The Council Chamber of the Tuileries Palace smelled of floor wax and stale tobacco.
The massive oak table, once used to plan wars and sign death warrants, was now covered in paper. Ledgers. Invoices. Tax rolls.
I sat at the head of the table.
To my right sat Napoleon Bonaparte. He was sharpening a pencil with a small knife, shaving wood onto the floor. He looked bored. Dangerous, but bored.
To my left sat Talleyrand, the snake in a silk suit. He was reading a diplomatic dispatch from Vienna, sipping wine.
Opposite me sat Danton. He looked like a bull in a china shop, his massive frame squeezed into a velvet chair, sweating as he read a report on grain subsidies.
This was the new government of France.
The Triumvirate. Plus Danton.
"We are broke," I announced.
I threw the Treasury report onto the center of the table.
"The vaults are empty. The rats have moved out because there are no crumbs left. The national debt is four billion francs. The interest payments alone exceed our tax revenue."
Napoleon stopped sharpening his pencil. "We can invade Switzerland," he suggested. "They have gold."
"We are not invading anyone, General," I said. "War is a negative-sum game. You spend a hundred francs to steal fifty."
"It keeps the army busy," Napoleon grunted. "Two hundred thousand men. If they don't march, they think. If they think, they plot."
"Then we make them march," I said. "But not to a battlefield."
I pulled a map from under the pile of ledgers. It wasn't a military map. It was a civil engineering survey.
"Roads," I said. "Canals. Bridges. Ports."
I tapped the map.
"The roads in France are medieval. Mud tracks. It takes a week to get a wagon of wheat from Lyon to Paris. That's why the prices are high. Friction."
I looked at Napoleon.
"Your soldiers are going to build the Route Nationale. Paved roads. Stone bridges. We will cut the travel time in half. We will double the velocity of money."
Napoleon looked at the map. He looked offended.
"You want the Grand Army of the Republic to... dig ditches?"
"I want the Grand Army to build the Roman Empire," I corrected. "The Romans didn't just conquer. They built. That's why they lasted a thousand years. Do you want to be Attila the Hun, or do you want to be Caesar?"
Napoleon's eyes flickered. I had hit the ego button.
"Caesar built bridges," Napoleon mused. "Across the Rhine."
"Exactly. Build me a road network that connects every market in France. Keep the men paid, keep them busy, and boost the GDP."
Napoleon nodded slowly. "The Corps of Engineers will enjoy the challenge."
"Good."
I turned to Talleyrand. "Now, foreign policy."
Talleyrand smiled. "Austria is terrified. England is confused. Russia is... Russia."
"Tell Austria we want peace. Tell them we recognize their borders. Tell them we are open for business."
"And England?"
"Tell Pitt the check is in the mail."
Danton laughed. A loud, booming sound. "You're going to pay back the British for the counterfeit operation?"
"No," I said. "I'm going to pay them interest on the loans they gave me. It builds credit rating."
I stood up and walked to the window. Paris was quiet tonight. No riots. The bread shipments had arrived.
"We are going to create a Central Bank," I said. "The Bank of France."
"Based on what capital?" Danton asked. "You said the vaults are empty."
"Based on the land," I said. "We seized the Church lands. We seized the emigré estates. That is our collateral. We will issue a new currency. The Franc. Backed by dirt, not gold."
" The Pope will excommunicate us," Talleyrand noted dryly.
"Let him," I said. "God provides, but the Bank secures."
Late that night.
The palace was asleep. The only sound was the scratching of my quill.
I was alone in the office. The candle was burning low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
I signed another decree. The Standardization of Weights and Measures. The Metric System. Boring. Essential.
I reached for the next paper in the stack.
It wasn't a decree.
It was a drawing.
I froze.
It was sketched on a piece of high-quality vellum, slipped between the pages of a tax report.
It was a drawing of a building.
But not a palace. Not a cathedral.
It was a tower. A lattice of iron rising into the clouds. It looked like the Eiffel Tower, but... wrong. Twisted. Taller. More futuristic.
At the bottom of the page, scrawled in pencil:
You are changing too much. The timeline is fraying.
My heart skipped a beat. A painful, fluttering thud. Arrhythmia.
I dropped the paper.
I looked around the room. The shadows suddenly seemed deeper.
Who put this here?
Robespierre? No. He didn't have the imagination.
Napoleon? He drew forts, not sci-fi towers.
It was a message. From someone else. Another... traveler?
Or was it the universe itself, snapping back like a rubber band?
I remembered the drawing of the guillotine I had found years ago, before the guillotine was invented. I had ignored it. I had thought it was a coincidence.
This wasn't a coincidence.
I picked up the paper. My hand was shaking.
The timeline is fraying.
I felt a sudden wave of dizziness. The room spun. My chest tightened as if an iron band were being cinched around my ribs.
I gasped, clutching the desk.
"Guard!" I tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze.
I collapsed forward onto the ledgers. The ink pot spilled. Black ink spread across the paperwork like a spreading shadow.
"Sire? Sire!"
I opened my eyes.
Light. Blinding, white light.
I blinked. I wasn't in the office. I was in my bedroom. Lying in the great canopy bed.
A face hovered over me. An old man with spectacles. Dr. Guillotin. The royal physician.
"He's awake," Guillotin whispered.
I tried to sit up. A wave of nausea pushed me back down.
"What... happened?" I rasped.
"You collapsed, Sire," Guillotin said gently. "Your valet found you."
I looked around. Napoleon was standing by the window, looking out. Danton was pacing by the fire.
They looked worried.
"The heart?" I asked.
Guillotin nodded. He looked grave.
"I have listened to your chest, Sire. The rhythm is... chaotic. The engine is misfiring."
"Fix it," Napoleon said from the window. "Order it to march in step."
"I cannot command the heart, General," Guillotin said. He looked at me. "Sire, you are running on fumes. The stress of the last five years... the abdication, the war, the return... it has destroyed the muscle."
"Give me a number, Doctor," I said.
Guillotin hesitated.
"A number," I repeated. "I'm an accountant. I deal in numbers."
"A year," Guillotin whispered. "Maybe two. If you rest. If you retire to the country and do nothing."
"Two years," I repeated.
I closed my eyes.
Two years.
I had saved my neck from the guillotine, only to have my own heart betray me. The irony was palpable.
"I can't rest," I said, opening my eyes. "I have a country to fix."
"If you continue at this pace, you will be dead in six months," Guillotin warned.
"Then I'll work twice as fast."
I sat up. It took every ounce of willpower I had.
"Napoleon," I said.
The General turned.
"Yes, Alex?"
"The road project. Start it tomorrow. I want the ground broken in Lyon by Monday."
"You need to sleep," Napoleon said.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead. Which apparently is soon."
I looked at Danton.
"The Bank. Open it. Issue the Franc. I want the currency stable before Christmas."
Danton nodded, looking pale. "Alex... take a break."
"No breaks. We are on a deadline."
I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It wasn't just a clock anymore. It was a countdown.
"Two years," I whispered to myself. "That's eight quarters."
I swung my legs out of bed.
"Help me up, Doctor. I have a meeting with the Minister of Education."
"Sire, please!"
"Help me up!"
I stood, swaying slightly. I grabbed the bedpost for support.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I looked old. Gray. Tired.
But my eyes were clear.
I had a new objective.
It wasn't survival anymore. I had survived.
It was Legacy.
I had two years to build a system so robust, so efficient, so logical, that even without me, it wouldn't collapse. I had to build a machine that could run itself.
I had to audit the future.
"Two years," I said, buttoning my shirt with shaking fingers.
"Enough time to balance the books."