The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  Melinda shrieked and whirled around. An angry-looking young man, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a filthy pair of shorts, bearded and with long, tangled hair was in front of her. One hand held a long canvas bag, and the other one was on Melinda’s shoulder.

  She broke free and he said, “Damn it, yer the gal from the Starmen, right?”

  Melinda swallowed hard. This man had to be one of the crew, but she was so terrified all she could do was nod. The man said, “Damn ye, gal, git back in yer cabin. There’s a whole lot of shootin’ and dyin’ goin’ on. We’z under attack by damn pirates.”

  Melinda found her voice. “Have you seen my friend? The boy?”

  The man grinned. “Yep. The cap, he says yer boyfriend should be in his cabin, cuz he’s important and needs t’be protected. But yer boy, he says no, and he’s up front, fightin’ away… and that’s where I gotta be… scuze, missie.”

  The man shouldered past her, and Melinda went forward, crouched, and saw the desperate battle going on. A tangle of tree trunks, boards and rope blocking them, and men scattered in there, shooting and stabbing. Two boats in the mess, the men cowering. More men at the front of the ship, behind barriers of cotton and cargo, and yes, there was Armand, her Armand, the noble trickster and brave boy, shooting and fighting. It was dangerous to be out here, but she couldn’t help it: she was held in one spot, watching the boy she had at first teased and tormented, fighting to defend her and the others on the boat. She felt a warm feeling softly flow through her, knowing that slim and scarred boy down there was nothing like the smug boys back home or at University. She offered a silent prayer for Armand, knowing that in addition to rescuing her from the Ayans, he had also rescued her future as well.

  Then something nearby started screaming and screaming, and Melinda covered her ears with her shaking hands.

  Armand’s companion opened his mouth to say something and then the Saint Clemens’ steam whistle blew and blew and blew. The crewmen in the longboats retreated and laid flat on the bottom, and the pirates stood up, cheering, waving their weapons, and more of them seemed to boil out of the blockades, and --–

  A thundering roar opened up behind Armand, and he dropped to the deck, joining everybody else.

  Armand rolled on his back, to see what the hell was going on. Up on the pilothouse’s roof, there were two crewmen, working a weapon based on a tripod. Fire flickered out like lightning from the squat barrel, and one crewman was aiming the weapon, while the other one was feeding a belt of some sort into it. Then it came to him: Armand had seen models and diagrams of a similar weapon being developed for the Imperial Army, from his old friend Henri. An automatic firing weapon. And the Saint Clemens had one.

  He rolled again, lifted his head, saw the automatic firing weapon had dropped all of the pirates. From the way wood chips and splinters were flying up in the air, the operators of the automatic firing weapon were swinging it back and forth, back and forth.

  Suddenly, the firing stopped. Armand stayed down, his head just barely above the boxes and bales, peering at the blockade. Two pirates suddenly got up and started scrambling away, trying to get over the tangle of trees and lumber, and the automatic weapon opened up again and cut them in half, bloody rags and body parts flopping into the blockade.

  Armand tried to take a breath. He looked to his tobacco-chewing companion. The man’s face was white and his beard was stained with tobacco juice.

  “I guess the Starmen showed up, eh?” Armand said. The man said nothing and Armand added, “Or at least one of their weapons.”

  In a manner of minutes, with the men in the longboat now free to work, and with the Saint Clemens pulling away the blockage with the aid of lines set forward, they were free to go. Two pirates had been taken prisoner, both of them wounded, and they were brought forward, their arms and legs bound. After turning in his rifle and depleted ammo belt, Armand went back to retrieve Melinda, to find her outside their cabin door, dressed and waiting.

  “M’lady, do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing outside?” he asked.

  She smiled and gave him a half-curtsey. “I heard the shooting, and then I heard the shooting stop. When it stopped, I figured either we had won or we had lost. If we had lost, I was going to look for you, perhaps to escape into the river. If we had won, what difference would it make?”

  Armand didn’t feel like arguing with her logic. She said, “Take me up forward. I want to see what happened.”

  They returned to the forward deck, where Captain Zebulon was supervising the work. The blockade was almost gone and Armand asked, “That weapon, did the Starmen give it to you?”

  He took off his cap, wiped at his forehead. “No, not give. They assigned it to us. We can only use it in an emergency, like now.”

  Nearby two younger crewmembers were on their hands and knees, picking up the empty cartridge cases. The air smelled of burnt powder and Armand’s ears were still ringing from the rapid fire that had come from the Starmen’s weapon. Melinda looked around and grasped his near hand.

  “My noble warrior,” she said.

  “Not that noble,” Armand said.

  She just held his hand for a sweet while.

  Soon they made their way back down river. Captain Zebulon next conducted a brief ceremony once three wounded crewmen and passengers had been taken into the dining room and laid out on tables to be looked at by the ship’s corpsman, who also served as a cook. The passengers and crew that weren’t on duty were mustered up on the forward deck, where the two pirates were standing, shivering. One was bleeding from the arm and the other, much younger, was bleeding from his neck. They were barefoot, dressed in rough clothes and the older one had a beard, and the younger one looked to be crying.

  “Pa?” he called out, his voice squeaking. “Pa?”

  His father stared down at the deck, legs shaking even harder. Captain Zebulon went out before the crew and passengers and in a quick patter of words --- “Based upon the laws of the Mississip and this watercraft there upon, I find you both guilty of piracy; first mate, carry out the sentence if you please “ --- and a number of crewmen stepped forward, carrying two lines of rope with nooses at the end. The nooses were deftly draped over the head of the father and son.

  Armand squeezed Melinda’s hand and said, “Don’t look,” and she sharply replied, “Don’t tell me what to do, young sire. I’ve seen and lived through much, much worse.”

  The boy squeaked out one more “Pa?” before the first mate snapped out an order, and now there were four men on each rope, the rope leading overhead up to two forward cranes. Eight crewmen trotted forward, some of the passengers gasping, and after a minute or two of dangling and kicking, it was done. One of the female passengers, a youngster about Melinda’s age, said, “Oh, that poor boy…”

  Melinda turned on her in an instant. “You silly bitch, that poor boy was going to rape you, kill you, and strip your body of your clothes and jewelry. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for the three men suffering in the dining hall after keeping you safe.”

  The Captain kept the bodies dangling like that all the way to Orleans.

  It was late afternoon when they docked at Orleans. It was hot and hazy, reminding Armand of that cursed trip so long ago to Potomick. The bodies of the father and son pirates were lowered down and a constable from Orleans came aboard and paid the captain a reward. The constable --- a tall, dark skinned man wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a gold star in the center and formal looking black trousers and long jacket --- took notes as he and the captain looked over a map to pinpoint where the pirate attack had taken place. As they were conferring and as the two bodies were wrapped up in canvas to be brought ashore, Armand took in the city of Orleans. Through the haze it was hard to see much except for the docks and tall buildings in the distance, and what looked to be like levees and dams, circling the whole place, docks extending out from the levees, like the one the Saint Clemens had been tied up to.

  Soon a deckhand h
ad their luggage near the gangway, leading down to a crowded dock. Captain Zebulon came over and as Melinda was chatting with one of the few female passengers, Armand said, “Orleans looks big. And old.”

  “Correct on both counts, young sir,” he said, holding a large leather ledger under his arm. The cranes up forward started to move as crewmen began using metal hooks to drag off hatch coverings to reveal the cargo underneath. The Captain went on. “There’s been a city here at the end of the Mississip for centuries, through plague, wars, floods and hurricanes. When the War of the World ended and the sea levels started rising, the people built their levees higher and higher, protecting the place.”

  He turned to him. “Do you expect to stay here for long?”

  “Not that long,” Armand said.

  Under his coat he took out a knife in a leather scabbard. “Then take this. Orleans is a wild, fun, and open city. But one does need to be armed. If you’d like, I can assign you a guide.”

  Armand said, “That’s very considerate of you.”

  The captain grinned. “Consideration has nothing to do with it, young man. If I was to deliver you here and the Starmen were to learn that you were killed not more an hour later, they would not be pleased. And I’ve found over years that it’s not good to displease the Starmen.”

  Melinda caught Armand’s eye, gave him a wave. Armand waved back and spoke softly, “I need to ask you more about Orleans, and other things as well.”

  The captain looked puzzled. “That would be fine. Here, this is for you.” From another pocket he took out a handful of silver coins. “Your share of the bounty for the two pirates we brought in. The crew and all male passengers who took part in defending the boat get a share.”

  Armand took the coins, pocketed them, and he talked with the Captain until Melinda came over.

  The guide’s name was Pierre Long, and he seemed to be about Armand’s age. He had gold earrings in both ears, a drooping thin black moustache, and wore a scarlet shirt open to the waist, and khaki trousers. He bowed to both he and Melinda, and kissed Melinda’s hand, which made her giggle. He gathered up both their bags, spoke quickly to the Captain, and Armand shook the Captain’s hand, and Melinda kissed him on his cheek.

  Pierre took the lead and turned for a moment. “Stay close, sir and madam. It’s a bit hectic in the dock areas, but it’ll clear up once we get out to the streets.”

  And so they entered Orleans.

  About the end of the gangplank they were on a wide dock, and hectic didn’t do it justice. There were deckhands and sailors from other steamships and cargo ships docked there, and vendors, and beggars, and people just pushing and moving about. The smell of the water was tinged with the scent of trash, of spices and freshly cut wood, and bales of cotton and clothes being moved about. Smoke rose up as well, and they made it to the end of the dock, and descended a wide set of stone steps that brought them to street level, which was several meters lower than the levees that ran out in each direction. Horse drawn wagons and cabs were clustered about the steps, and Pierre expertly forced his way through. Armand followed as well, his hand tight with Melinda’s, his new knife resting on a belt.

  Once they cleared away from the crowds Pierre said, “Your destination, sir and madam?”

  Armand spoke up before Melinda could. “A fine restaurant, then, if you please. And then to the embassy of the Empire of Nunavut.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The way was crowded but Armand found himself enjoying the trip. The last time he had been in such a busy and big city was in Toronto, lifetimes ago. The place smelled of spiced food, wine and perfume, along with burning smoke and coal. Horses and carriages and even a couple of electric coaches crowded the streets, and it seemed like every other doorway was a bar or restaurant, with fast-moving music racing out. They stayed close together, which pleased Armand, for they went through an intersection where two men, stripped to their waists, were fighting each other with long knives.

  They stopped for a moment, and Melinda said, “There’s a constable over, watching them. Why doesn’t he stop them?”

  Pierre laughed. “It’s a contracted duel. All quite legal.”

  They moved past them and went down another street, and Pierre said, “Just two more blocks to go, to Chez Prudhomme.” The way he spoke, and the language used on the signs for the stores and bars struck home. Armand gently touched his shoulder. “Pierre?” Armand asked him, in his most formal language. “Are from my homeland? Are you from the Empire of Nunavut?”

  Pierre’s words were almost as formal as Armand’s, as he laughed and bobbed his head. “My noble sir, I am Cajun, through and through, and my ancestors have lived here and about Orleans for centuries. But a long time ago, centuries before the War of the World, my families and so many others were expelled from a province of your empire, called Acadia, and were driven here. Here we have lived, with your language, some of your customs, music, and food.”

  Pierre’s smile was infectious. Armand smiled back, and slapped his shoulder. “Then go on, cousin. Go on.”

  A block later, he stopped smiling.

  The street widened into a plaza, and in the center of the plaza was a fountain, spurting up water and clouds of spray, and set before the fountain, on a long, wooden stage, was a slave auction. Men, women, and even children, with chains and shackles about their wrists and ankles, were taken to the center of the stage and were placed up upon a box. Their clothes were soiled and torn. A well-dressed man wearing a wide white hat, ruffled yellow shirt, short black jacket, tan trousers and riding boots stood before them. He had a sheaf of papers in one hand and a short riding stick in the other, and he spoke quickly with a Franglish patois that Armand couldn’t quite make out.

  Before the stage were rows of chairs, with well-dressed men and women sitting, some with umbrellas and parasols over their head, and they would flick with a hand or wrist when the bidding was going on. To one side of the stage, there were pens where some of the sold slaves were placed, and horse-drawn carriages and trailers were waiting patiently as well.

  Armand stopped so quickly that Melinda bumped into him. Pierre said, “Is everything all right?”

  He knew his voice was hoarse. “Slaves. They’re selling slaves here?”

  Pierre quickly spoke up. “Not slaves, sir. Servants. They are indentured servants, being sold in order to pay off their debts. Today is Servant Sale Day. That is all.”

  In his right pants pocket, the coin of Father Abram seemed to burn against his leg.

  Armand turned one more time and looked at the light-skinned slaves --- no matter what they were called --- being paraded before their dark-skinned masters and sellers.

  Chapter Eight

  Chez Prudhomme was a one-floor restaurant that had a tiny door outside, but which opened up in a dramatic fashion, with dining areas and a long, crowded bar. Musicians in a club deep inside were playing haunting tunes that reminded Armand so much of home that he ached inside. Each wall bore a painting of a plump man wearing a white cap, with a thin beard and deep-set eyes. Pierre met with a greeter and they were taken to a table with white cloth on it in a near corner that offered privacy. Pierre bowed. “I’ll return later, sir and madam. Do enjoy your meal.”

  He placed their bags near their table and left. For the next hour, Melinda and Armand had the most filling, tasty and delightful meal that they had ever shared, even better than the food the Starmen had provided them. Dish after dish, hot and spicy and filling, rice and fish and fried foods, washed down with cold fresh water and wine. Melinda drank one glass, and then another at Armand’s urging. She paused, laughing. “Dear Armand, if I drink anymore, I do believe I will fall on the ground.”

  Armand raised his own glass in a toast. “Then I will carry you.”

  She laughed again and then, more somber, said, “Will you carry me, then, to the embassy?”

  “I will. From there, m’lady, in a few short days, you will be home.”

  “Promise?” Melinda as
ked.

  “Promise,” Armand said, putting his glass down, touching her hand.

  “You will be with me, Armand, no matter what?”

  He released her soft hand. “Finish your wine, m’lady.”

  She picked up her glass, brought it up to her lips, and something warm and precious stirred inside of him. Melinda. She was nothing like any of the girls back home, especially that Teresa Dumont. She was brave, she was smart, she was beautiful, and the memories of their few kisses and cuddles warmed him. Armand so wanted to spend more time with her, to be with her in the hours and days and weeks ahead.

  Armand picked up his own wine glass, and felt like dirt, for he was about to betray her.

  With the bill settled, Pierre re-emerged and took their bags, and they went outside in the dusk. Bugs were flying about lit gas lamps, and music from the shops and bars seemed louder. Pierre carried both of their bags. Melinda held onto Armand’s arm, stumbling some, and she started laughing. “Oh my, I wonder… I wonder about my professor, back at University… do you think? Do you think he’ll give me an extension for my thesis?” She giggled again.

  Another plaza opened up before them, and behind a wrought-iron gate about two meters high, a fine brick and wooden building sat beyond on a landscaped lawn. There was a guard shack and in front of the building, a white flagpole reached up into the darkening sky, and the flag of the Empire of the Nunavut flapped slowly in the breeze, halfway up the pole.