The roof of the Louvre was usually the best view in Paris.
Today, it was the inside of a cloud.
I stood by the parapet, gripping the cold stone. I couldn't see the street below. I couldn't even see the tip of the semaphore tower ten feet away.
"Report!" I shouted into the gray void.
"Nothing, Administrator!" the operator yelled back. "Visibility is zero. I can't see the Montlhéry tower. I can't even see the lanterns."
I looked at the barometer mounted on the wall. The needle had bottomed out.
"This isn't just fog," I muttered. "This is a wall."
"It's been like this for twelve hours," Fouché said, stepping out of the mist like a ghost. His black coat was damp with condensation. "The entire network is down. The south is silent. The north is silent."
"We are blind," I said. "And deaf."
I tapped the barometer.
"A pressure drop this severe... it's unnatural. It's too stable. Fog should lift with the sun. It's noon, Joseph, and it's getting darker."
"Is it him?" Fouché asked. "The Watchmaker?"
"He said he would bring the storm," I remembered. "I thought it was a metaphor."
A runner burst onto the roof, gasping for air. He was a street urchin, one of Fouché's "Little Birds." His face was pale, streaked with soot.
"Citizen!" the boy wheezed. "The Bank!"
My stomach dropped. "What about the Bank?"
"Men in masks!" the boy cried. "Clowns! They have torches! They're putting the guards to sleep!"
"Sleep?"
"With gas! Sweet gas! Like the dentist uses!"
Ether.
"They aren't stealing the gold," I realized, a cold spike of adrenaline hitting my chest. "They're burning the deeds."
I grabbed the boy by the shoulder. "How many?"
"Dozens! They move like dancers!"
I turned to Fouché.
"They're targeting the collateral," I said. "If they burn the land deeds, the Franc is backed by ash. The currency collapses by morning. The army revolts by noon."
"I can't signal the National Guard," Fouché said, gesturing at the fog. "The barracks are miles away. By the time a runner gets there..."
"It will be too late."
I checked my pistol. Loaded. Primed.
"Gather the palace guard," I ordered. "Every man who can shoot."
"Alex," Fouché warned. "You are the Administrator. You cannot lead a raid."
"I built that bank, Joseph," I said, heading for the stairs. "I'm not letting a clown burn it down."
The streets of Paris were a nightmare.
The fog muffled sound, turning the city into a sensory deprivation tank. We moved quickly, a column of twenty men, boots splashing in unseen puddles.
We didn't take the main road. We took the sewers.
I had redesigned the Bank's drainage system myself. I knew there was a maintenance access tunnel that led directly to the vault antechamber.
The tunnels smelled of rot and damp stone. We waded through knee-deep water, holding lanterns low.
"Quiet," I hissed.
We reached the grate. I pushed it up.
Silence.
I climbed out. We were in the boiler room of the Bank of France.
The air smelled sickly sweet. Ether.
Two guards lay slumped against the wall. I checked a pulse. Slow, but alive.
"Don't breathe deeply," I whispered to the men. "Cover your mouths."
We moved into the hallway.
Shadows danced on the marble walls. Shadows of men with long, beak-like noses.
Plague Doctors.
And men in diamond-patterned suits.
Harlequins.
They were moving crates of paper out of the archive room. They worked in silence, coordinated, efficient. They were piling the deeds in the center of the lobby.
A man stood atop the central desk. He wore a suit of gold velvet and a mask that was a smiling, golden sun.
He held a torch.
"Burn it all," the Golden Mask whispered. His voice was melodic, amused. "Let's make it snow ash."
"Fire!" I shouted.
My pistol cracked. The shot echoed like thunder in the vaulted hall.
The bullet struck the torch, shattering the handle. It fell to the floor, sputtering.
Chaos erupted.
The Harlequins didn't panic. They moved with terrifying grace. They drew knives—long, thin stilettos. They vaulted over desks. They cartwheeled out of the line of fire.
"Defend the paper!" I yelled.
My guards opened fire. Muskets flashed in the gloom, lighting up the grotesque masks of the attackers.
A Harlequin lunged at me. I ducked, feeling the wind of his blade. Fouché shot him point-blank. The man crumpled, his diamond suit staining red.
"To the vault!" I ordered.
We pushed forward. The air filled with smoke and the stench of gunpowder.
The Golden Mask laughed. He stood on the desk, watching the battle like a conductor watching an orchestra.
He raised a cane.
A guard fired at him.
The Golden Mask spun the cane. Clang.
He deflected the bullet.
I froze. That wasn't possible. That was superhuman speed.
He looked at me. The painted smile of the mask seemed to mock me.
"Administrator!" he called out. "You're early! The show hasn't started!"
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a silver sphere.
"Flash!" he sang.
He threw it.
I shielded my eyes.
BANG.
A blinding white light seared the room. Magnesium.
My vision went white. I stumbled, blinded.
"Hold fire!" I screamed. "Hold fire!"
When my vision cleared, spots dancing in my eyes, the lobby was empty.
The Harlequins were gone. The Golden Mask was gone.
Only the pile of unburnt deeds remained.
And one other thing.
Lying on the floor where the Golden Mask had stood.
I walked over. My boots crunched on broken glass.
It was a pocket watch.
I picked it up. It was heavy. Warm.
The face was cracked. The hands were spinning wildly, counter-clockwise.
I turned it over.
Engraved on the back, in elegant script:
A.C. 1785.
"Alessandro Cagliostro," I whispered.
Fouché walked up, reloading his pistol.
"The Alchemist?" Fouché asked. "He died in the Bastille years ago."
"Did he?"
I looked at the watch. The gears were made of a metal that gleamed with a bluish tint.
Titanium.
"He didn't die," I said. "He just left."
I looked at the pile of saved deeds. We had won the skirmish. But we had met the enemy.
And the enemy was playing a game I didn't know the rules to.
"Secure the building," I ordered, pocketing the watch. "And get these deeds back in the vault."
I looked at the fog pressing against the windows.
"The storm isn't over," I said. "It's just the intermission."