Surely most men, on finding they needed to kill the boy, would have hit him on the back of the head and left him for dead in some alley, or some forgotten building, or stabbed him and left the body with every appearance of having died in a brawl. Or… a million other scenarios.

So why kill the boy with poison, and at a time when he would surely be discovered by someone who would care about his death-someone, what was more, who was likely to be of a suspicious turn of mind, and to have access to the ears of those in power? It seemed like a mad thing to do. And in that moment, Athos had the fleeting feeling that he could almost sense something… Something.

As though he stood in a tall place, looking below at the maze that was this murder, he felt as if he could almost see the whole thing, beginning to end and the bit in the middle as well. But the groom said, dubiously, “Well, if you would follow me. My lord is in the stables.”

And Athos was back in the yard with the horses and the busy grooms putting the horses through their paces and brushing them and grooming them. He nodded to the groom, and started to follow.

Porthos grabbed at his arm. “Athos,” he said. “I’ll stay here.”

Athos turned back frowning. “You will? Why? Don’t you have questions to ask Monsieur de Comeau?”

Porthos grinned, flashing that smile that made people think him simple or mad. “No, Athos,” he said. “You have questions to ask Monsieur de Comeau. I shall wait for you here. Between you high lords, you are better served if you speak alone. While I, myself, you know, since I have horse traders in my ancestry, will stay here and watch all these horses, and think to myself about a few things.”

Athos was about to reproach Porthos with silliness and to tell him that no one cared about Porthos’s ancestry but Porthos himself. Or at least, none of Porthos’s friends cared. But Porthos’s eyes were full of speaking mirth, as though he meant to say something else. No, as though he meant for Athos to understand something else that he didn’t want to have to say.

Finding he had opened his mouth, Athos closed it, then nodded curtly. “There is, of course,” he said, slowly, ponderously, looking for Porthos to correct him if he was guessing wrong. “A great advantage in knowing your place in the world.”

Porthos nodded. “Is there not?” he said. “And I know my place exceedingly well, I assure you. I always feel more at home in these kinds of places, with working men… aye, and women, too, who know what to do and what goes on in the bowels of your great houses. You, on the other hand, should go talk to the gentleman who is your equal and who will doubtless receive you with equanimity.”

If Porthos had smiled any wider or more blankly, he would doubtlessly have sprained his jaw, and Athos chose to relieve his friend’s mind by saying, “I understand completely. I will be back in a few moments.”

Porthos nodded and looked about him, till he found a large rock in the middle of the yard, in the full sun of late summer. He sat himself on it, watching horses and working grooms with every appearance of satisfaction.

As Athos turned his back on Porthos, Athos again wondered at Porthos’s seeming simplicity and whether it was truly so, or a degree of cunning so high that even Aramis didn’t fully understand it for what it was. Left in this situation, in the middle of grooms working at the horses, Athos would have sat there, the whole time, mute and wrapped in his own mantle of nobility. Not that he disdained the grooms, but he would have been just as unable to find anything to talk to them about as he would have been of sprouting wings and flying.

Even now, as he moved among them, grooms and servants stepped out of the way and bowed hastily to him, but none would be so bold as to greet him, or to utter a word to him, not even a reverentially whispered “milord.”

However, Porthos would, by the time Athos came back, know the name and age of every groom in the yard, doubtless know if they were married and, if so, if they were faithful or had a girlfriend on the side. He would know the ages of their children, the places of their births and their dearest aspirations.

“Your friend, monsieur is… er… he was, before becoming a musketeer…”

“As noble a gentleman as you might wish to meet,” Athos said and his eyes warned the groom not to pursue it.

Few people could challenge such a look from Athos, and the groom was not equal to it. He nodded and turned, and led Athos down the length of the yard, past as many fine examples of horseflesh as Athos had seen gathered in one place, to the door at the far stable, where he left Athos to wait, while-presumably-he was announced.

Athos waited a long while. From inside came a warble of voices. The groom’s muttered tones, answered by louder, impatient tones from a male voice. And there was… confused shouting.

Of course, etiquette dictated that Athos wait outside for the groom to return. Athos quite understood that, having been trained in etiquette by his father, who had been something of a taskmaster on the matter. And he quite understood that he shouldn’t barge in. But when one was investigating a murder in Paris, these days and under these circumstances, with the Cardinal behind the scenes, possibly manipulating all, sometimes the best course was to intervene, before dastardly deeds could be accomplished.

He hesitated but one second, while the voice of his formidable father, to whom he’d been a late and unexpected son, boomed in his mind, telling him there were things a lord simply did not do, one of them being to break etiquette in such a crass way.

And then he plunged into the dark door, into the smell of blood and hay, into the sounds of horses and two men yelling at each other.

One look was all it took for Athos, the erstwhile Count de la Fere and owner of a fine stable in his own, abandoned domains, to understand what was happening and why. There was a beautiful chestnut mare, and there was a foal, which was lying on the hay, while the two men rubbed it with straw. Meanwhile, the mare had pinned her ears flat back and the skin at the corner of her mouth had wrinkled-a sure sign she intended to bite someone-which, Athos judged, occasioned the screaming.

That the men were screaming and rubbing the foal at the same time, and not getting out of the mare’s way, seemed to betray some disconnection between mind and body, of the sort Porthos often complained of. Athos plunged forward and grabbed at the two men, pulling them away, just as the mare bit at air where the older of the men had been.

The mare gave them something that sounded uncommonly like a warning hiss, then nuzzled at the foal, who stood and tottered over to her. It seemed at a loss for where to find the tit, looking for it in quite the wrong place.

The older of the men started towards it, but the younger said, “You may leave him to it, my lord. He’ll find the tit right enough.”

The older man hesitated, but finally nodded. Turning to Athos, he gave him the once over, head to toe, then said, “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Musketeer,” the man said, extending a bloodied hand to Athos. “I am Monsieur de Comeau. I believe you wish to see me?”