Chapter XIII: Trading

The lanterns had just begun to flicker on in the fog-wreathed streets of Paris when the Crown Prince emerged from Havre Bank, the weight of revelation resting heavy upon his shoulders. The name etched upon the draft—the name of the architect behind weeks of unrest—was not a gang leader, nor a merchant of ill repute, but Viscount Gizo, the Director of Paris Police himself.

A traitor cloaked in loyalty.

"Shall I take a squad and arrest him at once?" Alden asked, unable to conceal the fury in his voice.

Joseph raised a hand to stay him, his expression unreadable.

"No. That would be premature. Gizo is a man of stature. Without incontrovertible evidence, he will slither free. We need more than accusations—we need his own voice… spoken with no mask, and before a witness."

The Crown Prince's gaze turned toward the setting sun, and then sharpened.

"Vallian was captured only hours ago. News of it won't reach the City Hall until dawn. That gives us the night."

He stepped quickly into the carriage, the wheels barely touching the stones as they raced into the dusk. Inside, Joseph composed a letter in his swift and elegant hand, sealing it with the wax of House Bourbon. Turning to Viscount Kesode, Captain of his Guard, he said:

"Deliver this to Her Majesty, and ensure Count Herman receives it before midnight. There's no time to waste."

Kesode saluted. "As you command, Your Highness."

At four o'clock the following morning, the door to the police station opened to reveal two haggard but sharp-eyed men: Count Herman, clerk of the Queen, and Antoine, chief of the Royal Police—colloquially, the Secret Police.

Joseph welcomed them not with pleasantries, but steaming cocoa and a plan.

A bold, dangerous plan.

When he finished speaking, Herman paled. "If this fails…"

"It will not," Antoine interjected, eyes gleaming. "Your Highness's design is nothing short of elegant. The bait is irresistible, the trap invisible. It shall be done by dawn."

Joseph inclined his head, smiling faintly. "Then I leave it in your capable hands."

As the first light of day touched the copper rooftops of Paris, Gizo—resplendent in a fine frock coat, his silver-tipped cane in hand—entered his carriage with the indolent ease of a man accustomed to power.

"Home, then City Hall," he yawned to the coachman.

But they had not gone far when the horses neighed and skittered, forced to a halt by a sudden presence.

"What now?" Gizo muttered irritably, drawing back the velvet curtain.

The door flung open.

Three men stood there—brutes, by their appearance. Leather caps, soot-stained coats, the stench of the slums thick upon them. The bodyguard drew steel, but a blade was already pressed to his throat.

"Everyone out," the gauntest of the three said coldly.

Gizo's servants obeyed in a panic. But when the Director himself moved, a rough hand forced him back into his seat.

"You remain."

Moments later, the three climbed in, closing the door behind them.

The carriage rolled on.

Inside, Gizo's eyes narrowed as he studied the man across from him. A familiar, scarred face.

"Vallian," he said slowly, "Second of the Black Sheep Gang. What is this?"

The rough-looking man avoided his gaze and gestured to his companion.

"This man will speak for us."

The gaunt fellow, his bones as sharp as his eyes, tapped his knife idly on his knee.

"Our master wishes to propose a transaction, my lord," he said, voice low and level.

"A transaction?" Gizo laughed coldly. "You've chosen a poor audience."

The gaunt man ignored him.

"Our task, as assigned by Similion, has become… difficult. The Crown Prince's Guards are everywhere. Chaos is no longer so profitable."

"So?" Gizo raised an eyebrow.

"So," the man said, "we thought you might prefer a single act of great scandal, instead of many petty crimes."

He leaned forward.

"For twenty thousand livres, we will slaughter ten officers in the Saint Antoine police station, then burn the building to ash."

Gizo blinked once—then chuckled. "Now that… might just be worth the price."

The gaunt man nodded slowly. "Just to be clear: you authorize us to perform this act. No one compelled you?"

"You sound like a notary," Gizo sneered. "Yes. I authorize it. Burn the station. Kill the men. Humiliate the Prince."

The gaunt man smiled—and removed his disguise.

With deliberate precision, he tore off the leather cap, peeled away a false beard, and pulled forth a pair of iron manacles, gleaming in the morning light.

"Viscount Gizo," he said clearly, "you are hereby under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, arson, and sedition against the Crown. In the name of the Royal Police."

Gizo stared at him, frozen.

"You—"

"We are the King's hounds, my lord," the man said, binding his wrists. "And you just confessed in front of a known criminal—who is a protected witness. Congratulations."

Outside, the Royal Police surrounded the carriage, sabers drawn.

Gizo made one last desperate twist—and then slumped back in the seat.

He had played the game of thrones and lost, not to a general or a rival noble, but to a thirteen-year-old prince who had mastered the rules better than any man twice his age.