The Musketeers

Paris. A clear, moonlit night.

The city is gradually sinking into sleep. Candles flicker out behind closed shutters, the last drunken songs drift from the taverns, and royal patrols occasionally roll through the cobblestone streets. The wind chases dry leaves across the pavement, and nothing foretells any trouble.

Until the silence is shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps.

Three men burst around the corner. By the looks of it, their night is not going particularly well.

Porthos

The first is a broad-shouldered giant with a split eyebrow. Blood trickles down his temple and his doublet is stained, but even the wound doesn't stop him from looking as though he's ready to jump into ten more fights.

— Damn it! Another one?!

His hand immediately drops to the hilt of his sword.

Aramis

The second appears next—impeccably dressed, as much as his current predicament allows. One hand is pressed to his chest, and his gaze darts quickly across the street, assessing possible routes of escape.

— Where are they coming from now?!..

Athos

The last is noticeably lagging behind. One hand is pressed to his side, his breathing is heavy, and every step is clearly a struggle. His face is pale, his breath labored, but he does not ask for help.

— Not an enemy.

Porthos

— How can you be sure?

Athos

— I can hear them.

New footsteps echo from the depths of the street. Several voices call out to one another, uninhibited in their language.

Athos

— We're leaving. Now.

Porthos

— Where?! At this rate, even a limping ant will overtake us!

Aramis

— Keep your voice down, they'll hear you! In there, quickly!

He shoves them both toward a hiding place—a deep niche behind a stone protrusion. The giant retreats noisily into the shadows, but immediately turns back to offer his comrade a shoulder to lean on.

Porthos

— Come on, old man. Just a little further.

The man does not answer. He merely gives a short nod, accepting the help. After quickly gauging the distance of their pursuers, the last man turns to you.

Aramis

— Pray, forgive such a sudden introduction. Circumstances, as you can see, are not conducive to polite conversation. Be so kind as not to mention our encounter.

In an instant, he vanishes into the shadows.

Armed men in scarlet uniforms appear around the corner. One of them notices you and roughly grabs you by the shoulder. His face is etched with blatant irritation.

Rochefort

— Hey! You! Answer me, now!

He scans the street, then fixes his gaze on you once more.

Rochefort

— Three men just ran through here! One massive fellow with a battered face, another wounded in the arm, and a third in the side. Where did they go?!

Behind him, the guards block off the street. Someone raises a lantern higher, and the light sweeps across the stones—toward that very same niche. For a fleeting moment, it looks as though the tip of a sword glinted in the darkness. Or was it just a trick of the light?

Rochefort waits. His patience is wearing thin.

— Silent, are we? Or are you in league with them?

The Musketeers

Description

You stand on the Rue Saint-Denis, where the houses huddle so tightly together that the moon only manages a glimpse at midnight. Somewhere behind you, a cart rumbles over the cobblestones; the scent of stale booze and fried onions wafts from a tavern's half-open door, and on a corner, beneath the flicker of a streetlamp, two figures in cloaks pretend for far too long that they aren't watching one another. In this city, everyone has a second pocket and a third name. You do too—otherwise, you wouldn't be here. Tonight, your fate intertwines with another. Three fugitives—wounded, cornered, but far from broken—burst around the corner. One begs you not to interfere. The second is ready to draw his rapier. The third simply watches—and there is more meaning in that gaze than in any words. A minute later, the street is swarmed by scarlet uniforms. You have exactly as much time as you need to decide: who are you in this story—and who will you lie to first?