A full hour passed in the golden cage of the study. Art had stopped pacing. He was at the tall windows, looking down the length of the geometric splendor of Versailles' gardens, yet perceiving none of it. His mind was in a whirl of figures and fear. The numbness of the moment of discovery had worn off, to be replaced by the cold, familiar feeling that preceded a large corporate audit: a high-wire terror, accompanied by predator instincts. He was scanning for the loose thread, the cooked number, the line that would pull the whole dirty tapestry to pieces.
It wasn't that the palace was silent; there was a humming silence, the sound of a thousand whirring gears that ran deep beneath the skin. He felt the court answer his peculiar request. When he'd retreated back to the door, the whispers that wafted his direction were filled out now, definite. It wasn't that the new king was mad; it was that his madness might have direction.
"...the military commissions? My nephew got his appointment through his grandfather..."
"...he can't possibly mean to investigate the Queen's allowance. It is her royal prerogative..."
"...and if he doubts the royal pensions, half the families at court will be without a penny! It would be bedlam."
Their panic was a confirmation. He had shot in the right direction with his initial shot, and they panicked. To them, he was an unpredictable boy in a fit. They did not see the auditor sharpening his pencils.
A loud, imperative knock on the door made him start. He hadn't even had the opportunity of opening up, when the doors flung wide open, and in walked a man who was the epitome of this place. He was in his late fifties, gauntly built, with an aura of dignity, his silver-embroidered coat clinging to him like a second skin. He moved effortlessly, his authoritative presence commanding the room without saying a word. He was Charles de Vergennes, the Foreign Minister, a man whose well-bred smile was rumored to have launched more ships than any fleet commander.
Vergennes executed the ideal bow, an expression of submission that was simultaneously an exercise of complete mastery. He spoke of devotion, of the smooth transferring of authority, of the sacred duties of the monarchy. It was an oratorical tapestry of silk and steel.
"Your Majesty," Vergennes said, his voice a deep, warm baritone. "The King is the French shepherd. His job is to herd the flock, keep it safe from the wolves beyond our borders, be a focus of God's generosity upon the face of the world." He took a pace closer, his eyes flashing with a strong, paternal anxiety. "A shepherd has no business to count every sheep ere a storm. He trusts his loyal sheepdogs to do that. Problems of money," he hesitated, the word lingering in the air like an unpleasant stink, "are the work of dogs. Intricate, pedestrian, beneath the notice of the Crown."
It was a clear message, a stiletto in velvet. You are a symbol. Let us take care of the day-to-day of the country.
Art confronted him, unfazed. He decided to give the HUD a shot, to use the HUD as an interrogation, not just a direction. He went out of his way to frame the most confrontational thought imaginable. Remind him that his responsibility is to warn foreign threats, not the King's financial inquiries.
Blue screen flickered into life, its data sharp and prompt.
DECISION: Publicly reject Vergennes's counsel on financial matters.
Pros:
Personal Authority: +5%. (Establishes you as the sole decision-maker.)
Reformist Faction Support: +10%. (Signals you are open to new ideas.)
Cons:
Vergennes Relationship: -30% (STATUS: HOSTILE). (Creates a powerful, internal enemy from the start.)
Court Stability: -15%. (Signals a radical break with the established power structure.)
The numbers were straightforward. A conflict would generate him a few points of authority at the loss of stability, though, and provide an entrenched, eternal opponent. It wasn't much of a bargain. He would need to turn the minister's own catchword on him.
"A wonderful analogy, Minister," said Art, his voice even. "But even the most brilliant shepherd must be cognizant of the health of his flock. He must be cognizant if they are rotting, or if some of his own hounds are growing obese while the sheep grow gaunt." He flashed a thin, chilly smile. "I am merely taking stock of my flock prior to the tempest that you predict. I hope my ministers will be prepared to provide me with advice when my census has been completed."
Vergennes' well-rehearsed smile did not flicker, but a spark of frozen light in his eyes registered with Art that his plea had hit the mark. He had succeeded in framing his meddling as royal obligation. The Minister had lost his rhythm, and he knew full well. He bowed again, this time backing away, leaving behind an icy coldness that had nothing to do with the cold palace.
When the tension appeared to lift, however, there arose a new commotion from thehall—a cacophony of straining grunts, scuffling feet, and thudding wood upon marble. Doors crashed open again, and in stumbled a straggling procession of servants, redfaced and beaded with sweat, their liveries in disarray. And they carried the books.
They were huge. Tied in cracked, black leather and supported by brass, the separate volumes were heavy, unwieldly slabs. The servants grumbled as they manhandled them onto the enormous desk, the thumps jolting the entire piece of furniture and sending up billows of dust. THUD. THUD. THUD. The thumps sounded final, like soil being thrown on a coffin. The desk was quickly covered, and they began to stack the ledgers on the floor, uneven piles of paper and ink. They were not just books; they were the physical manifestation of the crumbling regime, the summed-up sin of a dynasty written in fancy, spider-like script.
The last of the servants left a final, particularly enormous tome on a wobbly stack and they all but ran, abandoning Art in the sudden silence. He was surrounded, engulfed by a paper fortress of his making. The smell of old leather and spoiled paper lingered in the air.
He moved forward to the desk, the ghostly tingle of the guillotine recurring to his throat. He extended his hand and ran his fingers down the nearest volume. The title was embossed in what must once have been dazzling gold: Dépenses de la Maison du Roi—Expenses of the King's Household. He pulled it free of the stack, the action straining his soft, unaccustomed muscles. It creaked open in resistance, its yellowed pages rigid.
He scanned down the page, a litany of names and numbers. And there. One line that froze blood in his veins with cold, distilled rage.
"To the Marquis de Luneville, a royal pension of 30,000 livres annually, in perpetuity, in recognition of his outstanding companionship and wit at the royal hunt in 1768."
Thirty thousand livres. Art's thoughts, always alert, always calculating, did the math in the blink of an eye. The average peasant family, if they succeeded, would be lucky to get 300 livres a year. One man, in order to try some jokes on a hunting trip six years ago, was being rewarded sufficiently to feed one hundred underprivileged families. One hundred. For life. And that was only one line, on one page, in one book of hundreds.
He slapped the book shut. The sound echoed through the spacious study like a shot of a pistol. The terror was still, a cold rock in his gut, but now an outrage. It wasn't sloppy management. It was a crime. It was national theft, accomplished with a quill pen instead of a pistol. The way to the guillotine wasn't paved with political philosophy; it was paved with paragraphs like that one.
A cold, predatory smile appeared at his lip. The face can be that of Louis XVI, the pale, uncertain boy-king. But the head was that of Arthur Miller, CPA. And his eyes had now fallen upon his intended prey.
His voice, addressing the empty room, was deep and level, a vow given to himself and to the ghosts of the coming revolution.
"All right, bastards. The audit begins now."