Kellerman opened the door. Maurisk’s office was on the top floor of the hotel, in a suite that had once been reserved for visiting ministers or heads of state. It had an impressively large and polished desk, bookshelves lined with matching sets of all the great works, and deep leather armchairs just a bit shorter than the massive wingback throne in which Maurisk himself sat. Perhaps a bit too opulent for Maurisk’s tastes, truth be told, but impressions were important.

Outside, in the well-appointed waiting room, three men stood between a pair of Patriot Guards with sashes and halberds. Two of them Maurisk had expected: General Martin Hallvez, author of the disaster on the northern front, and Robert Zacaros, commander of the Patriot Guard. The contrast between them was strong: the former was a spare man with thin features and a white goatee, wearing an unmarked army uniform, while the latter was thick-bodied and sported a bushy brown beard shot with white streaks, and wore not only the blue-on-black sash of the Patriot Guard but a gold starburst pin he’d designed himself to denote his rank. Zacaros’ hair was thinning on top, and he grew the sides long and slicked them over to cover his scalp. More gold gleamed at his collar and dripped from his cuffs.

It was the third visitor who made Maurisk’s lip curl. Giles Durenne, a pair of tiny spectacles perched on his famous beak of a nose, dressed in shabby blacks that made him look like an unkempt crow. Even his eyes were dark and colorless, and his black hair was pulled back in a short queue.

His appointment to the Ministry of War had seemed like a safe sinecure for a leading Radical in the first days after the revolution, since the new government had intended to dismantle most of the army until it could be rebuilt on more Republican grounds. The declaration of war had changed everything, of course. While Durenne had never disputed the Directory’s ultimate authority, as a matter of course the Ministry of War—still mostly staffed by officers appointed in the old king’s time—did much of the business of military and thus held considerable power there, especially among the old regiments. Maurisk was thus obliged to take him seriously. At least for the moment.

“Gentlemen,” Maurisk said. “Come in. Your guards may remain outside, Commander. I don’t believe we’ll need them.”

Zacaros nodded—he never saluted, considering it beneath his dignity—and waved the two halberdiers away. Hallvez stepped in front of the desk and stood with military stiffness, his face schooled into impassivity. Zacaros slumped into a chair beside him, sighing. Kellerman closed the door.

“General,” Maurisk said.

“Sir.” Hallvez gave a definite ironic twist to the word.

“I’ve read your report.” Maurisk tapped a stack of paper on his desk. “It seems to contain some . . . irregularities.”

“Such as?”