Seven Days of Joyeux Part 2

“Seven Days of Joyeux” is a Musketeer Space prequel novella by Tansy Rayner Roberts. For more Musketeer hijinks, check out the Musketeer Space Table of Contents. This festive novella is brought to you by my generous Patreon supporters.

Go back to Day 1.

Go back to Joyeux Table of Contents.

Athos (who was not now, nor ever would be again Olivier Armand d’Autevielle, the Comte de la Fere) had not slept.

This was not unusual. The trick was to make sure that neither Porthos nor Aramis figured it out. They spent far too much of their energy worrying about him, and he employed regular damage control to keep their concern at a level he could tolerate.

Coffee helped. Especially on an early shift like today, where the three of them sat at a cafe table in the middle of the Stellar Concourse, surrounded by people and noise and colour and all those other symptoms of human society.

His reputation for being an unsociable bastard who was grumpy at the best of times was also on his side.

“How was Chev last night?” Porthos asked. She had ordered tea and a plate of fruit and pastries, occasionally pushing a morsel in Athos’ direction. “After the meeting?”

“Quiet,” said Aramis, who had water and plain rice cakes in front of her. She took the traditional fast of Restraint more seriously than anyone Athos knew. At least she had stopped sending him the reproachful little ‘why won’t you discuss religious contrast theory with me’ digs that made yesterday so much fun. “I don’t think she and Montbazon have made up their mind if they’re going to renew the contract.”

Athos would generally rather bite his own arm than contribute to a conversation about anyone’s marriage, but that detail caught his attention. “Is Chevreuse planning to quit her job at the Palace?”

Aramis’ girlfriend was the Minister of Royal PR, and she was as deeply passionate about her work as she was about the constant opportunity to make life difficult for Cardinal Richelieu. It was the latter personality quirk that made Chevreuse an honorary Musketeer as far as Athos was concerned, though she was almost as irritating in all other respects as his two friends.

“Of course not,” said Aramis, too quickly.

“Only married or church-sworn citizens are allowed to work at the Palace,” Porthos said, picking up on Athos’ train of thought. The morality clause was one of the stupidest technicalities around, but there was no denying the power it held in and around Paris Satellite and Lunar Palais. “So why wouldn’t she… oh.”

“Oh,” Aramis agreed. “She has to be married to keep her job, and her husband has no objection to extending their marriage contract for another term. But Chevreuse has implied that her decision is something that – I should have an opinion on.”

Porthos tried hide her smile, but caught Athos’ expression at the last moment and then collapsed into laughter.

“Pol!” Aramis wailed. “Some sympathy please.”

“I’m sorry, love,” said Porthos, snuffling into her hand. “But I thought the whole point of you shagging married women all over the city was so you didn’t end up in this situation. Is Chev expecting you to propose?”

Aramis buried her head in her hands, and it was only Athos’ quick work that saved her water glass from falling off the table. “I don’t know,” she whined. “She hasn’t said it outright.”

“Ah,” Athos nodded. Part of the reason he and Chevreuse got along so well was that they shared the preference to not discuss personal matters out loud. If only it had rubbed off on these two, his life would be closer to perfect than he had ever deserved. “Explains the yelling and throwing things.”

“I think we’re either breaking up or getting married,” Aramis moaned. “And we’re not getting married. So…”

Athos tried to discreetly print another coffee without Porthos realising how quickly he had choked down the last one. When he glanced up from the table controls, her dark eyes caught his.

“Athos, have you slept recently?”

“Sleep is very important,” he said solemnly. “Seven hours a night is highly recommended.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’ve been thinking about Winterlight,” he went on, to change the subject.

“The leaves sorted themselves out,” said Aramis. “Didn’t they? Whatever prank someone decided to pull is – well, it’s done.”

“There are seven days of Joyeux, and nineteen days of Winterlight,” said Athos. “I suspect if a point is being made with this festive terrorism, then they’re not going to stop at one incident.”

“Oh,” said Porthos, reluctantly letting the sleep issue drop. “Festive terrorism?”

“Direct quote from Treville. She called me this morning to get a briefing on Elemental traditions for Winterlight.”

“Really, nineteen days?” Aramis broke in. “Isn’t that excessively religious?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Athos shot back.

“What’s today?” Porthos asked. There was a look on her face that Athos didn’t like, and it had nothing to do with work. It was her ‘uh-oh something is wrong with Athos’ expression, and if he didn’t nip it in the bud it was going to have terrible consequences. Like, having to drink less for a few weeks to prove he was okay. He hated that.

“Today,” said Athos, not letting his face even twitch to show Porthos that he was on to her being on to him. “In Winterlight terms, is the burying of past sins.”

“Huh,” said Aramis. “I suppose that’s a lot like Restraint, really, isn’t it?”

“Depends on how deeply you bury those sins,” said Porthos. “What did Treville say when you told her?”

Athos sipped his second coffee. It went down more smoothly than the first. “That she hoped we weren’t going to end up with a space station full of dirt.”

Amiral Treville was driving her Musketeers around the bend. They had been hauled off most of their regular duties in order to patrol and investigate any areas of Paris Satellite that their commander felt were potential targets for the festive terrorists.

Given how little they had to go on, ‘potential targets’ apparently meant anywhere within that was especially associated with Joyeux celebrations, rituals or displays. Athos had heard so many Joyeux carols in the last three hours that he was about to strangle the next choirmaster with a green sparkly ribbon, and had nearly got into several fights with red guards because of crossing Church territory.

The fight he hadn’t been able to avoid had involved a down and dirty sword duel behind a choir stand, and tinsel. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Transporting three rowdy fleur-de-lis players from the palace to their practice tanks on Paris Satellite wasn’t the kind of duty that Athos usually looked forward to, but right now he was relieved to be away from the singing and the sparkly lights and the belligerent Red Guards for a couple of hours.

Prince Alek, already geared up in his TeamJoust armour, was the first through the hatchway of Athos’ ship, the Parry Riposte. “We got the sulky one!” he cheered, and stretched his arm back behind him. “You owe me ten, Conrad.”

Conrad Su, the Prince Consort’s tailor and teammate, bowled in after him, swiping his wrist stud against the prince’s so that credit could be exchanged between them. “Don’t spend it all at once,” he teased in return.

The two of them looked almost like brothers, with the same gold-tan skin and metallic scale pattern down the side of their faces that marked them out as being from Auster, one of the many uncomfortably hot continents of the planet Honour. Alek was taller, with his hair dyed ruby red, and Conrad shorter with silver highlights in his natural black hair.

Their third teammate piled in after them, dragging a visitor by the hand. “Hello, Athos,” said Chev with a grin, clasping his arm briefly. “Long time, no see.”

Her affair with Aramis was secret, of course, thanks to that precious morality clause in the Palace contracts. Only their close friends knew about it, and Athos didn’t know if close friends included her fellow Emerald Knights.

“Minister Chevreuse,” Athos said formally.

She screwed up her face at him. “Don’t do that, that’s – ugh. Politeness does not suit you at all. This is Buck, by the way. She’s coming to watch our practice.”

Athos hesitated only a moment. The woman beside Chevreuse was not only a duchess, but the ambassador of Valour, and her presence here on Luna Palais had been tabloid fodder for the last month. “Your grace,” he said, with a bow of his head, because there were some formalities drilled into him so deep that he was never getting rid of them.

“None of that for me either, Captain,” said the Duchess of Buckingham with a wide grin. “Call me Buck.” She wore cargo pants and a tank top, with reddish copper curls hanging long and unfettered around her shoulders. Athos guided her in the direction of the aft seats, well away from the many cables of his helm and harness. Just because he wore his hair and beard too long for strict safety protocols didn’t mean he was going to let a peer of Valour take the same risk.

Buck was followed by an unassuming looking fellow who introduced himself as “Linton Gray, her grace’s aide,” obviously disapproving of her casual approach to formality.

Athos shook his hand, and the aide gave him a faintly startled look as if he hadn’t expected that level of courtesy.

“Ignore him, I’m off duty, don’t even let him on the ship!” Buck called, but she was laughing.

Mr Gray looked exasperated. He chose a seat on the side wall of the cockpit. He arranged his harness with practiced hands, waving away Athos’ attempts to help, and read quietly from a tablet as they prepared for takeoff. His hands shook a little, which suggested he was not comfortable with space travel. Athos sympathised with the man’s ‘don’t look at me, I don’t want to be here,’ vibe, and respected that by ignoring him entirely.

Chev slid into the seat beside Athos, her game armour creaking. Her hair was bright violet today. She always liked to match hair colour to duty – auburn or brown for official Ministerial duties, her natural blonde for when she wanted to relax, and something ridiculous when playing fleur-de-lis.

He had never known until yesterday that she preferred pearl-white when holding official meetings with her husband, but then the number of times Athos had seen Chevreuse with her husband could be counted on one hand. Montbazon was not a clingy spouse.

“I heard that the seasonal greenery disappeared as quickly as it arrived,” she said as Athos strapped himself into his own helm and harness, activating the connections that he usually had his engie Grimaud to help him with – but she was off on leave visiting her family. “Any leads?”

“Treville suspects the elves of Joyeux,” said Athos, deadpan.

Chevreuse threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, elves. You can take elves.”

“With one hand tied behind my back,” he agreed, and let his mind fall forward into his ship, embracing the fact that this, at least, was something he could control.

Back on Paris Satellite, Athos escorted his party of VIP players to the zero-gravity practice tank and waited until the relief protective detail arrived: Aramis with Cadet Fontaine, one of the new recruits.

“You’re off duty now?” Aramis asked, her eyes drawn to the scene beyond the plexi-glass wall of the zero gravity tank. The Duchess of Buckingham was an experienced fleur-de-lis player herself, and had joined the three teammates in the tank as they ran through their practice moves.

Mr Linton Gray, who appeared no more fond of sport than he was of spaceships, read from his tablet and occasionally glanced up to check that all was well with Buck. Athos liked the fact that the other man had not attempted to make conversation with him.

A couple of engies in the control booth managed the gravity settings and responded to requests from the players, sending up holographic recordings of particular moves or former games to aid the exercises. Large latte cups balanced awkwardly on the desk in the booth, almost as big as the engies’ heads.

Coffee, now there was an idea. Or better yet, wine. Athos might be an expert in burying his own past sins and sorrows, but he much preferred to drown them.

“If Treville hasn’t cancelled all downtime to hunt for elves and mistletoe,” he said in response to Aramis’ question.

“Not yet. Grab a nap while you can.” Aramis pulled her gaze away from her girlfriend to look seriously at Athos for a moment, her hand brushing her sleeve. “Really, darling. You can’t run on no sleep. We do notice. Brandy isn’t a substitute for occasional unconsciousness.”

Athos knocked his knuckles gently against her shoulder. “Stop noticing. I’m fine.”

As he left, Mr Gray raised his head for a moment and gave him a polite nod. Feeling vaguely unsettled, Athos returned it.

He was fine, of course he was fine. That was why he headed straight for the nearest bar. It was an obviously terrible bar, from the decor. ‘Never trust a bar with mirrors on its walls,’ Porthos always said, and this one had reflective surfaces everywhere, even on the ceiling, so that Athos’ own pallid face stared back at him from every corner.

No wonder Aramis was concerned. Athos looked terrible.

Even for mid-shift, it was surprisingly empty for a bar so close to the entertainment hubs, but as the bartender came over to take his order, Athos remembered that it was Restraint, the second day of Joyeux. The more devout half of the station’s residents were fasting for the next eight hours. No stimulants, no protein. Rice cakes and water and nothing more, to cleanse their souls before tomorrow’s day of feasting and merriment.

Far more Paris residents would take part in tomorrow’s traditions than today’s, but that didn’t mean the rest wouldn’t be discreet about continuing to indulge their vices. Still, there was no reason for him to hesitate. Joyeux was not his holiday, and Athos could all but taste the drink he really wanted.

Back home on Castellion, a continent of the planet Valour that had no hold over Athos whatsoever (not any more), most people were not celebrating Joyeux at all, but Winterlight. Today was the burying of past sins. Ever since he had said that aloud, Athos had been thinking of his own sins, the ones that he had buried long ago. Today they felt far from buried. They bubbled constantly away at him, just beneath his skin.

He wanted brandy, or whiskey, or wine, anything that would let him sleep. But if he slept he would dream, and after spending the morning pushing away bad memories, he knew who he would see in his dreams.

Anything but that.

“Espresso,” he said instead. “Double shot,” and gripped the edge of the bar until the bartender brought him a freshly printed cup of heat and blackness that would let him stay awake a little longer.

We bury them beneath the earth, and forgive ourselves the wrongs we did to them in life, so that life itself may continue. It was an old family prayer, and absolutely the last thing he needed in his head right now.

Athos knocked back the coffee, and felt instantly sick. He should eat something. When had he last eaten?

His hand shook as he lowered the cup, and perhaps he would order that brandy after all, to keep himself on an even measure until this day was over and he could breathe again.

“Hello, Olivier,” said a voice so soft that he thought at first it was entirely in his head.

Of course it was in his head. How could it be otherwise? And yet, when Athos whirled around, he saw sharp cheekbones and pale grey eyes behind a soft fall of metallic silver hair. That smile, oh God and hell and everything in between, that smile.

He saw his husband, and it shattered something inside him.

Aramis had left her old name behind long ago, because it no longer said anything about her. She had no need to be anyone but Aramis: no past and no regrets.

No regrets about anything from her old life, at least. She was racking up regrets at a pretty high pace these days. Some of them were even about things that had not happened yet, but which she knew were inevitable.

Like breaking her own heart.

Aramis loved to watch Chevreuse in the air. There was a carelessness about her in the zero-gravity tank that she never achieved anywhere else, except perhaps in bed with her back arched up and her head thrown back, a moan upon her lips.

The trouble with being in love with a devastatingly intelligent woman was that her brain was always firing, working on five different problems at once. Chev was wickedly funny and smart and sharp in several different ways, and yet there was always a part of her that was at work, even when she was supposed to be at play.

In the tank, Chevreuse and Alek and Conrad were beautiful together, responding physically to each other’s cues, a dance of accuracy and strength and teamwork. The Emerald Knights. Aramis had been a fan of the team even before she started sleeping with one of them.

Putting the Prince Consort in this team with two people he could deeply trust was the best piece of PR that Chevreuse had ever built for the royal family. The Regent had gained ten popularity points almost overnight, the first time that the Emerald Knights played a full game.

And Prince Alek, who always tried to make the best of things despite having so few friends and allies in a Palace that never forgot he was an Elemental dirtsider from Honour… in the tank, he was happy.

Today, though, something different was going on. The inclusion of the Valour Ambassador should have made things awkward in the tank, but Buck was a cheery bundle of energy and the other three fed off that. Effortlessly, a team of three had become a team of four, and there was a beautiful symmetry to them.

Too bad that no one had ever heard of a four person Zero Gravity TeamJoust league.

They separated into pairs, Chev and Conrad working on a complex pole pass they had been trying to perfect all season, while Alek and Buck dared each other to race up the walls, skimming the almost invisible hand-hold loops that were fitted against the plexi-glass. Neck and neck, they tossed laughing looks at each other.

“They’re hot together,” said young Fontaine with a cheeky grin.

“Yes,” Aramis said without thinking, and then realised what that unsettling feeling was in her stomach. The Prince and the Duchess were flirting. Really flirting, with every inch of their ridiculously fit and muscular bodies.

She glanced over at Mr Linton Gray, who met her eyes briefly and then turned his eyes back to his tablet, making it clear that there was nothing that he wanted to discuss.

It wasn’t like Aramis could throw stones when it came to adultery, but this was the Prince freaking Consort. It was hard to imagine that a flirtation between Alek and Buck wouldn’t lead to trouble. She’d have to have a word with Chev, see if she had noticed the danger signs.

Except, of course she had. As Aramis watched, her girlfriend pushed herself between the Prince and the Duchess with a teasing laugh, pulling Alek into the centre of the tank with her. Conrad matched Buck with a grin that was all challenge, and in the next moment it was the two of them skimming the edge of the tank, while Alek and Chevreuse ran through a drill for airspins.

Aramis relaxed. Chevreuse was on top of it. There was no way Prince Alek would have an affair that might bring down the government, not on Chev’s watch.

It was going to hurt, breaking up with this brilliant, gorgeous woman. It hurt already. But Aramis couldn’t see any other future for them. Her comm stud trilled with the specific tone that meant Porthos was calling. Aramis raised her wrist to her mouth. “What’s up?”

“It’s in the coffee,” said Porthos, sounding rattled. More than rattled. “Have you had any coffee today?”

“It’s Restraint,” Aramis said more sharply than she should. “I’m fasting.”

“I know, but have you?”

“No.”

“Ask the kid too.”

“Fontaine,” Aramis said, raising her voice a little. “Have you drunk coffee today?”

The recruit looked confused. “I had a dandelion tea with breakfast? Before, um, I remembered about the fast.”

“What’s going on?” Aramis asked her friend.

“It’s in the fucking coffee,” Porthos snarled. “The burying of past sins? Festive terrorism via nanovirus? Today’s little present is in the coffee.”

“Oh,” said Aramis, as this sank in. “Bloody hell.”

“You need multiple doses before it kicks in, so the incidents didn’t start making an obvious pattern until now, but it’s been building across the station all day. The victims are suffering hallucinations, all related to things they feel guilty about in their pasts. The hospice beds are filling, and there’s no bloody cure yet. We can only hope it wears off at midnight like the last one. Happy fucking Joyeux.”

“Athos,” Aramis blurted out. “Is he – “ God of All. If ever there was a caffeine addict with a haunted past, it was Athos.

Mr Gray had set his tablet down, was watching her with open curiosity. Aramis tried to calm down, keeping her fear off her face.

“He tried to throw himself off the balcony overlooking Charlemagne Boulevard,” said Porthos, her voice cracking. “Took three Red Guards to hold him down. Never thought I’d have a reason to be grateful to those bastards.”

Aramis sank into the seat below her. “He’s okay?”

“No, he’s not okay,” Porthos hissed. “Did you know he was married once? He’s at the hospice now, in an actual padded cell because the medics aren’t willing to knock him out until they are sure how the drugs will respond to the nanovirus.”

“Married,” Aramis whispered. She had never known Athos to have a relationship longer than three days, which was for the best considering his appalling taste in partners regardless of gender. “What has that got to do with…”

“He keeps raving about a husband, a dead husband that is apparently talking to him right now about how they murdered each other. It’s bad, Aramis. I can’t -” Porthos paused, her words breaking up for a moment with a snuffling sound. “Sorry. I know you can’t come. There’s no way we’d be able to find another Musketeer to cover your detail, not with more of these incidents springing up everywhere. Just make sure no one gives the Prince Consort a cappuccino while he’s on station, okay? The food printers across Paris have all had their caffeine options deactivated, so we can only hope it doesn’t get worse before it gets better.”

“Got it,” said Aramis, her chest tight. She needed to be with Porthos and Athos right now, not babysitting a bunch of jousters who were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. “Keep in touch about our boy.”

“Of course.”

Linton Gray was still watching her, his eyes calm and steady. “Trouble?” he asked.

Aramis nodded tightly. “Don’t drink any coffee,” she managed, not trusting herself to say more than that.

It was hard to watch the rest of the practice, knowing that disaster was breaking out across Paris and Athos, oh what the hell was going on with Athos? Aramis couldn’t even look at the tank, too busy thinking about what was going on back at the hospice.

“Captain Aramis?” spoke up Fontaine, sounding nervous. “Is that something we should be worried about?”

At first, Aramis wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but then she saw that the two engies in the control booth were having some kind of fight. One of them lunged forward, and the other grabbed her. A cup fell to the floor in the scuffle and Aramis felt as if she had been punched. It’s in the coffee.

“Break it up,” she yelled at Fontaine and ran forward, waving at the tank in the hopes of getting their attention. Conrad spotted her first, and reacted quickly to whatever he saw in Aramis’ face. He had always been a bright boy. He reached out and said something to Buck. They both stopped climbing, hanging on with hands and feet to the wall loops.

Conrad tipped his head back, yelling a command to Chevreuse and Alek.

If they played Cinquefoil, all of them would be equipped with jet packs that allowed greater thrust (and violence) in the gameplay. But this was fleur-de-lis, and the only thrust they were allowed came from basic physics.

Both Alek and Chevreuse had miniature thrusters on their belts for safety protocols, but even with them both now engaged, they were in the centre of the tank and moving too damned slowly to reach the walls.

Aramis leaped over the seats and ran to the control booth, where Fontaine had already reached the tussling engies with Linton Gray hot on her heels. It was going to be fine. There were so many layers of safety built into the damned computers, it wasn’t like anything bad could really happen, they were reacting to the possibility, that was all…

Seconds before she reached the control booth, Aramis turned to look at the tank again. She couldn’t have said why she did. But she saw the moment when the zero gravity failed. She saw the Prince Consort smacking into the plexi-glass wall because Chevreuse had fucking well shoved him in that direction, the last breath of zero gravity pushing her back, out of reach of safety.

As Aramis tripped over the last seat and fell in a heap on the hard metal floor, she saw the woman she loved fall from mid air to land in a crumpled heap on the base of the tank.

Someone screamed in horror and she only realised after the fact that it must have been her.

Athos did not usually look this tidy when he slept. Usually he was a crumpled heap of limbs and hair, after fighting the darkness to the last second. Now, he lay perfectly straight in the bed of the private room in the hospice, his face calmly wiped of his usual layers of sarcasm, defensiveness and manic energy.

Aramis reached out and touched his ridiculous shoulder-length blond hair with her fingertips. Even his beard looked neater than usual. So strange.

“He’ll never forgive you if you shave his head while he’s out of it,” remarked Porthos from the chair on the other side of their partner. She was knitting. Porthos only knitted when she was stressed, working continually on a garment that was vaguely polygonal and had far too many dropped stitches to ever be salvageable.

“Might be worth it,” said Aramis, tugging at Athos’ hair lightly, not enough to stir him. “One of these days, this hair is going to be the death of him.”

“Thought he was going to be the death of me today,” whispered Porthos.

Losing Athos was the thing they both feared the most. They had always been aware that he was the vulnerable one, the one with cracks running through him. Keeping him in one piece had become their joint mission, since the day they first took responsibility for him on a mountainside on Valour.

Grimaud helped to a point, though there were times when Aramis thought that Athos’ engineer hated him as much as she loved him like a son. The same could be said for Treville, who had a stupidly soft spot for Athos but expressed it mostly through shouting.

It was ridiculous that they needed so many people to keep one man on his feet and functioning as a Musketeer. But he was worth the trouble, most days.

From what the medics had gleaned from other victims of the coffee virus, this particular piece of nastiness ran its course after a couple of hours. Athos should be clear of it already, but the drugs that the medics had pumped into him should keep him unconscious for most of the late shift.

Aramis couldn’t find it in her to be sorry. It had to be the best sleep he had had in months. “That medic said that the other victims didn’t remember what they saw when the virus was active,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Porthos sighed.

“So are you going to tell him? That we’ve unlocked his tragic backstory?” Aramis hadn’t seen Athos during his ranting phase, but Porthos had given her the gist – that Athos had been married, actually married, back in that fancy life he had lived before his two best friends rescued him and brought him back to Paris to be a Musketeer. He held himself accountable for his husband’s death. And more – there had to be more to it than that. Aramis burned to know everything.

Porthos put her knitting aside now, fury spilling over into her voice. “What, you think I should rub it in that he confessed all his dark secrets when he was out of his mind, things he obviously never wanted to share with us? Of course not. He’d never forgive us for knowing.”

Aramis nodded, her hands tugging at the neat bedspread that someone had folded around Athos as if he was an old fashioned letter in a paper envelope. “There might be a time when he needs us to know.”

“Oh yes,” Porthos said sarcastically. “And on that day – I’m sure Athos will talk to us about his feelings.”

Neither of them laughed.

“Go back to Chevreuse,” Porthos said after a long silence between them. “I’ll stay with our broken soldier for a bit longer.”

Aramis did not want to go, but Porthos was right. Aramis had slipped away from the madness on the level below in the first place when Amiral Treville thundered out of nowhere to take charge of the situation with Prince Alek and the Duchess of Buckingham’s near miss in the practice tank. But she should get back there to help sort things out.

After leaving a soft kiss on Athos’ forehead and another for Porthos who probably needed it more, Aramis returned downstairs to see whether the chaos had settled down.

Far from it. The floor had been cleared of all non-essential medical personnel but now Cardinal Richelieu of all people had arrived to escort the Prince Consort and Ambassador Buck back to Lunar Palais.

Alek finally agreed to go with the Cardinal and her team of Sabres under protest, looking back reluctantly at the room where Chevreuse was still being treated. “Stay, Conrad,” he ordered his friend, and neither of them seemed to think there was anything odd about one teammate having such clear authority over the other. “Let me know how she is. Any time of night.”

“Of course Mr Su will not disturb the Regent’s sleep or your own with medical information that could be easily shared over breakfast,” the Cardinal said smoothly, extending her arm to guide Buck along the corridor and away. Mr Linton Gray followed Buck like the shadow he was.

Aramis was able to slide past them, mostly unnoticed, though Prince Alek caught her eye for a moment and gave her an awkward smile. Aramis and Chevreuse had never been as open about their relationship in front of Chev’s teammates as they were with Aramis’ friends, but she was fairly sure that Alek knew the score.

Conrad Su certainly did. He looked relieved when Aramis joined him, even giving her half of a hug around her shoulders. “Chev woke up a few minutes ago,” he told her.

“Oh,” said Aramis, wincing. “How’d that go for everyone?”

“She threw a medical trolley at the crew who were working on her leg. It mostly didn’t hit them.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Aramis had waited around long enough earlier to overhear the diagnosis, before she went to check on her friends. Chevreuse was going to be all right – no lasting damage – and the safety protocols built into the tank had at least partly cushioned her fall. But she had landed with one leg folded under her, and the bone had smashed in twelve places.

Most of her injuries could be mended within 24 hours, but the thorough nature of the damage meant that the ankle was going to take four days.

The Emerald Knights’ final game of the season was two days away. Even if Chevreuse could play with a partially shattered ankle – which was debatable – she had at least three proscribed medications running in her veins right now, and it was illegal to play within 48 hours of extreme medipatch treatment.

All of which meant that Chevreuse had awoken from her brief medical coma to be informed that her injuries (and more importantly, her treatment) rendered her ineligible to play the game on Misrule.

It wasn’t a surprise to Aramis that her temperamental girlfriend was not taking the news well. “Has – uh, anyone informed Montbazon? That his wife’s in the hospice?”

“He sent flowers,” said Conrad with a roll of his eyes.

“Classy.”

A harried looking medic came out and looked from Conrad to Aramis. “Friends of the patient? We’ve given her some sedatives to calm her down. I’m almost sure she won’t assault either of you if you choose to go in, but one at a time, please.”

Conrad stepped back so quickly that it made Aramis dizzy. “You’re up, Captain.”

“Thanks,” Aramis said dryly.

Chevreuse looked terrible. Her complexion was pale and she looked exhausted, like she had been fighting a mecha bare-handed.

Aramis was almost afraid to touch her, but she leaned in bravely and gave her a kiss on the forehead. She then settled back into the visitor’s chair, keeping a healthy distance between them. “How are you doing?”

“Coming to terms with the fact that we just lost our chance at a perfect, unbeaten season two days before the last game,” Chevreuse complained. “The painkillers and medipatches are taking care of all the broken bits. Bastard things.”

“It wasn’t reasonable to expect the medics to hold off on putting you back together until after the game,” Aramis said softly.

“I know. Shut up.” Chevreuse closed her eyes. “I want to scream and hit things, but I think they’ve given me anti-violence drugs. I’m going all floaty and accepting.”

“Thank goodness for anti-violence drugs. Glad they invented those.”

There was a long pause, and just when Aramis began to wonder if Chevreuse had fallen asleep, she spoke again. “Now you get to say I told you so.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“If we were all as devout about observing Restraint as you, coffee sales for today would have been nil, and no one would have gone crazy and had punch-ups near gravity controls.”

Aramis was insulted that Chevreuse thought she would even think such a thing, let alone say it. “I don’t expect anyone else to share my…” There was no way to describe her feelings about religion without sounding preachy. “I wouldn’t.”

“You know what’s funny? I actually did observe the fast today.” Chevreuse let her face curve back into a smile. “Ironic.”

That was a surprise. Chevreuse was as publicly devout as she needed to be for her political position, but she never let belief or ritual affect her daily life. “Why?” Aramis asked.

“Peace offering for you. Not that you noticed, you bitch. And I thought – we’ve got a big game coming up. Could do with a few godly brownie points up my sleeve.” Chevreuse laughed slowly, and then winced as the anti-pain drugs failed to do their job for a brief moment. “Told you it was funny.”

Aramis let out a long, shaky breath. “You scared the hell out of me today.”

“I know,” muttered her girlfriend. “Didn’t mean to. Should have known how you’d react.”

“What?” Were they talking about the same thing?

“Seemed good manners, that’s all.”

“Saving the Prince Consort and falling twenty feet directly on to your ankle?”

The balcony overlooking Charlemagne Boulevard was at least thirty feet up. Would Athos have gotten away with a four day hospice visit and a busted ankle? Aramis couldn’t stop thinking about it. What had Porthos left out of the story? What could be so bad about her friend’s secret past marriage that he wanted to throw himself off a bloody balcony?

“No, dimwit. Asking what you thought about renewing the marriage contract with Montbazon.”

Oh, that. Aramis winced. Chevreuse was high on pain relief and she wanted to talk about their relationship. This wouldn’t end well. “We don’t have to -”

Chevreuse’s eyes flew open suddenly. They were bright purple to match her hair. She liked to switch out lenses to suit her mood or her fashion choices. “Didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“It’s fine,” Aramis said, getting annoyed now.

“Didn’t ask you to marry me.”

“I know.”

“S’the trouble with infidelity,” Chevreuse sighed. Her body relaxed into the sigh as if the drugs were kicking in more effectively. So that was good. “Doesn’t come with a renewal clause or a contract period. Renegotiation. Cooling off period. You sort of have to – feel your way through it, until…”

“Until what?” Aramis couldn’t help asking.

“Until it ends.”

That stung, but not as much as it should have done. “I’ll come by tomorrow,” Aramis promised, and kissed Chevreuse on the mouth this time. “We can talk then. It’s okay, love.”

“Should have stayed friends with you, from the start,” Chevreuse whispered, her eyes well and truly closed now. “You never let go of your friends.”

Aramis stayed by Chevreuse’s bedside, long after she was asleep.

Of all the breakups in her life thus far, this was her least favourite.

Come back tomorrow for Day Three: Repast.