Armand glanced at the compass and made a heading for home waters.
They said not a word to each other until they went back to Defence Island.
Now Armand yawned, still staring at the dark waters of Lake Ontario. He didn’t think much of what they had done out there, and for good reason. He didn’t want to remember those bones, the decaying bodies hanging loose from the wooden crosses, the voices and strange shapes that sent them on their way. Armand backed away from the balcony, closed the door, and was heading for bed, when his empty stomach announced itself.
Armand threw on a robe and went out into the main hallway. The gaslights here were turned down, leaving only some illumination. He made his way past his sister’s quarters, all nice and quiet, and then past Father’s and Mother’s suites. Armand ignored the main stairwell and went to the very end, where there was a staircase that led down to the servant quarters.
He went down three flights, to the basement, the way lit by recessed electric lamps in the sides of the walls. Despite the hour, there were voices and Armand opened up the near swinging door, leading into the main kitchen. Even at this late hour there were plenty of servants with their brass rings about their necks, working among the stoves, iceboxes and washing areas. One of the chefs –-- Woods Daniel, wearing traditional gray checked pants, white chef’s coat and hat –-- spotted him. “Young sire, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Armand said. “I was hungry and wanted something to eat.”
His face was blank but he nodded. “At once, sire. Would some scrambled eggs be fine?”
Actually, Armand had wanted something more substantial, but there was a note in the chef’s tone of voice. “Yes, that would be fine.”
So Armand sat self-consciously on a stool in his nightshirt and robe while the staff bustled about him, and Woods Daniel expertly fired up a one of the gas stoves and started beating eggs together in a bowl. Armand said, “Why are so many of you working here tonight?”
“You don’t know?” he asked, wiping his hands on a washcloth and picking up a cast iron skillet.
“No, I don’t.”
“Your mother,” he said, now scrambling the eggs, his thick wrists moving quickly. “She is having some of her lady friends from Court for brunch tomorrow, and she… well, someone forgot to tell us in time. So now… well, we have to adjust.”
Knowing how scatterbrained his mother could be, the busy kitchen at this late hour now made sense. Armand also knew why Woods Daniel had seemed irritated. He was busy trying to get a lavish meal together for a demanding mother and guests, and here comes privileged young son, looking for a meal.
But by then, he was done, the eggs spooned out on a white dinner plate. The young chef also slapped down some handcut toast and a glass of orange juice. “If you forgive me, sire… I have other duties.”
“Thank you, that’s fine,” Armand said, and he sprinkled some salt on the eggs and ate them quickly. When he was finished, Armand thought of washing the dishes and putting them away, but he was embarrassed at not knowing how to do such a thing. So he got up and headed back to the doorway, again self-conscious in being in his nightclothes among the busy servants.
As Armand was leaving the kitchen, he heard somebody whimpering in one corner. He walked over, past an area where pots and pans were hanging from wooden beams, and there was a low table, where two young girls –-- even younger than Jeannette –-- were weeping as they hand rolled some pastries. A woman he recognized as a scullery maid –-- and Armand couldn’t recall her name --– worked beside them, all of them wearing nightclothes and robes. She said, “Hush, girls, just a few more… just a few more and then you can go to bed.”
She looked up at Armand’s approach, turned her face away --- probably from anger or contempt --- and then went back to work.
Chapter Ten
After a fitful night of sleep, Armand got up the next morning to see a light blue telegram waiting for him, having been slipped under his door. It was from Henri. Under the seal of the Imperial Post was the following message:
SO SORRY TO LEAVE YOU ALONE///FATHER CALLED OUT AGAIN, AND FAVOURITE SON MUST ATTEND///LUNCH FOR SURE NEXT TIME I’M IN TORONTO///YOU PAY THE BILL, OF COURSE///I.A. CADET 1/C GODIN
Damn. He had so much looked forward to seeing him today, and now… well, there was a visit to the Imperial West Library and a day’s worth of studying ahead for him. No school today, but Mother would insist he keep up with his schoolwork. Armand got dressed and was ready to go downstairs, when there was a knock and the door to his room opened up.
“Windsor Tom,” Armand began, brushing at some lint on his tunic’s sleeves. “For breakfast today I think I’ll have --- oh.”
Coming in wasn’t his personal servant, but Windsor Senior, the eldest male member of their servant family, wearing finely pressed black trousers, white shirt, and about his neck, a tarnished, old brass ring. Armand stopped brushing. Unless Windsor Tom was desperately ill, this was unheard of, having such a senior servant check in on a youngster.
“Sire, if I may… I would like to have a word for you, before your day starts.” And then he gently closed the door behind him --- not unusual --- but Armand had the strongest feeling the old man was closing the door so neither Father or Mother could see him.
“Absolutely, Windsor Senior,” Armand said, feeling awkward and self-conscious, having the senior servant in his cluttered room. It was one thing to know that according to law and custom, Windsor Senior was under Armand’s authority; it was another to even to dare think of asking the old man with leathery skin and piercing eyes to do anything at all.
Armand gestured to a nearby padded chair, and with a crisp nod, Windsor Senior sat down. He sat across from the old servant on the edge of his unmade bed. “Young sire… I would like to speak plainly and freely with you, and to keep our conversation… between us. I intend to speak of matters that some may consider treasonous. I know that is quite a request, and if you don’t feel comfortable, I will take your breakfast order now and leave.”
The old man sat still, his wrinkled hands on top of his legs and creased black trousers. His pale blue eyes were filmy but unblinking, and Armand was torn… this was strange, this was not typical, something was definitely wrong. To be safe, he should tell the old man what he wanted to eat, and leave it at that. That would be the safe thing to do.
Armand took a breath. Since his trip to Potomick, he was tired of doing the safe things.
“Windsor Senior, I’d like to hear what you have to say, and I promise to keep our conversation between us. I’m not Father, nor Mother. Your words will be safe with me.”
With his leathery skin and old eyes, he looked like a huge turtle Armand had seen at the Imperial city zoo last year. Windsor Senior cleared his throat. “My grandson… Tom. He told me of a coin that you brought back from your trip with Sir de la Cloutier. The one of Father Abram, who once freed the slaves centuries ago in the place called Amerka. Young sire… this is going to sound strange, but the coin… did it mean anything to you? Or was it just a souvenir of your travels south? Again, if you feel uncomfortable about my questions, I will depart with your breakfast order and will drop the matter.”
Armand recalled what he had earlier thought about their servant class. Secrets, he thought, so many secrets they’re keeping. He said, “There is a temple there, in Potomick, honoring Father Abram, with a huge statue of him. I visited the temple, saw the offerings the people left for him… when I left… I felt different, Windsor Senior. I don’t know how to explain it. But I’ll tell you, that coin is no mere souvenir. It means something important, something historic.”
The old servant kept still. Armand wondered what else to say. Windsor Senior kept his peace. Slightly irritated, Armand pressed on. “Look, tell me something. When your grandson saw the coin, he instantly knew what it meant. Seeing it brought tears to his eyes. An old coin, from hundreds of klicks away. So what does it mean to you, and the other servants? It has to mean something importa
nt, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here now, would you.”
Even though it was morning, the old man seemed tired, as if he had worked a full day. “Sire,” he began, his voice low and raspy, “for many, many years, the Windsor family has served your family well, from your father to his father before him, and generations past. It has been our proud duty, all these years, to serve well, work well, and to pay off those debts which we have always owed, which have always been part of our family legacy.”
Then his eyes focused sharp on Armand, making him feel for a brief fleeting moment that the old servant was his superior. “But times change. People change. And change… it is coming. Do you understand?”
“Not entirely,” Armand said, again feeling so out of place, being lectured to by a family servant.
He made a quick nod, like an old bird, grubbing for a piece of seed. “That coin from the other day. Sire, what is on that coin is an image that will never leave me. Never. Nor those of my family, and other servants about the empire. We all know of Father Abram, and what he once did.”
Those steady gray eyes didn’t leave him. “Are we not people, your servants, sire?” his voice now pleading. “Do we not have families, have love, have tears, are we not the same as you? But how human can we be, what kind of citizens can we be, when we cannot vote, cannot bear arms for the empire, when our contracts can be sold to another mansion, clear across to the Pacific Ocean? Never to see our families, ever again?”
Armand thought of a few things. Of an old grandmother, knowing she would never see her granddaughter, ever again. Of a young servant girl, under the touch of Randall de la Bourbon. And of two even younger girls, staying up late in the kitchen of his home, because of the demands of his own mother.
Armand said, “That’s one powerful coin, isn’t it. Windsor Senior, I still can’t explain it… but I’m seeing lots of things in a different way. All thanks to that trip, and that coin.”
Windsor Senior seemed to like Armand’s response. “He was almost a god, that Father Abram. Think of what he did on his own, to free tens of thousands of slaves and to ---”
Armand interrupted him. “Windsor Senior, you didn’t come here to talk about coins, or history, or Amerka. You said a change is coming. So tell me what kind of change… because I think I want to be a part of it.”
Something was moving, he could see it out of the corner of his eye, and it was Windsor Senior’s wrinkled hands. They were slowly clenching and unclenching.
His voice even more raspy, Windsor Senior said, “A peaceful change, sire, in helping along a process that will someday free my grandchildren, or my great-grandchildren. You could play a part in this… an important part. If you truly believe that coin of Father Abram has caused a change in your heart.”
It was Armand’s turn to remain silent. Ever since Armand was a child, he always knew the path ahead for him. A young noble, learning from Father about trade and treaties, waiting for the time when he retired or died for Armand to take his role, as Hereditary Permanent Deputy Trade Minister. It was something like the sky or the air, something all about him, something never to be discussed, debated or evaluated. It just was. And he remembered the disbelief in Micah’s voice, back in Potomick, when he could not believe that someone’s life had been settled for him, even before he was born.
And now… something else was beckoning Armand, something much more important than negotiating grain treaties with the southern territories or fishing rights in the northwest, something that made his pulse quicken with excitement and anticipation. That old hoodoo woman… maybe she had been right after all. Another path was opening up for him, and that quick thought thrilled him.
“Then I want to do what’s right,” Armand said firmly. “So what is to be done?”
Even though Armand saw the old servant was struggling to say what was coming next, he also noted a light of satisfaction in his eyes. “There is someone I wish you to meet. Today, if your schedule permits it.”
Armand said, “I need to spend some hours at the West Library. That’s all.”
“That will be perfect,” Windsor Senior said. “Go to the West Library. Someone will meet you there, and take you to meet a friend of mine. Listen to what my friend has to say… but sire. Do whatever your heart tells you to do. You’re becoming old enough to think and act on your own. You are not your Father, nor your Mother. Trust your heart. Trust your eyes.”
He slowly got up from the padded chair. “If I may beg something from you sire. Please do not repeat any of what I have said to anyone. I’m an old man, secure here under your father’s roof. No matter what I have said, I do wish to end my days here, among family and among peace.”
“Absolutely, Windsor Senior,” Armand said, and then the old man left. Then the oddest thing happened: it was customary for a servant to bow as he or she left a room. But there was no such bow from Windsor Senior. It was if the old man saw the young noble before him as an equal.
Two weeks ago, that lack of protocol would have angered Armand. And today?
He looked over at his pouch, still holding the coin of Father Abram. Damn, Armand thought. Hundreds of years later, you can make people change.
Outside of his room, he then heard Mother’s voice, chastising Windsor Senior for something, and thought some things will never change. No matter what.
A half day later, Armand was yawning, reading through a collection of treaties and contracts that the Empire had secured decades ago, with the western city-states of Spokane and Eugene, for dried fish and fruit, and for which the Empire promised to supply on a quarterly basis, so many metric tonnes of winter wheat. Armand yawned again, knowing that when he got to join Father in the Ministry, he would have to know all of the old contracts and trade agreements by heart. Earlier, doing such work had been satisfying, knowing he was pleasing both Father and Mother, content the work was part of his planned future.
But now? Ever since the trip to Potomick, it seemed everything had changed, and that more change was coming. The thought both pleased and excited him, like he was going on an extended bout of hooky from school, from his ordered life.
Someone made a shushing sound as Armand loudly flipped through a series of bound pages. He was in an obscure section of the West Library, and had a long table all to himself. There was the hushed sound of whispers at other tables and through an open double door on the other side, the sound of someone abusing a typewriter. When he was done with this volume, he closed it shut and went back to the stacks, picking out another thick and challenging book. Some years ago, beyond these very same shelves, he had passed through an unlocked door and went down a narrow stairway, leading down to a dank basement, exploring. There, he had found rows upon rows of bookshelves, with metal bars and locks secured against the prohibited volumes. Armand hadn’t even had a chance to even look at the banned titles before a librarian found him and shooed him back upstairs.
Armand took the heavy volume in hand, blew off some dust, and walked back to his study area. When he returned to his chair, on the seat was a typewritten note with an address.
Four-two-four Chanson Avenue.
He looked around, to see who might have dropped off the note.
Nobody. He folded the paper in half, and then in quarters, and then put it in his pocket.
Looked around again, and then sat down.
Thought for a few minutes. Doubts started to bubble up in his mind.
Just what was he getting himself into? Certainly during the last few weeks something had awaken in him, stemming from that long day in the heat down in Potomick, touring the ruins, meeting Micah, and seeing the face of Father Abram before him, staring down with a calm benevolence. That look had opened his eyes to the bondage, the servitude, yes, the slavery that was all around him, which also dressed, fed, and protected him.
So what to do?
Meet with this friend of Windsor Senior, to… to do what? To promise to do something when he got older, when he took Father’s title, when he took his inevit
able position at the Ministry of Trade? Years from now? What could he, one boy, do now to make a difference?
The folded up piece of paper felt heavy in his pocket.
Something Windsor Senior had said that morning, Armand recalled. That Armand was getting older, was coming to a point when he could think for himself, could choose for himself, could decide for himself.
That was the choice. Or to close everything up and march into his chosen life, his assigned future, with eyes and ears closed.
Chanson Avenue. Not more than a twenty minute walk from here, if he hurried.
Armand got up, his chair scraping loudly upon the wooden floor, the old book of treaties and trade agreements left behind.
The wind was blowing fierce off of Lake Ontario, and he pulled his cape tight against himself as he made the walk from the West Library. He kept eye on the street signs, and easily found Chanson Avenue, a long street jammed with shops, tiny restaurants and run-down buildings. It took a while to find number 424, since there were no numerals or anything else depicting the correct address. He located 422 and 426, determined an unmarked dark brown door was the correct one. Armand tugged and tugged, and it came open, a thick wooden door with no window or glass. With the door opened, there was a damp stairway, leading down, illuminated by a flickering gas lamp. Armand stepped down and closed the door behind him, and the smell grew stronger.
Armand went down the creaking steps, to another door. He paused and knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again and thought he heard someone. Armand pushed this door open and stepped into a low-ceilinged basement room, cluttered with junk, most of which he quickly identified as coming from the times of the old ones. Before him was a counter and a chubby woman in a light gray smock sitting behind it, wearing glasses and looking through some sort of round magnifying device set on a frame before her. Her brown hair was cut short, almost as short as a man’s, and she didn’t look up as Armand stepped closer.
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 11