The carriage wheel hit a rut.
To a healthy man, it would have been a jolt.
To me, it felt like a cannonball to the chest.
"Stop!" Dr. Larrey shouted.
I waved my hand. Weakly. "Keep... moving."
I coughed. It wasn't a dry cough. It was wet. Bubbling.
I held a silk handkerchief to my lips. When I pulled it away, it was soaked. Not just red. Pink foam.
Pulmonary edema. My lungs were filling with fluid. I was drowning on dry land.
"Your Majesty," Larrey pleaded. He was kneeling on the floor of the carriage, trying to brace himself against the swaying. "Your heart is failing. The left ventricle is pumping at maybe 20% efficiency. The blood is backing up."
"Fix it," I wheezed.
"I can't fix a dying muscle!" Larrey snapped. He was terrified. "I can only drain the fluid."
He pulled a long, silver needle from his bag. It looked like a knitting needle.
"This will hurt," Larrey warned. "I have to go between the ribs. Into the pleural space."
I nodded. "Do it."
The carriage hit another bump.
Larrey timed it. He waited for a smooth patch of road.
He thrust the needle.
PAIN.
White-hot. Sharp. It pierced the skin, the muscle, the lining of the lung.
I gasped, but no air came in. Just a gurgle.
Larrey attached a glass syringe. He pulled the plunger.
Pink fluid filled the tube.
One ounce. Two ounces.
Pressure released. I took a breath. A real breath.
"Better," I whispered.
"Temporary," Larrey said, ejecting the fluid into a bucket. "It will fill up again in an hour."
I looked out the window.
The French countryside blurred past. Fields of wheat. Vineyards. Peasant cottages.
They looked peaceful. They didn't know their King was dying in a box on wheels.
We were moving fast. Too fast. The Polish Lancers riding escort were pushing the horses to a gallop. Mud flew from their hooves, splattering the carriage windows.
"How far?" I asked.
"Strasbourg is ten miles," said General Caulaincourt, sitting opposite me. He looked pale. He was watching a monarch decompose in real-time.
"The Austrians are there," I said. "100,000 men. Waiting for a sign of weakness."
I wiped the blood from my chin.
"I need to look... strong."
"You look like a corpse," Larrey said bluntly.
"Makeup," I ordered. "Rouge. Powder. Get the wig."
I closed my eyes as Larrey applied the paint. The white lead powder covered the grey skin. The rouge hid the blue lips.
I looked in the small hand mirror.
Louis XVI stared back. The mask was perfect. The eyes were dead, but the face was royal.
"The Ledger," I whispered.
Caulaincourt handed me the heavy leather book. The Black Ledger. The secrets of the Church. The sins of Europe.
I clutched it to my chest. It was my shield. My weapon.
Suddenly, the carriage lurched.
Brakes squealed. Horses whinnied in panic.
"Halt!" A voice shouted in German.
"Austrian picket," Caulaincourt hissed, drawing his pistol.
"Put it away," I wheezed. "Diplomacy."
The carriage door was wrenched open.
A young Austrian captain stood there. He held a lantern. Behind him, ten musketeers aimed their weapons at us.
The captain looked inside. He saw the velvet seats. The gold crest.
He saw me.
"Identify!" the captain barked.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. The fluid was rising again.
I held up the Ledger.
I pointed to the cover. It was embossed with the seal of the Holy Roman Empire.
The captain frowned. He leaned closer.
"That is... Imperial property?"
I nodded. I tapped the book. Then I tapped my chest.
I opened the book to a random page. I pointed to a name. General Mack.
The captain read the entry.
Gambling debts. 50,000 florins. Paid by the French Crown.
The captain's eyes went wide.
He looked at me. The paint hid my sickness, but the intensity of my stare burned through.
I moved my lips. No sound came out.
"He says," Caulaincourt improvised brilliantly, "that he is carrying the receipt for your General's loyalty. If you shoot us, the copy goes to Vienna."
The captain hesitated. He looked at his men. He looked at the book.
He swallowed.
"Escort them," the captain ordered. "Take them to the Emperor. Immediately."
He slammed the door.
The carriage jerked forward.
"Nice bluff," I whispered to Caulaincourt.
"It wasn't a bluff," Caulaincourt said, sweating. "Mack really is in there?"
"Mack is a degenerate gambler," I wheezed. "Everyone knows that."
We rode for another hour.
The sun set. The sky turned a bruised purple.
Fires appeared in the distance. Thousands of them.
The Austrian camp.
It was a city of tents. A sprawling military machine. 100,000 men. Cannon parks. Cavalry lines.
It was impressive. And terrifying.
France had no army to stop this. If I failed tonight, they would march on Paris in the morning.
The carriage slowed. We passed through the lines. Soldiers stared. Who was this dark carriage with a French escort?
We stopped in front of a massive white tent. The Imperial Standard flew above it. The double-headed eagle.
"Emperor Francis," I whispered.
"He is waiting," Larrey said. "I can give you a shot of adrenaline. It will clear your head for ten minutes. But after that..."
"After that, I crash," I finished.
"You might stop completely," Larrey warned.
"Do it."
Larrey injected my arm.
Fire surged through my veins. My heart hammered. Thump-thump-thump.
The fog in my brain cleared. The pain receded.
I felt... alive.
"Open the door," I ordered. My voice was strong.
Caulaincourt opened the door. He offered his hand.
I slapped it away.
"I walk," I said.
I stepped out.
My boots hit the mud. My knees locked. I stood.
I was Louis XVI. King of France and Navarre.
The Austrian guards snapped to attention. They didn't know what to do. Shoot? Salute?
The tent flap opened.
A man stepped out. He wore a white uniform with gold braid. He was young, thin, with a long Habsburg jaw.
Emperor Francis II. My brother-in-law. (Or rather, Louis's brother-in-law. Marie Antoinette's brother).
He looked at me. He looked shocked.
The reports said I was dead. The reports said Paris was burning.
But here I stood. In his camp. Surrounded by his army.
"Louis?" Francis whispered.
I walked toward him. One step. Two steps.
The mud sucked at my boots.
I stopped five feet away.
I didn't bow.
I held up the Ledger.
"Francis," I said. My voice carried over the silent camp. "We need to renegotiate the terms of your loan."
Francis stared at the book. He recognized it. Every monarch in Europe feared the Church's archives.
He looked at my face. The painted mask.
"You look..." Francis started.
"Solvent," I interrupted.
I took another step.
And then, the adrenaline ran out.
It wasn't a fade. It was a cliff.
My heart stopped.
My legs turned to water.
I collapsed.
I didn't catch myself. I hit the mud face first. The Ledger flew from my hand and landed in a puddle.
"Louis!" Francis shouted.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
I was paralyzed. Locked in my own body.
I stared at the mud. At a worm crawling near my nose.
Get up, I screamed internally. Get up, you failure. You can't die in the mud. Not now.
But the machine was broken. The Accountant had finally crashed.
I heard boots running toward me. Hands grabbing my shoulders.
I was turned over.
I looked up at the night sky. The stars were spinning.
Francis was looking down at me. His face was a mixture of horror and pity.
"He is dead," an Austrian doctor said, checking my neck.
"No," Larrey shouted, pushing through. "He is in arrest! Clear the way!"
I saw Larrey's face. He was crying.
It's over, I thought. The audit is incomplete.
And then, darkness took me.
Total. Black. Silence.
The Ledger lay in the mud, closed.
The deal was off.