Treville gave d'Melliuor an expansive grin and stood. "My lord, I appreciate that you took the time to visit me over this matter. Can I offer you refreshment before you depart by way of thanks? I have an excellent cut of venison and a wine of good year to accompany it, if I can tempt you?"

D'Melliuor refrained from sneering, but only just. "Sadly I have business elsewhere, Captain."

"A pity, another time then, my lord," Treville said, opening his office door and escorting his guest out.

"Yes, yes," the man waved a lace 'kerchief as if shooing away a bothersome fly. "I see your servants have managed to prepare my carriage," he said as they reached the courtyard.

"Bit of an issue there, squire," said a burly servant with a vicious scar on his face. "Your cart's lost a wheel."

Suppressing a shudder at the man's frankly horrifying diction, d'Melliuor gave his carriage a glare. Sure enough one of the hind wheels was lying upon the ground.

"Simply unacceptable," he snapped. "Repair it at once."

"Right you are, squire," the man said, tugging at his forelock and trundling off at minimal speed to organise a team to lift the tonne-weight.

"How did this happen?" d'Melliuor demanded of his driver.

The coach driver had a grey pallor to his skin, a sweaty sheen covering his brow.

"I was turning the horses, my lord," he said, the words measured as if coming from a script, "the wheel hit a flagstone."

"How disgracefully careless," d'Melliour snapped. "I shall have you flogged for "

"Perhaps you'd care to wait indoors while this inconvenience is dealt with, my lord," Treville interrupted smoothly.

D'Melliuor's lips curled only slightly at the thought, but a thin and persistent rain had begun which discouraged any man from remaining outdoors. "Very well," he said with poor grace.

Behind them, and without the marquis' hearing, his coachman, grey and sweating, muttered: "pulled it off himself… just himself… like it was butter…"

oOo

The dining hall of the musketeers garrison was little used these days, left empty but for times when special guests were entertained. It was a grand room, filled with hunting trophies and golden candelabras, plush furniture and more military metalwork than could fill a true armoury.

D'Melliour had sneered his way through the venison and several other courses of the garrison's finest food and wine. Antionne also had joined them at Treville's request, oozing smugness from every oiled pore.

Athos was standing at attendance, also at Treville's request. He radiated anger as palpably as he dared. When d'Melliuor had demanded of him a refill of the wine jug he had fought hard not to instead draw his sword. Henri d'Melliuor seemed not to notice the struggle, or the rage that suffused the musketeer's face. Antionne however, was keenly aware of Athos' discomfort and it seemed the boy was both afraid and delighted by it. At least he had enough sense not to request the same of his superior.

The conversation during the meal had palled dreadfully, consisting mostly of d'Melliour's dislike and distaste of a great many issues. The poor and lazy were generally to blame, and often interchangeable, but a goodly proportion of ills were laid at the door of the musketeers. Treville's leadership was often but subtly called to question, particularly in relation to the recruitment of undesirable elements which brought such dishonour upon the once noble unit. Antionne lapped up his father's words with barely restrained glee, clearly enjoying having his commanding officer and the man who had only yesterday threatened him bodily harm, put firmly in his place.

Finally, d'Melliuor dabbed at his lips one final time and made to rise from his seat. "My thanks for such an... interesting meal, Treville."

The captain stood also, giving a low bow. He had spoken little during the conversation, instead allowing d'Melliuor the floor, showing little reaction as his company was ruthlessly shredded. Athos' could not help the rage that this brought him, his own palms aching where he had dug his nails in to prevent himself from lashing out at the man who held the musketeers' fate in his hands.

"My men will certainly have fixed your carriage by now," said Treville. "Allow me to escort you to the courtyard."

"Of course," d'Melliuor waved a hand as if he expected no less. "Tis a shame such common courtesies seem so lacking in your company."

"That depends on the worth of the recipient," Treville said with a bluntness he had not yet exhibited, "and it's "Captain", if you remember your manners rightly, soldier."

Both d'Melliuor's paused, startled both by Treville's change of tone and his aggressive stance, blockading them from exiting the room.

Henri recovered first. "I see. My apologies... Captain," he said with the merest of bows.

They remained in stony silence for a long moment, neither giving way. Treville's hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword. Sensing the shift in mood, Athos and the d'Melliuor's readied themselves also.

"Really, I expected better of you... Captain," Henri said, all acid tongue and hauteur.

"Oh?" Treville raised a threatening brow. "Can't say the same for you, sadly. You always were a jacked up little shit."

"Treville!"

The captain ignored Antionne's shocked outcry, his eyes remaining on the boy's father. "I shall give you one chance to come out of this with dignity, soldier; retract your demands while the opportunity remains."

"So, you are as weak in will and honour as that scruffy band of ruffians who dare to dishonour the name of the musketeers," said Henri, glaring at the man along the length of his nose. "If you are so bold as to defy me then you must not be as desperately in need of my patronage as it seems."

"D'Artagnan and the rest of my men are worth far more than your fifty thousand a quarter," Treville snapped. "If you cannot see sense then I want no part of it. I will never allow such a pompous shit to hold our good name to ransom."

"So be it!" Henri snapped, his face darkened to a shade of scarlet that, unknown to him, would have the previous day rivalled that of d'Artagnan's rear. "You shall see not one livre, Treville. Not one cent! And when I speak with the King, believe me, Treville, you shall be stationed so far from France that you will see London's bells!"

"That is, Captain Treville to you, boy," said a voice from the doorway.

Athos stepped aside, allowing the speaker admittance, his hand still upon his sword. Whoever the newcomer was he was clearly a relation, if older, of the d'Melliuor's. His face, however, was more stern, the eyes clear of lordly hauteur but for the crease of disdain at the edges as he surveyed those before him. He had been escorted in by Antionne's mentor, Gaspard, who took position at the other side of the door to Athos, his face impassive even at Athos' questioning look.

The reaction from the two d'Melliuors was mixed. Henri's face showed only exasperation, of an embarrassment that should have been kept hidden. Antionne on the other hand visibly paled.

"Ah, my lord Marquis," said Treville, coming forward and taking the hand that was offered, adding a small bow as he stepped away. "Thank you for coming, I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience?"

"You called him here?" Henri d'Melliuor snapped. "You dared to make such a demand of a Marquis?"

"I could not refuse, given the gravity of the situation," said François d'Melliuor. His voice was aged but sturdy, and the only concession to his advanced years was a walking stick. Given that the stick rattled when he walked, suggesting a hidden blade, Athos considered the man did not yet consider himself fully retired from military life.

"It is not every day that one receives demands that one cease payment from a recipient, after all," the Marquis finished. At Treville's direction he settled himself down into a plush chair beside the fireplace, his stick out before him with both hands resting upon the top.

"Cease...?" Henri repeated and then whirled upon Treville as understanding dawned, scorn on his curled lips. "So, you were not in jest? I had hoped your outburst a mere moment of weakness, but I see you truly have gone mad."

"I assure you, I am in my right mind," Treville said coolly.

"But you dismissed the wretch d'Artagnan," Antionne also protested. "You gave him his letters and had him sent on his way."

"He gave him a letter, certainly," said François. He withdrew some papers from his tunic and held it up. "This letter, to be precise... and was then sent to my residence, where I had the pleasure of receiving him."

"And so you have been fetched here like a commoner," said Henri, glaring at Treville who stared impassively back. "How dare you, sir! I suppose that farce with the carriage was to detain me for some ridiculous reason? Are you hoping to shame us into giving in to your whims?"

"Do stop being ridiculous, Henri," François sighed.

"Father!"

"I merely wrote to the Marquis that, given your actions, and those of your son, I could not in good faith continue to accept the donation," said Treville. "I would also mention that should Antionne continue to treat his commission as a holiday instead of an honour, that he can seek his entertainment elsewhere."

"Thus ending a proud line of musketeers started by my father," François added, "a completely unacceptable circumstance, but one I would rather take than see my own blood disgrace my old regiment so thoroughly."

Henri gaped like a landed fish, his face once more a fiery hue. Beside him Antionne looked like a child standing upon a sandcastle, watching the incoming tide.

"You cannot give in to this... this commoner's demands," Henri snarled, thrusting out an accusatory hand toward the captain. "He's barely nobility at all, let alone his men. We cannot let such people think to contest us."

"I can do whatever I damn well please," François snapped, "and until I am in my grave you have no say in the matter. Perhaps if you had conducted yourself in the latter half of your years with more respect and honour I would listen to you now, but ever since you left the musketeers you have fallen in with entirely the wrong crowd." "Oh, and who would that be, pray?"

"People not likely to give you a thump around the ear when you spout such dogmatic nonsense for a start," his father said with acid humour. "I gave the better half of my life in the service of this fine regiment, and it positively shames me to hear you speak of it so. Captain Treville and his men have more honour and humility in one finger, than you have over all."

Henri d'Melliuor had passed rage and was now in the realms of white-skinned fury. "Very well," he said, biting off his words as if tasting for his father's jugular. "Do as you wish, I shall protest such folly no longer. But I shall not have my son remain in a unit unfit to wipe his boots!"

François d'Melliuor's eyes narrowed. "Since you scorn my choices of patronage so much, you clearly will not wish to be included within its scope," he said, "I also would not wish to see my fortune spent upon such an unworthy cause."

Henri stilled instantly, his mouth snapping into a thin line. "You would not disgrace me so," he ventured, after a long pause.

"No?" the Marquis' eyes were hard as steel. "You disgrace yourself enough with this arrogant display. Surely it shall be no hardship for you, you are, after all, a seasoned military man."

Henri and Antionne both showed plainly their disgust at the idea of working for a living.

"Then you have a choice, as I see it," said François calmly; "Either stand by your convictions and relinquish the shelter of my patronage, or you concede." He gave a wicked smile then. "It shall be only be ten, perhaps fifteen years of hardship before I die and the fortune becomes yours in any case. Surely that is no little hardship to stand by one's principles until that time?"

"Are you insane?" Antionne exploded, flinging his hands in the air and even stamping out his anger. "You can't do this. The disgrace! Why would you side with these peasants above your own blood? It is madness!"

François d'Melliuor regarded his grandson in solemn silence for a long moment. In that time the boy calmed enough to come to the realisation that he had made a grave mistake.

"That boy, d'Artagnan did not strike you hard enough, it seems."

"Father!" Henri protested again, but his voice was hushed, his manner cowed.

"That young man quite bravely revealed the extent to which he was punished for putting you in your place," the Marquis said, ignoring his son. He looked toward Gaspard. "Tell me, monsieur, for you are his mentor: what punishment did my grandson receive for his part in the scrap?"

Gaspard, nervous at being so addressed, cleared his throat before replying. "I placed him on the tower guard for the rest of the day, my lord."

The Marquis nodded solemnly whilst Athos fumed. Guard duty was dull no matter where your posting, but the tower spot was warm and dry, and if you got the timing right you could play a round of cards between shifts without your superiors noticing.

"And do you believe that this was adequate?"

Gaspard regarded the Marquis with the eye of a dog who had spent many months tormented by the village boys, only to find one day that his chain had snapped. He fixed Antionne with a predatory eye that had all the colour draining from the boy's cheeks, and then looked back to the Marquis, shoulders squared.

"Absolutely not, my lord."

"Perhaps you wish to remedy that?" François suggested genially.

Gaspard saluted smartly then turned upon Antionne.

"Wait!" the boy protested, stepping hastily out of range. "I shall not allow this!"

"If you wish to remain under my patronage, you most decidedly shall." The marquis' voice was steel and filled with promise. "As will your father."

Antionne turned to his father, the last bastion of defence, but Henri was still frozen in place, and offered his son no salvation. Antionne gaped, his body sagging in defeat.

Gaspard took advantage of his charge's immobility and snatched two handfuls of the back of the boy's collar, whirling him about and marching him away before him out of the door.

François looked over to Treville and gave the man an easy smile of genuine warmth. "Now that business is concluded, perhaps I might prevail upon you for some of that excellent wine I had at our last meeting, Captain?" As Treville nodded the Marquis gave his son a hard glare. "I do believe your carriage is repaired, sir. I suggest you make use of it before I consider conscription as part of my conditions."

Athos did not step aside as Henri swept past, forcing the man to brush his shoulder. He allowed a small smile to quirk his lips at that. He bowed to his captain and the marquis, meaning to take his leave, but a word from the lord stopped him.

"You are the mentor of d'Artagnan, are you not monsieur?"

"I am, sir," Athos said with another bow.

"The young man spoke of you with high praise," d'Melliuor said with a nod, "he is a credit to you."

Relief and pride threatened for an instant to break through Athos' usual stony continence but he weathered the feeling, allowing only the barest of wry smiles through. "He has much to learn. I thank you for giving him the opportunity to do so."

"I also," said Treville. He had poured out wine for the man and now handed him the glass, "and thank you for visiting at such short notice."

François took the glass, waving away their thanks. Then he leant forwards, eyes glittering with mischief. "Tell me, Captain: What would you have done, had I accepted your request to cease my funding of the Musketeers?"

"I'd take back the drink for starters," Treville rumbled, taking a swig of his own. "I'd have needed it to drown my sorrows."

"So you concede it was a possibility?"

"Oh, yes. You could have hit your head really hard and become a different person."

Athos did smile at that. Whatever Treville said, his actions had been a gamble, if a calculated one. He had risked the fate of the entire regiment on the life of one man, and if he thought he was going to get away without the inseparables acknowledging it in a significant way then he was very much mistaken.

"If you would excuse me, sirs, I believe I have business elsewhere," he said, bowing again.

D'Melliuor inclined his head and glass in return. "Give your young charge my regards. He is a hope for the future of this regiment that I had once wished to see realised in my own children. I trust you shall guard that hope well."

"With all my strength, my lord," said Athos with utmost sincerity.

oOo

"Well?!"

Athos paused, regarding Porthos with a cool eye. The man's outburst was not unexpected, but he had thought to at least be allowed to rest before the interrogation began.

"You make a terrible servant," he said, casually casting his hat upon the table before taking his customary seat.

"We know that," Aramis said with a groan. He leant back, snagging the wine jug from d'Artagnan and filling his cup. "Tell us about the Marquis."

"I would have thought our young friend has had his fill of marquis for this week," Athos said blithely, causing d'Artagnan to choke on his wine and Porthos to chuckle deeply into his own cup.

"Stop being facetious," said Aramis, wagging his finger at his friend. "I want to hear all the wonderful, embarrassing details."

"I bet Henri shat his pants when his daddy walked in," Porthos said with a wide grin.

"Nothing of the sort," Athos corrected with a genteel sip at his wine, "I believe the lord d'Melliuor had not even considered that his father would chose we undesirables over his own blood."

"Is that what happened then?" Aramis pried. "We assumed that the tides had turned when d'Artagnan returned with the marquis, but we could not be certain."

Athos was about to reply when a wail penetrated their conversation. It resonated through the courtyard, filled with pain and dismay.

"Gaspard is introducing our dear Antionne to another marquis, I hear," Athos said with barely concealed pleasure.

The two other inseparables chuckled but d'Artagnan appeared distracted, almost distressed by the sound.

"Was... has it always been so clear to..." he cleared his throat, a deep flush darkening his cheeks.

His three fellow musketeers grinned broadly.

Aramis turned to Porthos, slapping the man's shoulder remonstrively. "Porthos, did you leave the window in the armoury open again?" he demanded.

Porthos smacked his hand to his head, feigning contrition. "I musta forgot to close it," he said, shaking his head. "Ah well, it's good to give everything a bit of an airing."

Another wail shot through the afternoon air. The garrison at this time of day was not busy, but those musketeers and servants who were about appeared to give the sound no mind. However, many of them bore faint smiles and occasionally a laugh would be cut short; Antionne had made himself few friends within the regiment.

The three inseparable a looked up when d'Artagnan rose, his jaw set in a determined frown.

"He won't thank you for it," Athos said mildly.

"Nevertheless," was all the boy said before he set off toward the armoury.

"He's a good lad," Porthos commented when he was out of earshot.

Aramis grunted sourly. "Too good, for the likes of Antionne d'Melliuor," he said, and drained his cup.

"Perhaps that is all a boy like d'Melliuor needs," Athos mused. "D'Artagnan is not by far the worst influence we could hope for."

"You think that pompous fool can be redeemed?" Aramis asked with genuine surprise; they had all known enough similar men of Antionne's calibre to understand the scant likelihood of reformation.

Another wail was muffled mid-cry, suggesting a window somewhere had been closed shut by sympathetic hands.

"If anyone can do it, it is our d'Artagnan," said Athos, his lips curling upward as he contemplated the lack of wine in his cup.

Aramis leant over, filling it to the brim. "In that, we are in agreement," he said, and the three brought their cups together in a silent toast to brotherhood and the bright future of the kings musketeers.