The sappert axe slammed into the oak door.
CRACK.
Splinters flew. The wood groaned, centuries of dry rot giving way to brutal physics.
"Again!" Napoleon ordered.
The grenadier swung.
CRASH.
The heavy doors of the Notre Dame crypt fell inward. They hit the stone floor with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.
Dust billowed out. It smelled of incense, old bones, and silence.
"Light the torches," Napoleon commanded.
Flames flared. The light danced on the damp walls, revealing rows of stone sarcophagi. Kings. Bishops. Saints.
And gold.
The reliquaries lined the walls. Golden caskets holding the finger bones of martyrs. Silver chalices studded with rubies. A crucifix of solid gold, six feet tall.
"The reserve capital," I whispered.
I sat in my wheelchair, pushed by Dr. Larrey. My breath misted in the cold air.
"Liquidate it," I ordered.
Napoleon nodded to his men. "Load the wagons. Anything that glitters goes to the mint."
"Stop!"
A voice echoed from the shadows.
Archbishop Juigné stepped out from behind a pillar. He was an old man, frail in his white vestments. He held a wooden cross like a shield.
He stood alone against fifty soldiers of the Old Guard.
"This is holy ground," the Archbishop said. His voice shook, but his eyes were hard. "You cannot loot the house of God."
Napoleon stepped forward. He towered over the priest.
"God is spiritual, Father. His house is made of stone and gold. The stone stays. The gold leaves."
"This is sacrilege!" Juigné cried. "You will burn in hell for this!"
I wheeled myself forward. The wheels squeaked on the flagstones.
"Hell is just a bad audit," I said.
The Archbishop looked at me. He saw the dying man in the chair. The blood on my handkerchief.
"Your Majesty," he whispered. "You are the Most Christian King. You are anointed by oil. Do not do this."
"The State is broke, Father," I said. "The telegraphs are dead. The army is unpaid. The Blue Prophet almost burned this city to the ground. Where was God then?"
"God tests us," Juigné said.
"God is over-leveraged," I snapped. "I am collecting the tithe. Consider it a retroactive tax on centuries of tax-exempt status."
I pointed to the giant gold crucifix.
"Take that first."
Two soldiers grabbed the cross. They heaved. It was heavy. Solid bullion.
"You cannot liquidation heaven!" Juigné screamed. "The interest rate is eternal damnation!"
"I'll default on that loan when I'm dead," I said. "Right now, I need to pay the infantry."
The soldiers moved past the priest. They began stripping the altar. Candlesticks clattered into sacks. A jeweled monstrance was tossed like a piece of firewood.
It was brutal. It was necessary.
I watched the wealth of the Church being converted into military solvency.
"Wait."
Fouché's voice came from the back of the crypt.
The Police Minister was prowling near a statue of Saint Denis. He was tapping the stone wall with the handle of his knife.
Tock. Tock. Hollow.
"There is a void here," Fouché said.
He found a hidden latch in the statue's base. He pressed it.
A section of the stone wall ground open.
"More gold?" Napoleon asked, stepping over.
"No," Fouché said. He reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound book. "Paper."
He opened it. He scanned the page.
His eyes widened. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"What is it?" I asked.
Fouché walked over to me. He handed me the book.
It was handwritten. The ink was faded.
Confession of the Duc de Orléans. June 14, 1785.
I read the first line.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have conspired with the British agent to smuggle gunpowder..."
I flipped the page.
"I have laid with my brother's wife..."
"I have stolen the tax revenue from the Burgundy estate..."
I looked at the shelf inside the hidden vault. There were thousands of them. Scrolls. Ledgers. Diaries.
Going back three hundred years.
"The Confessional," I whispered.
I looked at the Archbishop. He was pale. He looked like he was about to faint.
"You wrote them down," I said. "Every sin. Every secret whispered in the dark. You kept a record."
"For penance!" Juigné stammered. "To track the soul's burden!"
"To track leverage," I corrected.
I looked at the vault.
This wasn't just a library. It was the original NSA database. The Church had been hoarding the dirty laundry of every noble, merchant, and royal in France for centuries.
"This," I said, tapping the book, "is worth more than the gold."
"Information," Napoleon realized. "Blackmail."
"Solvency," I said. "Gold pays soldiers. Secrets buy loyalty. With these books, I own every noble who survived the revolution. I own every merchant who cheated on his taxes."
I turned to Fouché.
"Seal the vault," I ordered. "But not with stone. Put a guard on it. A trusted guard. These are the new Crown Jewels."
Fouché bowed. He looked like a wolf who had just found a slaughterhouse. "I will personally catalog the... assets."
"Let's go," I said. "The air down here is bad."
Larrey turned my chair. We headed for the stairs.
The sun was rising as we exited the cathedral. The light hit the gargoyles, turning them pink.
The adrenaline of the theft began to fade.
And then, the crash came.
It wasn't a noise. It was a silence inside my chest.
Thump... pause... pause...
My heart missed a beat. Then two.
The world tilted sideways.
The gargoyles spun. The sky turned purple.
I felt myself falling.
"Catch him!" Napoleon's voice. Distant. Underwater.
I hit the ground. Or maybe I didn't. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't feel my arms.
Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision. A cold, grey fog.
Timeline Rejection, the logic part of my brain whispered. System Failure. Blue Screen of Death.
"Breathe!" Larrey was shouting. "Inject him! Now!"
A sharp pain in my neck. A needle.
Adrenaline.
My heart kicked.
THUMP.
The world snapped back into focus.
I was lying on the cobblestones. Napoleon was kneeling over me, his face grim. Larrey was holding a syringe.
"Back," Larrey ordered the soldiers. "Give him air."
I gasped. The air tasted metallic.
"How long was I out?" I wheezed.
"Three seconds,"