The Green Salon was dark.
I ordered the servants to extinguish the chandeliers. Only a single candelabra burned on the center table, casting long, dancing shadows against the velvet walls.
I sat at the head of the table. My wheelchair was hidden in the gloom. From the waist up, I was just a silhouette.
Napoleon stood behind me. He leaned against the wall, whittling a piece of firewood with a small fruit knife. Scritch. Scritch. The sound was irritating. Perfect.
The doors opened.
Five men walked in.
They brought the smell of roasted duck and tobacco with them. They were fat. Not the "I eat well" fat, but the "I consume the world" fat.
Jean-Barthélémy Le Couteulx led the pack.
He wore a coat of purple silk that cost more than a regiment's annual salary. His face was powdered, his wig was immense. He didn't look like a banker; he looked like a king who had eaten the previous king.
He didn't bow.
"Citizen Miller," Le Couteulx said. His voice was oily. "You summoned us? We were in the middle of dinner."
He pulled out a chair and sat down without asking. The other four bankers followed suit.
Disrespect.
They were testing the waters. If I was the Demon, I would have killed them for sitting. If I was a dying man, I would let it slide.
I let it slide. For now.
"I apologize for the interruption," I said. My voice was soft. Raspy. I kept the weakness in it. "I know how important... consumption is to you."
Le Couteulx smirked. He exchanged a glance with his partners. See? He's weak. He's polite.
"Get to the point," Le Couteulx said, checking his pocket watch. "The markets open in six hours. We need our sleep."
"The Franc is crashing," I said.
"The market is volatile," Le Couteulx corrected. He waved a dismissive hand. "Peace brings uncertainty. Soldiers coming home, no more war contracts... it is natural correction."
"It's a short sale," I said.
"Is it?" Le Couteulx feigned surprise. "Well, smart money bets on reality. And the reality is, the Republic is broke."
He leaned forward. The candlelight caught the greed in his eyes.
"We know the truth, Alex. The magic is gone. The salt mines collapsed. Your 'metal suit' was melted down for scrap. You are just a man now. A sick, old man."
He pointed a chubby finger at me.
"You want a loan? Interest is 40%. And we want collateral. The Louvre. Or perhaps the customs revenue of Marseille."
The other bankers chuckled. They were sharks smelling blood in the water.
I didn't answer.
I reached for my cane. I tapped it on the floor.
Tap.
Silence.
Tap.
The rhythm was slow. Deliberate. Like a clock counting down seconds.
"You think the magic is gone," I whispered.
I leaned forward. Just an inch. Enough for the candlelight to hit my eyes. I made sure they looked dead.
"Did I bury the technology, Jean?" I asked. "Or did I bury the evidence?"
The chuckle died in Le Couteulx's throat.
"The miners talk," he stammered. "They saw the collapse."
"Miners see what I tell them to see," I lied. "And dead men don't talk at all."
I tapped the cane again. Harder.
CLACK.
"You think I am defenseless because I am not wearing the brass shell? Do you think the suit made me dangerous?"
I laughed. A dry, wheezing sound.
"The suit was a cage, Jean. It was there to protect you from me."
I opened the Black Ledger on the table.
I flipped the pages. The paper sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Citizen Le Couteulx," I read. "Net worth: 45 million livres. Three mistresses. One in Saint-Cloud, one in Lyon, one in... London."
Le Couteulx stiffened.
"That is private matter—"
"You sent a carriage to London last week," I continued. "Carrying a trunk with a false bottom. Inside were 5,000 gold Louis d'or. Exporting specie during a crisis. That is treason. Punishable by guillotine."
I flipped the page. I looked at the banker on his left.
"Citizen Perregaux. You bribed the Inspector of Provisions to certify rotten wheat as Grade A. Three orphanages died of dysentery. I have the receipts."
I looked at the next one.
"Citizen Mallet. You are shorting the bonds using money you stole from your own clients' accounts. Ponzi scheme."
I slammed the book shut.
Dust motes danced in the candlelight.
"I am not a wizard anymore," I hissed. "I am an Auditor. And you have failed the audit."
The bankers shifted in their seats. They were sweating now. The silk coats felt too tight.
"This... this is blackmail," Le Couteulx sputtered. "You can't prove any of this without a trial. The courts—"
Sching.
The sound of Napoleon sharpening his knife cut through the air.
He hadn't moved. He was still leaning against the wall. But he had stopped whittling. He was looking at Le Couteulx's neck.
"Courts?" Napoleon asked softly. "I am the Military Governor of Paris. I am the court."
He took a step forward. The candlelight glinted off the small blade.
"If the Administrator says you are traitors, I don't need a judge. I just need a wall and five bullets."
The threat of violence was heavy. It was a physical weight in the room.
"But we are civilized men," I said, leaning back. "I don't want to shoot you. Bullets are expensive."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a single gold coin. A Louis d'or.
I slid it across the table. It spun and rattled, coming to a stop in front of Le Couteulx.
"This coin," I said, "is the only thing keeping the National Guard from looting your mansion on the Rue Vivienne. If the economy crashes tomorrow, the soldiers don't get paid. If they don't get paid, they eat the rich."
I smiled.
"You aren't betting against me, Jean. You are betting against your own survival."
Le Couteulx stared at the coin. A bead of sweat rolled down his powdered nose.
"What do you want?" he whispered.
"A buyback," I said. "The Syndicate will purchase 50 million francs worth of Government Bonds. Tonight."
"At what price?"
"Par value," I said. "100 cents on the dollar."
"That's insanity!" Le Couteulx stood up. "The bonds are trading at 60! You are asking us to lose millions instantly!"
"I am asking you to pay an insurance premium," I said. "The insurance is your head remaining attached to your body."
"No!" Le Couteulx slammed his hand on the table. "This is tyranny! The market decides the price! If we buy at par, we are ruined!"
He looked at his partners.
"Don't listen to him! He's bluffing! Look at him! He can't even stand up!"
He pointed at me.
"He's a cripple! A paper tiger!"
I didn't move. I couldn't. He was right. If I tried to stand, I would fall.
But I didn't have to stand.
"He is right," a voice said from the shadows.
Charles stepped forward.
He walked into the light. The Wolf Cub.
He stood next to Le Couteulx. He was half the man's height.
"My father is sentimental," Charles said. His voice was ice. "He wants to save your lives. He thinks you are assets."
Charles looked up at Le Couteulx.
"I disagree. I think you are a liability."
Charles pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it.
"I have done the math," Charles said. "If we execute the five of you tonight, the state seizes your assets. 45 million from Le Couteulx. 30 million from Perregaux..."
He did the sum in his head instantly.
"150 million francs. That stabilizes the currency for three months. It is more efficient than a loan."
Charles looked at Napoleon.
"General, do you have the firing squad ready?"
"In the courtyard," Napoleon said. He tested the edge of his knife. "They are bored."
"Wait," Perregaux squeaked. The fat banker was shaking. "You can't... you can't just kill the banking sector!"
"I'm not killing the sector," Charles said calmly. "I'm liquidating bad management. We will nationalize your banks. The tellers will still work. The vaults will still open. Only the owners change."
Charles looked at Le Couteulx.
"So, Citizen. Do we choose Option A: You buy the bonds. Or Option B: You become a statistic."
It wasn't a threat. It was an equation. And that was what made it terrifying. Charles meant it. He would kill them all and sleep like a baby.
Le Couteulx looked at Charles. He looked at Napoleon's knife. He looked at my dead eyes.
He broke.
"The pen," Le Couteulx gasped. "Give me the pen."
I pushed the quill and the contract across the table.
Le Couteulx grabbed it. His hand shook so hard he blotted the ink. He signed.
Scritch-scratch.
The sound of surrender.
He passed it to the next banker. Then the next.
Five signatures. 50 million francs.
"Done," Le Couteulx said. He dropped the pen. He looked sick. "We bought your paper. Are we free to go?"
"One more thing," I said.
I picked up the contract.
"If the price of the Franc drops below 90 tomorrow... I will assume you are selling again."
I leaned forward.
"And next time, I won't invite you to the palace. I will invite the mob to your house."
"Understood," Le Couteulx whispered.
"Get out," I said.
They scrambled. They tripped over each other to get to the door. Dignity was gone. They ran like rats fleeing a fire.
The door slammed shut.
The room was quiet again.
"It worked," Napoleon breathed. He sheathed his knife. "They bought it."
"They bought the fear," I said.
Then, the adrenaline crashed.
My chest tightened. A vice grip on my heart.
"Hrk—"
I doubled over. I coughed, and it wasn't air. It was warm, copper fluid.
I spat into my handkerchief. Red. Bright arterial red.
"Alex!" Napoleon rushed to my side.
"I'm fine," I lied, wiping my mouth. My hand was stained crimson. "Just... the cost of doing business."
I slumped back in the chair. I felt drained. Empty.
Fouché walked back into the room. He had escorted the bankers out.
He held a piece of paper.
"Le Couteulx left this," Fouché said. "He said a courier from London gave it to him yesterday."
I took the letter.
The paper was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive.
The seal was red wax. Five arrows bundled together.
Concordia, Integritas, Industria.
The Rothschild crest.
I broke the seal. My bloody fingers smeared the wax.
The handwriting was elegant. Sharp.
To the Administrator,
You play Poker well. You bluff with empty pockets.
But the game has changed. We are not playing cards anymore.
We are playing Chess.
And I have more pawns than you have hours left to live.
See you on the board.
- J.R.
I stared at the initials. James Rothschild.
He knew. He knew I was dying. He knew the buyback was a temporary fix. He was mocking me.
A slow smile spread across my face. It hurt, but it was genuine.
"He's mocking you," Napoleon said, reading over my shoulder. "He thinks he's won."
"No," I said. "He thinks he's playing a game."
I folded the letter. I put it in my pocket, next to the bloody handkerchief.
I looked at Charles. The boy was wiping ink off his fingers. He didn't look shaken by the near-execution. He looked bored.
"The training wheels are off," I whispered.
I grabbed the armrests of my wheelchair.
"Help me up, Napoleon."
"You need to rest."
"No," I said. "I need to work."
Napoleon grabbed my arm. He pulled. I gritted my teeth against the pain and stood up. I swayed, but I locked my knees.
I grabbed my cane.
"We fixed the panic," I said. "Now we fight the money."
I limped toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Charles asked.
"To the telegraph room," I said. "Rothschild wants a game of chess? Fine."
I looked back at them. The General. The King. The Spy.
"Let's show him what happens when you play chess against a man who can flip the table."