The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  Armand kept his grip on Melinda, who was stumbling and giggling again. Pierre kept abreast of him. “Sir, I’m not sure…”

  “Just stay quiet, all right? Just stay quiet.”

  They came up to the guard shack where a clean-cut and tall man emerged, wearing the scarlet and tan uniform of the Diplomatic Guard Service. His boots were polished as well as his belts. In Armand’s best, formal Franglish and commanding voice, he said, “Guard, this woman is a citizen of the Empire. It appears she is ill and has been robbed. She has no papers.”

  The guard looked at the two of them with suspicious eyes. Armand was sure others had said the same story, trying to scam entry into the Empire. “What is her name?”

  “Her name is Melinda, and that’s all she will say. I do know that she comes from a respected family, from the northern reaches of the Inuit. Look at her features. You can see she tells the truth.”

  Armand raised up her head so her face could be seen from a small gas lamp in the guard shack. The guard grunted and Armand said, “I’m here on a confidential trade mission from Quebec City with my father, when I found her stumbling in the street.” He snapped his fingers and Pierre came forward with her bag, which he dropped at her feet. “Your name?” Armand asked.

  “Roger Boisvert,” he said.

  “Monsieur Boisvert, I leave her in your custody. You will ensure that she gets home to the Empire and her family, will you not?”

  His eyes stared at Armand, and it seemed Melinda’s features and Armand’s command of Franglish tipped the scales. He nodded and picked up her bag. “You can count on me. And your name, young sir?”

  Armand smiled and slowly shook his head. “As I said before, I’m on a confidential trade mission with my father. I can’t say anymore than that.”

  Boisvert gently grasped Melinda’s arm and went to a small gate, which he opened up. Melinda stumbled and murmured, “Armand?” and he said, “Hush now.”

  But with the gate open, something caught his eye: black bunting, hanging over the main entrance to the embassy. “Boisvert!” Armand called out.

  He turned. “Sir?

  “The flag… it’s at half-staff. And the black bunting. What happened?”

  Boisvert stared at Armand with disbelief. “You must be on some confidential mission. You don’t know the news?”

  “Tell me.”

  Boisvert said, “The crown prince, the Emperor’s nephew. He’s dead.”

  He suppose he should have asked questions, find out more about the death of someone so young and prominent, but Melinda started struggling in Boisvert’s grasp. Armand grabbed his bag from Pierre and said, “Lead on.”

  Pierre said, “She told me earlier that she was looking forward to going home with you.”

  Armand’s bag seemed quite heavy. “I have other responsibilities. Let’s get going.”

  In less than a half hour, they were climbing up another wide set of stone steps, leading to a set of docks far away from where the Saint Clemens had moored. Torch lamps lit the long docks and the sailing craft and riverboats that were docked there. Even at this hour the docks were crowded with sailors, passengers, stevedores and what looked to be slaves, loading or unloading the ships. Pierre whispered, “Stay close and keep a firm hand on your bag,” which is what Armand did, also keeping another hand on his knife scabbard.

  Armand was bumped and jostled but they got to a gangplank with little effort. Pierre said, “Here you go, sir. Have a grand voyage.”

  Armand shook his hand and passed over a silver coin. “Thanks for your work. If I ever come back to Orleans, I’ll make sure to hire you again.”

  From a distant lamp Armand made out the shy smile on Pierre’s face, as he quickly pocketed the silver coin. “I thank you for that, cousin. Now, don’t be late.”

  He picked up his bag and went down the shaky gangplank, the bag in his cold hands.

  Chapter Nine

  When the visitor from the Royal Household had left, Randall de la Bourbon sat still in the formal sitting room of their home, waiting to see what his father would say. Father was sitting stiffly in one of the thinly padded chairs near the cold fireplace. Randall remembered that his mother always kept the fireplace lit, even on the warmest days, for she loved seeing the flickering flames. He had a short memory of being much younger, sitting in front of the fire, giggling as his mother rubbed his warm face and hands, maybe a year before she died. But now, even in the coldest weeks of January and February, his father never allowed the fireplace to be lit.

  His father said, “With Andre’s death, I hope you know what this means. There will be a hearing by an executive session of the Royal Privy Council, which will then decide if your thin lineage is firm enough for them to name you as Crown Prince.”

  Randall tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “When will the hearing begin, father?”

  “Not for another seven days,” he said sharply. “In case you haven’t noticed, the Empire is in a week of official mourning. Nothing of importance dealing with government matters will be considered. So be patient. And for God’s sake, when you do get interviewed, don’t be dull.”

  Randall felt a quivering, like he was racing upstairs on Christmas morning, to see what was waiting for him. But the big difference now was that he knew exactly what was in store. Moving to the royal quarters, every whim and desire almost instantly granted, no more attendance at the Service Academy. Plus the pleasure of knowing Armand de la Cloutier was probably well-picked bones on a badlands somewhere. Added with the future joy that at one point, he would be able to punish anyone and everyone who had crossed him in his young life. At night, in his cramped and sour bedroom, he had already begun compiling a list.

  But then another thought unexpectedly came to him, sitting there in the cold formal room. Of doing good when he became Crown Prince, of making the empire stronger, of helping those who might need help. Odd, he knew, but besides all the fun he planned with those he despised, he also thought he could try to be a decent Crown Prince as well, with his father’s assistance. An unfamiliar feeling came to him, of what it would be liked to be honored and liked for what he had done, and not because of his title.

  “I’ll be patient, father,” Randall said, and his voice filling with emotion, “I promise that I will make you proud. I promise.”

  His father grunted and got up. “Then that’ll be a first.”

  Randall sat still, humiliated, tears coming to his eyes.

  The three-masted schooner was called the Mona Marie, and they set sail about thirty minutes after Armand boarded. The captain was a squat, bearded man named Jonah DeMint, and he took pride in his ship, which Armand could understand. The schooner wasn’t huge but it was well kept, with lines coiled and put away, the brass work shiny, the crew well dressed and in good spirits. It looked like DeMint ran a tight ship.

  There was a mixed cargo of cotton, rum and some trade goods from Orleans, plus several other passengers. Through the recommendation of Captain Zebulon and a silver sovereign, Armand had his own cabin up forward. It was cramped but he settled in well, sleeping and trying not to think of Melinda and what she was doing. Wherever she was, Armand hoped that she forgave him for what he had done.

  DeMint had two surprises for Armand: a fine dining room, and a ship’s library, filled with pre-war books. They were bound in leather and the pages were faded and smelled of mildew, but DeMint was proud as he showed them off.

  “My father and grandfather would take old pre-war books for payment, and I’ve kept it up. We’ve built up a library that’s almost as good as the ones in Orleans. There’s been times when we’ve had a tight time of it, but I’ve never considered selling these books. Not ever.”

  On the first day, standing by the gunwales and watching other boats sailing along the waters, Armand spotted metal platforms on stilts that were scattered out in the distance. Captain DeMint came back --- his clothes old and well worn, the only symbol of his command being an ancient white cap with a black br
im trimmed with gold --- and Armand asked, “What are those structures out there?”

  DeMint said, “Little villages. People live there, fish and trade with each other. Years ago some pirates took over the villages, but the militia from Orleans burned them out.”

  “Seems like a lot of work to build, all the way out here.”

  DeMint laughed. “They didn’t start out as villages. They were places of business, of work. Before the War of the World, they were used to drill down into the ocean, to bring up oil. But that was a long, long time ago.”

  They passed close to one of the platforms, the metal scarred with rust and burn marks. “Besides,” DeMint said, holding up a hand. “The wind is free. Always has been, always will be.”

  Armand ate his breakfast and lunch in his cabin, but his dinners were taken in the small but ornate dining room, with Captain DeMint and the other paying passengers. It was a mixed bag of men and women, the men going to Potomick or places further north on business, the wives and the children coming along for the experience of travel. The other passengers mostly kept to themselves, but there was one sweet girl that reminded Armand so much of his younger sister Jeannette. Her proud parents dressed her well and even at her young age, she had her ears pierced and rings on her fingers. She giggled a lot and kicked her legs back against her chair. A couple of times she winked at Armand, and he winked back, making her laugh even more.

  Then it just hit Armand, how long it had been since he had seen Jeannette and Toronto, and he didn’t wink at her any more.

  Two days later --- after Armand had spent hours in his bunk, going through the old books, carefully reading the old Anglish letters, and also reading and re-reading the pamphlet from the Starmen: “A Kid’s Guide to the Constitution” --- there was a knock at his cabin door and a dark-skinned crew member was there, a hand tugging at his forelock.

  “Suh,” he slowly said. “Cap’n DeMint’s respects, suh, and he’d like to have y’all join him at the stern.”

  “Certainly,” Armand said, getting off his bunk, putting down a pre-war hardcover called “Truman.” The pages were faded, water-stained and held together in places by string, but Armand had found it fascinating though confusing, since some of the pages were missing. It seemed one long section of the book described a global conflict that sounded like the War of the World, even though that was impossible due to the book’s age.

  Outside the sky was clear with just a few clouds, and a few of the passengers were talking by themselves up forward. The ocean was rolling gently along and at the stern, near the helmsmen, Captain DeMint stood, a pair of field glasses in his hands. “Here,” he said, passing them over. “Thought you’d be interested in seeing this, considering your fascination with old things.”

  Armand took the binoculars and brought them up and steadied his elbows on the railing. He saw low lands and beaches, as well as large structures, overgrown with vines and trees. Armand lowered the glasses. “What am I looking at?”

  “A star port,” DeMint said, pride in his voice. “That’s where my ancestors sent craft up into space, and to the moon.”

  Armand said carefully, “I’ve heard the tales.”

  “They’re not tales,” DeMint protested, reminding Armand of an older boy, a long time ago in the ruins of an ancient capitol. “It truly did happen, that my ancestors built craft and sent them up there. I’ve even docked and have toured the ruins. it’s true. They did it, and they did it right there. Even sent men to the moon and brought them back.”

  Armand raised up the binoculars again. “Think your descendants will ever do the same?”

  Captain DeMint stayed quiet and Armand wondered if he had insulted him, or if he hadn’t heard him, but after another moment DeMint said, “Doubtful. Because… it would be so very hard. They were able to do it back then because the land between both oceans was one, and they worked together, and didn’t fight each other. They believed in things, like freedom, like reaching to the stars. What do we believe, now? We believe in full bellies and avoiding danger where possible. We don’t look up, we no longer dream.”

  Armand handed the binoculars back and DeMint cocked his head as he took them in his strong hands. “Your accent. You’re from the land way up north. The Empire of the North. So why do you want to travel to Potomick? What’s there?”

  He folded his hands, leaned back against the railing, thought of a word he had memorized: Custer. “Dreams, I hope. Lots of dreams.”

  DeMint joined Armand at the railing, and sniffed the air, and looked out at the clouds.

  “Heavy weather coming,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “I hope we can outrun it.”

  As it turned out, they didn’t.

  Chapter Ten

  Aboard the airship Saghani, Melinda sat in the dining area, her plate and coffee cup empty, resting, watching the forests of Amerka slowly slide by as the ship headed north. Her hunger was satiated, her skin and hair were freshly washed, and her body no longer ached from the long days of travel. But she didn’t feel content. She was heading home, and she had no idea what awaited her.

  There was a story she recalled, from a few years back, about a neighboring clan, some klicks away, whose daughter left to go to Vancouver, against the wishes of her Mom and Dad. The daughter slinked home, several months later, and the rumors and whispers started, about what had happened to her, out there on the West Coast. Tales of a botched marriage and then a job as a bar escort for the shipping men who came in from Cathay. Melinda thought about what she had gone through, the scars and fading tattoos that still lingered on her skin. Almost as bad as that poor neighbor girl, who was still not married, who was still shunned by her clan.

  That poor girl who had gone to Vancouver had been in a slave, in her own way. Despite Melinda’s rescue and her travels and her presence aboard this modern airship, she knew that deep inside, where it counted, she was still a slave. The bounds that kept her down no longer belonged to the far-away Ayan; these bounds were much, much closer.

  “M’lday?” came a male voice, and she looked up as a middle-aged man came over and said, “May I sit with you for a moment?”

  She said nothing and the man pulled out one of the comfortable chairs and sat down. He wore a nice plain black suit and black shoes, and a thin blue tie to go with his white shirt. He nodded and said, “My name is Hector Duprey. I’m with Imperial Security, assigned to the airship service. Your adventures have been quite the topic among a number of wireless messages I’ve received. I was hoping to ask you a few questions before we land.”

  Melinda stared into the bland and professional face, and recalled the scars she had seen on Armand’s skin, from the few times he had bathed as they had ridden hard away from the destroyed Ayan camp. The scars given to her rescuer by associates of this polite man sitting before her. Not to forget that handsome cavalryman who had betrayed her and the others, that first day when she was captured. She took a breath. She owed Duprey and the Empire not a damn thing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have nothing more to add to the statement I made to the embassy officials, back in Orleans.”

  His skin was pale and tight, so that when he smiled, it looked quite forced. “That’s what I find interesting, m’lady, is that very same statement. You see, you gave very little information about the man who had rescued you from the Ayan. The man who brought you hundreds and hundreds of klicks to Orleans, instead of heading north, back to the Empire. Or to any other city-state nearer to the Ayans that at least had a consulate or trading facility, to facilitate your travel home. So why did you travel to Orleans? And who was he?”

  She remembered waking up in a small bedroom at the embassy in Orleans, mouth dry and head pounding from all the drinking she had done the night before. When she had realized that Armand had abandoned her, without even saying good-bye, my Lord, how angry she had been! But that anger had quickly gone away when an Imperial Security officer had closely interviewed her attached to the Orleans embassy. She had decided
then to keep Armand’s identity secret. For the officer was quite interested in her rescuer and benefactor, almost too interest, and she recalled how Armand had acted during their trip. His talk of returning back to the Empire and how he had other duties to fulfill. And she recalled the sharp distress in his eyes the time they had passed by that slave auction in Orleans.

  So Armand had other plans, important plans, and who was she to second-guess her rescuer? Why would she help the men who had arrested, tortured and exiled him? Why should help the same government that had sent that cavalryman not to rescue her and the others, but to give payment to the Ayans?

  “The man came to the camp,” she said again, recalling the similar words she had said back at the Orleans embassy. “I don’t know how he did it but he fooled the captives, grabbed a weapon, and shot them. We broke out. We traveled south, for we were deep into Ayan territory. Along the way we got help from some of the people living there in the unorganized territories. We came to a river and went to Orleans. I let the man who rescued me make all the decisions.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “No. He spoke very little. When we got to Orleans, he got me drunk and took me to the embassy, where he presented me to an embassy guard. I’m certain you know the rest.”

  “That’s some tale,” he said archly.

  Melinda’s voice was sharp. “That’s what happened. I have nothing more to say. So if you’ll excuse me, I want to retire to my cabin.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that, not yet,” Hector said, opening up his coat. “I have something important to present to you.”

  She sat frozen, fearful this slim bloodless man was going to pull out an arrest warrant, that her days of new found freedom would come to a quick and dirty end. But what he placed on the white tablecloth was a pale blue sheet of the Imperial telegraph service.