At last, as if weary of itself, the rain eased, leaving the town of Versailles chilly and sodden. Flaming torches held aloft by Fabien’s guards flickered and danced, reflecting on the road and the faces of the men.

The remaining prisoners had been beaten without mercy, and could barely stand as guards searched their clothing. There was not much to find, save some coins and a serrated hunting knife. But then a guard discovered a rolled paper in one prisoner’s coat and handed it to Fabien.

Fabien held the paper up to the light of a torch and watched as a complex code became visible along the edge. It was a cipher, a collection of symbols and letters. It was what he’d been looking for.

Glancing up with smug satisfaction, he nodded at the guard with the hunting knife. “Hobble them.” The guard leaned down and slashed the older prisoners’ Achilles tendons with such force that their feet were nearly cut from their legs. The prisoners crashed to the earth, screaming in agony. The remaining boy closed his eyes and prayed.

Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the royal accountant, was a dutiful man. He sat in his office in the village of Versailles, collecting taxes and recording them in his ledger. Nearing old age, the man had no fondness for others, especially not those from whom he took money, yet his work was paramount. As he waved one smelly exciseman away from his desk and prepared to take the coffer from the next in line, Louvois, the King’s War Minister, burst into the office, followed by Fabien and several guards. Louvois ordered the crowd of taxpayers out and shut the office door.

“You know,” said Louvois, letting out a grunt, “I woke yesterday in a goose-down bed with a view of my lands five miles to the river. Here, I sleep in a cupboard. We will finish the reckoning in Paris. Safe and sound.” Then to the guards, “Secure the coffers and load the carriages. Four men to each.”

Colbert rose behind his desk. “What is the meaning of this? I have work to do!”

Fabien rubbed at a bloody spot on his jacket. “Four Spanish mercenaries were found plotting an ambush in His Majesty’s hunting grounds. They were prevented from doing so.”

“Good,” said Colbert. “They mean to end our new campaign with a single strike?”

“Madrid is not happy about our desires for the Spanish Netherlands. Neither are the Netherlands, for that matter.”

Colbert swept a hand toward the coffers as the guards began to collect them from the desk. “They may be in luck. We cannot finance a war with this income. We could hardly finance a swordfight.”

“The Queen must have her dowry,” said Fabien. “They did not pay. This is their reward.”

Louvois crossed his arms. “We really are out in the wilds here. Defenses are porous, nonexistent. The sooner we return to Paris, the better.”