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Murat.
    “If he is the man,” said Murat. “You say you are certain, but how can you be? Have you found the knife that slit the private’s throat? The scepter is missing. The worst you have reported about Vernet is that he cannot account for half an hour at a time that many officers could not account for their movements. I was in camp, lost in Morpheus’s grip.” He shrugged. “Is that sufficient?”
    “If it is not Vernet, then it must be you or Desaix. Or me,” Berthier added conscientiously. “No one else was aware of the arrangements. Or that exact location for the scepter. The tent was cut directly where it lay.”
    “That we are all incontrovertibly aware of,” added Murat. “But in a camp like this, there are bound to be spies, and what they overhear cannot be assessed.”
    Berthier scowled. “Why do you protect this man?”
    “I don’t,” said Murat. “But I don’t judge him, either, not yet.” He looked toward Bessieres. “What do you think?”
    “I don’t know the fellow,” said Bessieres. “But I think perhaps it would be better if we had more against him. So far from France, we must uphold our justice, for example. If we decide he is guilty and it turns out he is not, then it will look badly for the general.”
    This was the one argument that could shake Berthier. He swallowed bard and rose from his chair. “It wouldn’t come to that,” he said as if trying to convince himself. “We must show swift punishment for crimes, or half the army will be more devoted to finding treasure than to advancing Napoleon’s cause.”
    Bessieres’s smile was cynical. “What makes you believe that isn’t true already?”
    Whatever Berthier might have answered, his indignation was silenced as Napoleon came back into the tent. “All right. Let us consider this.” He broke off. “Where is Desaix?”
    “He will be here in a moment,” said Berthier, trusting it was so. He indicated his own chair, the only one in the tent that was not canvas.
    Napoleon accepted it, but did not actually sit down. He took up his position behind the writing table and drew a packet of dispatches out of his tunic. “The private was killed with a knife, it says.”
    “Or a sabre; something with a heavy blade. That’s right,” said Murat. “He was very securely bound. Whoever made those knots did not intend him to escape.”
    “He showed signs of being beaten,” Napoleon went on, consulting the sheets he opened. “One presumes that was before he was killed. He had a deep cut across the throat.”
    “The wound penetrated all the way to the spine,” said Murat. “The killer knew what he was about. He was determined, too. You don’t make a wound like that if you’re craven. Though you might if you feared discovery. The private would make no sound dying and could not live more than a few minutes with such a wound.”
    “True enough,” said Napoleon, looking up as Eugene escorted Desaix into the tent.
    “I am sorry to be late,” said Desaix in his quiet voice as he entered the tent. “I was attending to one of my men—he has an infection in his arm.”
    “Send him to Larrey,” Napoleon recommended. “This is more pressing business.” He motioned Desaix to one of the camp chairs. “Berthier wants to be rid of Major Lucien Vernet.”
    “Detention at the least,” said Berthier.
    “You mean prison?” asked Desaix politely. “What reason have we for that?”
    “Plenty of reason, if he is guilty,” said Berthier, his color heightening.
    “If,” echoed Desaix. “And if he is not?”
    Napoleon cut into what was turning into a stalemate. “Guilty or not, I can’t go throwing good officers into prison. I need this man. I knew him when I was only a captain. He has done his work well, from what I can see.”
    “But he might have killed the private and taken the scepter,” said Bessieres, being reasonable.
    “That isn’t certain, it is merely possible,” said Murat. “And if he’s imprisoned, we most