Traitor's Chase (7 page)

“Ah, well, the thing is … I'm not exactly comfortable with the fate of our excursion resting on my knowledge of France,” Greg stammered. “I don't know if it's entirely reliable....”

“On the contrary,” Louis said. “You four are as reliable as they come. The truth is, you are the only ones I
know
I can trust. I know I'm asking a great deal of you, but you have served me valiantly in the past, and I expect that you can do it once again.”

Athos knelt before Louis and bowed his head. “It is my honor to serve the crown on this mission,” he said.

To either side of Greg, Aramis and Porthos knelt as well, though a bit more reluctantly. Despite his serious misgivings about the mission, Greg saw no choice but to join the crowd. “It is my honor as well,” he said, kneeling.

Louis beamed at them proudly. “No, the honor is mine—to have as impressive a team as this. Now depart, before any more time slips away.”

The Musketeers stood again, and Louis dismissed them with a casual wave. They obediently turned and left the throne room.

In the hall, Aramis wasted no time in giving them all assignments. “Athos, take care of the horses and weapons. We'll need four extra steeds to carry our gear. Porthos, you're in charge of provisions and water. I'll go to the royal cote and the homing pigeons. D'Artagnan, you've traveled the farthest among us. Get whatever supplies you think are necessary for the long journey. I'd like to leave before the hour is up so we can get some distance before the sun sets.”

The others nodded agreement and quickly scattered, leaving Greg alone in the palace. He immediately sagged against the wall, overwhelmed. He'd had a hard enough time getting by in medieval Paris; how was he going to survive a grueling trip into hostile territory? He didn't have the traveling expertise Louis thought he did—which meant he might be endangering the mission, rather than helping it.

The mere thought of leaving made his legs tremble. What he really needed to do was head back into the throne room and tell the king he was making a big mistake. Greg would be able to serve Louis far better here....

“Gregory.”

Greg leaped, startled, but then recognized the voice. He turned to find his father coming up next to him.

“Sorry! Didn't mean to frighten you.” Dad looked at him curiously. “What's wrong?”

Greg looked up at his dad and sighed. “Well,” he started, then recounted the new task he and the Musketeers had been given.

Greg's father shook his head. “That's it. I'm coming with you,” he said.

Greg felt a surge of respect for his father but shook his head. “You can't, Dad. You need to stay here and take care of Mom. She needs you. I'll have the other Musketeers to look out for me.” Greg didn't mention the other reason he felt his father should stay: Dad was hopeless in the outdoors.

Now Dad smiled weakly at him but nodded in defeat. “I suppose you're right. I just wish I could do more to help....”

“You
can
. Keep a watch on the palace, and”—he lowered his voice—“Aramis found something about the Devil's Stone being connected to a place called the White City of Emperor Constantine. Do you know what that could be?”

Dad blinked, looking thrown. “No.”

“Well, we need to find out. Aramis won't be able to research it any more. He's been going through the archives at Notre Dame. Maybe you could continue his work.”

“I suppose I could, but …”

“Hopefully, it won't even be necessary. If we can track down Dinicoeur, there's a good chance he'll lead me right to the Devil's Stone. And once I have it, we will be able to get home and all our problems will be over.”

To Greg's surprise, his father shook his head. “Greg, we have much bigger problems than getting home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, finding the stone and returning back to our own time is important, of course. At least, it is to
us
. But what's happening is much bigger than us. If Michel Dinicoeur is actually plotting with the Spanish against France, then he's hoping to alter all of human history. In the future we came from, Louis married Anne of Austria. Their son, Louis the Fourteenth, became one of the great kings of France. If Dominic prevents even that single event from happening—let alone does something colossal like helping Spain overthrow France—who knows what the ripple effects will be?”

Greg stopped and looked at his father. “You mean … even if we returned to our own time, it wouldn't be the time we knew anymore?”

“Exactly,” Dad said gravely. “This mission is of far greater importance than anyone here can possibly imagine. The fate of the entire world is at stake.”

Greg swallowed. His mission had seemed daunting before when he'd thought only his own life was at risk. Now it was completely overwhelming. And yet he knew he couldn't back out. He pasted on a smile he hoped looked reassuring. “Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'm off to Spain—and I'll be back with the Devil's Stone.”

SEVEN

Madrid

T
HE SOLDIER STATIONED AT THE FRONT GATE OF THE
A
LCÁZAR
went on alert as Michel Dinicoeur approached. This was understandable, as it was three o'clock in the morning. “Stop,” he said, raising a hand. “What is your business?”

“I am here to see King Philip,” Michel replied.

“At this time of night?” the soldier asked, incredulous. “The king is asleep.”

“That's fine,” Michel told him. “I only want to
see
the fool. Not talk to him.”

With that, he leaped at the soldier.

The man was considerably bigger than Michel, and even though Michel was in extremely good shape for a four-hundred-year-old man, he knew there was no chance he could win a fair fight. But then, Michel had no intention of fighting fair. He had chloroform.

The anesthetic wouldn't be discovered officially for another two hundred and fifty years, but it wasn't too hard to get if you knew how. It was produced naturally by certain types of seaweed—and a little went a long way. The small bit he'd dabbed on the rag in his hand was more than enough to render the other man unconscious.

It wasn't instantaneous, though. Even after Michel had leaped onto the soldier's back and pressed the rag to his mouth, the big man clawed at him. But a few seconds later, he collapsed in a heap, and Michel dragged him into the shadows and slipped into the castle.

There were other soldiers to confront on the way to the king's quarters, but far less than there would have been during the day. Michel had studied the castle carefully over the past week, watching the soldiers on their nighttime patrols, determining the best time to attack. Now the castle guards were few and far between. Several had fallen asleep at their posts and were easy to dispatch. Others gave him considerably more trouble. One actually scored a hit with his blade that might have killed a mortal man, but then he'd let his guard down, expecting Michel to die—and Michel had quickly taken him out.

Within fifteen minutes of entering the castle, Michel had reached the king's bedroom, not far from the throne room. The door wasn't even locked—what was the point of locking a door when you had an entire army to protect you? It creaked as Michel opened it, but Philip remained sound asleep.

A single candle illuminated the room, burning low after being lit all night. Michel shut the door behind him and approached the small bed.

In the gleam of the candlelight, Michel could see the silver links of the chain that bore the half of the Devil's Stone around Philip's neck. He stepped forward with the chloroform-soaked rag.

Philip's eyes suddenly snapped open. When he saw Michel, he reacted with confusion, rather than fear—as though unsure whether he was dreaming or not. “How …?” he gasped. “How are you here? You should be in France by now.”

“I am,” Michel replied, then placed the rag to Philip's lips.

The king put up far less of a fight than any of his guards had. He was a much weaker man, and his screams for help were muffled by the rag. Within seconds, he was limp.

His hands trembling with anticipation, Michel pulled the silver chain off Philip's neck. The piece of the Devil's Stone gleamed darkly as he lifted it into the candlelight.

Michel felt a flow of warmth surge through him as he laid the chain around his own neck. It had been nearly four hundred years since he'd last held this piece of the stone—save for an all-too-brief few minutes in the Louvre two months earlier, before Greg and his parents had ruined everything. But now it was as if no time had passed at all. He needed both halves of the stone to make Dominic immortal, but this piece alone still had power. It made him feel strong again, like he could do anything.

Michel took a dagger from its sheath and placed it at the king's neck. No point in leaving any loose ends.

Before he could do anything, however, he heard footsteps racing toward the bedroom. Soldiers yelled in Spanish: “We have been invaded!” “Get to the king!” “Make sure he's safe!”

Michel quickly withdrew the dagger and darted from the room. There was another way out through Philip's private quarters, and as he ducked through the door, he heard the guards burst into the king's bedroom, then cry with fear when Philip didn't wake. The anesthetized king distracted them while Michel slunk through the castle. He kept to the shadows, and soon he was back out on the streets of Madrid, the half of the Devil's Stone clutched to his chest.

He felt fantastic with it. Immortal. The wound where the soldier had stabbed him before barely hurt anymore. It was already healing quickly, thanks to the stone's power.

But as good as the stone made him feel, he knew he would have to give it up soon. Once Dominic was immortal—and the Musketeers were dead—Dominic would have the life Michel had longed for: an eternal life of wealth and power. In making that happen—in altering Dominic's course—Michel would then change his own. There would be no need for Michel to return through time. In essence, the person he was now might even vanish from existence, but he didn't care. His life had been miserable, thanks to the Musketeers.

Michel paused for a moment, thinking about them—and that meddlesome Greg Rich. If all had gone well, Valois and the assassins should have taken care of them by now. Michel had assumed he'd know when the boys were dead—as though their deaths might somehow send a ripple through the space-time continuum that he could feel. Now he began to wonder if something had gone wrong.

Michel quickened his pace through the dark streets. Perhaps it didn't matter whether the Musketeers lived or not. He had half the Devil's Stone. He had to get to Dominic, who
was
in France. Then they would recover the second half of the Devil's Stone—and Michel's work here would be done.

His horse was tethered close to the Alcázar. Even though it was the middle of the night, there was no time to lose. The king's soldiers would soon be searching the city for him. He climbed astride his steed and rode north, toward France.

EIGHT