The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  He got in the rear with his overnight bag, and the boy said, “Welcome to Toronto. I bet you’re a business trader, and I bet you want to get to the Ministry of Trade. Am I right?”

  Armand said, “Good guesses, but not the correct one. Take me to Government Square, the office of the Lord Chancellor.”

  The boy driver looked surprised. “As you wish, sir.”

  Although Armand had grown up here, he still acted as a tourist, looking at the traffic, the bustling people on the sidewalks, and it seemed more of the old buildings were re-opened and powered up. There definitely seemed to be fewer horses on the roads, which Armand saw as a mark of progress. This was Toronto, his home and the Empire’s capitol, and although there was a good chance he would end up in a train heading out to the oil sands, to once again be a slave of the Emperor, there was also a chance it would all work out. He planned to fight very hard for that chance, to make sure his tortures and sacrifices were not suffered in vain, for he intended to change so many things in the years ahead.

  The coach hummed to a halt, and the driver quickly stepped out and opened the rear door. Armand got out, paid him and gave him a good tip. He touched his cap again. “I can wait if you’d like, sir.”

  Armand smiled at him. “M’boy, it might be a long wait. Go along now.”

  The sidewalk was busy and a young boy and girl slowly walked by, carrying shopping bags almost as big as they were, both dressed in black and white, both wearing brass rings about their necks. Armand watched them until they were lost to view, trudging under their burdens. Before him was a wrought iron fence and gate, and a flagpole bearing the banner of the Empire --- still at half-mast in mourning for the dead crown prince --- and Armand strolled through the gate like he belonged. There were two ceremonial guards at either side of the door, and he was pleased they were ceremonial. Inside was a wide marble stairway, and Armand walked up with purpose, knowing what he would say, wondering how it would go.

  At the top of the stairs was a carved wooden desk, with a well-dressed man sitting behind it, wearing a short purple cape and light yellow sash over his buttoned dark red tunic, the sash marking him as a member of the Imperial Household. Behind him two younger men in matching black suits, white shirts and black cravats waited, both men serving as runners. The desk had a waist-high wooden railing going off to either side, blocking the way into the main reception hall. In the round hall, men and women dressed in formal business clothes moved about, with great vigor and energy, and there were also men in uniform of the Imperial Army.

  The man with the light yellow sash had a large ledger open to him and a fountain pen. As Armand approached, he looked up. “Yes?”

  Armand put his bag down on the floor, stood straight and formal. “I need to see the Lord Chancellor, or one of his associates, at once.”

  One of the two younger men brought a hand up to his face to hide a smirk, and even the uniformed man smiled.

  “You do, do you?” he said gently. “And may I ask your name?”

  “You may,” Armand said sharply back. “My name is Armand de la Cloutier, Viscount of the de la Cloutier family, and hereditary permanent deputy minister at the Ministry of Trade. And you will summon either the Lord Chancellor or one of his assistants at once.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The two men standing behind the uniformed man were now paying attention, without the smirks or easy humor of before. The man with the sash played a moment with his fountain pen. He had wide, white bushy eyebrows and he sighed. “Go away, young man. Every month or so, I get a visitor just like you, claiming to be the Emperor or his grand-uncle or some half-forgotten royal. Now go on, before I have you seized. Trust me, there’s a harsh sentence for those who pretend to be a royal, even if they are half-wits.”

  Armand stepped closer to the desk, leaned over him. “I’m sure there is, which is why I’m not concerned about a prison sentence for being an imposter. I’m Armand de la Cloutier, viscount of the de la Cloutier family, and I demand to see the Lord Chancellor or one of his assistants.”

  The man said, “Do you have any proof or identification?”

  “My identification has been lost,” Armand pressed on. “But I know there is proof here in this building. In the Royal Archives, there are my fingerprints and my photo, both taken when I turned twelve. Retrieve them to prove my identity, and do it at once. I’m tired of waiting.”

  Another twirl of the fountain pen, and then he took it in his hand, scribbled a note and handed it off to one of the runners. Then to the second one, he gestured to Armand and said, “Lance, take this… gentleman to room twelve, until his identity has been verified.” To Armand, he said, “If your identity is proven, then I owe you an apology, sire. And if your identity is not proven, I will very much enjoy testifying at your deportation hearing.”

  The second runner opened a gate to the waist-high railing, and Armand followed him across the hall, his footsteps echoing loudly as he looked about at the people working hard at the business of the Empire, and Armand wondered with disgust if any one of them had ever held a shovel in their hands and worked in a tar pit even before the sun rose. Or heard the sobs of young, scared boys alone at night in a camp barracks. Or prayed for the chance to work in a camp kitchen, to steal scraps of food. Overhead flags and banners drifted in the breeze, including one that was very old and faded, depicting stripes and a maple leaf, and which was supposedly the standard for the country that was here before the empire. There were also portraits of Emperors and Empresses past, and the runner named Lance took Armand down a wide hallway, with finely polished wooden doors. Lance opened a door marked with a brass numeral 12, and gestured him in.

  “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here until your matter is resolved, sir,” he said, using the term of politeness but not using a royal term, which was fine.

  Armand nodded his thanks and went into the room, and then Lance left, closing the door behind him.

  There was a loud click.

  Armand tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Armand put his bag down. Not surprising. The greeter who had met him was just being cautious, and that cautiousness extended to the room. There was leather couch, two comfortable chairs, and even a desk and wooden chair behind it. No windows, of course, just a slit through the concrete that allowed in some light and allowed him a view of Government Square. From where Armand stood, he saw a line of severed heads or their clay reproductions set upon pikes. There seemed to be a lot of them, more than he had ever seen over the years.

  He looked to the locked door. Cautious, indeed. His records were being pulled, examined. Armand would imagine that someone would come back soon, with his old photograph and fingerprints. He wasn’t sure how convincing the photograph would be, considering his hair length and the lines on his young face, but the fingerprints would prove it.

  Armand stretched out on the leather couch. Of course, let’s be honest, he thought. His arrest record and life sentence to the Oil Sands Authority and subsequent escape was no doubt appended to his records, but he wasn’t in the Ministry of Security. Armand was in the home building of the Lord Chancellor and those in the Imperial Household who served the Emperor, and all he would need would be a few sentences to the right Imperial official, and then --- if the spirits of his father and Father Abram could guide them --- his fate would be considered judiciously and calmly.

  So he waited, thought, and took out that old holy coin and looked at it.

  The light outside of the slit leading into his small room dimmed, and then the lights within the buildings surrounding Government Square switched on. It had been a very long wait, and Armand was hungry, but he was used to being hungry. He looked out at the lights of Toronto, saw many more electrical lights than before, so some sort of progress was being made. Some of the lights were also highlighting the severed heads of the punished beneath him. So what kind of progress was that? And indeed, how many of those lights out there illuminated the freemen and the royals of the
empire, and how many illuminated the slaves, no matter how fancy their noble titles or names? And if this were settled in his favor, what would be the first ---

  There was a loud click, and the doorknob started turning. Armand stepped towards the door.

  An older man started in, with other men behind him. This man wore a rumpled gray suit, looked exhausted, and was carrying several file folders and envelopes in his hands, and he looked so very familiar that Armand ----

  It was Jacques Templair of the Imperial Security Service.

  Armand reacted without thinking, grabbing the chair behind the desk and throwing it at Templair. He ducked and Armand leapt over the desk, punching him hard in the jaw when he got to him. Templair fell back against the wall and Armand shoved his shoulder against the door, slamming it shut, and then he slid the chair up against the doorknob. He quickly turned back to Templair, who was scrambling to get a revolver free from his holster. Armand kicked his hand and the revolver flew off, and Armand punched him again, got him flat to the floor, kneeling down on both of his arms, and in his right hand, he had the knife that Captain Zebulon had given him in Orleans.

  Men were pounding at the door, kicking, and Armand jammed the point of his knife in Templair’s throat, breathing hard. Templair gurgled and Armand said, his voice tight, “You tell your men out there that everything’s fine, that they need to go away. You say those exact words or I’ll slit your throat right now and laugh as your blood sprays all over me.”

  Templair’s face was gray and lined, his hair in disarray, his eyeglasses askew, and he called out, “Everything’s fine in here! Just go away!”

  Armand jammed the knife again, a bead of blood appearing in Templair’s throat. “Very good,” Armand said, speaking slowly and clearly, though everything he wanted to say, everything he had saved up over the long months, made him want to scream and shout at the man who had helped destroy his young life.

  “Now, Monsieur Templair, you know who I am. No need for introductions. So tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat right now, for all that you’ve done to me.”

  Templair’s breathing was harsh and it seemed he had aged dramatically since Armand had been exiled. He coughed and said, “Because it would be a mistake, you young fool.”

  “A mistake? Why? To kill a member of the Imperial Security Service? Do you think I care, after all I’ve been through? Do you?” And with those last two sentences, Armand pushed the knifepoint in deeper to emphasize what he was saying. “So right now, my dear monsieur, the idea of cutting your filthy throat and knowing that in a forenight my head will be on a pike out there seems like a remarkable bargain.”

  Blood was starting to ooze down his gray neck, and Armand hated to admit it, but seeing that scarlet fluid was making him feel the happiest he had felt in a long time. Templair closed his eyes. “Before you slit my throat, hear me out. For I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, ever since you escaped from the Oil Sands Authority. Other men have searched for you as well, in the Amerkan wilds and the city states over the months, and some have died for their troubles… all to locate you… When I learned you here today, I almost went to Mass to celebrate, for I could not believe my good fortune, and the good fortune of the Empire, that you would literally turn up on our doorstep.”

  Armand laughed. “So many noble words and thoughts, all because of one escaped young nobleman? Really? I find that hard to believe that you went to all this trouble and effort for one Armand de la Cloutier.”

  He coughed. “You damn stupid fool, you, we weren’t chasing after Armand de la Cloutier.”

  “Call me fool again and you’re a dead man,” Armand warned. “So who were you chasing after, then, if not me?

  The cold gray eyes of the Imperial Security officer looked up at him, as Armand still held a knife to his throat. “We were looking for you, young sire, the next crown prince of the Empire of the Nunavut.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  By now his mind was whirling and his knees were aching, and Armand slowly got off Templair’s arms and chest, and retrieved the man’s revolver. Armand pulled the hammer back and motioned him to the couch.

  “Sit there, sit still, and keep your hands on your knees. You reach for anything, you even raise a hand to scratch yourself, I’ll shoot you.”

  Templair did as he was told and Armand took one of the leather chairs and sat across from him. Papers and file folders were still scattered over the floor. Armand was sure he could hear whispers from the other side of the door.

  Armand took a deep breath. “Explain yourself.”

  Templair said, “Ever since Crown Prince Andre died, there’s been a succession crisis in the Empire, you… sire. One that threatens to turn into a civil war if we’re not extremely careful and extremely lucky. The empire needs --- requires --- an heir. As unlikely as it seems, you are it.”

  Armand was proud that his hand holding the revolver stayed still. “That’s a preposterous story, and you know it. I know my family lineage. We aren’t even distantly related to the emperor’s line.”

  “True,” Templair said. “With the death of Prince Andre, there are no legitimate and close heirs to the throne. None. Which leaves you.”

  Now Armand raised the revolver, ensuring Templair knew it was aimed right at his forehead. “If you’re calling me a bastard, then you’ve made yet another wrong decision, starting from the day you first picked me up while I was walking on the street.”

  Templair said bitterly, “Shoot me if that makes you feel better. But that doesn’t change the truth of the matter.” He started to raise a hand, thought better of it, and raised a finger instead. “Those papers on the floor contain the proof. When it became certain that Prince Andre was ill and would not recover, the Emperor reluctantly made an official statement to the Lord Chancellor, as did your mother, equally reluctantly. The date of your conception took place in a one-week window when your father was on a trade mission to the Caribbean Sea.”

  Armand didn’t know what to say. Templair said, “In the folder with a yellow stripe to the side, there are three photos inside. You have my promise that I will not move from this couch while you examine them.”

  Keeping an eye and the revolver trained on him, Armand knelt down, picked up the folder, and sat back in the chair, opening it. As Templair had said, three photographs were there, pictures of him, his father at a young age, and a very young Emperor Michel.

  Templair said, “Those photos were taken of you three when you were all twelve. Look at them and tell me what you see.”

  It only took a moment. There was a much younger Father, smiling at the camera. A somber looking young Emperor Michel, back when he was Crown Prince. And Armand’s own photo. In a flash that seemed to burn through his chest, he saw what Templair was getting at. The smiling photo of Father with his prominent ears. He and the Crown Prince at the time, with small, close-grown ears.

  With these two photos, they looked like brothers. Armand glanced up at Templair. He said, “Your father and mother both shared blood type O negative. Do you know your blood type, sire?”

  “A positive,” he said, hearing a distant roaring in his ears, thinking of the last time he saw the Emperor and Mother, dancing and laughing at Andre’s birthday party, seemingly centuries ago, Mother blowing a kiss in the Emperor’s direction. Plus the insults that Randall de la Bourbon had made about his mother, back at the train yard the day he was exiled

  He gave a crisp nod. “The Emperor’s blood type is A positive as well. It’s medically impossible for a man and woman with O negative blood to conceive a child that will have A positive blood. When this information was finally brought to my attention, I took an airship to the Oil Sands Authority, to bring you back to the capitol. But you had escaped that day, hadn’t you.”

  “But the Crown Prince wasn’t dead then!”

  “No, but he was dying, young sire. All in Court knew he was dying. I was dispatched to bring you back before he passed on and found myself with an empty su
ite in my airship, one reserved for you.”

  “My apologies for wasting your time,” Armand shot back.

  Templair closed his eyes and then opened them. “You still don’t understand, do you, boy. The Empire. It’s made of clans, tribes, royals, freemen, guilds and the indentured class. All must feel they have a stake in the Empire, all must have trust in the Emperor and his heir apparent. But with no ready heir, there have been intrigues. Betrayals. Assassinations. Plots within plots. Many have died in Toronto, Vancouver and Quebec while you were adventuring along with the barbarians. But now that you’re here… My God, there’s still a chance to nip the conflict in the bud, to end the intrigues, to keep the Empire safe.”

  Armand said nothing. Templair went on, almost apologetically, “When we first met, when I was first questioning you, I told you that my role in life is to protect the Empire. Which is why I came here, to retrieve you. Within this building is an executive session of the Royal Privy Council, with representatives from the tribes, from the Royal Assembly, and the trading guilds. They’re meeting to decide whether to confirm you as Crown Prince. Do you understand now?”

  Armand seemed frozen to the chair, while the room was slowly spinning around him. His father… wasn’t Father, the permanent trade minister, the man who had taught him and raised him and loved him. Armand’s father was the Emperor of this land, in whose name he was a condemned prisoner and slave, whom he barely knew. That man was his flesh and blood.

  “But if you’re right, then I’m illegitimate.”