Well folks, I really liked this show and thought it deserved at least a little better closure than it got. And no, I didn't rifle through PAX's shelf and steal the show for monetary purposes. I do however own the character of Badger, so if you'd like to borrow her... Actually, I'd be flattered. Please ask first, though.

And by the way, there's a lot of talking points in this intro, but it gets more exciting later, honest.

Enough of the weenie disclaimers. On with the show!

Siroc and Ramon yawned and trudged their way to morning exercises. It was cool, even for dawn, and Ramon's a.m.-frown was deeper than usual.

"All I'm saying is that I'd rather do these torture sessions Duval calls training in the middle of the night than at this hour."

"Because you stay out half the night with your lady callers anyway."

"Don't scold me. It's too early."

"Don't drink so much. It makes you a grouch in the morning."

Ramon scowled. "Yes, Mama. Maybe if you didn't stay up half the night fiddling with your contraptions, you'd be able to last more than two minutes with any oaf in the cardinal's guard... Dios mio. Are they at it again?"

They had just rounded the last corner of the walkway and come into full view of the courtyard set aside for drilling. D'Artagnan stumbled backward on the retreat as he fought to parry Jacques's dizzying sword, the clanging of their blades the only sound in the otherwise empty yard. The morning fog swirled around the pair, stirred by their movements.

Ramon and Siroc exchanged a look. From the look of them, they'd already been at it for a while: Jackets shed, shirts sweat-ridden, long brown hair escaping from the ties. Jacques jumped back to escape a side-swipe from D'Artagnan, and then drove in with an onslaught of forward strikes that forced him back again.

"Five francs on Jacques," Ramon murmured.

"I'm not stupid, Ramon. D'Artagnan may have won the first round or so, but Jacques always gets him on endurance."

As if affirming the statement, Jacques suddenly darted in past a wide stroke from D'Artagnan and body-checked him, sending him to the ground. From the flat of his back, he looked up the blade of the rapier pointed at the bridge of his nose to the stony face of Jacqueline Roget. The two stayed as they were for a few moments, both too out of breath to speak.

Siroc tsked. "That boy has a lot of anger."

"Si."

In the courtyard, D'Artagnan found he was halfway happy to have lost, just so that he could lie down for a moment.

"That'll be one for you, I suppose," he groaned.

Jacqueline blew a sweaty strand of hair out of her eyes, nodded and lowered her sword, letting him up. He grimaced as he got to his rubbery legs. This was getting to be a pattern: Ever since her brother had been killed some months ago, the woman had been on some strange obsessive training spree. He wouldn't normally mind. Who better to have at the top of her game than the one sworn to watch your back? The only problem was when she dragged him out of bed before the crack and made him be her straw dummy until he was too tired for drill.

The saving grace of course was that he got to be alone with her.

"You need to quit opening up your flank," she told him. "One of these days, you're going to get skewered like a chicken."

"Don't think this means anything. You just wanted it more, that's all."

"Very funny."

"Oh, yes," D'Artagnan said. "Getting my wagon fixed by someone half my size always puts me in a joking mood."

"Maybe if you'd practice more," she said, swinging her sword in the air to loosen her stiffening arm.

"Maybe if you'd let me alone for a day and let me get back to the top of my game. I know you promised Gerard that you wouldn't rest until you found out the secret behind that cross of yours, but you never promised him I wouldn't."

At the mention of her brother's name, Jacqueline snapped angry eyes at him. He instantly regretted saying it. He of all people knew how important the subject was to her. Her brother had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and faced the cardinal's guard just to bring the tiny silver crucifix back to her. And for what?

What indeed.

"Again," she said.

D'Artagnan, who had been about to apologize for bringing up the sore point, blinked at her.

"What?"

"Let's go again."

He laughed as she settled into a fighting stance.

"Oh, no thank you. I think I'll go pluck out my nose hairs one by one instead."

"Come back here! We're not through yet."

D'Artagnan turned back around.

"Jacques, my arms feel like pudding. If I don't catch my breath before Duval gets here, he's going to think I'm going soft. Do you want to explain to him that I've just been taken to the cleaners several times already this morning?"

Jacqueline clenched her jaw and looked down. D'Artagnan sighed.

"Look, I know you have clues to find and mysteries to unravel. How is beating the tar out of me every morning going to help?"

"I just... I want to be ready." She drew the cross free of her shirt and looked at it. "Gerard died bringing this back to me. Who knows what I'll face in finding out why? And if I can't make it past those things, if anything tries to stop me the way they stopped Gerard and I didn't do everything I could to prepare..."

She looked away again. It was all right, D'Artagnan mused: She didn't have to say it.

He couldn't have died for nothing. Not Gerard.

"All right, all right. Once more. But from now on, you drag Siroc and Ramon into the rotation. I want at least to have Fridays off."

"Come now, companero," Ramon said as he and Siroc sidled up to them. "I know people in town who would pay money to fence with the famous musketeer LePonte. You should be grateful we get to do it for free."

"I'm not famous," said Jacqueline. "And sadly, the people of whom you speak are all women."

"What do you mean 'sadly'? If they're all women, then so much the better."

"You two! Thank God. Would you please see if you can wear him out? It's like playing fetch with a puppy."

D'Artagnan coughed when Jacqueline elbowed him. Siroc smiled crookedly.

"This is why I prefer anonymity. Everyone wants D'Artagnan the younger for his training partner."

"Trust me: It's not all it's cracked up to be. Besides, we all know you're the one who needs the practice," said D'Artagnan.

"I'd say you're all the ones who need to practice."

The four musketeers snapped to attention at the voice of their captain. Duval tapped his way across the flagstones from the barracks. They tried not to notice that his limp seemed pronounced today. The damp cold must be bothering his old wound, but he was the last one who would ever admit it.

"So. When is the attempt on Louis's life to be made?"

"Pardon, Captain?" said Ramon.

"Well, since you're all talking your way through the drill period, I can only assume that you have something more important on your minds than keeping your skills sharp. And since the only thing I can imagine being more important would be a confirmed plot to assassinate our king, I would very much like to know the details."

Sheepish looks were exchanged.

"We were just, er, comparing technique, Sir," said D'Artagnan.

"Good. I look forward to a demonstration at the end of the morning. For now, pair off and run the mantandre-chappelle."

Suppressing groans, the four started off for the yard. The mantandre-chappelle was the most tedious drill they knew. However, they hadn't gotten more than a couple of steps when Duval's voice cut back in.

"Not you, LePonte."

Jacqueline froze, the hackles on her neck shooting up.

"Sir?"

"I want a word with you. D'Artagnan, I trust you can keep busy without him for a few minutes."

D'Artagnan caught her slightly panicked look with his grim one. It was never good when Duval wanted a private audience, but there was little reason to wonder why she of all people should be worried.

"I don't have all day, and neither do you," Duval reminded her.

Jacqueline gave a barely perceptible smile to D'Artagnan, trying to tell him not to worry. With a deep breath, she went to catch up with Duval. D'Artagnan watched them go. Nothing was more frustrating than unrequited love, except for constantly worrying that your unrequited love could at any moment be exposed as a cross-dressing fugitive from the law.

The captain and the recruit walked quietly through the gardens for what seemed a long time to Jacqueline. Quickly, she ran through the last few days in her mind, trying to remember any time someone might have discovered her secret. Had she locked her bedroom door? Yes, always. Had she been followed to the public bath house? Not unless they'd also followed her through the market, around the forest, past the church, and under the bridge. Had she hidden the linens she used to keep herself in..? She couldn't remember. But there were many explanations for having extra linens around, weren't there?

Duval cleared his throat.

"How is your wound, LePonte?"

Jacqueline blinked. "My wound?"

"Does it ever give you trouble?"

This was odd. It had been nearly a year since she'd been wounded in the fight that saw the deaths of both Bernard and Gerard, and he hadn't brought it up since she'd returned to duty.

"No, Sir. Siroc saw that it healed well."

Duval nodded. Jacqueline noted that he was looking more and more uneasy, as though he were about to admit a transgression to his mother.

"And... your brother? Gerard, was it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Are you... coping?"

Jacqueline's frown deepened. "Coping, Sir?"

Duval made a frustrated noise. Though she wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, she knew he'd rather be talking about some horrific battle or oral surgery gone awry.

"I'm not asking for details. The less I know, the more truthful I can be when Mazarin comes up with new questions about the whole thing. He did lose his guard captain in the affair, after all."

"So you've said, Captain."

Duval stopped walking and faced her. "LePonte, I know you've been sneaking in extra practice with D'Artagnan in the early mornings. I've let it go on so far because I thought you needed to blow off some steam, not to mention that it's good for that ego of his. But it's been months now, and you're still at him every single day. You're also spending an awful lot of time away from the garrison."

"By your leave, Sir. I've been at church. Is it against regulations to pray for my murdered brother?"

"Mind your tone, recruit."

Jacqueline took a slow breath, remembering whom she was talking to and checking her temper.

"Sir, if you need me for extra duty, I'll gladly give my spare time for it."

"It's not that. I've seen it happen before: Young soldiers who think they've seen it all. Something terrible happens one day and they start to withdraw. They escape their pain in extra training. Then at the worst possible moment, they break down and usually get themselves and a comrade or two killed."

Relief washed over Jacqueline. This wasn't about her secret at all. In his way, the man was trying to say he was concerned.

"Sir, I swear to you I'm fine. I just miss my brother and I want to make sure he didn't die for nothing. If that means I have to train every spare moment, then that's what I'll do."

Duval seemed to consider that and for a moment. Jacqueline thought she saw a smile tug at his mouth. He nodded.

"Lay off the man for a few days. I don't want to have to explain all the extra bruises to his father when he goes home on furlough."

"I'll try to remember, Sir."

"Ah, my dear Captain Duval. And musketeer LePonte as well, what an unexpected pleasure. Not talking about me, I trust?"

Jacqueline and Duval bowed to Cardinal Mazarin as he walked leisurely from one of the wings into the yard. He was smiling that little smile of his, the one that reminded everyone who saw it of a cat with a bird still wiggling in its mouth.

"Your Eminence," Duval greeted him. "You're out early today. I hope we weren't disturbing you."

"Not at all. I am curious, though: Is this a new musketeer training exercise? 'Talk the enemy to death'?"

Duval coughed.

"I had my drills already this morning, Your Eminence," Jacqueline put in. "The captain and I were just discussing strategy."

"Recruit, I'm sure the cardinal isn't interested," Duval said.

"Nonsense. I've always found military matters a passable diversion, although I do confess it's turned into a bit of a bore since it's become work. That unpleasantness with Bernard, you remember."

How could we forget? You keep reminding us.

"My new captain seems to be fitting in nicely, though," Mazarin went on. "Three weeks on the job and already he's completely reworked the drilling schedule for my men."

"Yes, I noticed."

"Oh, I hope we haven't put your recruits out too much, my dear captain. I realize the schedules for the guard and the musketeers overlapped a bit at first. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your understanding that my men do need to keep their skills honed for holy mother church."

Actually, the schedules had overlapped completely. The musketeers had been bullied out of their regimen as the guard took over the training areas and forced to train in the meadow until a new schedule could be worked. Duval, wanting to keep the peace rather than spend everyone's energy on a pissing contest when they needed to protect the king, kept his poise and fumed about the whole thing only during five a.m. practice.

"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your new captain yet, Your Eminence. Gilbert, isn't it?" Duval said, forcing a smile.

"Yes. I must introduce him to you at the first opportunity. Fine young man from the coast, a second lieutenant on one of His Majesty's frigates. A very rare find indeed. Although, I'm sure you could give him some valuable information about how things were done in the old days."

Jacqueline had never wanted to be pope so much in all her life. Anything to shove those petty little barbs down Mazarin's throat. As usual however, Duval was diplomatic.

"If it pleases His Majesty, I'd be happy to."

Mazarin's smile widened and he turned to Jacqueline. "Monsieur LePonte. I trust this morning finds you well."

Jacqueline bowed again. "Thank you, Your Eminence."

"I trust also that you would like to meet my new captain. The two of you have so much in common, you know."

"I actually don't, I'm afraid."

"Well for starters, I look at either one of you and I immediately think of one man. Of course you just have to look at that new scar of yours, don't you?"

It was Duval who broke their staring contest, his voice tight.

"And I look forward to hearing what lessons your new captain learned from his predecessor."

Jacqueline looked at him, surprised. His eyes were sparkling with barely contained anger. Insult him and he remain as cool as morning mist. Insult one of his recruits, his work, and he wasn't having it.

"Sir, it's really -"

"LePonte, I was merely suggesting an exchange of information. I'm sure it would be to everyone's benefit, and we are all on the same side after all."

"Sir," Jacqueline whispered urgently, "you are speaking to a cardinal!"

"Don't worry, son. I'm sure the cardinal can speak for himself."

But when they looked back at Mazarin, he wasn't speaking at all. Actually, he looked frozen, his face strangely drained of color as he stared at Jacqueline. Not at her face, but at her throat.

"Your Eminence?" Duval tried.

Mazarin blinked up at him. "Huh? Oh, forgive me. I just never noticed Monsieur's crucifix before. Is it new?"

Jacqueline glanced down and saw that the cross had worked its way free of her shirt. She quickly tucked it back in.

"Uh... No, Your Eminence. It's kind of an heirloom."

"'Kind of'?"

"Yes, it belonged to my brother."

"I see. And your brother got it from..?"

"From our father," Jacqueline said, feeling more uneasy by the moment. Of all the people in the world she didn't want interested in her affairs, especially this one, Mazarin was at the top of the list.

"Fascinating. I've never seen one quite like it before. Did you know I make a hobby of studying antique religious paraphernalia? If it wouldn't put you out, I'd love to study it some time."

"Your Eminence, it's just a family gift. I can't imagine it's worth your time," Jacqueline said humbly.

Something flashed in Mazarin's eyes before he forced a laugh from his throat.

"Of course. Another time, perhaps. Captain. Monsieur."

Duval and Jacqueline bowed as he glided off toward his apartments. When he was safely out of earshot, Duval looked at his charge.

"What was that all about?"

"I don't know, Sir," said Jacqueline, still frowning after the cardinal.

"Humph. Well if I were you, I'd keep an eye on that thing. Unless it's attached to you, it's liable to disappear. I swear, that man looks more like a jackal every day. Come on, now. The mantandre-chappelle waits for no man."

Mazarin sat in his study, quietly cracking his knuckles one by one. It was almost noon now and he had spent the past several hours here, ensconced in his overstuffed chair, trying to recover from the shock of the day.

Jacques LePonte. Mazarin had barely noticed him before Bernard died. Musketeers on the whole were hardly worth his time, especially brand new ones. How the hell had that boy ever been landed with..?

Of course, from the little he knew of LePonte, Mazarin was quite sure it would be unwise to underestimate him. After all, he had been one of the biggest thorns in Mazarin's side since his arrival at the academy, and his talent as a soldier was unmistakable. If it hadn't so obviously been a lost cause, Mazarin might have tried to recruit him into the guard. But no, like his comrades, LePonte was fiercely loyal to Duval and his ridiculous code.

Misplaced loyalty. That, thought Mazarin, was one of the world's great tragedies.

The door opened and a footman announced Captain Gilbert, breaking the cardinal out of his brooding. Mazarin straightened up as the young man entered to stand before the gleaming mahogany desk and bow.

"You sent for me, Your Eminence."

Mazarin smiled at his new guard captain. Bernard had had his useful moments, but he'd always been a fop at heart. Gilbert was a dream come true. At twenty-seven, he'd already carved a reputation for himself out of the Spanish fleet, a testament punctuated by the collection of scars that decorated his face and bald head. At six and a half feet tall and at least fifteen stone in weight, he was like a walking flagship. Best of all, he was a devout Catholic, and Mazarin practically had to beat him away with a stick to keep him from kissing the hem of his robes all the time.

"Yes, Captain Gilbert. I have a special assignment for you. Do you know Musketeer LePonte?"

"I know of him, Your Eminence."

Mazarin nodded. "Tomorrow morning, I shall have a special assignment for him. And God shall have a special assignment for you."

TBC...

Thanks for reading, folks. Please let me know if you have anything nice/constructive to say, and I'll get the next bit up soon.