Traitor's Chase Read Free

himself had once had an office.
    Greg found himself wishing that he could tell his friends the truth about himself and where he’d really come from, but he knew he couldn’t. How could he possibly explain that he wasn’t from the distant town of Artagnan at all—but was instead from four hundred years in the future? Or that Michel Dinicoeur and Dominic Richelieu were actually the same person? Or that Michel was an immortal madman who’d traveled back through time to kill the Musketeers as revenge for something they hadn’t even done yet? These were superstitious times, Aramis had warned. Greg’s friends wouldn’t understand. They’d think him a sorcerer or a madman or both.
    Greg followed the messenger up a wide wooden staircase, and the Louvre suddenly became alive with activity. Greg had always assumed that the palace was only the king’s home, but in fact hundreds of servants lived there as well—including the Musketeers themselves. The route took Greg right past their quarters. It was a small room and they all had to share it, but compared to the living conditions of most people in 1615 Paris, the accommodations were amazing. The boys all had beds to sleep on, rather than mere thatches of straw. And there was even indoor plumbing—as long as they didn’t mind going down the hall and using a communal—and coed—bathroom that didn’t have a lock on the door.
    Greg’s parents’ room was right next door to his. King Louis had graciously allowed them to move into the castle as well after their rescue from La Mort. The door currently hung open, revealing that Greg’s parents weren’t in. Greg was wondering where they’d gone when Aramis burst out of the Musketeers’ quarters.
    â€œD’Artagnan!” he crowed. “Just who I wanted to see! You’ll never believe what I learned today!”
    â€œActually, can it wait?” Greg asked. “The king asked to see me.”
    â€œI’ll walk with you. It’s too exciting.” Aramis dropped in beside Greg and held up a tiny scrap of black fabric. It was two inches long, an inch wide, and torn on three sides—as though it had been ripped from a piece of clothing. “Remember this?”
    â€œOf course,” Greg said. “I found it.”
    The shred of fabric was the only clue the boys had to Dominic and Michel’s whereabouts. A few months earlier, Michel had forced Milady de Winter to deliver a letter to a messenger at an inn. Under questioning later, Milady claimed that she had no idea what was in the letter or where the messenger was from—only that he was a foreigner. Aramis had believed her—but then, Aramis was smitten with Milady. Athos hadn’t believed her at all—but then, Athos was also smitten with Milady, and he knew she liked Aramis more than she liked him.
    The day after Dominic had escaped from prison, Greg had asked Milady to take him to the inn. She had led all the Musketeers there on horseback. The inn only had a single room for guests, and there Greg had found the scrap of cloth snagged on a jagged splinter of wood that jutted from the wall. The innkeeper’s wife said it looked like it was from the clothes the mysterious man had worn.
    â€œIt’s silk,” Aramis said proudly, as he and Greg followed King Louis’s messenger through the palace.
    â€œSo?” Greg asked.
    Aramis frowned. “Is silk not a big deal in the future?”
    Greg thought about the clothes his family had owned. His mother had several silk dresses and his father probably had some silk ties as well. “I don’t think it’s cheap, but I don’t think it’s rare, either.”
    â€œWell, it’s rare here. And expensive. Silk comes all the way from the Far East, and only a few shipments reach Europe every year. What arrives tends to stay in the port cities—usually Venice or Barcelona. Only the tiniest