Templair laughed. “Do you think that makes any difference at all? Do you? Some day you should read some of the older histories of the Empire, young sire, the ones kept in locked bookshelves. The family trees back then are so tangled you need colored pencils to understand them.”
Armand kept quiet again. For one brief searing moment, he wished he was back at the tar sands, worrying only about a good meal or making sure his barracks met quota or keeping the guards happy with the constant gifts and bribes to give his boys more of everything. This was too much. His head felt so light that it could fly off his shoulders. He was just sixteen, damn it!
“Sire?” Templair gently asked. “The Council is waiting for you.”
Armand lowered the revolver. A memory came to him, of being back in the barracks when a brawl almost erupted over who was to become the new barracks chief. He remembered how right it was, to step up, to take command, take control. To be a noble.
“All right,” Armand said. “Let’s go see them. But you need to know one thing.”
“Which is what?”
Armand tucked the revolver into his coat pocket. “This comes with me. If I get any hint you’ve lied to me, or double-crossed me, or that this was an elaborate con to get me on the next train headed west, then I’ll shoot you and any member of Court within range.”
Templair muttered something and got to his knees, to gather up the spread papers. Armand asked, “What was that you just said?”
“I said, you’ll go far, sire, for you already have the untrusting mind of a prince.”
Armand stood up from his chair. “What I have I’ve learned.”
As hard as it was to believe, in just a few minutes Armand was in a small, leather and wood-lined room, with overstuffed chairs and couches, with a fire roaring in a fireplace that was large enough to roast an ox. Templair ushered him in and Armand recognized the Lord Chancellor: a tall, gaunt man whose wrinkled face always seemed to be frozen in a state of constant disdain, as if every minute away from the Emperor was a minute taken from his life.
Armand also knew two other older men in formal Court clothing of black and scarlet, and that knowledge quickly led to a dark sense of dread. These two sat in tall, ornate leather and wooden chairs behind a polished wooden table that had some papers on it and an old wooden gavel. In the center a third chair was empty.
The Lord Chancellor, sitting to one side, gestured with his arm. “Sire de la Cloutier, I present Sir Paul Gagnon, Primary Member of the Royal Assembly, and Sir Jean LaMontagne, Chairman of the Bay Company of Guilds.”
Both men stared at Armand like he had wandered in from a farm field, with manure clumped about his feet. What he did know about them came from his pretend Father. Gagnon was a short man, with flat, nearly shaved gray hair, his red face was seemingly ready to burst out in anger. Father had once said that Gagnon suffered from “short man disease,” and had spent his entire political career clawing and fighting his way up the ladder of power, more often than not, kicking his adversaries to the ground. Or to the timber fields or the oil sands.
On the opposite end of the table, like he didn’t want to be close to a man with so much blood and dirt on his hands, LaMontagne eyed Armand as well. He was plump and with a smooth, almost powdered face, and even from where Armand was sitting, he could smell the cologne on his face. A merchantman who was only bothered with the bottom line, Father had once said that LaMontagne would send his own sisters naked to the wilds of Amerka if it would bring an additional one percent profit to the Bay Company and its associated guilds.
“You may sit,” Gagnon growled, and Armand did so, and LaMontagne added, “You’re late.”
He certainly was, but before Armand said anything Templair spoke up. “Sirs, if I may, we were late due to the fact that Sire de la Cloutier and I were engaged in a lengthy conversation of what was to take place this afternoon. If there is any blame to be assigned to our tardiness, it is mine alone.”
Seeing Templair stand up for him was another in a series of surprises that threatened to make Armand pass out, but another surprise came right at him when Gagnon cleared his throat and picked up a sheet of paper. “Well, fair enough, then, but then I think we’ve all wasted our time today. I’m not sure how much your knowledge extends to the intricacies of the Compact, young sire, but it takes a unanimous vote of this council to approve your… irregular status to becoming Crown Prince. Sir LaMontagne and I have already decided that our Emperor and Empire deserve better than a bastard child to become Crown Prince, a bastard child who’s been convicted of treason against the Empire and who is an escaped criminal. So this application is denied.”
From one extreme to another, and Armand found himself unaccountably relieved. Armand said, “Fine. I didn’t want the position. Under the Compact, I want a full and fair hearing to determine my innocence. When that’s concluded, all I want is to return home, and take over my father’s title and responsibility, and ---“
LaMontagne grinned. “Not so fast, young sire. You see, being a bastard child, you don’t have the full rights of inheritance when it comes to your father. You have no title and nothing to call your own.”
Armand looked at one and the other old, satisfied face. “Then what the hell am I, then?”
Gagnon pursed his bloodless lips. “You’re an escaped prisoner. With a high official of the Imperial Security Service before us, I see no reason why you aren’t placed in his custody and taken back forthwith to the place you were imprisoned, to the Oil Sands Authority”
Gagnon reached over, grabbed the gavel and started to raise it up. Interrupting, Armand said sharply, “You two miserable, pinched, overdressed and evil twins. You dare call me a bastard? Do either of you have any idea of what a rotten, corrupt and despicable system of government you control? Have either of you ever seen an oil sands camp, where boys younger than me are forced to dig and shovel for the glory of the Empire, because they told a joke or stole a piece of bread? Have the two of you even held a shovel in your pampered hands? You two bastards should ---“
LaMontagne snapped, “Shut your ungrateful mouth, boy, or your head will be on a pike in Government Square before the sun rises tomorrow.”
Armand reached into his coat pocket, felt the comforting cold metal of the revolver. A calculating part of him was trying to decide which of these two were going to be shot first, when the Lord Chancellor spoke up. “Sirs. If I may, there’s an irregularity here that needs to be addressed before any final decisions are reached and the meeting is adjourned.”
“Eh, what’s that nonsense, then?” Gagnon said.
“Simple, sir,” the Chancellor said. “We still don’t have the third member of the Council here, the representative from our royal tribes and clans.”
LaMontagne raised a hand. “Bah. He’s late. He’s always late. What difference could that possibly make?”
The Chancellor said, “Difference or not, his presence is required. I believe he is en route, so the matter will be resolved shortly, one way or the other.”
Gagnon glared at the old man. “I say you’re wasting our time. It’s time for us to leave.”
The Chancellor carefully said, “And I say that if you leave with this issue hanging over this proceeding, then it will cause the Empire to fall further into crisis. So why not wait the extra time, so questions and accusations won’t be raised at a later date?”
Armand saw Gagnon’s face color right up to his short hair. “Stop the bullshit, George. Look, I knew you when you were a young squire, shoveling manure from the Imperial Army stables in far Alberta. I still say it’s time for this farce to come to an end.”
Armand’s still grasped the revolver. He was thinking this session was coming to an end very quickly, but not in the way Monsieur Gagnon or LaMontange imagined. Armand’s hand started to come out of his coat pocket when the door was flung open. A short, wrinkled old man with smiling eyes strode in, wearing the traditional garb of the tribes from the north, a burning cigarette dangling from h
is mouth. He looked to Armand. “Hah! Even with the long hair, I remember you! You saved me a long time ago at the Palace Hall, when I fell on my ass and got my foot stuck! Hah-hah-hah!”
It was Charlie Ten Horse, the old Inuit leader Armand had talked to at that long-ago party.
His armed hand slid harmlessly back into his coat pocket.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie nodded greetings to the Royal Chancellor and then strolled around to the center chair. He sat down heavily in it, and then looked to his left and then his right. “Paul… Jean… I see you’re still trying to hurry things along without a full meeting. Tsk, tsk, I thought better of you both.”
Gagnon looked like he was keeping his fury in check, while LaMontagne said, “You know how it is, Charles. With us living so close to the capitol, we always get here before you. We mean no disrespect.”
“Hah!” Charlie said, leaning the tall chair back. “So you say. There I was, up north with my people, the real people of this empire, when a courier airship from the Army picked up my fat ass to bring me here. Lucky for all of us, it also brought a briefing on our young gentleman here, and his possible elevation to Crown Prince.”
Gagnon finally spoke, his voice firm. “It’s already been decided. The two of us have voted. His irregular status disqualifies him from becoming Crown Prince. We can’t allow it to happen.”
Armand half-expected Charlie to speak right up in response, but instead, he took a couple of drags on his cigarette. Again, he looked to both sides and said, “From what I gather, his claim to becoming Crown Prince is the strongest one we have, due to his direct line from Emperor Michel.”
“But a bastard child, a convicted prisoner, charged with high treason against the Emperor?” LaMontagne protested. “Please, Charles. How can we accept this… boy to become the heir apparent? Look at him. He even wears the long hair of the barbarians!”
Armand was going to interrupt the three of them, to say once again he had no interest in the position, that this whole thing seemed a tragic joke, when Charlie tapped his cigarette ash on the carpeted floor. That caused a distressed intake of breath from the Lord Chancellor, and Charlie softly said, “So you don’t like his background, or how he came to be here. Then who else then, to become Crown Prince? I understand there’s another young man being whispered about being a possible candidate by the two of you. A young boy who is such a distant cousin to the Emperor that you have to go back almost six generations to find a direct link to Emperor Michel. One young Randall de la Bourbon, a pampered sot who wouldn’t last a day in my territories.”
Armand felt nauseous, like the first time he ate a meal at the Oil Sands Authority. Randall de la Bourbon! Bad enough to think of that creature eventually marrying into Armand’s family, but to have him as Crown Prince and future Emperor… It couldn’t be happening!
Charlie said, “So what is it, then? Is your decision going to be based on the best interests of the Empire and its people, or your own personal greed and desire for additional power?”
Templair gently cleared his throat and Armand knew Charlie had struck home with that. Charlie let the tall chair fall forward. “Then we have this young man. He has no connection, no debt or servitude to any of you. True, his birth is irregular, but with our consent, the blessing of the Cardinal, and the Emperor’s blessing as well, it will work. The people will accept him. The tribes, clans, guilds, nobles and servant class… they will all accept him. But only if we make the right decision.”
LaMontagne slapped the table. “But we know hardly anything of the boy!”
Charlie grinned, took a last drag from the cigarette and stubbed it out on the table --- nearly making the Lord Chancellor cry --- and he said, “Then let’s learn more, shall we?”
He let out an ear-piercing whistle. The door opened, and Charlie said, “Gentle sirs, I present to you my loving niece, Miss Whitehorse, who knows very well the stature and background of this young man before us.”
Through the door, Melinda came through.
She smiled shyly in his direction and if it wasn’t for the chair Armand was sitting in, he was sure he would have ended up on the floor. The mystery of her last name was solved. No doubt she kept it secret in order to keep any shame from attaching itself to such a noble name --- Whitehorse being a clan of the Ten Horse tribe --- Armand was also sure she wanted to be known as just Melinda, and not a member of an old and famous family that held so much power and influence among the northern people and territories.
Melinda looked wonderful, with a few more pounds on her and with her hair and face well groomed and made up. She had on a simple, embroidered tribal dress and she sat down in a spare chair, near the fireplace.
“My dear niece,” Charlie gently spoke. “I know how very hard this will be for you. But will you tell these gentlemen of your experiences in the wild lands to the south, and how you encountered Armand de la Cloutier?”
“Certainly, uncle,” she said, her voice soft. With her hands clasped in her lap and looking down at the floor, she started telling her story, right from the start, when the farmhouse she had been staying in as part of her thesis project had been raided by the Ayan from Amerka, and how she had been taken back to their camp. She told about the other captives and how they had been beaten, tortured, and then killed. But Armand noted that she left out the incident with the Imperial cavalryman, and thought that was wise of her. Why bring up something so explosive in this place with these suspicious men?
With her soft, flat voice, Melinda went on, telling about the beatings she endured, the cage she had lived in, the bad food she ate, and the abuses she had suffered, as property of the Ayan. On and on she went, describing the living conditions, the times she had gotten tattoos, the frustrated plans for escape, the companions she had in the Sioux tribesmen who had been there as well, and then… the day of Armand’s arrival.
Armand sat still, face flushed, tears trickling out of his eyes, and he saw, too, that nearly everyone in the room had tears in their eyes, save for Monsieur Gagnon, whose red face was twisted in some sort of expression Armand couldn’t recognize. But it was her uncle who wept the most, and though he never made a sound, his wrinkled brown cheeks were sopping wet. The story went on, and Armand became even more uncomfortable, hearing her tell of how he fought the Ayan tribesman and won their freedom, and that of the surviving Sioux. How after the escape, Armand had protected and fed her, and fought for her, those long days later. She spoke just a bit of the Starmen --- not giving too many details of who they were and what they had --- but the story picked up again on their travel along the Mississip, the gun battle aboard the Saint Clemens, and how Armand had put her safely in the Empire’s consulate in Orleans.
Then she stopped, took a breath.
“Thank you, Melinda,” her uncle said, not wiping away the tears on his cheeks. “If my fellow council members agree, you may depart. Go with God, child, and I will be right back, gentle sirs.”
She quickly stepped out of the chair and went out to the door, followed by her uncle. Templair opened the door for the both of them, and just before she left, she turned and smiled at Armand, and then she was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
When Melinda walked into a small anteroom adjacent to the place where she had spoken to Armand, her uncle, and the other men --- a room with heavy furniture, dark carpeting and dusty portraits of Emperors past up on the paneled walls --- she burst into tears and put her hands up to her face, and stood in the corner. She stood there until a strong hand came down on her shoulder, and she heard the familiar voice of Uncle Charlie.
She spun into his arms and cried some more, as he held her tight, stroked her hair, and murmured, “There, there, there…”
When she finally caught her breath she looked up that old and sweet face. “Did I do good, uncle? Did I?”
He kissed her forehead. “You did so very well, my brave niece. So very well.”
She hugged him again, smelling the comforting odor of tobacco a
nd fur and leather. He stroked her hair again and she said, “Earlier I lied earlier to the embassy in Orleans about what had happened to me. Will that hurt me or Armand?”
“That’s of no concern, now,” Uncle Charlie said. “You did what had to be done. Now you will be back home with your family before this day is out. I am so very proud of you.”
Melinda stepped back and wiped at her eyes. “But I hoped so much to see Armand, and talk to him.”
Her uncle gently shook his head. “Impossible, niece. He has so much ahead of him now. I’m afraid it will be a very long time, if ever, that you will see this young noble again.”
She thought of the first time she had seen him, brought in as a dirty captive back with the Ayans, and it seemed the words were make believe, but she had to say them anyway. “Is… is he going to become Crown Prince?”
Her uncle’s cheerful face looked troubled. “I will know in a very short time, my niece, when I go back into that room. If we are very, very lucky, he will be.”
“But he’s so young!” she blurted out.
“And he’s so brave,” her uncle said, heading back to the door, “as you yourself have told us.”
As her uncle reached for the doorknob, Melinda could not hold it in anymore. “Uncle, you should know two things, before you go back in there.”
“What’s that, Melinda?”
“Armand. He hates slavery. Hates it to his bones. If he becomes Crown Prince and eventually Emperor, he will fight to abolish it in our Empire. I know that will cause much trouble.”
She thought of something else. That Imperial soldier who had betrayed her and the other girls and young boy. The prediction from her great-aunt Sophie, that she would destroy an empire, and she knew with white-hot fury that now she was safely back home, that is what she would do, however she could, either with or without Armand at her side.
The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North) Page 14