“Gee,” Randall said, as a waiter came over to clean up the broken mug and brown puddle on the floor, and putting down a fresh cup. “Thanks for the advice.”
Dayton muttered an obscenity, strode down the length of the bar --- picking up two overdressed young women along the way --- and went past an empty stool at the bar’s end. He pushed through the doors and Randall waited, sipping at the cocoa.
He didn’t have to wait long. The screaming started in less than a minute. One of the women rushed in and started yelling: “Dylan just got knifed! Dylan just got knifed!”
The bar emptied out and Randall sat still, drinking his cocoa. When he was finished he dabbed at his lips with a napkin, dropped a brass sovereign on the table before him, and walked out. A crowd was bunched on the sidewalk, about two meters away. Randall walked in the other direction, got into the rear of a black electric coach. Sitting in the rear seat was the bulky and soft-spoken man named Munro, Randall’s courier to the three adults he had met back in Quebec City. Since Munro had started doing courier duty, Randall also had him perform other duties and errands, using his father’s position to make Munro do as he was told. It was fun to have an adult at his beck and call. Randall closed the door. “Seems to have gone well, Monsieur Munro.”
“That it did, young sire,” Munro replied. He was dressed simply in a dark brown suit, and had a black goatee on his long, thin face. “My man sliced Mister McNeill’s right hamstring. He won’t be playing this weekend, or next, or for a very long time. If ever.”
Randall thought of his mounting gambling debts, and the warning he had earlier received from father. “His choice, wasn’t it. Not my fault.”
Munro smiled. “True. And I have other news for you. About Sire Armand de la Cloutier. I believe I have… a solution for you.”
Randall felt very good indeed. “I’d love to hear it.”
Chapter Eleven
After breakfast the next day, Armand’s mother told him that his weekly fencing lesson at the Fer de Lance Gymnasium had been re-scheduled for 10 a.m. instead of 2 p.m., and that no coach was available. “So walk,” Mother said, as she left to go shopping. “It’ll do you good.”
The day was overcast, gray and a bit offsetting. It wasn’t a long walk but still, he didn’t want to end up at the gymnasium tired. That would mean the day’s fencing coach would have a good laugh as he scored on Armand, match after match. Armand also knew he’d have to work on his concentration; he hadn’t slept well, thinking about Churchill Grace and what they had talked about the day before.
As he walked along the sidewalk, past the morning hustle and bustle of people going about their business, Armand bumped into a slim older man, dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit. He had a bad haircut, his black hair was streaked with gray, and his skin had the pallor of someone who spent a lot of times indoors. His dull blue eyes were moist behind his wire-rimmed eyeglasses.
On most days, Armand would have ignored him.
But this wasn’t going to be one of those days.
The suited man stepped back, looked a bit surprised. “Oh. My pardon, sire.”
“Not a problem,” Armand said, stepping around him, checking his watch, noting he’d be just on time if he kept this pace.
But the older man deftly stepped in front of Armand, blocking his way.
A slight smile. “You’re Armand de la Cloutier, aren’t you.”
“I am… and you are?” Armand asked, wondering if the man knew Father, or perhaps even Mother. It was possible, for his parents knew a lot of people in Toronto and in Court, and this wouldn’t be the first time Armand had met someone who knew his parents.
“Oh, my pardon, young sire.” He moved his hand into the interior of his suit, pulled out a worn leather wallet, which he opened. There was a gold badge, a blurry photo of the man, and some words, which Armand suddenly couldn’t focus on.
Couldn’t focus at all, because of what the rumpled man in front of him was saying.
“Sire de la Cloutier, I am Jacques Templair, of the Imperial Security Service. I’d like to ask you a question or two in a matter of some discretion. It shouldn’t take long.”
A black electric coach hummed up and stopped beside them. Templair opened the rear door and before Armand could say a word, he was gently led into the rear seat. As the door was shut, the nearby good citizens of Toronto saw what was going on and pretended they weren’t seeing a thing.
Armand’s hands were on his trouser legs, gently grasping the fabric, for he was sure if they were elsewhere, they would be shaking. Imperial Security. When Armand was a child his nannies would sometimes warn him that if he disobeyed them or Mother or Father, then the “Security men in black/will take you out/punish you bad/never to come back!”
This couldn’t be going on. There must be some mistake. Armand managed to find his voice. “What do you wish to talk about, monsieur?”
Templair folded his arms, sighed. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it. My grandpere, he told me to enjoy beautiful days as much as one can, for the bad days will always outnumber the good ones. Do you see what I mean?”
“Not really,” Armand admitted, hating how weak his voice sounded, knowing he was in deep trouble, the worse ever in his life. Even counting all the times he had played hooky, lied to his teachers and disobeyed his parents combined together, this was very bad.
Templair laughed, looked out the window at the passing buildings. “Of course not, young sire. I know your life, know the privilege you’ve had, growing up in one of the finest neighborhoods in Toronto, with the hardest decisions you’ve ever had to made was to decide what kind of dessert to order after a five-course meal… I’m right, aren’t I.”
Armand didn’t know what to say. A telephone, just get to a telephone, use Father’s private number at his Trade Ministry office, he could set this right. Oh God, I hope he can, Armand desperately thought.
The man from Imperial Security went on. “And then there are those of us who didn’t have such a life. Who grew up on a muddy dairy farm, up in north Quebec, who had to get up early to milk cows, who had to shovel cow shit at all hours of the day. You ever shovel cow shit, young sire?”
“No, I haven’t,” Armand said, sensing the coach slow down in traffic.
“Then whatever else happens,” he said, his voice cheerful and matter of fact, “consider yourself fortunate.”
The coach made a sharp turn into a gated driveway that led up a narrow alleyway, and to an open garage door. The coach went into the garage and the door slid down behind them, pitching him into darkness. Armand took a breath, clenched his hands, willed himself not to start tearing up in fear.
Lights came on, and Templair became brisk, businesslike. He took Armand’s wrist and a younger man outside opened the door of the coach. Out into the garage they walked through a brick-lined hallway, with caged lightbulbs overhead, Templair’s grasp tight on Armand’s wrist. He thought of a lot of things --- about breaking free, about turning around and running back to the garage, of demanding a telephone --- but the strength of the man’s grasp seemed to suck away his energy. Armand felt tired, weak, and above all, very afraid. They walked for a long time, pass metal doors that were locked and barred, and the air was cool and had the scent of fear and old screams. As if on some silent command, a door to the right swung open. Templair ushered him into a cold room, lined with gray stone, the floor stone as well, with a drain in the center. There was a wooden table fastened to the floor, and two wooden chairs. A collection of papers and file folders were centered on the table.
Templair sat down and motioned to Armand to the other chair. “Sit,” he said, his voice more formal.
Armand sat down and folded his hands and trying to put some strength into his voice. “I want to contact my father. Could you please take me to a telephone.”
“All in due course, Armand, all in due course,” Templair said, adjusting his glasses on his pale face.
Armand shook his head, knowing he had to use his name
and position to get out of here. Lord knew it had worked before when he has in trouble. “I’m afraid I must insist. I want to contact my father, the Viscount de la Couture. You will also do me the courtesy of calling me by my correct title, Monsieur Templair.”
Templair looked up at Armand, reached over and slapped his face.
Armand was stunned as fell back in his chair. Anger flared inside of him and he started to get up. Templair yelled, “Sit down! Sit down now, you stupid little shit, or I will let you contact your father, and he’ll be drawn into this mess you’ve created. Would you like that, you idiot? Would you like your father, the Permanent Hereditary Deputy Minister of Trade, the Viscount de la Couture, humiliated, disgraced, exiled from Court and from Toronto?”
Armand rubbed at his cheek, tears boiling up in his eyes. He sat down heavily in his chair. Templair added, “Oh, and no matter what you’re thinking, boy, a reminder. Assaulting an Imperial Security officer is punishable, without parole or appeal, by five years in a labor camp. Even if you are a noble. Think your pretty little hands can handle cutting wood up in Brit Columbia for five years? I’ve been to Brit Columbia, young man. Tall trees and bad men in those labor camps. You wouldn’t last long.”
Armand lowered his hand and stared at the man who had just slapped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever been struck by an adult. Templair touched a finger with his lip and then moved some of the papers around. Looking down at the papers he said, “What is your purpose in life, Armand?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, what is your purpose in life?”
If he meant to confuse Armand, he was succeeding. It was like those recurring dreams, of being in a classroom and not knowing there was an exam scheduled that day. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Templair reached over again and slapped his face. Armand couldn’t help it this time, for tears sprung up in his eyes and he cried out. “Answer the question!” Templair shouted. “What is your purpose in life?”
“I… I’m going to Academy in a few months,” Armand said, both hating and fearing the man in front of him. “I will study business, trade, economics… I will work for my father in the Ministry four years hence…”
“And,” Templair said, shuffling the papers some more, “at some point in the future, your father will pass on to his reward, you will assume his title, and unless you’re grossly incompetent or corrupt, you will inherit his position as Permanent Hereditary Deputy Minister of Trade. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” Armand said, his voice shaky, his cheeks moist from the tears. “You are correct.”
Templair picked up some photographs. “We know a lot about you and your father. Your school records, his school records… you both had the same sixth-grade teacher, isn’t that humorous… though I must say, you look nothing like your father.”
He looked up. “Oh well. That’s neither here nor there. We’re talking about you and your safe, dull future. Going to school, meeting some noble daughter along the way, and marriage and children, so that the whole precious cycle continues. You’ll get rich and fat at the Ministry, negotiating trade deals with the barbarians to the south, and perhaps even the barbarians across both oceans… for that’s your purpose in life.”
Templair’s face hardened. “Now. My purpose in life. Do you care to know about that?”
Armand tried to keep his voice even, despite the sobs and fear. “I could give a shit.”
The older man smiled. “Very good. Nice to see some spark in our pampered ruling class. For that is my purpose in life, young Armand. To ensure that the Empire is safe enough and secure enough so that you… nobility…” and his tone dripped contempt at that word “…can do what you do, which is to govern the Empire. Our Imperial Navy and Army protect the waters and borders. We protect the Empire from within. Tell me, boy, wouldn’t you say our Empire is a fairly prosperous and secure place?”
“Yes,” Armand said, again feeling he was in some prep school of horrors. If he could got out of here in the next few minutes, he vowed, never again would he skip school, never again would he ever give his teachers difficulty.
“I see here that you took a trip a few weeks ago with your father, as part of a trade mission to Potomick,” Templair went on. “Did you find the people, the culture, the environment in Potomick, did you find it safe and secure? Would you trade what we have here with Potomick?”
Armand didn’t know what the security man was driving at. “It was different. That’s all. Just… different.”
“Hah,” he said. “Different. No doubt. A curious place to visit… but it’s a disease-ridden, polluted, barbaric rabble, just like everything that was once Amerka. Only because we’ve been strong, orderly, and quite, quite lucky, have we managed to avoid their deserved fate. Would you agree?”
Not wanting to get slapped again, Armand quickly said, “Yes… we’ve been strong, orderly, and very, very lucky.”
“So our Empire is a place to cherish, a place to be protected and preserved. You would also agree, correct?”
“Yes, I would, and --–“
This time Armand ducked, so Templair struck only his shoulder, but that didn’t stop him from yelling, “So tell me you stupid boy, why are you committing treason against the Empire?”
Armand managed to stay seated in the chair. He yelled back at him, “You’re crazy! I’ve done no such thing!”
“But you have, my stupid young friend, you have,” Templair said, his face glowering. “You have uttered treasonous and seditious remarks against the society of the Empire of Nunavut, thereby threatening the stability thereof.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Armand said, putting as much menace as he could in his voice. “And you should know, monsieur, that when this… interview is over, I will fully inform my father of how you mistreated me.”
“I thought you would say that. Here.” Templair looked at the papers, flipped through them, as his voice rose with each page turned.
“Three weeks ago, in transit aboard the airship Kanut, you were heard raising questions about the status of the servant class within the Empire. Similar questions were raised two nights ago, at the birthday celebration for the Emperor’s nephew. You have also had contact with at least two members of a revolutionary group advocating the violent overthrow of the Emperor and his Court.”
Templair looked up from his papers. “Shall you tell your father that as well, when you go crying to him about my love taps?”
“I… I asked questions, that I did,” Armand said, his very bones feeling cold, knowing what this was all about. “But a revolutionary group… that’s absurd!”
“Is it now?” Templair turned over the last sheet of paper. “You will recall what I said earlier. About the peace and stability of our Empire. Part of the peace and stability comes from each group knowing its place, knowing its duty, knowing its requirements. The indentured servant class serves an important role within the Empire. And you have cast your lot in with those who would tear our system asunder, would spill blood in the streets, and cause our cities to burn, like what happened to the empire to the south. Do you think we would allow that to happen?”
Armand quickly shook his head. “Talk… I talked about peaceful change, about freeing the servants at some point in the future… they’re not servants, they are slaves!”
He made a pursed little smile. “A question that has been raised before and has been settled several times before by the Imperial Judiciary. The servant class has those rights that its employers garner to give them. No more, no less. And it’s not your place to do anything to change that… especially a young man of your supposed breeding and character.”
Armand looked around the stone-lined room and. “I can’t believe that I’m here, because… because I asked questions!”
Templair slammed his hand down on the papers. “You young fool, we don’t care if you raise questions about the Emperor’s ancestry, or whether the Earth revolves around the sun, or a thousand ot
her questions! What we care about are the people you have contacted… those revolutionaries who wish to harm the Empire.”
Armand stayed silent, his cheeks still burning where they had been hit. “They’re not revolutionaries. They’re… they’re just people…”
The security man reached into his coat, took out a fountain pen, gently unscrewed the top. “That’s for us to decide, not you. Now. We know some things, but not everything we should. One traitor, for example, is part of your father’s household. You will give me his or her name. Yesterday, you walked from West Library to meet another traitor on Chanson Street. But due to the incompetence of a younger officer, we don’t know the exact address. You will tell me the address on Chanson Street and the name of the traitor you met.”
Templair held the pen expectantly over a sheet of paper. “I’m waiting.”
Armand swallowed, found it hard since his mouth was so dry. “No… I can’t.”
“You can’t? Or won’t?”
Armand thought of Windsor Senior, old and hands shaking, placing his faith in him. And Churchill Grace, a proud and free woman, also putting her life in his hands.
“Whichever you prefer,” Armand said, surprised he could speak without his words shaking. “You won’t get that information from me.”
He sighed loudly. “Young stupid boy. You have no idea of the paperwork and problems I face when dealing with the nobility. Eventually the Lord Chancellor will have to be informed that you’re here. So make it easy for all of us and talk. Give me the two names, the address, and we’ll wrap this up today. Then you can go home and get a spanking or stern talking or whatever the hell it is your father does to discipline you.”
“No,” Armand said. He couldn’t believe he had replied so quickly.
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 13