“Not a word. My name is Henri Bayard.”

A look of relief in Porthos’s eyes battled with a stubborn expression of confusion, but D’Artagnan, no matter how much he knew his stubborn friend’s need for concrete explanations was not so foolish as to spend his time-now-explaining to Porthos why he must be Henri Bayard.

At any minute, someone-perhaps the big, brave guy-would open that door. Worse, they might think to get torches, and then they would see Porthos and D’Artagnan and… all there was to see before it could be hidden.

“Go,” D’Artagnan told Porthos, in the tone that brooked no dissent. “Go. Now. Do not wait. Run.”

Porthos hesitated a moment, then ran to hide behind the pile of material, whatever it might be. D’Artagnan hoped it was not coal, as it would seem rather odd when Porthos reemerged-for him to be covered in soot. But then again, D’Artagnan was entrusting the success of his plan to a man whose mind worked in such an odd way that people not familiar with the inner architecture of his thoughts often thought him dumb, or at least simple.

But Monsieur D’Artagnan père, other than wise advice on ghosts, had also told his son that when going into a duel, one must always fight with the sword he had. There was no use, and it would only lead to no good, to keep wishing after the sword he couldn’t get. Porthos was the accomplice he had, and it was up to D’Artagnan to make the most of it.

Taking a deep breath, he blew out the candle on the forge, then let out a long, haunted scream, and after it, “Help me.”

At the scream, he fancied he heard feet scurrying away, but at the “Help,” the door was pushed open. In the doorway stood the big man and behind him ranged his friends and neighbors.

D’Artagnan, hoping it looked natural, threw himself down as though he’d lost consciousness. The steps approached. The big man knelt down. “What’s wrong boy? What happened?” He put his hand, roughly, on D’Artagnan’s neck, and announced, in tones of relief, “He lives.”

Xavier was there too, on the other side, and D’Artagnan had a brief moment of panic, as he realized the story he’d told the Ferrant family in no way accorded to what he’d given Porthos. But there was nothing for it, now, and he blinked, and pretended to come to, and said, in a trembling voice, “There was a creature… very tall and dressed all in white, and a red light enveloping him, as he stood at that forge there.” He pointed. “And he was… beating something. Looked like a sword made of men’s bones.” He shuddered at his own imagination and was quite glad to see not a few people in the crowd hastily crossing themselves.

“It’s the devil,” one of the men in the crowd said. “Come to collect the soul of whoever murdered Langelier.”

“A likely story,” Porthos’s voice boomed, from the back of the crowd. Arms crossed, Porthos forced his way amid the locals, using his shoulder as a battering ram, as he was known to do in any crowd, Monsieur de Treville’s antechamber included. “More likely you were in here to take a look at the scene of the crime, Bayard. And you left me without a servant to get me my dinner.”

“You’re his servant?” Xavier asked, his voice trembling. “But I thought you said you were going to be Monsieur de Treville’s servant.”

“Oh, he is that,” Porthos said, and at that moment, on a wave of relief, D’Artagnan could have clasped him in his arms. “But the captain is letting me borrow him until Mousqueton is freed.” Even in the dark, it was possible to see the glare he gave the gathered crowd, as though daring them to say that there was another outcome possible than Mousqueton’s freedom. “But Bayard thought he was too good to be the servant of a mere musketeer, didn’t you, rogue?”

He reached down, and with a realism that D’Artagnan couldn’t have anticipated, got a firm hold on D’Artagnan’s ear. “Up you come. I need someone to take a letter from me to the Princess de-” He stopped, as though he’d just avoided committing an indiscretion. “You know well who. And then we must pick my outfit for the encounter.”

The crowd-possibly daunted by the idea that Porthos, whose suit managed to shine even in the scant light of the embers and the little coming in through the open door, might have a better, more impressive suit that he kept for encounters with princesses. And Porthos, holding fast to D’Artagnan’s ear, and pulling it just a little too high, and a little too fast-just enough, D’Artagnan judged, to look as if he were dragging him-led him to the door of the armory and down the street.

No one followed them, though D’Artagnan could hear them arguing, still within the shop, the words “ghosts” and “murder” emerging now and then.

“Porthos,” D’Artagnan said, after a while. “It might interest you to know that this is not one of my favorite modes of walking with a friend.” And to his friend’s blank look, D’Artagnan sighed. “You are holding my ear, Porthos.”

“Oh,” Porthos said, letting go of D’Artagnan’s ear. He looked over his shoulder, then back at D’Artagnan. “What are you doing here, D’Artagnan?” he asked. “And why are you calling yourself Bayard?”

D’Artagnan calculated in his head the chances of Porthos understanding what he meant in the time available and without too much argument, and sighed when he could not raise the number above less than a chance in a million. Not that Porthos was stupid. Porthos was in no way stupid. But his mind worked on concrete details and on small points, and he would want D’Artagnan to explain why exactly he’d chosen the name Bayard, or else why he’d picked that exact color of russet suit from Planchet’s wardrobe.

Instead, D’Artagnan shook his head. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “For now, tell me what you have been doing? How came you to raise that racket in the armorer’s?”

Porthos gave him a sheepish look and shook his head in turn. “You see,” he said, and opened his big hands, as though to illustrate his helplessness, “I found that I couldn’t drop hammers on my head.”

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows and gave his friend a level, attentive look. “You had for a moment considered that this might be a good plan?”

Porthos sighed. “Not a plan,” he said. “Not a plan as such. It’s more…” He bit his lower lip as though in deep consideration. “You see, I thought it was odd that if a hammer had fallen on Mousqueton’s head it should not have dashed his brains out altogether.”

“If it were a glancing blow…” D’Artagnan said.

Porthos looked at him, with that air of mute misery he displayed when he was trying to think of words. Porthos could think of everything at all, but words caught on his tongue and refused to flow out as did the words of normal men. He hissed in frustration, and D’Artagnan waited for the words, looking at Porthos, betraying no impatience.

“You see…” Porthos said, and again he opened his hands, to show his lack of weapons, or perhaps his utter helplessness before the alien foe that was language. “I have been at Langelier’s before, and I had an idea, though I confess I’d never looked very closely, that the ceiling beams were too high. They could not be reached with a hand.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “You mean, you could not extend your hand and reach the beam? But surely, Porthos, one cannot reach most ceiling beams with one’s hand.”

“Of course,” Porthos agreed, amiably, but his tongue came out to touch his lips, and he made a grimace like a man in pain. “But I mean that you can’t touch whatever you hang on the rack that you hang from the beams.”

“Thereby making it impossible for anyone to retrieve a hammer easily,” D’Artagnan said. “And making it so that no artificer in his right mind would hang a hammer from such a rack.”

“Yes,” Porthos said with audible relief. “You understand.”

“Yes, I believe I do. And so you slipped away to go to the armorer’s and verify the height of the ceiling beams without telling us what your intentions were.”