern was evident in every inflection of his voice.

"That is a private matter between Athos and myself. I cannot tell you that sort of thing. I am sorry." His tongue traced his even white teeth. "I know you are worried about him, D'Artagnan. We all are. Just be careful what you ask Athos. The man does not like dwelling on any part of his past, and I especially doubt he will want to talk about milady."

"Well, if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black," Porthos commented. For, if anything, Aramis was just as reserved as Athos about revealing his past. In fact, they knew less about Aramis than about Athos. Seemed even the best of friends kept secrets from one another. Maybe even the apparently completely open D'Artagnan was more secretive than he appeared to be.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Where's the Marquis de Langeac?" the man with a hawk-like nose asked the two men standing before him. "You were charged with finding the marquis and those papers that he gave to his daughter. Well?"

"We done our best, monsieur," one man said. "It was hard enough to find out his identity, and then discover that he'd given the documents to his daughter." For a prominent, old, and established family, remarkably little was known about the marquis or his family.

"I don't pay you to devise excuses, Joseph. You would do well to remember that fact. Now what about the good marquis and his daughter?"

"As far as we can tell," the other man, Guillaume, said, "Thomas d'Anlass contacted his daughter and warned her to flee. So when we arrived at the estate, only the servants remained."

"Really," his superior observed. "I see I have a great deal of incompetence to deal with. A situation which must be rectified."

"Monsieur," Guillaume said. "It was not a total loss. Thomas was injured, and we know he and his daughter did not leave together. In fact, we have reason to believe he enlisted her help and that she is seeking to complete his contacts and deliver the documents in his stead. Nor does Thomas even have all the papers. We know that. So we have an idea where he might be going so he can get the complete information."

All of which did very little good unless they knew where the woman might be heading. The hawk-nosed man turned his back on Joseph and Guillaume and stared out the window into the peaceful, moonlit night.

Thomas d'Anlass. He pondered the name and what he knew of the man several moments and then turned his thoughts to the marquis' daughter. If he was recalling correctly, she must be between eight and ten and twenty years, and single. Laurel--that was her name. A blond-haired blue-eyed girl who was raised more as a son than a daughter, he suspected. "I'll take care of finding Laurel d'Anlass. I have enough contacts in the places she might go for aid. You two will see to it that no messages find their way to Paris or the king, and alert my agents in Belgium and Austria. I want the marquis found."

"Oui monsieur." They replied in French rather than their native German and scurried from his presence to carry out his bidding. The marquis would be found. Now they knew how to track him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Milord." The servant entered the well-appointed study.

"Valent." His lordship acknowledged the servant and then looked up from his morning paper. He took a brief pinch of snuff and set his morning papers aside. "What can I do for you?"

"Milord, there is someone here insisting to see you."

"And this person is?"

"That's just it. The lad won't give his name. He says he won't talk with anyone except for you, and he refuses to go until you've seen him. He's gone so far as to threaten to create a nasty scene."

"I assume he won't say what he wants to see me about either." Valent nodded in confirmation. "What did he tell you?"

"Well, monseigneur, I don't know if it's important." When the servant paused, his lordship gestured for him to continue, and that he'd be the judge of how important the information might or might not be. "He kept mumbling something about les trois coronets."

"Did you say 'les trois coronets'?" his lordship repeated and Valent nodded. "Send the boy in here immediately, and see to it that no one disturbs us. Absolutely no one."

Valent bowed and exited. Moments later he entered the room with a lad who was sporting a full cape and hat pulled low, hiding his face. "Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. We should not be disturbed. What news is it that you bring?"

"You are Milord Compton," the contralto voice inquired and he confirmed he was the half English, half French lord. The lad still hadn't taken off his hat and cape. Did he have no manners, or was he something he wasn't supposed to be? He reached under his desk for the flintlock pistol he had recently procured and loaded it as he surveyed the visitor. Better to be prepared in his line of work. He'd learned that much over his decades in control of France's spy network. One reason for his longevity. . . .

Kat Jaske www.forhonor.com 2006 All rights reserved.

Kat Jaske is an English and French teacher in Las Vegas, where her high school selected her award-winning, swashbuckling novel, "For Honor", as the featured book for the 2006 Reading Incentive Program. This is an excellent example of creative fiction writing. If you cannot wait to read more of the story, order the book from the author web site http://www.forhonor.com