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  DUEL AT DAWN

  Another ‘You Say Which Way’ Adventure

  by

  Kevin Berry

  To early 17th century France

  No part of this publication can be reproduced without the permission of the author.

  ‘You Say Which Way’ is the intellectual property of:

  The Fairytale Factory, Wellington, New Zealand.

  © Copyright Kevin Berry 2017

  All rights reserved

  YouSayWhichWay.com

  How These Books Work

  This is an interactive book with YOU as the main character. At the end of each chapter, ‘you say which way’ the story goes.

  It’s the year 1626, you’re in Paris, and instead of going to school you’ve been at the Academy, where you’ve learned the skills to be a recruit in the King’s Musketeers or the Cardinal’s Guards. Now, with one of your friends, you’re about to enter this new life, close at hand to the king or the cardinal. There’s conspiracy, political intrigue, dueling and more. Will you risk going to the Courtyard of Miracles? What is the cardinal’s secret? Is the king ill because he’s being poisoned? Where’s the best place to buy bandages for sword wounds? Will you make trouble, or will it find you? It’s never far away.

  Oh … and watch out for thieves, secrets and the compte de Bouteville!

  Now for your first decision. Would you like to:

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  Go straight to the story?

  At the Academy

  You’re standing in the training ground at the Academy with your two best friends, Tempeste and Hubert. Behind you are dozens of other cadets. It’s graduation day, and you stand up straight and proud. During your time at L’Academie, you’ve learned how to fight with a sword, fire a musket, and ride a horse, all worthy skills for a soldier. In your spare time, you’ve learned the arts of fancy dressing, card playing, good etiquette, (mostly) adequate manners, forgery, brawling in inns, and romantically charming anyone who takes your fancy, all worthy skills for a young gentleman or gentlewoman.

  Today is an important day for all of the cadets, but more so for you and your two friends, as the three of you have graduated top of the class.

  A large double-story building stands at the front edge of the training ground. On the upper floor, ornate iron balconies surround each window. Several people are there, waiting for the ceremony to start, their faces hidden in the shadows of wide-brimmed hats and bonnets.

  A strong, muscled woman strides out of the training headquarters. She swaggers across the sandy ground towards you and the other cadets. A sheathed rapier hangs from her left hip. She wears her usual practical padded jacket, breeches and black brimmed hat. Madame de Villequier has been your class’s instructor for the year.

  She halts ten yards from you and your friends. For a moment, she seems to smile at you with her eyes, though the set of her mouth is as stern as ever.

  “Attention!” she calls. “I will say this only once.”

  Quiet descends upon the training ground as the chattering amongst the cadets ceases.

  Madame de Villequier looks around you all and finally smiles properly. “You thirty, the surviving members of the class, have all passed, and you three”—she indicates you, Hubert and Tempeste—“have passed with honors. Congratulations.”

  The cadets murmur happily. Tempeste elbows you in the side and grins. Hubert whoops with joy. You beam, grabbing your friends around the shoulders for a joint hug.

  When you again turn your attention to Madame de Villequier, she is standing, legs astride in a pose of command, a piece of parchment in one hand.

  “I will call your name and the regiment to which you’ve been assigned. When you’ve heard your assignment, you are free to collect your things and make your way to your regimental commander. Clear?”

  A wave of nods wobbles through the assembled cadets.

  “Pierre Godier: the 13th Fusiliers. Louise De Lenoncourt: the Crown Prince Cuirassiers …”

  A few minutes later, only you, Hubert and Tempeste remain on the training ground. A little apprehensive now, you shuffle your boots in the sand. Where will you be assigned? Will you be with your friends?

  Madame de Villequier approaches you all and speaks quietly. “For your outstanding achievements during training, you three deserve the pick of the regiments: the King’s Musketeers, and”—she seems to hesitate slightly—“the Cardinal’s Guards. Normally, it is impossible to enlist in those regiments straight from the Academy, but for you three, exceptions have been made. You may enlist as officer cadets.”

  Hubert bows his thanks. Tempeste clenches a victorious fist, then bows. Following another elbow in the ribs from Tempeste, you bow also.

  “Hubert, you have come to the attention of the First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. You will join the Cardinal’s Guards as a subaltern cadet.”

  Hubert’s grin vanishes at the speed of lightning. “Must I?”

  Madame de Villequier steps closer. The edge of her hat brushes the feathers of your own wide-brimmed hat as she leans in to whisper to Hubert. “It’s always wise not to anger the cardinal.”

  Hubert looks crestfallen. He stares at his boots and shoves his hands in the pockets of his breeches.

  “It’s not so bad. You’ll get a free uniform, the best pay, and you won’t have to go to war. It’s the safest regiment there is.”

  Hubert says nothing. You feel sorry for him. You know he wanted adventure.

  The instructor comes even closer, and the stiff brim of her hat pushes underneath yours, almost lifting your hat off. Tempeste scurries in from the other side to listen.

  “Beware, Hubert,” whispers Madame de Villequier. “It’s rumored that the cardinal is a practitioner in the Dark Arts.”

  “Accounting?” Hubert asks uncertainly.

  Tempeste draws breath sharply.

  “Sorcery?” you ask, unsure if you heard right.

  The instructor withdraws a couple of paces and composes herself without commenting further. Did she shake her head slightly?

  “Tempeste, for excellence in musketry, you have earned a commission in the King’s Musketeers as a subaltern cadet.”

  “Yes!” She fist-pumps. “I mean, I am most grateful, Madame de Villequier.”

  Hubert groans quietly. The King’s Musketeers is the most prestigious regiment. He probably wanted that one.

  “Of course,” the instructor continued, “the pay is not as good as that of the Cardinal’s Guards, you’ll have to buy your own horse and uniform, and you’ll go wherever the king goes, including to war.”

  Tempeste smiles widely. Her wealthy family will probably pay her expenses anyway.

  “And now it is your turn,” Madame de Villequier says to you. “You were top of the class in horsemanship, and also in swordsmanship. As a result, you’ve come to the attention of the king, and His Majesty wishes to reward your efforts by offering you the rank of lieutenant cadet in either His Majesty’s Musketeers or in the Cardinal’s Guards, whichever you choose.”

  You gasp. Tempeste and Hubert turn to you expectantly, waiting for you to make your choice of career. Where will you go?

  If you join the Cardinal’s Guards, you’ll earn more, stay in Paris, have Hubert for company and maybe have a chance to find out if the cardinal really is a sorcerer, or has some other secret.

  If you join the King’s Musketeers, you’ll have the prestige of being close to the king, have Tempeste for company, and have a chance of adventure.

  It’s time to make a decision. Do you:

  Join the King’s Musketeers?

  Or

  Join the Cardinal’s Guards?

  Join the King’s Musket
eers

  You’ve decided to join the King’s Musketeers. Sadly, you say goodbye to Hubert. The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards are rivals, so you won’t be seeing him in your spare time.

  It’s early afternoon, and you and Tempeste decide to walk, rather than hire a fiacre, a public coach, to take you to your destination. Last night’s rain has left the narrow streets muddy. The tall tenement buildings where the poor live tower above you, leaving the way shadowy even in the afternoon. The twisted streets are also crowded, though most people step aside for you both when they see your expensive clothes and plumed hats. There are no sidewalks anywhere.

  “We should have paid for the fiacre,” complains Tempeste, side-stepping a pile of horse droppings and slipping in the mud instead. She grabs onto your arm to regain her balance. “Or found a route that doesn’t stink.”

  “They all stink, and besides which, this is the shortest way to our commander’s rooms,” you say, pulling Tempeste aside to make way for a small procession of barefooted monks chanting and carrying incense lamps, oblivious or uncaring of the vile mixture of mud and filth under their feet.

  “And it’s the most dangerous route. It’ll take us near the Courtyard of Miracles.”

  La Cour des Miracles. You hadn’t realized you’d be going so close to that. “It is of no consequence. Remember, you wanted adventure,” you say, trying to make light of it, but you brush the scabbard of your rapier with your hand for reassurance anyway.

  “Nevertheless, let’s keep our wits about us, then.”

  You press on. If anything, the environment around you becomes scruffier, filthier, smellier, and more wretched—and that’s just the people. Some of the apartment buildings stand precariously, as if a minor gale would send them tumbling.

  “Lovely flowers, miss?” a young girl says, her grubby face peering up at Tempeste. She’s smiling but has barely half of her teeth, and those that are there are yellowish brown. The wilted flowers she’s hawking do nothing to counter her foul breath. Her height suggests she’s about three years younger than you and Tempeste, but an evident hard childhood makes her seem much older.

  Tempeste is about to reply when a beggar across the road hurls abuse at you. At the same time, three boys race around a corner, shouting, playing with a hoop, chasing it and each other. You pull Tempeste out of their way because they clearly aren’t going to stop. The girl squeezes in close to avoid being bowled over too. The boys race past, splashing mud and fresh horse droppings over your breeches. Before you can shout at them in anger, they’re gone around the next corner.

  Tempeste ignores them and asks the girl, “What’s your name?”

  “Minni, miss.”

  “That’s a lovely name, Minni.”

  “Free, miss,” the young girl says, pressing a daisy into Tempeste’s hand. “’Coz yer so beautiful.”

  “Ooh, merci.”

  You grin, seeing Tempeste, the new Musketeer, blushing at the compliment. The girl skips away.

  “That little mademoiselle was far too polite,” you say.

  “Do you mean so?”

  “I do. But let’s keep going. Monsieur de Tréville’s hotel is on the other side of La Seine. Pont Neuf is the nearest bridge.”

  You cross the north bridge without further incident. It’s less crowded on the other side, and you walk the last few short blocks to the residence of the captain of the King’s Musketeers.

  “So many people!” you exclaim when you enter the courtyard. So many, in fact, you come almost to a halt, and have to squeeze through to reach the entrance of the building. Messengers rush up and down the wide, wooden staircases. Everywhere you look, Musketeers mill about, waiting their turn to see the captain.

  A lackey comes up to you, asks your names, writes them in a notebook, and goes away again. The steady flow of Musketeers, messengers and other people continues. You wait.

  And wait.

  And wait some more.

  By late afternoon, the lackey returns to say, “Monsieur de Tréville awaits you both.”

  Your boots clump on the wooden stairs as you follow the lackey up to the well-furnished cabinet room where the captain of the King’s Musketeers receives visitors. Upon entering, you find him twirling his elegant moustache while he paces up and down.

  “Ah, welcome, my new young recruits,” he says warmly. You introduce yourselves properly and exchange some pleasantries before the captain gets down to business.

  “Take orders only from His Majesty, Her Majesty, and me,” says de Tréville. “Avoid the cardinal whenever possible. He is a dangerous and mysterious man, and, behind his veneer of statesmanship, he’s secretly plotting against the nobility. I am sure of it. Any questions?”

  You nod. “Are the Musketeers going to war with the king this season, sir?”

  The captain shook his head slowly. “His Majesty is ill. Most days he is bedridden, but on his better days His Majesty attends court under close supervision of his physician, and, of course, Cardinal Richelieu.”

  Tempeste says, “I did not know the king was in ill health, sir.”

  “It is not generally known.” The captain’s piercing look demands your silence on the matter. He resumes his pacing, his gaze moving from you to the floor and back again. “And there is this: you are of course aware that dueling is illegal.”

  “Of course, sir,” you and Tempeste reply together. Though banned, dueling is the usual way for gentlemen and gentlewomen to settle personal differences with others.

  “Firstly, having just recruited you both, I do not want to find you lying on the ground behind the abbey of Saint Germain, pierced through the heart.”

  “Most assuredly, sir, I do not wish that either,” you say.

  “Secondly, some of the gentlemen and gentlewomen of Paris are superb duelists. The compte de Bouteville, for instance. He has fought more than a dozen, maybe even twenty, duels, and never lost.”

  “I understand your position absolutely, sir,” you say. “You do not wish for us to fight de Bouteville.”

  “Thirdly, the Cardinal’s Guards will arrest anyone they see engaging in a duel.”

  “Understood, sir,” Tempeste says.

  “So be certain you do not get caught,” de Tréville says with a wry grin. “Now, after leaving here, collect your uniforms at the quartermaster’s office. I will assign your duties in the next few days. Until then, your time is your own.”

  You bid goodbye to your commander and leave the hotel. Together, you retrace your steps towards Pont Neuf and cross it, peddlers and other passersby keeping clear, noting your purposeful stride. You’re Musketeers now!

  But you need to look the part. The King’s Musketeers’ barracks are located at the corner of Le Louvre, as close as possible to the king. When you get there, a wizened sergeant assigns you beds, though you expect to move to your own lodgings in due course. You collect your uniform: a blue tunic with a white cross, a leather jerkin with padded sleeves, and some fine gauntlets, which have already been paid for by your affluent family. You get changed, adjust your wig, give your plumed hat a nudge to a jaunty angle, and check your rapier is secure at your side.

  You meet up with Tempeste again. It’s now late afternoon.

  “Where to now?” she says.

  You grin. “We’re officers in the King’s Musketeers now! Let’s celebrate!”

  She nods vigorously, the plume on her hat almost brushing your face. “What place has the best food in Paris?”

  “A cabaret called Le Mouton Blanc. It’s back on the other side of the river.”

  You’re walking towards Pont Neuf once more when Tempeste cries out in alarm. “My purse! It’s gone!”

  You spin to face her. “How? When?” Not as if she’ll have the answers.

  Her face creases into a frown. “Let me think … did I have it when I got changed? No, I don’t think I did, but I was too excited by putting on the Musketeers’ uniform for the first time that I didn’t notice. I definitely had it afte
r leaving the Academy …”

  “That girl,” you say. “As she most generously gave you a daisy, she just as dexterously plucked your purse from your pocket at the same time.”

  “But how? It hung on a cord around my neck.”

  “Well, then, perhaps she seized her opportunity when the commotion from those boys distracted us. She would have cut the purse string. That’s how.”

  Tempeste sets her jaw. “I want to find that girl and recover my money. I had several livres in my purse.”

  You cross your arms. “She probably lives in the Courtyard of Miracles. Earlier, you didn’t want to go near there, remember? Besides, the money will be gone already.”

  She grimaced. “You’re right. It could be dangerous.”

  You tilt your head and smile. “Musketeers don’t shy away from danger, Tempeste. But our chances of finding her are small, and of finding the money, almost miniscule. If we carry on to the cabaret, I can pay for our meal. Or we can postpone our celebratory meal.”

  Tempeste chews her lip. Though she has a quick temper, it does not seem to help her to make up her mind. “I don’t know. What do you think? I’ll go along with whatever you think is best.”

  It’s time to make a decision. You have three choices. Do you:

  Look for the cutpurse at the Courtyard of Miracles?

  Or

  Forget about the stolen money and go to celebrate?

  Or

  Save your money and have a quiet walk along the river?

  Go and celebrate

  You’ve decided to go and celebrate being recruited as a King’s Musketeer with your fellow Musketeer recruit Tempeste.

  Together, you cross Pont Neuf again. Below, the murky waters of La Seine look dark in the late afternoon shadows. You’ve never seen a fish in the river. It’s too polluted with rubbish and sewage from people living or working nearby. Anyone falling in would probably catch a horrible disease.

  Le Mouton Blanc is in rue du Vieux-Columbier. You pass two convents as you enter the street, their stony silence a bleak contrast to their raucous neighbor. Cabarets are somewhat new in Paris, a place to go to have a meal, like an inn, but fancier. You wonder if they will catch on and you push open the door.