Father leaned forward, raised a finger, his voice louder. “Yes, they have to work to pay off a debt that doesn’t originally belong to them. Perhaps some would call that an injustice. But they don’t have to worry about schooling, about finding a position, about supporting their families. They are protected, housed, and fed. Many know no other life, than that of serving others. It’s the natural order of our lives, and it’s a natural order, my son, that has served you well. You have gone to school and learned of history and mathematics and fencing and dance and all those other idle pleasures… and our servants have bathed you, fed you and clothed you… so don’t dare to ask questions about their place in our world, or your place, Armand.”
Armand could tell his face was warm. Could his father really and truly believe this, or was he trying to hide the real truth from his teenage son? “I just wanted to know more.”
“True, but there is a time and a place for questions, but not now. I have contracts and other paperwork to review this afternoon, and I want to arrive home in a pleasant frame of mind.”
Armand kept quiet, then looked down at the table, seething from being lectured. Typical Father. Make his point, and then allow no counter-arguments. But Father softened his tone. “In a few months, you will be leaving to the Service Academy. You’ll make new friends, young men and women from all about the empire. Of the many things you’ll learn, in following in my own sloppy footsteps, is the nature of trade, of the servant class, and so much more.”
Armand lifted his head. “Academy seems a long way off.”
His expression lightened up. “It will come, quicker than you think. And in the meantime… think no longer of cutting cane, or servants, or debts incurred. Try to put on a happy face for Mother and your sisters… and one more thing.”
Father dropped the crumpled white napkin on the table. “Thank you for getting rid of that simple coin, back at the hotel. Such things shouldn’t be taken out of the place where they belong.”
“Taboo?” Armand asked. “Do you believe that?”
“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. As advanced as we are, there are still things that remain a mystery. Why tempt what we don’t know?”
Father stood up. “I’m going back to our room… to do some work, and perhaps nap, if I’m lucky. Your Mother… well, if you do come in, do try to be quiet. And remember this, Armand. All your Mother and I have done is to prepare you for your destiny.”
With Father gone, Armand now had the forward dining room to himself. He turned his chair around and looked out through the front of the glass, seeing the forests pass below, as the Kanut glided above what was called barbarian lands. True, Armand thought, for what he had seen in the very few days had proven that the lands to the south were barbaric, with barbaric history and customs.
And yet…
He recalled the fellow citizens of the empire, atop the viewing platform, laughing at the starving children they called brown monkeys.
He recalled Micah, in his own way, opening Armand’s own stubborn eyes about servants and slaves and of the difference between them that was no difference at all.
And he recalled a young boy with scratched arms, dressed in nothing more than a sack, desperate to sell Armand a souvenir in spite of the fate that awaited him if he had been caught. The poor boy had probably been starving, and for Armand? When I have ever really felt hunger, he thought.
And instead of hunger, Armand now felt the bite of shame. For his Father had been right. Those in his household that had fed and bathed and clothed him, they were slaves in all but name alone. Now was Armand suddenly going to be holy, to rise above them?
So who were the barbarians? The ones in the south who called everything by their proper name, or the ones in the north, who did the same thing, but polished it in fancy language?
The forest passed underneath them, save for a gray smear, out on the horizon. Armand had seen the same smear earlier, on their way south. Out there was an island called Manattan that once held a large and powerful city, and now, centuries later after the War of the World, there was nothing there save death and decay, so deadly even the trees and the grass refused to reclaim it.
Armand stretched out his legs, and then checked again to make sure he was alone. He reached into his pouch. Took out a familiar coin.
A sideview, of Father Abram.
For it had been a brass sovereign Armand had tossed on the ground, back then, before they left, defying his father.
Armand rubbed it --– for luck or for faith, he didn’t know –-- and returned the coin back into his pouch.
A coin that would eventually almost cost him his life.
During the late afternoon Armand woke up with a start, recalling a dream he had just had. He was in their cabin and on a separate bunk on the other side, Father slept, his eyeglasses fallen to his chest, paperwork loose in his hands. He was lightly snoring. Armand rubbed at his eyes. They were due home in a couple of hours, if that. After their heavy lunch, he had felt tired and gone in for a quick nap, seeing Father had already beaten him to it.
For a long minute he looked at Father’s chest rise up and down. Someday, that will be me, he thought. Coming back from a land of barbarians with contracts and trade agreements, one set of slaves supporting an empire that had its own class of people in bondage. His whole future, for the next thirty or forty or fifty years, until his own male heir was ready to take over at the Ministry of Trade.
That was his future. His destiny. Something that had been chosen for him even before he was born.
He rubbed at his eyes again. Recalled that dream again. Sometimes his dreams were flights of fantasy, of fighting demons or the famed windigos or roaming the world in adventures. Other times the dreams were like snippets of a newsreel, rewinding something in his mind that had truly happened, like a trip he had taken one dark night into a strange part of Toronto.
Just under two years ago. He had gone to a birthday party for one of the boys from prep school. After the presents and pastries and a few songs, he had left the reception room, antsy and bored. He met up with his best friend, Henri Godin, and Henri had offered to take him on a walk some blocks away, where the lights were few, the shops and bars were wild, and tobacco was even sold without anyone checking the age of the buyers. He had no interest in buying anything, but getting away from this stifling party was too much of a temptation.
Eventually, after traveling several blocks south of Yonge Street, he and Henri had come to a part of Toronto Armand never knew existed. The buildings were cramped and crowded, there were no steam or electrical coaches, and even the few lights along the dirty streets were gaslit, even though areas around Maison de la Couture were all lit by electricity.
Loud music spilled out from the bars, and Armand felt uncomfortable, noticing the strange faces that spoke of old times of the Empire --- men and woman who were dark brown, yellow, some with slant eyes --- all staring at them as they walked by, noting their young age and fine clothes.
Armand said, “Henri, I don’t like it. We don’t belong here. Let’s head back to the party.”
Much to his surprise, Henri agreed. “Yeah, I’m having second thoughts, too. I’m doing weekend cadet training for the Army and if we get caught down here --- oh damn, look, proctors!”
Armand saw two blue-uniformed proctors heading their way, walking along a crowded and narrow sidewalk. One check of their identification cards and the two of them might just be detained for questioning. He grabbed Henri’s arm and pulled him into a nearby store, closing the door behind them. “Did you see that? Two proctors, side by side. That’s what kind of neighborhood this is… proctors don’t come here after dark by themselves.”
From inside the voice, a deep woman’s voice said, “And for good reason, young sires.”
As one they turned and looked at the woman. She was black, darker than any woman Armand had ever seen before. She had on a multi-colored robe and a red scarf about her head, and jewelry dangled from her wrists and ears. She rose u
p from behind a glass counter. Armand took in the flickering candles, the smell of spices and burnt incense, and the narrow shelves with drawers along one side and counters crowded with wooden boxes and glass doors. There were figurines and shapes of fur and feather. A hoodoo shop, he thought, that’s where we are.
She laughed and came from around the counter. “You boys… you sure are lost, aren’t you.” Her voice was standard Franglish but there was an accent about it Armand couldn’t place, and then he remembered a story Father had told, about travels to a southern ocean ---- the Caribbean? --- where there were isolated islands with dark-skinned people who spoke a type of Franglish, from some long ago forgotten time in history.
Henri glanced out the shop’s cluttered front window, which had wooden and ivory carvings of strange beasts and men. Armand took a step back. This whole evening out, this whole store was wrong. The woman said, “M’boys, you let your auntie talk to you, tell your fortune for a price, and I promise, you’ll leave this place and this neighborhood safely. You have my vow.”
Henri said, “Those proctors are still hanging out there, Armand. C’mon. Let’s stay here for a bit, get our fortunes told, and then head back. It’ll be fun. How much, then?”
“One brass sovereign, that is all… and for the both of you, such a deal. Come.”
She waddled back to the crowded store, and he and Henri followed. She pulled aside a curtain made of beads, and there was small alcove, with a round table and mismatched chairs. Candles burned in there as well, and there was a skull of a man and other animals clustered on a shelf.
The woman sat down with a sigh. “You first. The one who so nobly agreed to pay me. Have a seat.”
Henri grinned nervously and gave the woman a coin, which disappeared into her robes. He sat across from her and she said, “Your hand, boy. Give me your hand. And I promise… auntie, she don’t bite!”
Armand smiled at the woman’s open nature, as Henri’s thin white hand almost disappeared into the woman’s two huge black hands. She turned Henri’s palm over and started tracing the lines, murmuring. “Oh, I see an exciting life for you, my boy. An exciting life, with much adventure… and excitement… and a woman who will love you so very much and bear you two strong sons…”
She coughed and went on. “Mmm… you’re a boy who loves horses. And uniforms. Swords. Firearms… you will be in the Army… you will advance quickly… some will say too quickly… and too soon, you will be spilling blood, my poor boy… oh, the battles you will fight… and friendships… I’m sorry to say, most of your friends… you will either betray them… or they will betray you….”
Armand wasn’t smiling anymore. The room seemed stuffy, hot, off-kilter. Henri quickly took his hand back, and rubbed it once against a trouser leg. Looking up to Armand, face pale, he said, “Next.”
Armand didn’t want to do a damn thing but he sat down, like he was powerless before this odd woman, and extended out a hand. The woman seized it --- God, she was strong! --- and she started rubbing her firm fingers against his palm. She murmured again and it was crazed to say or think so, but Armand was certain he could feel little jolts of electricity snap at his skin. Her voice started, deep and formal. “Ah, you too, will finally find love… and sons and daughters… but you, boy, as the only son… there will be strife against your parents… you will hurt them, disappoint them… but you have a path to follow… a dangerous path… not one that has been chosen for you… but that has been chosen by another… and what happens… oh, it’s clouded… you have great things ahead for you… great danger… great adventure… great travels.”
Armand swallowed hard, snapped his hand back, and like Henri, rubbed it against his trouser leg. The woman looked at the both of them with a knowing look, like she had reached right into their souls and destinies. He got up and Henri looked to him and said, “I think it’s time to get out of here.”
“You bet.”
They both went out on the crowded sidewalk, and within seconds, they were running away from the hoodoo shop.
Chapter Five
When they arrived home it was nearly dusk, having spent the last minutes gliding over the tranquil waters of Lake Ontario, the lights of Toronto bright by the shoreline. Father had once told Armand that when he was younger, only a few districts could afford electric lamps. Now, with more buildings getting power, it was just another sign of the Empire’s progress.
Due to Father’s title they went to the head of the departure line. The exit cabin had fine views of the landing field, and Armand sensed the pride in Father as they saw the white-clad members of the Kanut crew perform their duties. The landing field was closely cropped grass, with huge hangers that housed the Kanut and the other airships --– including the Pitseolak, which had taken them to Potomick –-- and the terminal building, where passengers and baggage were disembarked and unloaded.
The pilot approached a lit beacon and the hum of the engines changed pitch as he slowed down, and then long lines were dropped fore and aft, to be secured by men below them. Ropes in hand, they brought the long lines to wheeled machines --– called fish reelers, for some odd reason --– and fastened the ropes to large drums that worked in unison to lower the Kanut to the surface. Father said to Armand, “This pilot and crew know their jobs. Once I was on the Kanut last year, on a trip to Hampshire, and one of the poor fools on the reeler, he took in the line too fast. Caused the aft end of the ship to drop faster than the fore end. All of us passengers fell down in a heap. Luckily for him his head didn’t appear on a pike in Government Square by day’s end.”
But the docking went well, and the hum of the engines became fainter still as the lines held fast and slowly brought them back down to their native land. There was just a bit of jostling and then the voice of the Captain, coming over the wireless speakers: “Sirs and ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen, welcome to the Kingdom of Ontario and the City of Toronto airfield. Crew, please prepare for departure. Thank you.”
Ahead of them a metal door was undogged and opened, and Armand and his father led the way, to a set of metal stairs that had been set up. They descended down to a concrete apron, and then to a paved, gentle winding path that led to the terminal. Father made a point of taking a deep breath. “Ah, after a trip to the tropics, there’s nothing like the taste of home. So refreshing.”
And Father, Armand thought, once again, was right, the air being cool and sweet, and feeling fine after the hot days in Potomick. They took the path into the terminal, small lamps set on each side to light their way. Into the terminal and on the tiled floor, they went through passport control, with Father waving his royal red passport at the polite and nodding guards. Through a gate and out into the main terminal, where the flag of the empire hung from the ceiling, near a painted portrait of Emperor Michel the First, and other banners and flags representing the kingdoms, cities and clans that make up the Empire of the Nunavut.
Then Father paused, muttered a curse, and said, “Oh, your sainted mother…”
Armand saw what had distressed Father. Up ahead, by the glass doors leading out to the motorway and parking areas, Mother was standing, with her public smile. Standing next to her were Armand’s younger sisters, Michelle and Jeannette, all dressed in formal gowns. There was also an honor guard of the city’s militia, standing at attention, and then came the flashbulbs from newsjournal photographers. Armand quickly stepped aside, hating the thought that his classmates might see him in tomorrow’s newsjournal, looking like a special and dutiful son, all thanks to Mother’s greed for publicity.
Father approached Mother with a grim look on his face, like he was facing his own execution. Mother came forward to kiss him on the cheek, and she said in a voice loud enough to be heard out on the landing field, “Oh, Roland, so glad to see you back home, in your family’s loving arms.”
Father replied lower and quieter, but Armand was close enough to hear him. “What’s the matter, dear, couldn’t you get the emperor’s nephew to join this circus?”
Father kissed her powdered cheek. “Very well.”
Armand and his father came forward and Michelle and Jeannette both curtsied in front of Father, to the laughter and applause from some of the other departing passengers. The newsjournalists came up, bulky flash cameras and thin notebooks in their hands, and Father said, “Gentlemen, this is my statement.”
There was a hush, and then Father cleared his throat. “My statement is… I have no statement. Come along, my dears.”
With that, they left the terminal and went outside to their home city.
But Mother had one more trick to reveal, a magnificent polished black open coach with four matching horses, and two armed riders up forward to take them home, wearing holstered pistols. To Armand, Father seemed shocked as he hesitated outside the main terminal. But with the curious passengers keeping an eye on the proceedings, he just forced a smile and gently took the hands of his two daughters. “Well, that’s something in style to ride in home, eh?”
As they all approached the black coach, porters arrived, carrying their luggage, and Mother went into her favorite bossy mood, making sure the porters put the luggage in correctly, without scratching any of the leather surfaces. Then one of the coachmen stepped out and opened up a side door, and let them in. Father and Mother sat on one cushioned seat, while Armand found himself wedged in between Michelle and Jeannette. Michelle, being the oldest and more like Mother than Armand cared for, took the far end of the cushion, while Jeannette seemed secretly pleased that she was sitting next to her older brother. Like their father, both girls had prominent ears, something Armand used to tease his sisters when they bugged him too much.
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 6
