The Royal Palace of Madrid was a golden cage.
Outside the windows, the city was silent. Not peaceful silent. Dead silent. The shops were shuttered. The streets were empty, save for the occasional patrol of French dragoons wearing masks made of vinegar-soaked rags.
Inside, the chandeliers blazed.
Napoleon Bonaparte sat at the head of a long table covered in maps. He was eating a chicken leg with one hand and moving pins with the other.
"The northern route is blocked by guerrillas," Napoleon muttered, chewing aggressively. "We will pivot east. Secure Zaragoza. Then we march on the Pyrenees."
He slammed a pin into the map.
"Murat! Where is my wine?"
Marshal Joachim Murat stood by the door. He was usually the peacock of the army, dressed in velvet and leopard skin. Today, his face was grey. He wasn't wearing his hat.
"Sire," Murat said. "The wine cellar is... contaminated."
Napoleon stopped chewing. He looked up.
"Contaminated? By what? Spies?"
"By the dust, Sire. The steward says the bottles are glowing."
Napoleon threw the chicken leg onto the plate.
"Superstition!" he roared. "First the soldiers complain of headaches. Then they vomit. Now the wine glows? It is mass hysteria! A lack of discipline!"
He stood up. He was short, but his shadow stretched across the map like a giant.
"The army is soft, Murat. They have forgotten how to suffer. I will remind them. Assemble the Guard. We march at dawn."
Murat didn't move.
"Sire... you should come to the stables."
"Why? Is Marengo sick too?"
Murat looked at the floor.
"Please, Sire. Just come."
The royal stables were dark. The air smelled of hay and something else. Something sweet and rotten. Like copper and old meat.
"Bring a lantern," Napoleon ordered.
The stable master, a burly sergeant, held up a lamp. His hand was wrapped in bandages.
They walked to the central stall. The stall of Marengo, the white Arabian stallion that had carried Napoleon at Marengo, at Austerlitz, at Jena.
"Well?" Napoleon snapped. "Is he lame?"
The sergeant lowered the lantern.
Napoleon looked over the gate.
He gasped.
The horse was standing. But only barely.
Its white coat was gone in patches, revealing raw, weeping flesh underneath. Its mane had fallen out.
But it was the face that froze Napoleon's blood.
Marengo turned his head. His eyes were gone. Melted into milky white pools. Blood trickled from his nostrils.
And the blood... shimmered.
In the dim light, the fluid dripping from the horse's nose had a faint, greenish phosphorescence.
"What is this?" Napoleon whispered. He reached out a hand.
"Don't touch him!" the sergeant shouted.
Napoleon pulled back. "You dare order me?"
"Look at the water, Sire."
The sergeant pointed to the stone trough.
Napoleon leaned in.
The water was clear. But at the bottom, settling in the silt, was a layer of fine, sparkling dust. It pulsed with a sick light, like fireflies trapped in sludge.
"The Green Fire," Murat whispered. "The men call it 'The Cagliostro Curse.'"
Napoleon stared at the water.
He was a man of science. He was an artilleryman. He understood trajectories, mass, velocity.
But this? This was invisible. This was an enemy he couldn't flank.
"It's in the wells," Murat said. "The British agents... they didn't just poison the supply. They salted the earth. The whole city is radioactive."
Napoleon looked back at his horse. The beast let out a low, gurgling moan and collapsed into the straw.
Dead.
Napoleon felt a cold knot in his stomach. Not fear. Horror.
"They killed my horse," he whispered.
He turned around. His face was stone.
"Get me the Accountant."
The telegraph room was in the East Wing. It was the only room in the palace that felt modern. Wires ran across the floor. Batteries hissed in jars.
The operator jumped to attention when the Emperor stormed in.
"Get me Bayonne," Napoleon ordered. "Direct line."
The operator tapped the key.
CLICK-CLICK.
"Connection established, Sire."
"Tell him," Napoleon growled, "that the Emperor commands him to open the border. I am bringing the Army home."
The operator typed.
We waited. The silence in the room was heavy.
Then, the machine clicked back. The paper tape spooled out.
Napoleon snatched it.
FROM: ADMINISTRATOR.
MESSAGE: NEGATIVE. THE ARMY IS COMPROMISED. ASSET IS TOXIC.
Napoleon's face turned purple.
"Toxic? I am the Emperor! I am France!"
He grabbed the operator's shoulder.
"Tell him: I command you! Open the bridge or I will hang you for treason!"
The operator typed frantically.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
The reply came instantly.
MESSAGE: YOU ARE A LIABILITY. IF YOU CROSS WITH THE ARMY, I WILL SHELL YOU.
Napoleon stared at the tape.
He read it twice.
"He threatens me?" Napoleon whispered. "The cripple threatens me?"
He crumpled the paper in his fist.
"He thinks he is safe in Bayonne. He thinks his ledgers protect him."
Napoleon turned to Murat.
"Prepare the artillery. We will blow the border open. If the Accountant wants a war, I will give him—"
BOOM.
The floor shook.
Glass shattered in the windows.
"Artillery?" Murat shouted, drawing his sword.
"No," Napoleon said. "Sabotage."
He ran to the window.
In the courtyard below, the main well—the ornate stone fountain—was gone. A cloud of dust hung in the air.
"They blew the well," Napoleon realized. "To spread the dust."
"Intruders!" a guard shouted from below. "Secure the gates!"
Napoleon didn't wait. He drew his own sword—a ceremonial blade, but sharp—and ran for the stairs.
He burst into the courtyard.
Soldiers were wrestling a man to the ground near the ruined fountain.
The man was dressed in black. But his face...
He was wearing a mask. Made of leather and rubber, with glass eye-holes. It looked like the snout of a pig.
"Hold him!" Napoleon shouted.
He marched up to the prisoner.
"Take that thing off."
A grenadier ripped the mask off.
The man underneath was laughing.
He was British. An officer. His skin was blistered, red and raw like a sunburn. His teeth were loose. He was dying of radiation poisoning, but he was laughing.
"Who are you?" Napoleon demanded.
"Captain Smith," the man wheezed. "Royal Engineers."
"Did you do this?" Napoleon pointed at the dust cloud. "Did you poison the water?"
"Not poison, Emperor," Smith smiled. Blood leaked from his gums. "Progress. Colonel Shrapnel sends his regards."
"Shrapnel?"
"Special Operations," Smith coughed. "We didn't just want to beat you. We wanted to make sure you could never come back."
He looked around at the palace.
"This city is a tomb, little man. And you are the pharaoh."
Napoleon felt a surge of rage.
He thrust his sword.
Shhhk.
The blade went through Smith's chest.
The Brit didn't scream. He just gurgled.
"God save... the King..."
He slumped into the dust.
Napoleon pulled his sword out. He looked at the blade.
It was coated in black blood.
He wiped it on his boot.
"Burn the body," Napoleon ordered. "And get me a mask like his."
"Sire?" Murat asked.
"Do it!"
He walked back to the telegraph room. He felt old. For the first time in his life, he felt old.
The machine was clicking again.
A final message.
The operator tore it off and handed it to Napoleon. He didn't read it. He was too scared.
Napoleon read it.
FROM: ALEX.
MESSAGE: SAVE THE CROWN. LEAVE THE ARMY. IF YOU COME ALONE, YOU CAN BE DECONTAMINATED. IF YOU BRING THE MEN, YOU ALL DIE.
MESSAGE ENDS.
CONNECTION TERMINATED.
Napoleon lowered the paper.
He looked out the window.
The campfires of the Grand Army stretched for miles. 100,000 men. The men who had marched to Vienna. The men who had conquered Berlin.
They were coughing. He could hear it even through the glass. A low, collective rattle.
They were already dead.
Alex was right. It was an audit. A cold, hard calculation.
If he marched them north, they would die on the road. And they would infect France. The Empire would rot from the inside.
If he left them...
He looked at Murat.
"Murat."
"Sire?"
"Prepare a carriage."
Murat blinked. "For the staff?"
"No," Napoleon said. His voice was hollow. "For me. A single carriage. Fast horses. No escort."
Murat froze. He understood.
"Sire... you cannot mean..."
"The army stays," Napoleon said.
"You are abandoning them?" Murat's voice rose. "The Old Guard? The veterans? You are leaving them to die in this... this hell?"
Napoleon turned on him. His eyes were wet, but his face was iron.
"I am saving the Empire, Murat! If I die here, France falls. If I return, I can build a new army."
"They will call you a coward," Murat whispered. "They will say you ran."
"Let them say it," Napoleon hissed. "Better a living coward than a dead hero."
He walked to the door. He paused.
"You will stay, Murat."
"What?"
"Someone must command the rearguard. Keep order. Organize the... hospitals."
Murat stared at him. The betrayal was absolute.
"You are sentencing me to death, Sire."
Napoleon didn't look back.
"I am giving you a command, Marshal. Do your duty."
He walked out.
Ten minutes later, a black carriage tore out of the palace gates. It had no flags. No trumpets.
It galloped north, toward the mountains. Toward the quarantine line.
Inside, Napoleon Bonaparte sat alone in the dark.
He held a handkerchief over his mouth.
He didn't look back at the city. He didn't look at the fires.
He looked at his hands.
They were shaking.
"The Accountant won," he whispered to the empty carriage.
He closed his eyes.
"He liquidated my soul."