The City of London smelled of coal smoke and money.
It was midnight, but the office of N.M. Rothschild & Sons was awake.
James Rothschild stood by the window, looking down at the gas-lit street. He held a glass of sherry in one hand. The crystal was heavy, expensive.
Behind him, the ticker tape machine clicked softly.
Click. Click. Click.
He didn't need to read it. He knew the numbers by heart.
French 5% Rentes: 48 Francs.
Yield: 6.2%.
Volume: Heavy.
The short attack had failed.
He had thrown fifty million pounds sterling at the French economy, trying to break its back. And the Administrator—the dying man in the wheelchair—had caught the knife.
"He beat me," Rothschild whispered.
He took a sip of sherry. It tasted sweet, like raisins.
He didn't feel angry. He felt... admiration.
It was rare to find a worthy opponent. Most men were emotional. They panicked. They sold at the bottom.
But the Administrator? He bought at the bottom. He leveraged his own death to squeeze the market.
"A masterstroke," Rothschild murmured. "The 'Dead Cat Bounce.' He used the Syndicate's own greed against them."
The door opened.
A man stepped out of the shadows.
He wasn't a banker. He wore a dark green uniform with no insignia. His face was scarred, the skin on his left cheek puckered and red from an old burn.
Colonel Henry Shrapnel. The head of British Special Operations. The man who invented the exploding shell.
"You seem calm, James," Shrapnel said. His voice was gravel. "Considering you just lost ten million pounds."
Rothschild turned. He swirled the sherry in his glass.
"Money is just a tool, Colonel. Sometimes you break a tool to build a house."
He walked to his desk. He picked up a report.
"Besides," Rothschild said, "the financial war was just a diversion. How is the real war?"
Shrapnel smiled. It was a terrifying expression. The scar tissue pulled his lip up, revealing yellow teeth.
"Effective," Shrapnel said. "The Green Fire has done its work. Our agents confirm that Madrid is a dead zone. The wells are glowing. The dust is in the air."
He pulled a map from his coat. He spread it on the desk.
"Napoleon's army is trapped. They are dying by the thousands. Black vomit. Hair loss. Madness."
Shrapnel traced a finger along the Pyrenees.
"The French have sealed the border. They blew the bridges. They are terrified."
Rothschild looked at the map. He saw the red X marks over Spain.
"You created a mess, Colonel," Rothschild said coldly. "A radioactive mess."
"I created a victory," Shrapnel countered.
"You poisoned the trade routes," Rothschild snapped. "That dust will blow north. It will settle on the vineyards in Bordeaux. I own vineyards in Bordeaux, Colonel. If the 1808 vintage glows in the dark, I lose money."
Shrapnel laughed. "You worry about wine while we are winning the war?"
"I worry about assets," Rothschild said. "War is temporary. Assets are permanent."
He sat down behind his desk. He opened a ledger.
"Conventional war is over," Rothschild said. "The French army is neutralized. Economic war is a stalemate. The Administrator has locked down the currency."
He looked up. His eyes were cold, like black glass.
"We need a new vector. Something the Administrator cannot audit. Something he cannot block with a tariff."
"What?" Shrapnel asked.
Rothschild opened a drawer. He pulled out a small wooden box.
He slid it across the desk.
Shrapnel opened it.
Inside was a ball of dark, sticky resin. It smelled earthy. Sweet.
"Opium," Shrapnel said.
"From Bengal," Rothschild said. "The East India Company has warehouses full of it. They don't know what to do with it."
"And you do?"
"The French are depressed," Rothschild said. He leaned back in his leather chair. "Their Emperor ran away. Their Administrator is dying. Their sons are rotting in Spain. They are scared. They are hopeless."
He pointed to the resin.
"We don't send them guns. We don't send them gold. We send them oblivion."
Shrapnel looked at the opium.
"You want to turn France into a drug den?"
"I want to turn it into a colony," Rothschild corrected. "Just like China. If we can hook the population... the soldiers, the workers, the mothers... they won't fight. They won't work. They will just want more."
"How do we get it in?" Shrapnel asked. "The border is sealed. The blockade is tight."
"Smugglers," Rothschild said.
He picked up a quill. He wrote a name on a piece of paper.
Jean Chouan.
" The King of Rats," Rothschild said. "He runs the mosquito fleet. He hates the Republic, but he loves money."
He signed a letter of credit.
"Pay him," Rothschild ordered. "Double whatever the Administrator pays him. Tell him the cargo is 'medical supplies.' Painkillers for the wounded."
"He'll know what it is," Shrapnel said.
"He won't care," Rothschild said. "Not for this price."
He handed the paper to Shrapnel.
"Flood the coast. Brittany. Normandy. Every fishing village. Give the first samples away for free. Let them taste the peace."
Shrapnel tucked the paper into his coat.
"You are a wicked man, James," Shrapnel said admiringly.
"I am an investor," Rothschild said. "I am investing in the misery index."
Shrapnel turned to leave.
"One more thing," Rothschild said.
"Yes?"
"The courier arrived from Germany," Rothschild said. "From the salt mine."
Shrapnel froze. "Did they find the body?"
"No," Rothschild said. "Cagliostro is gone. Vaporized by the reactor."
He picked up a sealed envelope from the desk. Black wax. No crest.
"But he left a contingency plan."
Rothschild broke the seal. He pulled out a piece of parchment. It was old. Brittle. Covered in strange symbols. Hieroglyphs.
And a map.
"What is that?" Shrapnel asked, stepping closer.
"A map," Rothschild said. "Coordinates."
He traced the line. It didn't point to Europe. It pointed South. Across the Mediterranean.
To Egypt.
"The Green Fire was just the fuel," Rothschild read from the note. "The Engine is buried in the sand."
He looked up at Shrapnel.
"Cagliostro found something in Egypt," Rothschild whispered. "During Napoleon's campaign. He didn't just find artifacts. He found... technology."
"Technology?"
"Something older than the Pyramids," Rothschild said. "Something that can rewrite reality. He calls it 'The Calculator.'"
Shrapnel stared at the map.
"If the French get it..."
"They won't," Rothschild said. "Because the French are busy dying."
He stood up. He walked to the globe in the corner of the room. He spun it.
His finger landed on the Nile Delta.
"Pack your bags, Colonel," Rothschild said. "We are going on a dig."
"To Egypt?"
"To the source," Rothschild said. "If we want to beat the Auditor... we have to break the machine."
He smiled.
"The Administrator thinks he is playing chess. He thinks he is fighting a war of numbers."
Rothschild looked at the opium box. Then at the ancient map.
"He doesn't realize," Rothschild whispered. "We are about to change the game to magic."
He blew out the candle on his desk.
The room plunged into darkness.
Only the red tip of his cigar glowed. Like a watching eye.
"Let him try to audit a god," Rothschild said.