Read Chapter 24: The Warden's Prize

The commandant’s hut smelled of waxed leather and stale cigar smoke. Kohl sat behind a field desk cluttered with maps and a half-empty bottle of cognac, his fingers steepled beneath a chin that had not seen a razor in days. He did not look up when the guard shoved Étienne through the door.

“Ah,” Kohl said, still examining a paper. “The balloonist who fell from heaven. I wondered when we would finally speak properly.”

Marchand was not with him. They had separated them at the mess hall, Marchand marched off toward the workshop detail with a look that said *trust no one*. Étienne’s injured arm throbbed beneath its filthy binding, and he pressed it against his ribs as if that might quiet the pain.

“I am told you are a pilot of some repute,” Kohl continued, setting the paper aside. He poured two fingers of cognac into a tin cup and slid it across the desk. “Drink. You look like a dead man walking.”

Étienne did not drink. “What do you want?”

“Straight to business. I appreciate that.” Kohl leaned back, the chair groaning. “You have a brother here. Lucien Vautrin. Wasting away in the infirmary block, from what my surgeon tells me. Consumption, perhaps. Or perhaps something less poetic—malnutrition, dysentery. Hard to say. The French don’t feed their men well, and we’re not in the business of charity.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss my brother’s health.”

“No.” Kohl’s smile was thin, surgical. “I brought you here because I have a proposition. One that could see your brother walk free, and you with him.”

The air in the room changed. Étienne’s pulse quickened, but he kept his face flat. “Go on.”

“General von Moltke arrives tomorrow. He is a man who appreciates spectacle—demonstrations of Prussian superiority, reminders of why the French flag is a worthless scrap of silk. I am to provide him with entertainment.” Kohl stood and walked to a window that looked out over the camp yard. In the fading light, prisoners shuffled in columns, their shapes bent against the cold. “I had planned a foot race, a shooting competition. Dull affairs. But then you landed in my lap.”

He turned. “A balloon race, Vautrin. You against my champion. A Prussian aeronaut named Brandt—retired military, flew observation balloons at Sedan. The course is a simple out-and-back: from this camp, over the river, around the church spire at Saint-Merriot, and home. First to touch down on the far field wins.”

Étienne stared at him. “You want me to race a Prussian in a balloon. For what prize?”

“Your brother’s freedom. And yours, and one other of your choosing—I assume the deserter Marchand, though I’d advise against trusting him. A horse, provisions for three men, and safe passage to the French lines.” Kohl spread his hands. “Simple terms. Generous terms.”

“And if I lose?”

“Your brother dies of his illness in the infirmary. Slow, unremarkable. You and Marchand are transferred to the labor camps in the east, where you will work until the war ends or you don’t. Which is to say, you lose either way—but one path has a chance.”

Étienne’s mind was a whirl of suspicion. “Why would you do this? You gain nothing.”

Kohl’s face flickered—something private, almost amused, crossing his features before settling into neutrality. “I gain a show. Von Moltke rewards competence, and competence is best demonstrated by crushing a Frenchman at his own celebrated art. The balloon was your invention, your romance. Seeing a Prussian master it, seeing you humbled before your countrymen—that has value beyond gold.”

It made a kind of terrible sense. Prussian arrogance wore many masks, and this one was as plausible as any.

“You have a balloon?” Étienne asked.

“Two. One for you, one for Brandt. They arrived by rail yesterday—observation craft, light envelopes, hydrogen inflation. Brandt’s is already rigged. Yours will be prepared tonight.” Kohl gestured to the door. “You’ll have your arm looked at by my surgeon before the race. I can’t have my entertainment collapsing from fever before the start.”

Étienne did not move. “What guarantees do I have you’ll honor your word?”

Kohl’s laugh was short, humorless. “You have none. But you have no other options, either. Your brother is dying. Your French army is shattered. Your government is in a balloon floating somewhere over the Channel. You are a prisoner in a camp that kills men for looking at guards the wrong way.” He picked up the cognac bottle and refilled his own cup. “Take the race, Vautrin. It is the only kindness I am offering tonight.”

The door opened. A sergeant—the same one who had recognized Marchand, Étienne realized with a jolt—entered and saluted. “Sir. The prisoner’s cellmate requests permission to speak with him.”

“Marchand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohl waved a dismissive hand. “Granted. Five minutes.” He fixed Étienne with a gaze that held no warmth. “You’ll give me your answer at dawn. Brandt and I will be waiting on the launch field.”

Étienne was escorted out. In the corridor, the sergeant walked close, his voice barely a whisper.

“The commandant has placed a counterweight in the envelope of the balloon he’s giving you. Iron ballast, concealed in the rigging lines. You’ll fly heavy and slow.” The sergeant’s eyes were hard. “I don’t know why he’s doing this. I don’t care. But if you’re going to fly against Brandt, you should know you’re flying against a rigged game.”

Étienne’s mind raced. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I served with Marchand before he deserted. He was a good soldier. A good man.” The sergeant paused. “Whatever he’s become, he didn’t deserve what Kohl did to his son. No one does.”

They reached the holding cell. The sergeant unlocked the door and stepped aside.

Marchand was inside, pacing. He looked up as Étienne entered.

“They’ve put a weight in your balloon.”

Étienne stared. “How do you know?”

“Kohl’s servants talk. They always talk.” Marchand’s face was pale, drawn. “The balloon he’s giving you—it’s the same one he used to string up prisoners’ corpses after executions. He flies it as a warning. There’s a dummy harness inside the envelope meant to hold a dead man’s body. He’s hidden the iron weight in that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “If you fly with it, Brandt will beat you by half a mile. If you try to cut it loose mid-flight, you’ll be over open ground between the camp and the river—guards will see you fumbling with the ropes, and they have orders to shoot any balloon that veers off course.”

Étienne absorbed this. Then he smiled—thin, dangerous.

“He thinks I’ll race his way. He thinks I’ll play by his rules.” He looked at Marchand. “When’s moonrise?”

“Two hours after nightfall.”

“Is the boat still where we hid it?”

Marchand nodded. “Near the east ditch, under the brush.”

“And the bomb?”

“Still in my coat. Hidden where they don’t search.”

Étienne’s injured arm ached, but his mind was clear, sharper than it had been in days. He had been given a chance. The question was whether he would take Kohl’s offer—or find a way to turn the warden’s prize against him.

He had one night.

And for the first time since he had crashed into No Man’s Land, Étienne knew exactly what he was going to do with it.