“Be careful for what you wish for, Armand,” he had said. “You just might get it.”
True enough, though Armand hated to admit it when Father was right. When Armand had earlier learned of Father’s trade mission to the south, he had begged and pleaded to go along with him. Not once had Armand ever traveled with Father on his trade missions outside of the Empire, and this was going to be Armand’s last chance to do so before entering the academy. And once there… trips would be short ones home on holiday or school recess, for the next four long years. No time for foreign travel at all.
And when Father --- skilled in his years at the Trade Ministry --- had expertly deflected or ignored Armand’s pleadings, he had reluctantly decided to go to Mother. At first the thought had made him uneasy; Mother focused most of her energies on his two younger sisters and Court, and usually paid attention to Armand only when he got into trouble at school or with other young nobles. But after some plotting, he had found a way to use Mother’s interests against her.
So just two days ago ---- instead of being home in boring Toronto --- he had been on the good airship Pitseolak, gliding his way south, past the borders of the empire, to the unorganized territories and squabbling city-states that were their poor neighbors. While his Father reviewed paperwork in their stateroom, all Armand saw from the airship’s windows was forest and jungle, with some ruins of old cities. It was his first sign that the trip might not be as exciting as he had wished.
When they finally got to the town of Potomick, Father had warned Armand that his days would be filled with meetings and trips to the sugar cane fields, and, alas, his son could not come along, which meant Armand was left behind. In the room were two beds, clean but not as comfortable as what he was used to back home. There were books to read and a couple of local newsjournals to puzzle over. There was also a wireless, but Armand had a hard time with the language. It was something like Franglish, but not quite close enough, so he had listened to the music instead. There was rawness to it that he had liked --- nothing like the formal tunes back home --- but how long could one spend listening to the wireless? The hotel had restaurants and a manmade pond for swimming, but after a few hours, he had seen it all. And he hated the thought of going back to Toronto and telling his classmates at Upper Imperial College that he had traveled all this way, and had seen… a run-down hotel.
Oh, Armand had attended one formal event the previous night –-- when Prez Thomas III, the leader of Potomick, had hosted a reception honoring his father --– and Armand had gotten dressed in his only formal suit. Polished boots, black trousers, gold-buttoned scarlet tunic with ruffled sleeves, and for the entire night, being the youngest one there, he had been ignored, as Father worked the room, plump and short in his own formal wear, a few medals and ribbons over his chest, his hair coiffed and his big ears sticking out. The food was tolerable --- he had pulled a couple of long hairs out of the stew –-- and his drinking glass was dirty. Prez Thomas III was an old man, tall and gangly, wearing some odd kind of formal dress made up of black trousers, long black coat and white shirt with some sort of white cravat tied at the neck.
Once two local women, drinks before them on a stained ivory tablecloth, looked over at Armand and then whispered and giggled behind their manicured hands. It was at that point that Armand wished he hadn’t come. He felt out of place, like he didn’t belong, and the whole trip had seemed like a foolish idea. Later that night, after getting ready for bed, Armand had asked Father about the reception and why he had even bothered to attend. And Father had said, “These are poor people in poor lands, with old dreams of what their people once had. Even their Prez claims that he rules territories on the far side of the lands, on the Pacific Ocean. But it pays nothing to pretend to care, to be courteous to those beneath you.”
Now Armand again breathed the muggy morning air. Tomorrow they would return home, and this would have turned out to be a wasted trip, for Father had said Armand couldn’t leave the hotel without him.
“I don’t want you to get into trouble, Armand,” he had said. “So be a good boy and stay here while I’m out working.”
Armand rubbed the rusty railing of the balcony. Leaving tomorrow without seeing more of Potomick. Unacceptable. He should go out now, poke around, check out the ruins that were supposedly the most dramatic in this part of the world…
Armand hesitated.
His Father had said be a good boy, don’t get into trouble, and stay here.
Armand couldn’t help it. He started smiling as the part of him that belonged to Mother rose to the surface. Sure, a good boy, he would always be a good boy. Decision reached, he quickly left the balcony, past the screen door that kept out the biting bugs and went back into the room. There, he tossed on a short cape, and went out downstairs to the lobby. Armand strolled confidently across the stone floor to the front desk, past the dark, rough-looking furniture, and the bellmen, standing at attention, white-gloved hands held before them. There was an older woman at the lobby counter, flipping through some papers, and she looked up with a smile as he approached. Even in the heat, she had on a long skirt and a white dark blouse, her blonde hair rolled up in a bun at the back of her head. Armand was under no illusions; the smile was there because of his station, nothing else.
“May I help you, young sire?” she asked, speaking Franglish pretty well for a southern barbarian.
“Yes,” Armand said. “I’d like to arrange for a tour to the ruins.”
Her smile seemed to flicker. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Armand said, adding a mocking tone to his voice. “Is there a problem?”
She seemed to shrink and said, “Not at all. If you go out front, you’ll see a number of sponsored tour guides. They are all bonded, licensed and insured.”
“Are there any ones you recommend?”
She shook her head. “No, but you should go with the one you feel most comfortable with. Examine the brochures, talk to the tour operators… and oh, if I may.”
From underneath the counter, she took out a white cloth sash with a metal gold eagle centered in the middle. She passed it over to Armand and said, “Here. Wear this.”
Armand slipped the sash over his left shoulder, feeling slightly foolish. “Why?”
“The ruins are safe during the day… but we want to ensure without doubt that our guests will be protected. While wearing the sash, it means you’re under the protection of the Prez. None will dare hurt you, or harass you, or cause you any trouble.”
Armand touched the sash. The cloth was rough, like it was hand-woven. “And suppose someone ignores the sash?”
A tight, worldly smile. “Then he or she will be sentenced to the cane fields. For life.”
Armand went to the doors of the Potomick Arms Hotel, which were made of glass, a fair expense for this part of the world, and guards with white uniforms, black peaked hats and short swords kept an eye on the guests and visitors. Off to the left a number of men and women were sitting behind long tables. There were expensive signs before them, professionally printed in the local dialect and Franglish, and they all looked at Armand expectantly as he walked forward.
But still…
They seemed too slick, too polished, like something Father or somebody else in the Trade Ministry would choose. Armand looked at the far end, where a boy about his age sat, dark-skinned with close-cropped brown hair. He was dressed plainly in a dull white shirt and khaki pants, and before him was a hand-printed sign, on white cardboard, Honest Tours, Honest Ways. He caught Armand’s eye and then he decided to walk over to him.
And then he thought of his Father.
Be a good boy. Well, he was being a good boy. Armand had been polite to the desk clerk and was going to be polite to this boy before him. Armand was going to pay him for a tour, which, judging by his haircut and clothes, he could use.
And trouble… yes, Armand was going to stay out of trouble. And with the sash about him, that was going to be guaranteed. No one would dare
bother him.
One more thing. What had that been?
Oh yes, stay here, Father had said. But he hadn’t defined here, had he, Armand thought. Here could mean the hotel room. Or the hotel. Or the town and its ruins.
So Armand had listened to Father. Of that he had no doubt.
Armand stood before the table. “I’d like to arrange a tour to the ruins.”
“Very good,” the boy said. Armand thought he might have been excited at getting a paying customer so early in the morning, but he just bent over a tablet of paper and started laboriously writing with a pencil.
“Your name, sire?” Like the woman at the counter, he spoke Franglish well.
“Armand de la Cloutier,” he said.
“Your room number?”
“Suite twelve.”
“And your home address, sire?”
“Maison de la Cloutier, Toronto, Kingdom of Ontario, Empire of the Nunavut.”
“Very good, sire,” he said, writing some more. As he wrote, a better-dressed older man moved over. “Sire,” he said in a low voice. “That’s not what you want. Come with us, we’ll show you things you’ve never imagined, things you’ll remember the rest of your life.”
In a quiet but firm voice, the young man said, “You’re poaching, Alex. You know what the rules are for poaching.”
The other man laughed. “Not poaching. Just offering an interesting alternative, something he won’t get back home. Like the counting houses. Hear that, sire? Off the cane fields, the young ladies that work there, it’s quite hot and humid. The way they dress, leaves very little to the imagination, and for just a bit more payment --–“
The boy tore off a slip of paper and passed it over to Armand. “One brass sovereign, if you please, sire. And then we’ll be on our way.”
Armand had to admit the older man’s invitation was intriguing, but he thought with horror of what would happen if he ran into his father out there in the cane fields. So he opened the leather pouch at his side, pulled out a sovereign and passed it over. The boy pocketed it and stood up, now smiling, the hand drawn sign now under his arm. “My name is Micah Kennedy. Let’s leave.”
Outside the tropical air was thick and heavy, the sky overcast, threatening rain. Before them was a curved driveway, with taxis arriving and leaving, guests and staff milling about. Young beggars were there as well, holding out their palms, and whenever a guest tossed a coin to the ground, the boys and girls would fight over the treasure, scrambling and yelling. But though they saw Armand, none approached. The sash was like an invisible shield, not letting anyone near him, and while Armand hated to admit it, he enjoyed the feeling.
Micah led him down to a line of luxury vehicles, and Armand wiped at his brow, looking forward to being inside a cool vehicle. But Micah kept on walking, until they reached the end of the line of vehicles, where there was –--
A pedicab, with a parasol on the top, and with a sign hanging by cords from the rear. Honest Tours, Honest Ways. Micah looked to Armand. “You seem disappointed, sire. If you’d like a refund and go with someone else, please do. That’s your right.”
If Armand had been Mother or one of his sisters, he was sure that’s exactly what would have happened. But he liked the tour guide’s attitude back there, telling the grown-up to butt out.
“No, Micah, this would be fine.”
“Very good, sire,” he said. “If I may suggest… your cape will be too warm. May I take it?”
Armand unhooked the cape and passed it over, and Micah placed it within a small leather container at the rear of the pedicab. He then said, “Please climb in.”
He went to the rear of the pedicab, to a clean and padded seat. Before Armand was a low shelf, with glass containers of nuts and dried fruits, and bottles of water. Micah got forward, undid a hand brake, and started pedaling. There was a mirror so Armand could see his face. Micah said, “Are you here on business or pleasure, sire?”
Armand laughed. “My father is here on business, and I’m supposed to be here on pleasure, but so far, all I’ve gotten is boredom.”
“Your father. Is he royalty, then?”
Armand said, “A viscount, but he rarely uses the title. His side of my family has little royal blood. His title was awarded to his great-grandfather for service to the emperor.”
A moment passed, and he said, “Please don’t take offense, but is it true, when your father… passes, that you will inherit his title and his job?”
“No offense,” Armand said, “but what you said is true.”
Armand sensed disbelief in his voice, for what Micah said next. “I can’t imagine that, to have your whole life planned for you, even before you are born.”
Armand wanted to say something about the honor and stability of being a noble, as opposed to being a peasant scrambling for fares in this desolate land, but that didn’t seem right. He just wanted to enjoy the tour. Micah paused at the road, and then went out, joining the traffic. The road was well paved and wide, and though Armand didn’t see any signs, it seemed there was a series of lanes for different modes. People walking or pushing wagons were on the far right, and then were bicycles and pedicabs, then horses, and then powered vehicles.
“It won’t take long to get there,” Micah said, “and we’ll stay out in the ruins as long as you’d like.”
The clouds then broke and Armand saw two airships, out in the distance. He felt a surge of pride. Only his home empire had airships this large and powerful, and it felt good, to see them up there, like they were somehow watching over him, even if he was playing hooky. After a while the road rose up and the jungle fell away, allowing a fair view off to the east. Micah paused and Armand saw a few plumes of smoke rising up.
“The cane fields,” Micah pointed out. “The old fields get burned after the harvesting and gathering. Part of the growing cycle.”
“I see,” Armand said, thinking one plume of smoke looked like any other plume of smoke.
Micah grunted something and said, “Look. Up ahead. That’s where we’re going.”
Before them the road swooped down and to the west, and there was a flash of white out there in the distance, of old buildings, poking up through the jungle and growth. Armand felt his pulse quicken in anticipation. It had been one thing to read about the ruins and to see the newsreels; it was another to know that in a few minutes, he would be right there, in the middle of this ancient history.
An ancient history that was about to destroy his life.
Chapter Two
After about fifteen minutes Micah stopped peddling, set the handbrake, and he turned in his seat and said, “I need to rest for a moment… and sire, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get here? Usually the ones I take to the ruins are much older… you’re about my age. Does your father know you’re here? Or your mother?”
Armand laughed. “My father is busy working, securing contracts for the alcohol coming from the cane fields. He thinks I’m being a good son, relaxing back at the hotel. And my mother… if she had her way, I’d be left behind when my father heads back tomorrow. You see, I tricked her into letting me go here.”
“That sounds like quite the trick,” Micah said.
Remembering, Armand said, “It certainly was.”
A few days before his father’s trip, Armand had caught up with his mother just before she was bustling out to have brunch with some of her friends, all of them married to various nobles in Toronto. She had on a light blue formal dress, down to her ankles, and her thick black hair was braided at the back of her strong head. She looked at her older son with distaste, like he was a beggar boy who had slipped through the outer gates. “Yes, what is it, Armand?”
As he said carefully, “It’s about Teresa Dumont.”
That got her attention. She stopped, halfway putting one long white glove up her wrist. “Do go on Armand, but be quick about it.”
“We both know you want me to start courting her, and –--“
“And you’ve been a stu
bborn boy about it,” his Mother had interrupted. “She’s a sweet young lady, she comes from a prominent family, and I don’t understand why you’ve been so obstinate.”
Because all she cares about is gossip and fashion, Armand thought, hoping his face didn’t betray his distaste. Aloud he said, “I think I’ll go on a sailing date with her tomorrow. But I was hoping you could do something for me in return.”
Her smile was thin indeed. “A negotiation, then? With your own Mother? What do you have in mind?”
“Father is leaving soon for a trade mission to the southern lands. I want to go with him.”
“Haven’t you already asked him?”
“Yes, but he keeps on pushing me away. Telling me I’ll be wasting my time, that I wouldn’t see much, that it would be boring. I don’t care. I really want to go.”
Mother seemed to consider that for a moment, and then finished pulling on her glove. “You go on that date with Teresa, and you’ll get your trip.”
And with that, she flourished her way outside to her waiting electric coach, strolling past a student from Upper Imperial College that Armand recognized: Randall de la Bourbon, who had recently started dating Armand’s sister Michelle. He was overdressed in formal wear --- black trousers, ruffled shirt, vested scarlet coat, his face pudgy, blonde hair carefully cut --- and Armand quickly left, not wanting to see the young fool.
The very next day, Armand traveled to the Southern Imperial Docks, with Windsor Tom --- one of his family’s servants and his personal valet --- driving a polished black electric coach. At the docks reserved for ministers and their families, Windsor Tom parked the coach and stepped out, opening the rear door. Armand departed the coach, carrying a picnic basket in hand, and strolled down to the docks.
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 2
