The smoke in the room tasted of copper and burnt velvet.
Napoleon Bonaparte stood in the center of the King's antechamber. He was wiping his saber on a silk curtain. It was a priceless tapestry, woven in Lyon, depicting the glory of the Sun King. Now it was a rag.
He didn't care.
"The courtyard is clear," Napoleon said. He sheathed the sword. Click.
The sound was sharp. Final.
I looked around the room.
It was a butcher's shop.
Three rioters lay dead near the door. One of them, a woman with blue-stained lips, was draped over a Louis XIV chair. Her eyes were wide, staring at the painted ceiling.
The Old Guard soldiers stood by the windows. They were breathing hard. Their bayonets were wet. They didn't look at me. They looked at the man in the grey coat.
I did the math.
Assets: My life (currently retained). The Palace (damaged).
Liabilities: The mob outside (50,000+). No telegraphs. No army.
Controlling Shareholder: Napoleon.
I wasn't the CEO anymore. I was a minority partner in a hostile takeover.
"You cleared the room," I wheezed. My chest felt tight. My heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. "But you didn't clear the square."
Napoleon walked to the window. He kicked a piece of broken furniture out of his way.
"They are pulled back to the Rue de Rivoli," he said. "They are building barricades. Flipping carriages. Tearing up cobblestones."
He turned to me. His face was streaked with soot, but his eyes were bright. Too bright. He was enjoying this.
"They aren't rioting, Accountant. They are besieging. They know the food is in here. They know the drug is in here."
"The drug is gone," I said.
Fouché crawled out from behind the desk. He dusted off his coat. He tried to look dignified, but his wig was crooked.
"They don't know that," Fouché said. His voice trembled. "They think we are hoarding it. They think the King is sitting on a mountain of Blue Drop."
"Then tell them!" Talleyrand snapped. He was pouring wine into a glass with a shaking hand. "Go out there and tell them the supply chain is broken!"
"You can't negotiate with withdrawal," I said.
I looked at Napoleon.
"You have fifty men," I said.
"Fifty-two," Napoleon corrected. "And three horses."
"Against fifty thousand addicts who feel no pain," I said. "Your saber is sharp, General. But it will dull before you kill them all."
Napoleon shrugged. "I can hold the palace for two days. Maybe three. After that... we eat the horses."
He was testing me. He wanted to see if I would panic.
I didn't panic. I calculated.
The EMP had crashed the market of Order. The value of a King was zero. The value of a Soldier was high. But the value of Legitimacy? That was a derivative asset. It only had value if people believed in it.
"I don't need you to hold the palace," I said. "I need you to buy the city."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "With what? Your treasury is locked in the Bank of France, and the mob is between us and the vault."
"Not with gold," I said. "With bread. And bullets."
I turned to Fouché.
"The Royal Granaries," I said. "How full are they?"
"Full," Fouché said. "We stocked up for winter. Wheat. Flour. Wine."
"Open them," I ordered.
Fouché blinked. "Open them? To the mob?"
"Yes."
"That is suicide," Talleyrand argued. "If we feed them, they will just get stronger. They will eat the bread and then eat us."
"No," I said. "We don't just give it to them. We sell it."
I looked at Napoleon.
"The Blue Drop is an opiate mixed with industrial solvent," I said. "The withdrawal causes muscle spasms, paranoia, and extreme pain. The only thing that dulls it is alcohol. Or laudanum."
I pointed to the medical cabinet in the corner.
"We have stocks of medical laudanum. Tincture of opium."
"Not enough for the whole city," Larrey said from the doorway. He was bandaging a cut on his arm.
"Enough to dilute," I said. "Mix it with the wine in the cellars. Water it down. Make it weak. Just enough to stop the shaking. Just enough to make them sleep."
I turned back to Napoleon.
"We turn the granaries into distribution centers," I said. "We issue a proclamation. The King is providing 'Relief Rations.' Bread and 'Medicinal Wine' for anyone who lays down their weapon."
"You are refinancing their addiction," Napoleon said. He smiled. "You are tapering them off."
"I am lowering the volatility of the market," I said. "A sleeping addict is a safe addict. A fed mob is a slow mob."
"And for those who don't want the bread?" Napoleon asked. He tapped the hilt of his sword.
"For those who refuse," I said, "we liquidate."
I looked him in the eye.
"I am appointing you Protector of the Realm, General. You have full martial law authority. Secure the granaries. Distribute the rations. Kill anyone who tries to hoard."
Napoleon laughed. It was a cold sound.
"Protector of the Realm. A fancy title for a janitor."
"It's a title that puts you above the law," I said. "It gives you a blank check. Do you want it, or do you want to die in this room?"
Napoleon looked at the Old Guard. They were waiting for his order.
"I'll take the check," Napoleon said.
He turned to his men.
"Captain! Take ten men to the cellars. Secure the wine. Begin the mixing. Doctor Larrey will supervise the dosage."
"Yes, Sire!" the Captain shouted. Sire. Not General.
Napoleon looked at me. He knew I heard it. He didn't care.
"And the rest?" Napoleon asked.
"The rest go to the roof," I said. "We need to see what we are fighting."
I sat in my wheelchair on the balcony.
The night air was cold. It smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies.
Below us, the Place de la Concorde was a sea of fire.
Torches flickered like fireflies in hell. Thousands of them.
The mob had built barricades out of overturned carriages, paving stones, and furniture looted from the mansions on the boulevard.
They weren't screaming anymore.
That was the worst part.
They were chanting.
A low, rhythmic thrum. It sounded like a heartbeat.
Eat. Eat. Eat.
"They are organized," Napoleon said. He stood beside me, looking down through a spyglass. "This isn't a riot. It's a formation."
"Who is leading them?" I asked.
"See for yourself."
He handed me the glass.
I put it to my eye. The lens was cracked, but I could see clearly.
In the center of the square, standing on top of an overturned statue of Louis XV—my grandfather—was a man.
He was naked from the waist up. His skin was painted blue. Not stained. Painted.
He held a torch in one hand and a severed head in the other.
The head belonged to a priest. I could tell by the collar.
The man was screaming something. The mob roared in response.
"Who is he?" I whispered.
"A drummer boy from the 4th Regiment told me," Napoleon said. "They call him the Blue Prophet."
"A religious leader?"
"A fanatic," Napoleon said. "He says the Great Flash—the EMP—was a sign from God. He says the darkness is a judgment on the rich."
I watched the Prophet. He raised the severed head. He bit into the cheek.
The mob went wild.
"He says the aristocracy has hoard the light," Napoleon continued. "He says our blood is blue because we drank the Drop. He tells them if they eat us, they will be cured."
I lowered the glass. My stomach churned.
"He's monetizing the withdrawal," I said. "He's turning the pain into a religion."
"He's dangerous," Napoleon said. "A rioter wants bread. A zealot wants martyrdom."
The Prophet pointed his torch at the palace. At us.
The chanting changed.
Burn the Hive. Drink the Queen.
"They are coming for you," Napoleon said.
"They are coming for the myth of the King," I said.
I looked at the barricades.
"Can you hit him?" I asked. "The Prophet. Can you shoot him from here?"
Napoleon gauged the distance. "Four hundred yards. In the dark. With a musket? No. It's a waste of powder."
"Then we have to draw him out," I said.
"How?"
"We offer him a better deal," I said.
I looked at the granaries across the square.
"If we open the doors and start handing out wine, half his flock will leave him. Hunger is stronger than faith."
"And the other half?"
"The other half will attack the granary to stop the distribution," I said. "They can't allow the cure. It ruins their theology."
I looked at Napoleon.
"That's the kill zone, General. We lure them to the bread. And when the Prophet comes to stop us..."
"We liquidate," Napoleon finished.
He grinned. It was the smile of a tiger looking at a gazelle.
"I like it, Accountant. It's ruthless."
"It's economics," I said.
A massive boom shook the balcony.
The Prophet had rolled a cannon up to the barricade. A looted 12-pounder.
He fired.
The ball slammed into the palace wall below us. Stone shattered. The floor shook.
"They have artillery," Fouché screamed from inside the room. "We are doomed!"
Napoleon didn't flinch. He just brushed dust off his coat.
"Bad aim," Napoleon noted. "He didn't elevate the barrel."
He turned to me.
"Go inside, Louis. You are fragile. If a stone chip hits you, you'll bleed out."
"I'm staying," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I need to see the numbers," I said. "I need to see them die."
Napoleon laughed.
"Careful. You're starting to sound like me."
He drew his saber again. He turned to the door.
"Captain! To the granaries! We open the market in ten minutes!"
I watched him go. The Little Corporal. The God of War.
He was in his element. The chaos fueled him.
I looked back at the square. At the Blue Prophet dancing on the statue.
Two monsters fighting for the soul of Paris.
And me?
I was just the bank rolling the dice.
I touched the pocket where I kept the picture of Charles.
"Hurry up, son," I whispered to the smoke. "The interest is piling up."