Read Chapter 7: The Missing Forger

The tent flap billowed open, and the smell hit Moreau first—split ink and overturned tallow, the stench of a place gone through in haste. Desmoulins’ quarters were a wreck of straw pallets and scattered correspondence, the canvas walls slashed in three places as if whoever searched had been in a fury rather than a method.

Pichegru stood at the entrance, one hand resting on his sabre, scanning the trampled ground. “Your forger lived here?”

“Lived,” Moreau said, stepping over a toppled writing desk. “Past tense.” He crouched, running his fingers along the floorboards. A broken quill. A smear of dried ink. And beneath the pallet, a corner of paper, deliberately tucked where a frantic search would miss it.

He pulled it free. The sheet was small, folded twice, the handwriting cramped and hurried—Desmoulins’ hand, he knew it from a hundred supply manifests.

*They came for me before midnight. They have my sister. I have done what they asked—the pass is forged, good enough for the east gate. If you read this, the gold is already moving. Do not trust the officer with the Austrian accent. He knows your name.*

Moreau read it twice, then handed it to Pichegru without comment.

The hussar’s eyes moved down the page, then up. “Austrian accent. That matches the coin.”

“It matches too well.” Moreau stood, brushing straw from his knees. “A forger writes a note naming an Austrian officer, and I happen to find it moments after a hussar spy returns from the Prussian lines with a story about a man called the Crow.” He let the words hang. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

Pichegru’s jaw tightened. “You think I planted this.”

“I think I’d be a fool to rule it out.” Moreau turned, surveying the ransacked tent. “But I also think whoever did this to Desmoulins’ quarters wanted me to find that note. The slashes in the canvas are theatrical. A genuine search leaves mess, but not a pattern. This was staged for an audience.” He looked at Pichegru. “The question is whether I’m the audience or you are.”

The hussar stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Captain, I crossed the Sambre at night with Prussian patrols hunting me. I carried that dispatch in my boot for three days. If I wanted you dead or framed, there are simpler roads than dancing you toward a forger’s quarters.” He gestured at the chaos. “But if your forger forged a pass for the east gate, and the gold moved out last night, then we’re already behind. Every hour we argue is an hour the trail goes cold.”

Moreau hated him for being right.

He tucked the note inside his coat. “The east gate—was there a wagon through it after midnight?”

“I’ll check with the sentries,” Pichegru said.

“No.” Moreau’s voice was sharp. “You’ll stay close to me. I don’t know yet whether you’re a hawk or a crow, but I’m not giving you the run of the camp to cover tracks you’ve already made.”

Pichegru’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then where do we go?”

Moreau thought. Desmoulins’ note said *the pass is forged, good enough for the east gate*. A forger who knew the army’s protocols. A forger who had been taken, not deserting. His quarters had been ransacked for a reason—whoever took Desmoulins wanted to be certain no other evidence remained. But they’d missed the note. Which meant they’d been in a hurry.

“The artillery park,” Moreau said.

“Why there?”

“Because that’s where the heavy wagons are parked at night, and a pass for the east gate means nothing if there’s no wagon to carry the gold. Whoever planned this needed transport that wouldn’t be questioned.” He moved toward the tent flap. “And Desmoulins would have known which wagons were slated for the dawn movement. They didn’t just take him for his pen—they took him for his knowledge of the camp’s logistics.”

Pichegru followed, matching his stride. “You think they forced him to write the pass on the spot?”

“I think they forced him to do something more valuable.” Moreau ducked under a rope line, moving between tents toward the artillery park’s dark mass at the camp’s edge. “They needed him to identify the wagon that could move a chest of gold without raising suspicion. A pay chest is heavy—officers’ luggage weight, not ammunition. They needed a vehicle already cleared for heavy loads, one that wouldn’t be inspected.”

The artillery park loomed ahead, a field of carriages and caissons, limbers stacked like sleeping beasts. The night watch had been reduced—Moreau noted the gaps, the lanterns burning low. In the chaos of the theft investigation, the perimeter had gone slack. He filed that thought away.

“Who commands the park’s night guard?” Pichegru asked.

“Sergeant Michel. Reliable.” Moreau scanned the shadows. “Or was. Find him.”

Pichegru moved off, his boots crunching on gravel. Moreau walked the line of wagons, running his hand along the wheels, checking for fresh grease on axles—a wagon moved in the night left traces. He found it on the third carriage: a caisson, stripped of its ammunition boxes, its bed swept clean. Fresh wheel tracks cut deep into the mud, pointing toward the east gate.

He crouched, running his fingers through the grooves. A heavier load than ammunition. A chest of gold.

“Captain.” Pichegru’s voice came low from the shadows. “Your Sergeant Michel is behind the ammunition store. Dead. Throat cut, sometime in the night.”

Moreau rose, his pulse steadying into something cold. He crossed to the store, where Pichegru stood over a crumpled form. Michel’s eyes were open, his tunic stained. A sergeant who had been on duty when the gold moved. A soldier who might have seen the wagon leave.

Or who might have been paid to look away.

“They’re tying off loose ends,” Pichegru said quietly. “Your forger. This sergeant. Whoever’s behind this doesn’t leave witnesses.”

Moreau knelt, closing Michel’s eyes. The cut was clean, professional. Not the work of a panicked thief—a disciplined hand. The Austrian coin suddenly felt heavier in his pocket.

“The wagon,” Moreau said, straightening. “It went out the east gate sometime after midnight. We need to know who drove it, what direction it took, and whether it had an escort.”

“The pass was forged in Desmoulins’ hand. If the sentries saw the paper, they’ll remember the name on it.”

Moreau nodded. “Then we go to the east gate and pull the night log.” He paused. “But we do it quietly. If the Crow has eyes in the sentry rotation, I don’t want him to know we’ve found the trail this soon.”

Pichegru’s eyes flickered toward the dead sergeant. “And him?”

“Leave him. If we report it, we lose the night to questions. We’ll come back with answers.” Moreau turned, his mind working. “The note said the gold is already moving. That wagon has a head start of several hours. We haven’t got time to do this by the book.”

“Then we do it by the blade,” Pichegru said.

Moreau met the hussar’s gaze. The man was an unknown. The note had been convenient. The timing had been too perfect. And yet—

“One thing,” Moreau said. “If this is a trap, if you’re leading me toward a place where the Crow waits, I want you to know I’ve already sent word to Renard about you. If I don’t return by dawn, he hangs you from the nearest tree.”

Pichegru’s smile flashed in the lamplight. “If I were the Crow, Captain, I’d have killed you in your tent last night. I’m not the man you’re hunting.” He paused. “But I know who might be.”

Moreau’s hand went to his pistol grip. “Speak.”

“The Prussian dispatch named two names,” Pichegru said quietly. “Le Corbeau—and the officer who wrote the message. They weren’t the same hand.” He drew a folded scrap from his coat, a fragment of the cipher he’d carried across the river. “I kept back part of the dispatch. The signature line. It’s not a name—it’s a regimental mark.” He held it out. “I’d wager you’d recognize it. It’s one of your own.”

Moreau took the scrap. The paper was creased, smudged with river water, but the mark was clear.

He stared at it, and his blood went cold.

It was the eagle of the 3rd Artillery Regiment.

His regiment.

The one Delacroix commanded.