One for All, page 31
My foot caught on a stone. Red liquid oozed around my feet. I made to scream, but Portia clapped a hand over my mouth. “A crushed tomato. Breathe, Tania.”
She attempted to press through, to get us to the edge of the Seine, but the crush of people pushed us sideways. I almost fell into Théa, who leaned back, kept me standing, and I regained my balance. Tightened my toes, my calves.
Music drifted over our heads: the procession. The echo of drums, lutes, string instruments overtook the din. In the next moment, an opening forged itself, people struggling aside, escaping the parade path. Acrobats leaped and somersaulted over the icy cobblestone, bells tied to their wrists. Masked actors teased the crowd. I flinched away from a wooden, leering face. The frost bit at my cheeks so I pulled my hood up, the sight of the embroidery softening my heartbeat. I was a Musketeer, in my Musketeer’s cassock.
The crowd shifted, and I toppled into the path of the open carriages. Masked figures waved and pointed as I braced my hands against the frozen ground. Another yank, this time at my cloak’s hood, and I was pulled back, back to standing, the carriage wheels narrowly missing my fingers.
Gasping for air, I fumbled with the clasp, hands immediately going to my neck, and spun. “Madame de Treville?” I asked. She was gasping, too. Her perfectly coiffed bun skewed, bedraggled. “Madame, where’s Henri?”
The crowd overtook us once more. I reached, barely made contact with her gloved fingertips. The wave of people crashed around the performers. Whoops, cheers, everything culminating in one roar. Noise. All there was: noise, noise and my heartbeat.
Suddenly, Portia was there. Aria, too—we huddled together. When the crowd thinned, we pushed forward. Madame de Treville and Théa had managed to find an alleyway, and we hurried toward them.
“What happened?” Aria asked clinically as she surveyed for stray onlookers or eavesdroppers.
“He’s not there,” Madame de Treville finally gasped out. “Verdon. No one can find him. The only thing I got from a servant is that he went for a drink before a scheduled ‘business meeting.’ I sent Henri with a sealed message asking for Monsieur Brandon to acquire reinforcements from Mazarin. Then, I notified every Musketeer on my way back to search the city cabarets.”
“He’s not at a cabaret,” I breathed out.
“What?” Madame de Treville said.
“He won’t be at a cabaret,” I said, words coming quicker, “he’ll be at a pub. Étienne mentioned before he left that his father would spend his time in pubs instead of doing business … but what if they’re one and the same? What if their headquarters isn’t somewhere lavish and comfortable?”
“How are we supposed to know which pub he’d choose? There’s hardly time to send word for the Musketeers to change locations, and we’re not likely to be able to reach them in this.” Portia gestured to the crushing people, the slurp of wine, of beer, of sweat sluicing over cobblestones and into the Seine.
Madame de Treville gripped me by the shoulders. “Think, Tania, think!”
But there wasn’t any time; there never was. Not enough time with Papa. Not enough time to avenge him, to prove Maman wrong, to prove the worth of my body. Of myself.
When our mentor twisted, I caught sight of a flash of paper within her cloak. I snatched at it. “This is the original? Of the coded message?”
“Oui, but why does that matter? You all have copies of the text.”
I traced the edge. INVENTORY SLIP—DECEMBER SHIPMENT. I went through the list of items again. The descriptions of fabric, the diagrams of each item, labeled and clearly drawn. I skimmed over the drawings, hooked on the rendering of the fabric pattern. Birds, clawed birds. Those weren’t on my copy. Only with squinting were the faint lines of eagles discernible. I stared at one, stared hard. My legs were billowing. Dizziness on the cusp. The eagle’s wings blurred. “That’s it,” I murmured.
“What’s it?” Madame de Treville reached for the slip.
“An eagle. And Verdon’s lion—I saw it on the carriage, the day I met Verdon senior. It’s part of his crest. When you put them together…”
“A griffin,” Aria finished. “The Gryphon. The pub we passed. The fabric pattern was part of the code.”
A pause. And then we broke. Kicked away the empty refuse in our path as we raced down the alley. Lungs throbbing with each step; our breaths seared sword sharp.
When we hit the opposite side, the clear street, Madame de Treville halted. “Wait,” she wheezed. “I have to tell the nearest King’s Guard post to send a group to The Gryphon and have the rest spread along the far edge of La Cour. If traitors escape, their only choice will be to head in that direction—not enough of them to man a large vessel; anything smaller than a merchant’s ship won’t hold up against the winter waters. Follow them. Occupy them to give me time to reach the post, and the Musketeers time to surround them.”
“Shouldn’t one of us go with you?” Théa asked through labored breaths.
Madame de Treville shook her head. “I’m not splitting you up again. I learned my lesson. Keep each other safe. We all know our duty to throne and country, but I swear if I learn you took unnecessary risks I’ll kill you myself.”
“A funny way to say you care for us, but I suppose it’ll do,” Portia quipped.
Madame de Treville laughed once. Maybe it was a sob. A croaking breath. As we made to leave, she grabbed my upper arm. Just like I had with her, before I’d accepted I wouldn’t be the one to apprehend Papa’s murderer. Every feature of her face hardened. “No matter what that man says or does, you can’t kill him. The King will want him alive for questioning. If Verdon has outside influences, foreign powers helping him—that’s not information we can afford to lose. And if there are other splinter groups and assassins to step in if he’s discovered, we have to know.” I hesitated. The rage reared in my chest again, the anger at this man, this horrible man, for taking Papa from me before he even had the chance to see what I’d become. “Promise me, Tania.” I refocused on her worried brow, the lines that streaked sunbeams to her temples.
“I promise, Madame. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE DESERTED ALLEYWAY’S cobblestones were strewn with discarded barrels and excrement. Flies swarmed in lazy clouds, indistinguishable from the dim if it weren’t for the incessant buzzing. The sky was obscured with clouds. The prospect of the first snowfall of the year bit bitter at our ankles. The tight breeches under my dress helped with dizziness but didn’t provide much warmth.
“Charming,” Portia said. “Nothing says la guerre finale quite like the smell of sewers.”
The ten minutes it took to reach the rear of The Gryphon was enough time for the frantic edge to wear off, adrenaline replaced with gnawing anxiety, the threat of what was to come. We formed a circle against the cold, salty air. Three familiar faces peered back at me, wavering a bit as I clenched my toes against the dizziness. Théa spoke first. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening.” Her tight curls escaped her cloak’s hood. She wrenched the fabric forward; it shifted back.
Portia pulled the ties of her cloak tighter. She attempted a grin, but her lips couldn’t seem to stay there. “We have each other, though.”
“Un pour tous, tous pour un,” I whispered. Just like Papa had told me in bedtime stories, just like I had wished those months ago, in the barn with the hay-smelling sun and the yearning for something greater than myself. I hadn’t thought it possible, but I had my band of sisters now. Like he’d had his brothers.
Portia repeated it. She grabbed ahold of my hand, squeezed. “One for all, all for one.” We murmured it together, voices crashing, nowhere near in sync.
“We’ll have to practice.” Théa’s shaky laugh evaporated into the prefrost. “I love you all, but that sounded horrendous!”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Aria said. “I’m holding all of you to that.”
“We’ll live to see another day. To question the monarchy another day,” Portia added with a laugh, fingers linked with Aria’s.
“Oh, I’ve had a wonderful thought: Perhaps we could be independent Musketeers for hire!” Théa exclaimed. “And we could give the funds to Parisians who need them! We’ll be like Robin Hood, except without the stealing—although I suppose I stole those books from the library … so yes, we’ll be just like Robin Hood!”
Aria softened and smiled at her. “We’ll have negotiating power. The girls who saved the King.”
They talked like there was no chance of defeat. No chance of the four of us becoming three, two, one … I didn’t want to consider a world without them. But then, I hadn’t been able to conceive of a world without Papa, either. And now he was gone. And yet, somehow, he was everywhere. In the way I lunged with my arm just so. In the anticipation coursing through my veins. In the knowledge that people were relying on me and, for maybe the first time, their trust in me didn’t feel like a mistake, but a right I’d earned.
I turned to face The Gryphon. The others moved up to meet me. “All of that will have to wait. There’s work to be done.”
* * *
The Gryphon wasn’t what one would call a fine establishment. Fitting for the crime of killing a king—less so for the title-obsessed nobles plotting to do so. Even with the lure of power, of titles and wealth, it was difficult to imagine Verdon here. Not with his regal stature. Not with the way he looked down his nose with those ice green eyes, as if my mere presence was enough to warrant incinerating his clothes.
When we entered, the raucous laughter that greeted us fell silent. The wooden floors were sticky with alcohol and spit. Outlines of tankards were stark against the tabletops, like someone engraved the rings with a knife. There weren’t many patrons; two or three benches were occupied by men hunched over their drinks—jowls loose, stubbly; wrinkles dangling under their chins. Portia removed her cloak with a flourish, draped it over a hook so rusty it could’ve been there since the Battle of Châlons, strode up to the bar, and flashed a brilliant smile to the man gathering tankards from a lower shelf. “Bonsoir. Am I correct in assuming you’re the owner of this splendid business?”
“Non, Mademoiselle. Puis-je vous aider? Can I help you?” As they spoke, we removed our cloaks, put them wherever we found free space. I forced the clasp open, unwound myself from the warm familiarity, and winced as the blue fabric hit the sticky bench. But it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be to pry my fingers away. I didn’t need the cloak to be strong. I was strong enough on my own.
“As much as I’d appreciate your assistance, it’s a matter of a private nature. Un sujet délicat. What sort of woman would I be, betraying a client’s trust?” Portia gazed up at the man through her dark lashes. Aria started, jaw thrust forward, hand fumbling for her sword—I grabbed her arm.
The man glanced at my stone-faced companion but returned to Portia when she trailed a finger down his sweaty cheek. “He’s in the back managing the b-books…,” the man sputtered, “but I could ask him to come out front? If that would please you?”
“Would you? I’d be ever so grateful.”
We joined her as he retreated down a narrow, bedimmed hall adjacent to the bar. “What do you think you’re doing?” Portia said through clenched teeth. “You almost blew our cover.”
“The way he looked at you,” Aria muttered. “It was—”
“Plenty of men have undressed me with their eyes before, and it wasn’t necessary for Tania to keep you from skewering them.”
“I don’t like it,” Aria said shortly. “Just because I know it’s going to happen doesn’t mean I have to like it. It is disgusting.”
Portia’s brow quirked. “Take heart, ma crevette. There is no need to be jealous.”
Aria scowled. “I am not jealous. And I’m the tallest one here!”
“Tush, it’s a common enough pet name. My little shrimp. My little shrimp with gray eyes and pink cheeks.”
I peered into the hallway. There were stairs off to the right, easy to miss in the shadows. “Should we wait?”
“There have to be at least six or seven rooms. It would take too long to check them all. By then someone would hear us,” Aria said, still glaring at Portia.
The barkeep returned with a beaming man, and we withdrew.
“Mesdemoiselles! What an unexpected pleasure. Beautiful ladies such as yourselves rarely grace my business.”
“We were sent for from Madame Roubille’s house. By a Monsieur V?” Portia lowered her voice. She must have chosen a real brothel given their looks of recognition. “The messenger requested four of the finest mesdemoiselles our house has to offer. Something about a larger party of gentlemen? A way to pass the time and decompress before a meeting?”
The owner’s discerning gaze swept over us. “He didn’t mention sending for des femmes de mauvaise vie.”
I pushed forward as Portia hesitated under the flickering candlelight. “He mustn’t have wanted to share—that’s not fair, if you ask me. If we hurry now, though, I’ll be sure to reserve some time for you after we’re finished upstairs,” I said. For added emphasis, I placed my hand, featherlight, on his chest. His ribs constricted under my touch.
“Well, then,” he said, throatier this time, “I wouldn’t dream of keeping Monsieur V waiting. Follow me.”
As the barkeep trundled away, I retracted my hand from the man’s sternum, lips curled into melted sugar, and trailed him. Only pausing when Portia squeezed my shoulder, sniffling. “That was beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud.”
At the base of the staircase, I froze. The stairs extended, a mountain. Portia edged around me and took my spot behind the owner. In the next moment, I was airborne. Aria’s face strained as she trailed after Portia, me in her arms.
“The ceiling and stairs are too narrow for him to see anything behind him but Portia,” Aria said.
“But how will you—”
“I’m fairly strong. If you haven’t noticed,” she grimaced as we hit the halfway point, Portia keeping up a steady chatter to cover our voices.
On the landing, Portia used every inch of her frame to block our movements. Aria set me down as discreetly as possible on the next-to-last step while Théa spotted me from behind. “I should contain my praise, but oh, I can’t help myself: You have one of the finest taverns in all of Paris,” Portia cooed, waiting until I crested the stairs to move aside.
“I’ll send up more wine straightaway.” He fumbled with a key ring fixed to his belt. “I’m the only one with access. They’ll know it’s me,” he announced proudly. He chanced on the correct key and slid it into the lock.
The click of tumblers paused as Théa, who’d draped herself in the far wall’s shadows, brought the guard of her sword down over the man’s head. “Sorry!” she squeaked to her victim as it connected with the back of his head. “I had no choice!” He crumpled, and she jumped back as his skull thudded against the dusty planks. “What?” she whispered indignantly at Portia’s heavenward glance. “It’s not like he tried to kill us! He could be completely innocent, minding his own business and making a living, not knowing he’s renting out a room to a murderer!”
“For all we know he’s as much a part of this as the men behind that door,” Portia muttered. I helped her grab the passed-out man by the ankles and drag him into a darkened corner.
“Hurry,” Aria said. “We don’t have all night.”
I wiped my hands on my dress and joined the others near the door. Théa’s hand trembled. She took a breath. Turned the key.
“François, is that you? We need more wine!” someone sang out.
“Quiet,” another voice reproached. “We’re not here to drink.”
Portia strode into the room, and we accompanied her: slow, quiet, smiling shyly at anyone who locked eyes with us.
A man stood quickly, chair scraping against the floor; he knocked one of the dirty plates off the table. The rest of the room’s occupants were bundled in a cramped seating area. “Now … who exactly are you?”
“Compliments of The Gyphon for your patronage. We are the very finest Madame Roubille’s has to offer, Monsieur…?”
He visibly relaxed, and by the time Portia finished speaking, he regarded her like a child with their nose pressed up against a pâtisserie window. “You, mon chou, may call me Guillaume.”
Two men were fully visible near the fireplace. One arranged papers across the well-worn carpet. As soon as he felt my gaze, he scrambled, returned the sheets to a leather-bound folder. All I could see of the men in the large armchairs were their dark hats and the slope of their shoulders.
“Relax, Antoine,” he told the man with the folder. “C’est seulement des putes.” Guillaume mistook the shine in Portia’s eyes as lust. He could not see the spark for what it was: brilliant, incandescent rage. But I knew her expressions like my own now. And, more importantly, I knew that any man who said pute in her presence wasn’t long for this world. “How many ladies are we hosting this fair evening?”
Portia’s eyes crackled over him. “Three others. The last is a bit shy.” Théa stepped forward, hands clasped behind her back, readying to tuck up her skirts. “Be a dear and close the door, won’t you? These handsome gentlemen surely won’t wish to be disturbed.”
Three of the men from the opposite side of the room, Antoine included, approached eagerly. But I watched the one who remained in his chair, did my best to search for the green eyes that had haunted my nightmares since that day at the university.
“Verdon, aren’t you coming?” Guillaume asked.
There was no time for an answer. One of the men lunged at Portia. Grabbed a handful of her skirts, of her stockinged thigh.
“Remove your hands before I remove them for you.” Aria’s expression matched the steel she held to the man’s throat. And then. And then the screech of metal. And then the rip and crush of fabric folded and pulled aside and tucked away.
Our adversaries hurried to arm themselves. Knocking over stools, they scrambled for their swords in a state of half shock, half fury. Aria slashed a rent in her opponent’s vest, not deep enough to do any significant damage, but the man still crashed into the table and sent a tankard flying, wine dregs splattering across Guillaume’s face.
