Chapter 13 - The City Chooses
By late afternoon, rumors were moving faster than horses.
The king was dead.
The prince had staged a coup.
A witch from Sainte-Agathe had poisoned the court.
The grain stores had been seized.
Vautrin had prepared every lie in advance.
From a palace balcony, I watched people gather in the square below. Shopkeepers. Soldiers' wives. Bakers. Dock workers. Nobody knew which story to believe.
Lucien wanted to send troops.
"No," Elise said.
He looked at her. "The north barracks may march on the palace."
"Then soldiers will see soldiers and pick a side before they hear the truth."
"What do you suggest?"
Elise pointed to me.
"Her."
I actually laughed.
"I have been in a tower for sixteen years. Half the city thinks I'm dead."
"Exactly."
Ten minutes later, I stood on the balcony in a borrowed black cloak.
The square went quiet one row at a time.
I did not give them a speech about honor or destiny.
I told them numbers.
"The widows' fund is short forty thousand crowns. The winter grain accounts list seventeen barrels that never reached Saint-Brieuc. Sainte-Agathe charged the crown for six guards every night. There were three. Someone pocketed the rest."
People began shouting questions.
Then I held up Queen Aveline's ring.
"Tomorrow, the palace doors will stay open. Come hear the evidence yourself."
A woman near the front yelled, "What about the army?"
Before I could answer, a column of soldiers entered the square.
North barracks.
Their commander rode to the center, removed his helmet, and looked up at us.
Lucien whispered, "That's Colonel Duret. He owes Vautrin everything."
Duret lifted one hand.
The square fell silent.
Then he shouted, "Blanche Marceau, by whose authority do you speak?"
I looked at the king behind me.
He opened his mouth.
I stopped him.
"Mine," I said.
May you like
Duret stared at me.
Then he drew his sword.
