Traitor's Chase

  “No. The headmistress, who used to be chief handmaiden to Louis’s mother, oversees my training, although Milady will be my superior once Queen Anne arrives—or if she arrives, I suppose. In truth, I have only recently been selected to be a handmaiden. Before this, I was merely a cleaning girl in the quarters for the King’s Guard.”

  “Hold on,” Greg said. “You worked for Dominic Richelieu?”

  “I work for the crown,” Catherine replied. “Although I did clean Monsieur Richelieu’s quarters. At least, I did until you ran him off.”

  Greg stared at Catherine for a while, trying to process this information. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that, out of all the people Milady could have chosen to accompany her on this mission, she’d picked the very girl who’d worked for Richelieu. “Why didn’t you ever mention this?” he asked.

  “I thought Milady had already told you,” Catherine said. “I did say that I had been asked to clean out his offices....”

  “But I never knew you worked so close to him. Did you ever encounter Michel Dinicoeur there?”

  Catherine nodded. “Twice. He visited only when he thought Richelieu was alone, but people tend to overlook the servants sometimes.”

  “Are you the one who told Milady about him?”

  Catherine considered that carefully. “Perhaps. I’m not sure. Why?”

  Greg didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t even sure why he thought it was important, but somehow it seemed that it was. Instead, he asked the question that was burning inside him. “Did you, by any chance, ever hear Michel mention something called the Devil’s Stone?”

  Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion. “How did you know about that?”

  Greg’s heart leaped with excitement. “What did you hear?”

  Catherine responded by putting a finger to her lips and hushing him.

  Something rustled in the bushes.

  “It’s probably just a squirrel,” Greg whispered.

  And then the thieves attacked.

  THIRTEEN

  THERE WERE THREE OF THEM, THEY WERE ALL VERY BIG, AND they moved with surprising speed. Within seconds, they had overwhelmed Greg, knocking him to the ground and wrenching his hands behind his back. The moment he tried to call for help, one crammed a rag in his mouth. Greg felt the cool steel of a knife blade pressed against his neck. “You’ll stay still if you know what’s good for you,” his attacker hissed.

  Greg obediently stopped struggling. He doubted he could have done anything anyhow. He’d foolishly left his sword on the barge.

  The knife blade stayed against his flesh. “That’s right,” the man said. “And don’t try calling to your friends, either. This is Prince Condé’s territory. We don’t take kindly to representatives of the king.”

  Greg wondered if these men were the ones who’d been watching the boat the other night. They appeared to be brothers; all had the same cruel look. The oldest, apparently the leader, had a scar angling across his nose from his left eye to the right side of his mouth. The next in line was the biggest, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles. The youngest was also the dimmest; he was slightly cross-eyed and the mere act of thinking seemed to cause him distress. Their clothing was poorly made and haphazardly stitched together. And they reeked as though they’d never bathed in their lives; Greg was surprised he hadn’t been able to smell them from a mile away.

  The thieves had little interest in Greg other than what valuables he might be carrying. However, they regarded Catherine as though she was a prize herself. While the middle one pinned her against a tree, the one with the scar stepped back to admire her.

  “Look at her!” he crowed. “I’ve never seen clothes like these. What are you, darling, a princess?”

  Catherine didn’t respond. She just glared at the thieves, who weren’t fazed a bit. “Hoo-hoo!” the scarred one laughed. “If you want to give us the silent treatment, that’s fine by us.”

  Greg seethed with rage—although he was angrier with himself than the thieves. He’d made a terrible mistake by letting his guard down, and now Catherine was paying the price. He felt frightened and useless, unable to do anything but hope his friends came to their rescue.

  His face was pressed into the ground, so he could barely see anything. He felt the muscular middle brother slice through his belt, then slide it off his body and remove the small pouch that held all his belongings.

  “What’s he got in there?” the scarred one demanded.

  “Not much,” his brother replied. “Just a few coins.” He suddenly grew intrigued. “And this …”

  “What on earth is that?” Greg heard the scarred one ask.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the middle brother said. He jabbed Greg in the ribs with his boot. “Hey there,” he demanded. “What is this thing?”

  Greg lifted his head from the dirt and saw what the thief held in his grubby hands: Greg’s cell phone.

  Greg’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t lose his phone! He’d never get back to the future. But before panic could set in, he realized the phone might be able to get him out of this predicament.

  “It’s magic,” he said.

  The brothers—and Catherine—squinted at him skeptically, then at the phone. Greg knew it looked like nothing they’d ever seen before.

  “What’s it do?” the scarred one demanded.

  “I have to show you,” Greg said.

  “Do I look like an idiot to you?” the scarred one snapped. “No way. Tell me how it works.”

  “I can’t,” Greg said. “It only works for me.”

  The thieves stepped back and conferred for a moment. Greg could hear snippets of their conversation: “It couldn’t be magic. It’s so small.” “It might. It’s very shiny.” “What’s it made of, silver?” In the end, curiosity won out, and he was released.

  The middle brother jabbed the tip of his knife into Catherine’s side, making her squeal. “Try anything funny and the princess here gets hurt,” he warned.

  Greg stood, brushed the dirt from his face, and reached for the phone.

  The younger brother was suddenly behind him, wrapping a thick arm around his neck.

  “Further incentive for you to not try anything funny,” the scarred one warned. “My brother there can snap your neck in an instant, if I say so.”

  “Understood,” Greg gasped. He could barely breathe with the arm pressed against his throat. His hands were trembling. He knew there was a decent chance that, if all didn’t go the way he’d hoped right now, he’d end up dead. But then, if he did nothing, the thieves would probably kill him anyhow.

  The scarred brother cautiously handed him the phone as the younger brother tightened his arm around Greg’s neck.

  Greg pressed the switch to turn the phone on. Even the background warm-up photo was enough to make the thieves gasp. It was just a picture Greg had snapped of a park in Queens near his apartment. But then, neither the thieves—nor Catherine—had ever seen a photograph before.

  “Think that’s impressive?” Greg asked. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” He flipped on the camera and aimed the phone at the scarred one. “Say cheese.”

  “Why?” the thief asked.

  Greg snapped the picture, then brought it up on the screen and turned it to face the others.

  The thieves recoiled in shock. Even Catherine went wide eyed.

  “Is that me?” the scarred one demanded.

  “Yes,” Greg said.

  “How did you get in that little box?” the middle brother asked, a bit frightened.

  “It’s only an image of him. Like a painting,” Greg explained.

  “Painted in a mere instant?” the scarred thief asked. “That’s not possible.”

  “I told you,” Greg said. “It’s magic.”

  “I don’t like it,” the middle one said. “I hear sorcerers can do things like that. Steal men’s souls.”

  While they were still in awe, Greg flipped to the mu
sic function and hit play, cranking the volume as high as it would go.

  The phone picked a song at random and blasted it. It happened to be a noisy thrash metal song, and the sudden blare of electric guitars caught the thieves by surprise. As Greg had hoped, the cacophony of modern sounds was disorienting to them. Even better, none of the thieves could comprehend that the music was actually coming from the phone. Instead, they spun about, frightened, desperately looking for the musicians. The youngest one dropped his guard, relaxing his hold on Greg’s neck.

  Greg knew he wasn’t going to get another chance. He grabbed the thief’s fingers and yanked them back while simultaneously twisting free of his grip. While the younger thief howled in pain, Greg spun around and drove his knee into the thief’s crotch, doubling him over. Then Greg snatched the thief’s sword from his belt.

  Catherine also snapped to action. Even though she was just as stunned by the music as the thieves, her survival instincts kicked in quickly. She pulled away from the middle brother and fled into the bushes.

  Greg spun toward the middle thief, but the scarred one blocked Greg’s sword with his own. “Go get her!” he ordered. “I can handle this one!”

  The middle one did as he was told, plunging into the woods, as the scarred thief charged at Greg with his sword. The youngest thief staggered back to his feet, a knife in his hand. He was now moving gingerly, but he was still dangerous.

  Greg parried their attacks, putting everything Athos had taught him to use. He was frightened, but he forced himself to calm down and remember Athos’s instructions: Stay in the moment. Focus. No matter how hard he tries not to, your attacker will always signal what he’s going to do next. Predict, prepare—and counter.

  As their blades clanged against one another, Greg discovered something: He’d become quite good at sword fighting over the last two months. He hadn’t realized it, because he’d been fighting Athos, who was as good as they came. But compared to the thieves, he was a pro. He saw their moves coming far in advance. Thus he deftly sidestepped each attack and kept them at bay.

  He soon spotted an opening with the youngest thief, who was far less experienced than his brother. Greg brought the sword down across his arm, cutting a deep gash. The thief yelped in pain, dropped his knife, and abandoned the battle to stanch the bleeding.

  Greg snatched the knife before the scarred one could, then took him on with both blades. Now that it was only man to man, he quickly overwhelmed the thief. He spun quickly, caught the blade of the other man’s sword with his own, and sent it flying from his hand. As the scarred one gasped in surprise, Greg whacked him on the head with both hilts at once. The thief collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  Greg glanced at his phone. There was barely any battery left. He quickly flicked it off to save what little power remained.

  The song on the phone ended abruptly, and the woods went silent again, allowing Greg to hear Catherine’s screams for help in the woods. He went after her.

  She hadn’t made it far. The middle thief had caught up to her in a clearing and tackled her in the grass. She was doing her best to fend him off, but he was overwhelming her with his sheer bulk. He stopped immediately, however, when Greg placed the blade of the sword against his neck.

  “Get up,” Greg ordered.

  The thief spun around, surprised to see Greg there and not the others. “What did you do to my brothers?” he asked.

  “I let them live,” Greg said. “Though I might not be so understanding with you. Get away from the girl.”

  The thief stood quickly, his hands raised in surrender. Even though he was twice Greg’s size, he now looked upon Greg with fear and respect. “We didn’t mean nothing,” he whined. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Greg kept the sword against the thief’s neck.

  Catherine stood. Greg turned to her, expecting that she might throw herself into his arms, thankful for his valiant rescue.

  But instead she looked even more afraid of him than the thief did. She glanced warily at the phone in Greg’s hand, then fled—as though he was the dangerous one.

  “Catherine!” Greg called. “Wait! I can explain!”

  “Stay away from me, sorcerer!” she yelled as she disappeared into the woods.

  The thief took advantage of the distraction to flee himself, running in the opposite direction. Greg didn’t have the heart to chase him. Instead he stared after Catherine, realizing that he couldn’t explain this at all. Anything he said would probably only frighten her even more.

  There was a rustle from the bushes nearby. Greg spun around, sword raised, expecting another attack. Instead, he saw a glimpse of golden hair—Milady de Winter.

  She vanished into the woods, leaving Greg to wonder why she was there, how much she’d seen—and what she was going to do about it.

  FOURTEEN

  AFTER THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE THIEVES, GREG couldn’t get Catherine to talk to him again. He could barely get her to look at him—and when she did, he saw fear in her eyes. When the six travelers sat down to meals, she always made sure she was seated farthest away from Greg.

  On the other hand, Milady now seemed to be keeping an eye on him. She was subtle about it, though. Greg would suddenly have the sense that she was watching him, although when he spun around, she was always looking somewhere else, albeit with a slight, knowing smile on her lips. Greg was tempted to just march up to her and demand to know what she’d seen, but he figured she’d somehow manage to turn that around and embarrass him in front of the other Musketeers again.

  As for the Musketeers themselves, relations between them grew more and more strained as their travels continued.

  Thus, Greg could barely contain his relief when, twelve agonizing days after first setting out on the river, the forest suddenly fell away from the riverbank, revealing a city in the distance.

  “Arles,” Aramis said. He—and everyone else—seemed to be thrilled that their time on the boat was finally at an end.

  As they drifted toward the city, however, Greg’s relief turned into astonishment. For a moment, he wondered if they’d somehow ended up in Italy. Arles looked nothing like Paris—or any of the small villages they had passed on their journey. Instead, it looked like a smaller version of Rome.

  It was far larger than any other city they had encountered, more than twice the size of Paris itself. Many buildings were constructed in Roman style, featuring thick columns and intricate bas reliefs. The riverbanks were buttressed with stone and the roads were paved. An elaborate bridge crossed the Rhône, far more impressive than even the Pont Neuf in Paris, built upon pontoon boats so that it actually floated on the water, with towers and drawbridges at both ends. But most startling of all was the Arena. Perched on a hill above the river, it looked like a slightly smaller version of the Colosseum in Rome. Five stories tall and several blocks wide, it loomed above every other building in the city.

  “This doesn’t look like France,” Greg said.

  “Until recently, it wasn’t France,” Aramis explained. “It was founded by the Greeks over two thousand years ago. Then the Romans took it over and built it into what you see today. After that, it became the capital of its own country, the Kingdom of Arles, for a few hundred years. The area was only ceded to King Charles of France about a hundred fifty years ago.”

  Greg shook his head in amazement. He’d never had any idea that there were Roman cities in France. But then, Athos, Porthos, and the girls seemed surprised as well—and they lived in France. If anything, they were more astonished by the city.

  “I’d always thought Paris must be the most beautiful city in the world,” Milady said as they tied up the boat. “But now, compared to this place …”

  “It looks like a cesspit,” Porthos finished.

  “That’s not what I was going to say,” Milady chided.

  “Well, Paris certainly smells like a cesspit,” Porthos taunted. “Whereas this town smells incredible.” He inhaled deeply, relishing
the smell—or lack of it—in the air. “There’s no latrines in the streets! Where on earth do they put all their waste?”

  “Underground,” Aramis replied. “The Romans built a series of underground pipes, known as sewers, which use water to convey all human waste to the outskirts of the city. From what I understand, they also have an intricate system of pumps and aqueducts to bring fresh water to all the towns in this region.” He pointed to a marble fountain that sat at the end of the pier. Fresh, clean water spurted from the mouths of carved fish and cherubs into a wide basin, where residents filled buckets for their daily use. It was a beautiful structure—and Greg couldn’t help noticing that the residents of Arles looked considerably cleaner and healthier than those of Paris.

  “It’s a shame we won’t be able to stay here long,” Catherine said sadly.

  “Well, we might be here at least a day or two,” Porthos said. “We have to acquire horses and provisions—and it might be wise to seek some information while we’re here as well. If this is the jumping-off point for Spain, then it’s likely that this is where Dominic jumped off.”

  “I agree with Porthos,” Aramis said.

  “Then you’re both fools,” Athos snapped. “We can’t afford to squander a day or two in our pursuit....”

  “Seeking the correct information isn’t wasteful,” Aramis shot back. “We have no idea which route they took from here. Starting our pursuit quickly means nothing if we head in the wrong direction.”

  “We know the right direction,” Athos snarled. “Toward Spain. We don’t need to waste precious time figuring that out.”

  “There are other things we ought to learn besides the mere direction they went,” Aramis said. “Anyone with half a brain should know that.”

  Athos began to argue, but Milady stepped between the boys before he could. “You know what’s really wasting our time? Your bickering. So Aramis and I are going to go find out if anyone has seen Dominic....”