Double Cross (11 page)

“Obviously, that didn't work out so well,” Porthos said, “seeing as the first person to find the stone again was Dinicoeur.”

“Did the scroll say where Gaius hid it?” Athos asked.

“No,” Greg's father said sadly. “Nothing at all.”

“I think it's somewhere under the Louvre,” Greg said.

All eyes in the cathedral turned to him.

“You do?” Catherine asked. “Why?”

“Because of something
you
told me back in Arles,” Greg replied. “You overheard Dinicoeur tell Richelieu that the second half of the stone was right under the king's nose. That must mean it's in the palace, right?”

Catherine looked at Greg, confused. “I don't understand.”

“Greg, ‘Under one's nose' is a relatively modern colloquialism,” Dad said. “To someone from our time, it means ‘close by,' but to someone from this time, it
literally
means the stone is under the king's nose.”

“How could the stone
literally
be under the king's nose?” Greg asked.

“Perhaps Louis is wearing the stone on a chain like the one you have,” Porthos suggested. “If it was around his neck, it would be under his nose.”

“Louis isn't wearing any amulet,” Athos chided. “We would have noticed by now.”

“Wait!” Aramis cinched the poultice tight on Athos's leg and stood, his eyes alive with excitement. “Maybe Dinicoeur wasn't talking about King Louis at all. What if he meant another king?”

“Another king of France?” Porthos asked. “As far as I remember, there's only one.”

“One
living
king,” Aramis corrected. “But there are kings in this city who aren't alive.”

“You mean dead ones?” Greg asked. “You think the stone's locked away in a tomb somewhere?”

“No,” Aramis said. “I mean a king who was
never
alive. As you all may recall, Louis is betrothed to Anne of Austria. The wedding is scheduled for next month.”

“Is that still on?” Porthos asked. “Seeing as her father sent an army to overthrow the country?”

“I suspect it is,” Athos replied. “Philip is going to want peace with France even more after that. And there's no better way to broker a peace than to marry off your daughter.”

“Very well, but what does all this have to do with the king's nose?” Catherine demanded.

“King Louis's mother, Marie de Medici, felt that the marriage should be celebrated with a great gift of art,” Aramis explained. “So she commissioned a huge bust of King Louis from Pietro Tacca.”

“Pietro Tacca?” Greg's mother asked. “He's the student of Giambologna, right? They did the great sculpture of Louis's father, King Henry, on the Pont Neuf.”

“Yes, although that one isn't finished yet in this time, either,” Aramis corrected.

“But Tacca and Giambologna work out of Italy . . . ,” Greg's mother began.

“They
did
,” Aramis said. “However, for these two works, they set up an artist's studio—an atelier—in Paris. Everyone in the city has been very excited about it. With the unveiling of the bust, Paris will finally become known as a city whose art rivals that of Rome.”

“How big is this bust, exactly?” Greg's father asked.

“I'm not sure,” Aramis admitted. “No one has seen it yet. But it is supposed to be monumental.”

“So then, something located under the bust of King Louis would literally be under the king's nose,” Greg said.

“Exactly,” Aramis agreed.

“Where's the atelier?” Greg asked.

“Directly across the street from where we're standing,” Aramis told him.

“That would explain everything,” Greg said excitedly. “The clues we had weren't pointing to two different places in Paris at all.”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked.

“We knew two things about the location of the stone,” Greg explained. “Dinicoeur said it was right under the king's nose, which I assumed meant the Louvre. And his map indicated a connection with a Crown of Minerva somewhere on the Île de la Cité. But if ‘the king's nose' is on the Île de la Cité, then both clues are indicating the same location. The stone must be somewhere on this island.”

“Then where is the Crown of Minerva?” Greg's mother asked.

“I don't know yet,” Greg admitted. “But I'm sure we'll find it if we start with the bust of King Louis.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Porthos asked. “Let's go find this stone!” He started for the cathedral doors.

“Wait!” Aramis cried. “The atelier is certainly locked up at night. We can't break in. It's against the law.”

“We
are
the law,” Porthos told him.

“It's morally wrong,” Aramis protested.

“The fate of the world is at stake,” Porthos countered. “I think we have some moral leeway here.” He reached for the doors again, although before he could open them, there was frantic knocking.

Everyone in the cathedral tensed.

“Who goes there?” Porthos demanded in his most commanding voice.

“The emissaries sent by Commander Henri Ducasse,” came the reply. “We are here to escort Athos to the palace.”

Porthos looked to Athos for confirmation. Athos nodded that it was all right to open the doors.

Four soldiers stood in the plaza before the cathedral. They were all breathing heavily, having run there from the Bastille in full battle gear. The leader, a tall man with a bristling mustache, spoke directly to Athos. “Are you ready to go? Commander Ducasse says our mission is of great urgency.”

“I'm ready,” Athos said, then looked to Catherine. “Although we need a guide back through the palace to where you left Condé and Milady. I hate to ask a lady to put herself in peril. . . .”

“Then I shall simply volunteer my services,” Catherine said. She and Athos headed out of the cathedral. The others rushed after them out into the small plaza before Notre Dame.

Aramis pointed across the plaza to a large building that looked like a warehouse. “That's Pietro Tacca's atelier right there.” He started toward it, Porthos and Greg's parents on his heels.

Greg held back, however. He took Catherine by the arm before she could leave. “Be careful,” he told her.

“You too,” she said with a smile.

Greg stared into her eyes and felt warmth, comfort, and trust in her gaze.

Suddenly, there was an explosion from the direction of the Bastille.

Greg and Catherine turned to see a ball of fire rising from the city's eastern gate.

“What was that?” Catherine gasped.

“Bad news,” Aramis replied. “I think Condé's assault on the gate has already begun.”

FOURTEEN

“C
HANGE OF PLANS
,” A
THOS SAID
. “I
NEED TO HELP PROTECT
the gate. If it falls, Condé's army will overrun the city.” Without waiting for anyone to respond, he headed off in the direction of the explosion. He still limped a bit, but if his leg was causing him any serious pain, he didn't show it.

“Wait!” Porthos called. “What about Condé and Milady?”

“You go get them!” Athos yelled back. “They've been tied up. Even you should be able to handle that!” He flashed a smile, then ducked around the side of the cathedral and vanished into the night.

“I suppose he's right,” Porthos said. “Besides, I won't be any help finding the stone. That will require brains, rather than brawn.” He turned to Catherine and the four soldiers Henri had sent. “Let's make haste, shall we?”

The six of them ran off, leaving Greg, his parents, and Aramis in the plaza. Greg noticed that Aramis and his parents all looked very worried. Although he felt concerned himself, it seemed it was up to him to be the confident one. “All right,” he said. “Let's find this stone and get back home.” He strode purposefully across the plaza to the atelier.

There were two huge doors in front—Greg guessed they needed to be huge to allow the giant sculptures inside to be removed—and they were locked tightly with a hasp and padlock. The windows were shuttered and locked from the inside.

“How are we supposed to get in?” Greg's mother asked.

Aramis pointed up. “There is a large system of louvers in the roof. I have seen it from the bell towers of Notre Dame. I hear that Tacca likes to have natural sunlight in his studio when he works. You're the most nimble of us, D'Artagnan.” Aramis glanced at Greg's parents. “I mean Gregory.”

“D'Artagnan's fine,” Greg said. “It's kind of grown on me.” He handed Aramis his sword and studied the facade of the atelier. It was two stories tall and made of rough stone. It wouldn't be the easiest building to scale, but it was still less difficult than plenty of walls he'd faced in the rock gym.

He started up. As his legs and arms were already aching from exertion, he tried to move quickly, so as to put as little strain on them as possible—and yet he'd only gone a few feet before he could feel his strength draining. Still, he pressed on, scrambling from handhold to foothold, until finally, he pulled himself over the lip of the roof and collapsed on the shingles at the top.

“Are you all right?” Aramis called up.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “I just need a few moments.”

From where he lay, he could see the eastern gate of the city. It was, at most, a half mile away. Flames flickered around it—the result of the explosion, probably—and silhouetted against them, he could see men in the heat of battle. Greg wondered if one of them was Athos; the other Musketeer should have been there by now. Thankfully, the gate still appeared to be standing, although beyond it, Greg could see Condé's army amassed, waiting for the wall to be breached.

Greg was struck by the thought that he was in the wrong place. As a Musketeer, he should have acted like Athos and raced to defend the city. Instead, he was simply trying to find the other half of the Devil's Stone so he could get back home again. Athos had acted selflessly without hesitation, while Greg had not.

No,
he thought.
You must find the stone. With the power of the stone, all can be set right.

Greg realized that the piece of the Devil's Stone, dangling from his neck, had begun to pulse. It was very faint, but it was definitely happening.
Is the stone speaking to me?
he wondered. It seemed impossible, but the stone had done the impossible before.

Greg began to feel energy return to his body. It was almost as though the stone was giving him power. He didn't feel invincible, exactly. It was more that the fatigue in his limbs was ebbing away. He stood up and quickly moved across the roof.

The louvers Aramis had mentioned weren't hard to find: They took up most of the roof. They were a series of giant slats that could be maneuvered to allow the sun in, but keep the rain out. They were designed to be operated by a chain that dangled to the floor; by pulling on it, the sculptor could alter the angle of the louvers above. They were so well constructed that when Greg lifted up on one slat, they all popped open, revealing the workshop floor far below.

He had a way into the atelier; now all he had to do was get two stories down to the floor.

For this, he used the operating chain. He lowered himself through a gap in the louvers, clenched his legs around the chain, and then climbed down it.

The atelier was eerie in the darkness. Everywhere, lurking in the shadows, were the contorted shapes of statues half-completed: headless bodies, limbless torsos, men and women who were part human and part unhewn rock. Greg spotted the half-finished statue of King Henry on horseback. In the future, it would probably look stately and gallant, but for now, it looked like a man and a horse being swallowed by a large piece of stone.

Greg hurried to the plaza window and unlatched it.

The others were waiting. Aramis and Greg's father boosted his mother up, and Greg helped her inside. The others followed quickly, and they locked the shutters again.

There was a fire burning in the fireplace: No one ever let their fire go out in 1615. A torch sat by it. Aramis lit this, then moved about the atelier quickly, lighting the oil lamps. Soon, the atelier was much more inviting, if still a bit shadowy.

It wasn't hard to locate the bust of King Louis. It was the largest sculpture by far, a massive monumental head. The sculptors had taken some liberties with it; rather than merely re-create the awkward teenage face of the current king, they had apparently tried to envision the king in the future. This Louis had aged well. He was handsome and regal, with long, flowing hair and a roguish glint in his eye.

The bust sat prominently in the center of the atelier. The sculptors had obviously been working on it recently. There were ladders and scaffolds around it to allow them access to the upper portions, and the floor surrounding it was thick with marble chips and rock dust. The face appeared finished, however, smooth and clean and free of scaffolding. Greg walked up to it. He could stand directly below Louis's giant nose.

There was nothing there. Only a blank wooden floor.

“Do you think this is the right place?” Greg asked.

Aramis came over and stood with Greg. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully and took a few steps back. Then he returned. Then he took a few steps back again.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked.

“Listen,” Aramis said. He walked toward Greg again, placing each foot down firmly and deliberately on the wooden floor. The sound of his footsteps changed subtly as he got closer. There was a bit of an echo to each one.

“It's hollow under the floor!” Greg's father exclaimed.

Greg spotted a rack of large chisels nearby. One was so big—nearly three feet long—he figured it was designed to split chunks of rock in two. He ran over, grabbed it, and brought it back to the spot in front of the bust of Louis. Aramis helped him lift it, and the two of them slammed it into the floor.

Cool, musty air suddenly hissed upward through the cracks between the floorboards, as though it had been trapped below for centuries and was thrilled to escape.

Greg couldn't help but smile. “I think we're on the right track,” he said.

He and Aramis wedged the chisel between two floorboards and used it as a crowbar, pressing down on it. Greg's parents rushed to lend a hand. The wood was old and brittle and with a resounding crack, a piece ripped free, leaving a six-inch gap in the floor. Everyone jammed the chisel in again and quickly pried loose another plank and another, so that there was now a big enough hole for a person to fit through.

They all stood around it. Although they couldn't see anything but darkness below, they could sense that they had tapped into something large. To Greg, it felt like standing at the edge of a cave.

Aramis dropped the lit torch through the hole. It fell another ten feet, then landed in a puff of dust. The torch barely lit a fraction of the huge space below, although Greg could just make out a few broken stone walls. They formed two right angles near the torch, like the corners of urban homes along a sidewalk.

“What is that?” Greg asked.

“I think,” Aramis replied, “we've found an entire city underneath Paris.”

 

Athos had far more trouble that he'd expected getting to the city's eastern gate.

The streets were filled with panicked Parisians who were all going in the opposite direction. They were fleeing, fearing the wall was about to be breached by the enemy. Athos had to fight against the rush, ducking into alleys multiple times to avoid being trampled.

When he finally reached the gate, he found the king's guard just as disorganized as the general public.

Despite the chaos, it took Athos only a few seconds to figure out what had happened. There had been a storeroom full of ammunition and gunpowder just north of the gate. Condé's men appeared to have attacked this first and blown it up. The explosion had severely damaged the city wall and thrown the guards into disarray. The fire still blazed; no one had done anything to fight it, and it had spread from the wall to the homes nearby, adding to the bedlam in the streets.

The city wall still stood north of the gate, although Athos could tell it was in bad shape, teetering like a house of cards. One good strike from a battering ram might bring it down. The king's guard had abandoned their posts on it, rightfully fearing it might collapse with them atop it, but now no one was in position to repel the army gathered outside.

The drawbridge that normally should have sealed off the entrance to the city had fallen—although, thankfully, the portcullis was still in place. The thick steel grate was the only thing keeping Condé's army from flooding into the streets. Athos glanced toward the winch that controlled it, expecting to see the king's guard protecting it with their lives. Instead, he spotted four of Condé's men there.

The men had already begun winching the portcullis up. It was hard work—usually a team of horses worked the winch to hoist the massive portcullis—but the men had already raised it a few inches. Outside the gate, Condé's army was pressed against the portcullis, whooping with excitement, eager to stream beneath it and take the city.

Where was Henri? Athos wondered. Who was in command here?

He could find none of the king's guard in the streets, however. So he turned to the few fleeing Parisians left. “Countrymen, I need your help! We must hold off Condé!” With that, he charged Condé's men.

The enemy foursome laughed when they saw him coming. Athos had no uniform. He simply looked like a boy with a sword. Only one man turned to face him, expecting to dispatch him quickly. Instead, Athos made quick work of him. Within seconds, the man was sprawled on the ground—and now Athos had
his
sword as well.

Now the remaining three abandoned the winch, letting the portcullis drop back to the ground. They came at Athos as one, swords gleaming in the firelight. They were all big men, but that simply made them slower in a sword fight. On a normal day, Athos could have defeated them all with ease. But today, his leg was still recovering and he'd already been using it far too much. He didn't have the strength or agility he usually did. Instead, the best he could do was fend off the three swords while his attackers forced him backward across the square.

Behind them, Athos saw more of Condé's men appear from the shadows and race to the winch. There was nothing he could do to stop them. He didn't even think he could handle the three men coming at him. They were pushing him perilously close to the blazing fire. He could feel the heat from it searing the skin on the back of his neck.

Two of Condé's men attacked him in concert, each knocking a blade from his hand. The third brought his sword back with a laugh, preparing to run Athos through.

Suddenly, someone hit him from behind. The man rose up out of the darkness and clobbered Condé's soldier on the head with something heavy. The soldier collapsed, and before the other two could even react, they were assaulted by two other men. As the soldiers dropped, unconscious, Athos could see his saviors' faces in the firelight.

They were three men he'd never seen before. They were merely normal Parisian men who had answered his call to arms. All held blacksmith tools, which they'd used to fight the enemy.

“Thanks,” Athos said.

“We're just trying to save our city,” one said.

Beyond them, Condé's soldiers had begun to raise the portcullis again. The steel spikes at the bottom emerged from the slots in the ground. On the other side of it, the front ranks of Condé's army were ready to scurry beneath it the moment they had the chance.