The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  “And why not?”

  “Because you don’t belong to you anymore. You’re a lifer, a stoker here in the oil sands. You belong to the Emperor, and by killing yourself, you’re destroying his property. Can’t be done.”

  After cleaning up best he could, Armand had fallen asleep on his bunk, until Johnny kicked him at the sound of a bell. “Supper’s here, so be quick about it,” he said. “Or we’ll eat your ration.”

  Armand rolled out of his bunk, grabbing his plate and spoon, and joined a cluster of boys about a cauldron, something similar to what was used on the train. But the stew tonight was better than what he had eaten on the train, and there were chunks of dark bread to go along with it. Armand sat on the floor with the others and drank water and ate it all. For the first time in a very long time, Armand actually felt full when he wiped up the last of the brown greasy gravy with a chunk of bread.

  A boy with the start of a thin beard said, “Hey, boss.”

  MacKenzie, who sat on a padded chair and had white bread to go with his stew, said, “Hey, yourself, Tommy.”

  “You’ve got an educated palate --–“ and a bunch of guys hooted at that “—- so I was wondering, what was the meat tonight?”

  MacKenzie picked up a spoonful, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Well, it ain’t fish, that’s for sure. Not beef. Probably caribou. What do you think?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Elk. Got more of a gamey taste.”

  “Hell, Tommy,” someone in the crowd said. “You seen the kitchen lately? The way they toss in spices and seasonings to hide how rotten the meat is… could be dog, for all you know.”

  MacKenzie shook his head. “Nope. Not dog. I know dog. Tommy old boy, I’d say its caribou.”

  “Elk,” Tommy said.

  MacKenzie said, “Caribou.”

  “Elk.”

  MacKenzie took another bite. “Care to make a bit of a wager on it, Tommy?”

  Tommy stroked his chin and said, “You know I’m pretty much tapped out, boss.”

  MacKenzie said, “That’s all right. I’m a reasonable guy. Let’s say… your beer ration, day of the Emperor’s birthday. When one of cookie’s boys comes back and we ask him what was in the bucket of slop we just ate. He tells us and who ever wins, gets the other guys’ beer ration. Deal?”

  Tommy stroked his chin again. “All right, boss. Deal.”

  MacKenzie smiled. “Double rations. Can hardly wait. Damn, when is that son of a bitch’s birthday, anyway?”

  A bunch of voices answered and without thinking, Armand called out, “October fourteenth.”

  Johnny looked to Armand. “Why are you so sure?”

  “It’s October fourteenth. I know.”

  “No, pup, you’re wrong,” said a boy from the other side of the room, with bad teeth and one ear missing. “I say it’s September fourteenth.”

  Armand didn’t like the look of the kid with the one ear but pressed on. “No offense, but it’s October fourteenth.”

  The kid with one ear spat on the floor. “No offense, the newbie says. How the hell do you know, eh?”

  He looked at his empty plate and spoon and said quietly, “I know, that’s all.”

  There were voices raised but MacKenzie’s voice cut through them all. “Oh, don’t be so quick to judge our newbie. He’s a member of the ruling class, aren’t you Armand.”

  He kept his mouth shut, feeling alone and outnumbered, but MacKenzie wouldn’t have it. “Answer your bunk chief, Armand. You’re a member of the ruling class. Am I right?”

  Armand said carefully, “Maybe I was, once. But I’m not anymore.”

  “You hear that?” MacKenzie said. “Ol’ monsieur Armand de la Cloutier, once a member of the royal class, now slumming with the rest of us criminals and slaves. Tsk, tsk. But of course he’d know the emperor’s birthday. I bet he was at the emperor’s party last year. Am I right?”

  By now everyone was staring at him, and it felt like those odd dreams of being in church or in classroom, naked before people who were staring and laughing. Armand wondered what to say, and how to say it, and then… to hell with it. To hell with all of them and what they think.

  “Yes, I was,” Armand said. “I was at his birthday party last year.”

  “Bullcrap,” said a voice. “Don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t care if you do or you don’t,” Armand said. “But I was there.”

  Now everyone was staring at him, some in anger, some in disbelief, but most in what looked to be sincere curiosity. A younger boy said, “What was it like?”

  He put his empty bowl and spoon on the floor. “It was held at the Palace Hall. It was a warm night. The electric coaches and horse-drawn coaches were so crowded around the entrance that it was hard to walk on the sidewalks and streets. There were torches burning on the walkways leading into the Hall, and there were string quartets in every room, playing the Emperor’s favorite music. The place was crowded with the royals, the members of the nobility, the city government of Toronto, officials from other cities and kingdoms, ambassadors from the city states to the south… and the food.”

  Now it seemed they were leaning in to listen to him, to hear what Armand was saying. “Long tables lined up… with lobster, oysters, clams… roast beef, duck, quail, partridge… every type of pastry and dessert. Wine, cognac, coffee… you could eat for hours and not eat the same thing twice. And the men and women were dressed in lace and ribbons and jewels… and everything was clean… and safe… and warm.”

  Armand stopped and looked at the drawn and dirty faces of his new barracks mates, their soiled jumpsuits and dirty hands, the dented metal plates and bent spoons, at the wooden floor with speckles of dust and dirt.

  He didn’t want to say anything more.

  From someplace in the barracks, a metal plate was thrown at Armand, missing by a fair distance but hitting the floor. An older voice called out, “To hell with you, royal. Why did you have to tell us this? To hell with you.”

  Armand saw what other boys did and stripped out of his jumpsuit, and let it hang from a hook at the end of his bunk. Before Armand crawled under the blankets, he let his hand slide into the jumpsuit and felt the little coin there. Father Abram, who had traveled all the way here with him, and was the only real thing that belonged to him.

  Then he slept for what seemed to be a half hour or so, when the lights came back up and the horns blew, and it was time to go back to the sands. His hands were as stiff as claws and were red and raw, and though tears came to his eyes when he shoveled all day, he refused to slow down, refused to weep, refused to feel sorry for myself. Armand kept on thinking about his arrest, his torture, and who might have betrayed him.

  At one point during the day, a boy named Walter –-- in for five years for striking an Imperial health inspector –-- came up to him and said, “That story you said last night… was that true?”

  “Every sentence,” Armand said, looking at his bleeding hands, wondering if they would be scarred for life.

  “Can… can you help me?” Walter asked.

  “Me? How?”

  “You know the Emperor,” he said shyly. “If I wrote him a letter, asking for a pardon, and you signed it, too, don’t you think it would help me?”

  Armand picked up his shovel, winced and went back to work. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  When Saturday afternoon came by, after a half-day out in the oil sands, Armand retreated to his bunk and slept for most of the day. On Sunday, he got up with the other members of barracks nineteen, and they marched to a rare treat, a visit to the dining hall. The place was crowded with many men and boys, and as he stood in line, Armand peered around, looking for Tompkins Earl, his train companion. But there were so many men, so many faces, that he couldn’t spot him.

  But somebody else spotted Armand.

  As he picked up his metal plate on the way to the food line, Armand was jostled and bumped, and he turned and it was the two Patterson brothers, Greg and Paul, glaring at him, ca
rrying their full breakfast plates. The thinner one said, “Always knew we’d find you, royal.”

  “Yeah, well, glad to see you, too,” Armand said.

  The other one said, “We’re in camp now. Lots of places for accidents. You remember that, royal. Nobody here is going to save your butt. Nobody.”

  “My butt is fine,” I said, “and I seem to remember your butts on the floor of the boxcar. So if you don’t want a repeat, leave me the hell alone.”

  Then a guard came by, looked at the Patterson brothers and they stalked off, and Armand got in line and food was slopped onto the plate. Oatmeal and scrambled eggs and a lonely sausage link, but it smelled delicious and when he got to the table with the other boys of barracks nineteen, it took him just a few minutes to eat it all. Then MacKenzie, sitting at the head of the table, motioned Armand over and he said, “Got you a good gig for you. Make sure you help me out, all right?”

  “What kind of gig?”

  “Kitchen duty. You get back there, tell ‘em MacKenzie from number nineteen sent you, and you do whatever they tell you.”

  “How did that happen?” Armand asked, not liking that he was being volunteered.

  He smirked, sipped at a cup of what smelled like real coffee. “Each barracks sends a guy over for kitchen duty. You’re picked, newbie.”

  “Thanks a hell of a lot.”

  His smirk remained. “Stupid little noble. I’m doing you a favor. You’ll see. And make sure you do one for me. All right?”

  “And what’s that… boss?”

  MacKenzie swallowed the last of his coffee. “Make sure your fingers get sticky and bring back whatever you can.”

  The kitchen was huge, even bigger than the one back home at Maison de la Couture, but the stoves and sinks were old, battered, and filthy. Armand was soon washing pots and pans, and the hot water stung his sore hands, but it felt warm and comfortable. The old cook was from one of the tribes in the upper north, and he sat on a stool in the corner and smoked a pipe left everyone alone, so long as the work got done. Armand scrubbed and scrubbed, and in moving about, saw what MacKenzie had meant. There was food scraps back here, some of it being dumped and scraped into barrels that would eventually –-- as he found out --– to be used in nearby pig farms that supplied the camp, but for every few scraps that went into the buckets, other scraps went into pockets or mouths.

  God, what have I had become in such a short time, Armand thought. Back at the pleasures of his home, to think of taking food from another’s plate, food that should be tossed away, would have nauseated him. But now he was hungry. He ate. Armand ate scraps of bread, bits of sausage, and recalling MacKenzie’s words, he carefully stuffed his pockets. When the old cook waved them out when they were done, he went outside with the other prisoners, breathing in the air.

  Armand trudged back to barracks nineteen and went to MacKenzie, and emptied his pockets. He and the others slapped him on the back, told him he had done a good job, and the cold food he brought back was eaten within minutes.

  Later on that first Sunday, Armand was surprised when a guard came into the barracks and walked over to MacKenzie, tossed him a wrapped paper bundle. A crowd formed about MacKenzie and he tore open the paper and started shuffling through a collection of envelopes.

  “Harrison, Tory, me, Harrison again, you lucky son of a bitch, Duprey, Fabin,” he started, handing out envelope after envelope, and Armand felt a tingling, thinking maybe, maybe somebody had written to him. But who? Mother. No. Michelle, even less chance than Mother. Jeannette. Possible. Henri Godin? Doubtful. Being in the military, he would never sabotage his budding career by writing to a lifer like him. And Father… what was he thinking, with his oldest son and heir, off in a prison camp?

  Then it was done. All the mail had been given away. The men who were fortunate enough to get mail went back to their bunks, to have as private a moment as possible, Armand imagined. The others shrugged and pretended it didn’t hurt, and stared out the dirty windows or went to wash their hands, or do some mending, or just sit and stare up at the ceiling, listening to the music from the wireless.

  As for Armand, he went up to MacKenzie. “How does the mail work?”

  MacKenzie said, “You write letters, sometimes you get letters back. If you’re lucky.”

  “Where can I get paper and a pen?”

  He leaned back in his padded chair. “Well, that can cost you. But since you did such a good job salvaging food from the mess hall, I guess I can let you have a few sheets and a pencil. And an envelope… hold on.”

  From underneath his bunk he took out a wooden box with a combination lock on it, and after a few deft spins, he undid the lock, lifted the cover, and passed over two sheets of paper, an envelope, and a pencil. Before Armand left, MacKenzie said, “Couple of things. I get the pencil back when you’re done. Write whatever you want, but don’t say anything that might make the stooges angry. And don’t bother sealing the envelope; the censors won’t like it and they’ll toss it out.”

  “Stamps?”

  MacKenzie smirked. “Free postage. One of the many gifts we receive from our emperor. Nice of him, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” Armand said. “Real nice.”

  So he went to his bunk and stretched out, and carefully crafted a letter to his little sister Jeannette. He started off by thanking her for the bread and the note, and then he gave her a false story about the trip out west to the camp --– with lots of nonsense descriptions about seeing elk, great rivers and mountain ranges --– and Armand ended the note with a plea for her to write back, as soon as she could, and as much as she could.

  Then Armand folded the sheets and put them in an envelope, addressed it, and then gave it back to MacKenzie. He looked at the address. “Maison de la Couture,” letting the syllables roll off his tongue in gentle mocking. “Such a mouthful, such a lovely name. Miss it much?”

  “Miss it a lot,” Armand said, surprised at how his throat choked up at the rush of memories from that safe, warm and comfortable place.

  “Tell you what, maybe some day the Emperor will pardon us both, and you’ll show me around. Deal?”

  The thought of a boy like MacKenzie traipsing through the tidy and clean halls of Maison de la Couture almost made Armand laugh, but instead he shook MacKenzie’s rough hand. “You can count on it, boss.”

  Chapter Four

  Monday was tough, but Tuesday seemed a bit better, and Armand’s new life got into a slog of a routine, of eating and caging meals when he could, of long hours out in the oil sands, of the shoveling and shoveling. His hands healed and roughened up, as did the muscles in his back, legs and arms, and Armand began to notice and appreciate things he had never really thought about before. Of a fully belly. A good night’s sleep. Of an unexpected hour-long break one day when the electric coach hauling out their quota of oil sands broke down and needed repairs. Life, such as it was, fell into some sort of routine, some sort of dreary rhythm. Armand found himself thinking about Sundays, always Sundays, for those were the days they had to themselves, a hot meal from the dining hall, and they listened to the wireless, but most of all, they waited for the mail.

  Every Sunday Armand faithfully wrote a letter to Jeannette, and every Sunday, he faithfully waited for a reply. And none ever came. It got to the point when he worked on Mondays and Tuesdays in a sort of depressed haze, and then Wednesdays and Thursdays, he would bounce back. By Friday and Saturday, he was eagerly anticipating Sunday and the chance, the sweet chance that mail would come his way.

  But it never did.

  After a number of weeks, MacKenzie took Armand aside and said, “Forget it all. You hear me? Forget it all.”

  “Forget what?”

  He grabbed Armand’s shoulder. “Forget that life you had, forget you even knew Toronto. That’s gone. It’s not real. Doesn’t exist. I see the letters you send out, and I see you don’t get any replies. Well, that’s a damn shame but that’s life. Your sister… she’s probably moved on. So to hell w
ith her and to hell with your family. Don’t exist no more. What exists here is the camp and the Oil Sands Authority, and the Emperor. Your ass belongs to all three and nothing else matters. So get that pointy noble head out of your ass and focus on your job, or something bad will happen to you. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Armand said, seething at MacKenzie’s hectoring tone.

  Then he seemed to pity Armand and gently tapped him on the cheek. “No, you don’t, but you will. Now. How about a game of cribbage to take your mind off your troubles?”

  MacKenzie was a lousy cribbage player, humming as he played and picking his teeth and passing gas, and occasionally cheating when he thought he could get away with it, but Armand nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

  But before the game he went back to his bunk, picked up the latest letter he had written to his sister, and in going back to see MacKenzie, tossed it into a nearby woodstove.

  One morning, instead of being marched out to the sands, prisoners in all twenty barracks were brought out to the center of the compound. Armand stood next to Tulley, a lean boy who was from the eastern coast of the empire, sent to the oil sands because he violated some rules about fishing on proper days. The wind was sharp and before them, set up in the center of the compound, was a wooden platform. As they got closer, Armand felt queasy, seeing what was up there, on the platform.

  A gallows.

  Tulley said, “Don’t look good, does it.”

  “Understatement of the week,” Armand replied, wishing they were back digging out in the sands, instead of being here.

  They were pushed closer to the gallows by the guards, who seemed unhappy at their duty. The ground was hard-packed, small depressions filled with ice, and up on the platform, around the gallows, there were several men, and one who stood off by the side, flanked by guards, his head covered by a black hood.