The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

  He lowered his hands to the desk Back in Quebec City, those three adults --- his father among them --- had promised him a future, a chance to change his own life and the future of the empire, and my word, how those promises had excited him. No more worries about going to the Service Academy, no more worries about studying and homework, no more worries about getting to know girls on his own. No, a bright and exciting future had been laid out, with a future in the Imperial Palace, and not dusty classrooms.

  And they had all lied! And he had never heard from them, ever again!

  And sure, he could confront his father about that long ago meeting in Quebec City, but something in his stomach curdled at the thought of father’s temper, and how he would react if confronted by his son. Especially now, since all those promises seemed as dead as last year’s calendar, for Andre, the emperor’s nephew, had been named crown prince, and Armand --- a younger boy who was supposedly a complication --- was still alive out there.

  And for Randall?

  He picked up his algebra book. Nothing had changed. Nothing! In fact, he had even gotten worse! He had already completed one semester at the Imperial Service Academy, and he loathed it. Set in an old military school, hundreds of klicks away from Toronto, he had to share a room with a skinny boy from Newfoundland who talked about fishing, fishing and more fishing. They were forced to do exercises, do more sports, and now he was home on semester break, already on academic probation because of this damn algebra! What kind of math had letters instead of numbers?

  Randall stood up, threw the textbook at his bedroom door.

  It was so damn unfair!

  Armand bent down, picked up Henri’s newsjournal and passed it over to him, his shoulders feeling tight. Henri’s face was pale. Armand said, “Don’t make a fuss, don’t yell or jump down, all right? Keep cool and quiet.”

  “Armand… how in God’s name did you get here? You’re… well, you’re supposed to be…”

  “Yeah, I know. In prison. For life.”

  Henri stared at him. “That’s the least of it.”

  “Henri,” Armand said forcefully. “I need to know something, and I need to know it right now. Are you going to turn me in?”

  His friend’s jaw worked for a moment, like he was struggling to make a decision. Armand pressed on. “I know I’ve put you in a hell of a bind. I’ve got a price on my head, I’m an escapee and a supposed traitor. So if you can’t help me, old friend, then I’m out of here.”

  Henri’s voice was flat. “Suppose I don’t want you to go?”

  Armand looked at the other troopers and civilians. “You try to arrest me, Henri Godin, you might be successful, but you’ll be one hurting trooper when the day is done.”

  There was a heavy pause, and then Henri grinned. “You son of a gun… you think I’d arrest you? Turn you in? Not hardly. Look, we’ve got to talk, but not here. Too public.”

  “That’d be great,” Armand said, feeling the tension about his shoulders ease up. “Where can we do it?”

  Henri made a point of leafing through his newsjournal. “I’m off duty in a few minutes. Three blocks down, there’s a pub, called the Last Post. Take a table in the corner. I’ll see you there. Later, I’ll find a place for you to take a rest. You look like you could use a bath and a bed.”

  “Deal,” Armand said, picking up his rucksack, which felt as light as feathers. “Looking forward to it... and looking forward to you buying me a drink.”

  Henri’s head was still lowered. “Just be there, all right? The drinking will come later.”

  The main street of this town --– and Armand still didn’t know its name --– was well-packed and maintained dirt, flanked on both sides by two- and three-story wood buildings, and not a single one made of brick. Piles of horse dung had been raked into piles for later pickup. There was a bank, an Imperial post office –-- no telegraph office in sight, though Armand was sure Henri could direct him to it --– and a set of other stores, from a barbershop to a feed and grain. Raised wooden sidewalks were before each stretch of stores.

  Just as Henri had said, to his left was the Last Post, and Armand walked through a set of wooden double doors --- past two Wanted posters for runaway servants --- and immediately, his stomach sprang to attention at the smells of cooking food. The floor was wooden and there was a bar off to one side, and a series of tables and booths. He took a table at the rear, and a steward came over, with a white apron down to his knees, and if he was disturbed by Armand’s rough appearance, he certainly didn’t show it.

  “Sorry,” Armand said, “I’m waiting for someone.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

  The steward went back to the bar and up on a large blackboard was a menu, and Armand couldn’t look at the offerings, for his stomach was screaming now, for hot food prepared by someone other than himself or a prison camp cook. About him were a mix of people from the town, merchants, it looked like, with a couple of women with wrapped paper parcels set next to them. He thought of what was ahead for him: a meal, a drink, a bath and a bed, and above all, Henri leading him to the telegraph office.

  The door creaked open, and Armand looked up, anticipating his old friend Henri Godin to walk in and saw --–

  A proctor in his dark blue uniform and beret.

  Armand sat still. The proctor was plump with a thin blond beard and he yawned as he came in. About his waist were a holstered revolver and a whistle dangled from a lanyard around his neck. He scratched at his belly and went up to the bar, and the same steward as before poured him a colored drink. Perhaps fruit juice, perhaps something stronger, but Armand didn’t care. He had to leave. He’d go outside and wait for Henri to arrive, but he couldn’t stay in the pub.

  He put his hand on his rucksack, just as the proctor finished off his drink, and said in a loud voice, “Thanks for that, Tommy. Cuts the dust fine. Now, a bit of work so my legate doesn’t think I’ve been goofing around.”

  He went to the young women, brought his hand up to his beret with a casual salute. “M’ladies, hope you’re doing well, and I was hoping to see your papers. Just routine, nothing to worry about.”

  They were of an age that having a proctor approach made them both giggle, and each young lady produced a slim bit of cardboard with their photos upon them.

  Armand’s feet felt like they were made of wood and were part of the floor. No escape. If he started moving to the door, he was sure the proctor would gently step in front of him and ask for his identification… which meant he’d have to push past him and race out…

  But how many other proctors were out on the street? Was there another way out?

  Armand frantically looked around. The only other exit was through the swinging doors leading to the kitchen, and that would certainly get this proctor’s attention, no matter how much time was spent flirting with the two women.

  The proctor gave them back their identification, went over to an older man, drinking by himself, and looked at the man’s creased and dirty piece of cardboard. Armand took a breath. No more pondering. He was getting out. Armand grabbed his rucksack, judged the distance between him and the door, and --–

  The door swung open.

  Henri Godin strode in, wearing the scarlet tunic and blue trousers of a cavalry officer in the Imperial Army.

  He waved to the steward behind the bar, spotted the proctor, walked up to him and slapped him on the back.

  “Phillipe, so glad to see you,” he boomed out. “Having a good day?”

  “Not bad, not bad, but --–“

  “You know, I think I saw your legate looking for you, ducking in and out of shops. He doesn’t look like he’s in a good mood.”

  Even from where Armand was sitting, he could see the color drain from the young proctor’s face. He quickly passed the identification card back to the old man, and then scurried to the door. Henri then came up to Armand, and with his voice still loud, said, “Come along cousin,
we’re late.”

  Armand looked up at him, surprised. “Henri, I thought --–“

  He smiled and reached over, grabbed Armand’s upper arm. Hard. “Don’t think, you know that only gives you a headache. Come along now.”

  So Armand got up and joined him, and left the Last Post, the smells of the kitchen still rolling around in his nostrils and growling stomach.

  Outside Armand said, “What the hell was that all about? Why couldn’t we have something to eat? God, Henri, if you knew --–“

  “Oh, cousin, let’s go for a walk on this fine summer day,” his arm inside of Armand’s, and he propelled Armand down an alley between two buildings, to a flat piece of land filled with waste bins, underneath some pine trees. He pushed Armand between two waste bins. “Sorry we didn’t have time for lunch, Armand, but there’s other important things going on. Like this.”

  He unbuttoned his tunic, reached in and took out a thick piece of paper. He unfolded it and silently passed it over to Armand. Looking up at him was a portrait of Armand, younger and more innocent looking. His official identification photostat, though Armand was sure he didn’t look like that anymore. Good God. Above his photostat was the words WANTED but he didn’t bother reading the rest of the text. Armand passed it back to Henri.

  “This came in to the fort just before I left,” Henri said. “It’s going to be distributed to the town later on. There’s a reward for you, in gold sovereigns. Based on what people make in this town and the surrounding farms, you wouldn’t last more than an hour out there in the streets. Or at a table in a tavern.”

  He folded the paper back and put it in his tunic. Armand said, “Then I won’t stay. But look, where’s the telegraph station in this town?”

  “At the fort.”

  “Damn,” Armand said. “Henri, can you send a telegram? Collect? Without getting yourself in trouble?”

  He looked to his friend. “Probably. I know all of the telegraph operators. But who do you want to send a telegram to?”

  “Who do you think?” Armand said. “My father. Henri, I’ve read and re-read the section on treason and the nobility in the Compact, dozens of time. I was owed a trial! I didn’t have a trial… and --- what?”

  His old friend Henri’s face was troubled. Henri looked around, like he was concerned about being overheard, about what he was going to say next.

  “Henri. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He could hear him take a breath. “Armand… my good friend… didn’t you know? Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  Even though the sun was shining hard, Armand felt a cold wave wash over him, like a weather front from the Arctic was suddenly roaring in. “Tell me what?”

  “Armand… your father. He’s dead.”

  Armand found he was leaning against one of the wooden waste bins, his feet splayed out. “How… how long has he been dead?”

  “Just under a year,” Henri said. “You mean you really didn’t know?”

  “How the hell could I have known?” Armand shot back. “Ever since I was sent out to the oil sands, I never received one piece of mail. Not a one! So how was I supposed to know?”

  Henri gently touched his shoulder. “I’m deeply sorry Armand. It was a shock. He stayed late in his office at the ministry and never went home. Two of his assistants found him at his desk, deceased. An apparent heart attack. He was never the same after your arrest. When you were deported, he seemed to get ten years older in one day.”

  Armand wiped at his face, tears wetting his cheeks. “I hope it was quick.”

  “I’m sure it was, Armand. The Emperor spoke at the services, and you wouldn’t believe the number of nobles who attended, the ambassadors from the city states to the south and the Caribbean Sea. It was all Toronto talked about for weeks.”

  The tears were still there. “My mother?”

  “She’s still in mourning, for what I know.”

  “And my sisters?”

  “Jeannette has grown to be a lovely young woman. Michelle is said to be unofficially betrothed.”

  “Oh God, please don’t tell me it’s Randall de la Bourbon.”

  Henri sadly nodded. Armand said, “That damn fool,” and he wiped again at his eyes, thinking of Father, the steady center of Maison de la Cloutier, always in command, always in control, except when he bowed to Mother’s wishes, and now, gone. Now as well, pudgy Randall de la Bourbon, arrogant, obstinate, was set to actually marry his sister, become part of his family.

  “No need, then, to bother your telegraph operator friends,” Armand finally said.

  “But your mother.”

  Armand stood away from the waste bins. “No. Before I was deported, do you know what she was concerned about?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The shame I was bringing to the family. That’s it. She also killed Martel. That was my mother. Upset about shaming the family, more concerned about killing my dog than trying to free me. No, Henry, I shan’t be sending her a telegram. The old witch would probably send a troop of Imperial Security here to arrest me.”

  Henri gave him a thin smile. “She might at that, Armand.”

  Armand wiped his face on the sleeve of his dirty coat, looked at Henri again. On the collar tabs of his uniform jacket he saw something surprising. Armand traced the silver markings on Henri’s lapel. “Henri… I know it’s been a while but is this true? A lieutenant? When I saw you at the Emperor’s party for his nephew, you were still a cadet. And ready to enter Academy.”

  Henri folded his arms. “I did go to Academy, but under a special program, quickening the course load. Then I got attached to a regular cavalry unit, out here in the west, with additional studies. War means lots of opportunities, lots of promotions.”

  “War? Who the hell are we at war with?”

  Henri looked about the alleyway and waste bins. “It’s quieted down some, but earlier this year, some of the southern Indian tribes and barbarian bands were raiding the border towns, like this one, and --–“

  “Hold on,” Armand said. “We’re near the border?”

  Henri stared at him. “My word, Armand, we’re less than five klicks away from the border. Why do you think there’s an Imperial fort here? To collect taxes?”

  Now it made sense. “There’s a curfew, isn’t there.”

  “True. For farmers and townspeople. At dusk, if you have a permit, you can spend the night behind the palisades. Otherwise, you need to be on your way back to your own home. Without a permit, the farms and homes would be abandoned. It’s been a while since there’s been an attack, but still…”

  “I can’t stay here, can I,” Armand said. “No meals, no bath, no bed.”

  Henri gently shook his head. “No, you can’t. I got you away from that proctor earlier due to luck and his own stupidity. I can’t count on that again.”

  “I know.”

  “So where will you go?”

  Armand gently poked Henri’s chest, where his Wanted poster resided. “It looks like the Empire is no longer welcoming.”

  “No,” he slowly said, “I suppose you’re right.” Henri lowered his voice. “Treason… did you really commit treason against the Emperor, Armand?”

  “What do you think?” Armand asked.

  “I was told you committed treason. I didn’t believe it then… and I don’t believe it now.”

  Despite what he had learned about Father, at hearing Henri’s words, Armand was stunned at the sense of relief that went through him. “Thanks, Henri. And you know what I did that got me arrested? I asked questions. That’s all. Asked questions about our society and our indentured servants. For that, I was arrested, tortured and deported for life.”

  Henri said, “But… nobility. You should have had a trial.”

  “I should have had a lot of things,” Armand said, picking up his rucksack. “But that was then. This is now. And I have to leave.”

  Another touch to his arm. “No, not yet,” Henri said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. But I want t
o help. Get out beyond the palisades now, before the Wanted poster gets passed around and --–“

  “The damn gate is guarded, you know that!”

  Henri shot back, “Give me some credit, Armand. The gate is guarded, but the proctors only care about people coming into the town. They don’t care about people leaving. Go back out on the main road. You’ll come to a stone bridge. There’s an oak tree there. Stay there and I’ll come out later with some supplies. Then it’s up to you.”

  Armand nodded. “Yeah, I guess it’s up to me. All right, it’s time to leave this lovely town and find an oak tree to sit under. But Henri… why are you helping me, putting your career in danger?”

  He smiled. “Nearly two years ago, don’t you remember? We took a trip across Lake Ontario, to York, to the forbidden lands. I pushed you and pushed you, and when things got out of hand, got scary, you could have left me behind. You knew how to sail. I didn’t. But you didn’t leave me behind. So I’ve always owed you.”

  “Henri…”

  Another tap on the shoulder. “For God’s sake, get your smelly noble ass moving, all right? I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  As Henri predicted, Armand had no difficulty leaving the town, and as Henri had described, there was a small stone bridge, spanning a dried out brook. Armand took shelter under the oak tree and waited. He stretched out his legs and rested his rucksack on its side, and the tears came back, the memories as well. Father, being strict and fair, but also sneaking candied treats to Armand and his sisters when Mother wasn’t looking… When Armand had been much younger, he let his son play under his huge wooden desk in his home office, while court officials and traders visited… the smell of pipe tobacco, sweet and rich, when he sometimes retired to one of the balconies at home, for Mother never allowed smoking inside Maison de la Cloutier… and the times he had taken Armand to the Ministry of Trade, and where his secretaries would give him paper and pencils to play with…