A prince, coming to the rescue, Melinda frantically thought. Everything else about Great-Aunt Sophie’s prediction so far had come true: she had traveled, she had gone to the Donovan farm for her research --- even though mom and her professor had advised her against it, saying it was too far away from University --- and yes, she had suffered terribly in those long hours since the Callaghan’s farm had been attacked.
Now, look at the man, she thought. Strong, an Imperial cavalryman, no doubt leading a rescue squad, and she was crying so hard in gratitude that it was hard to see what was going on, and ----
No, no, no, she silently screamed, that’s not right, that’s not right!
The cavalryman rose up his sword, but instead of cutting down or slashing at the raiders, he brought it up to his face in a salute. The men gathered about him laughed, slapped his legs and the side of his mount, and he then thrust his sword away into a scabbard. Then, reins in hand, he leaned over and talked to a man who appeared to be the leader. Polite words seemed to be exchanged, and the cavalryman went to the side of his saddle, removed a bag, and tossed it to the ground.
Two of the men instantly got into a fight over the bag, which made the Imperial officer laugh. With a toss of his hand to the group’s leader, he whirled his horse away, rode past the sobbing and keening group of Manitoban farmer’s children without so much as giving them a glance, and was gone.
Melinda closed her eyes, shook her head, could not believe what she had seen. They had been betrayed! She didn’t know why or how, but she and her companions… some sort of payment had been made.
But why?
One of the men came over, kicked her feet, and she slowly stood up.
What she saw next almost made her vomit against her gag. The three other girls --- Tracy, Constance and Christy ---were made to get on their feet, and poor Michael, he struggled to move as well. Carbine in hand, a raider came over and put the end of its barrel against Michael’s forehead and shot him. Blood and bone spewed up and Michael crumpled to the ground. The raider with the rifle calmly walked away like he had just stepped on a cockroach.
As she was dragged away, the muffled wails of the girls piercing the cold air, Melinda recalled one more part of Sophie’s prophecy. That Melinda would some day destroy an empire, and the thought of doing that to that arrogant cavalryman and all who were like him, filled her with a dark and angry resolve.
No matter what, she vowed, as she was thrown up onto the rear of a horse, I’ll stay alive. If only to make that prophecy come true.
Chapter Seven
Just a week after his return from Potomick, Armand and his family went to a royal reception in honor of the Emperor’s nephew Andre, who had just turned thirteen and was being awarded a title. Armand and his father were washed and dressed with more than an hour to spare. They sat in one of the large living rooms, listening to the muffled shrieks and shouts from upstairs as Mother terrorized her maids and got Armand’s two sisters ready.
Father read the Toronto Star newsjournal --- the back pages showing a listing of runaway servants, complete with descriptions and photostats --- while Armand pretended to read a sheaf of decade-old fishing contracts for a southeastern city-state on the Atlantic called Falmouth. The contacts actually hid a popular science newsjournal that had a fascinating story on Imperial scientists working to make newsreels that could be sent over the air like wireless.
One of the worse parts of attending a function, Armand thought, as he secretly turned a page, was that he was invisibly chained to his father. Being in the Ministry of Trade and a noble, Father would only leave the function when it was politically right to do so, with Mother whispering instructions into his prominent ears. This meant Armand wandered around a lot, talking to whatever classmates showed up, or finding a way to sneak into some of the forbidden parts of the Palace Hall. He recalled with a smile last year, when he and Henri Godin had climbed up to one of the balconies and had released dozens of paper airplanes that flew down among the assembled lords and ladies, before running like hell down a dark corridor with Imperial household guards chasing after them.
Windsor Senior came into the sitting room. “Sire, we are ready to depart.”
They took the largest electric coach, with Windsor Senior and Windsor Tom up front. Armand and his father took the middle seat, which faced to the rear, where Mother, Michelle and Jeannette sat, their gowns billowing out about them. Mother spent the entire time fussing with Michelle’s gown and hair, pushing bits of fabric here and there, playing with the curls of hair about her shoulders and large ears. The younger Jeannette sat quietly, her feet swinging back and forth, her black shoes shiny. Once she saw Armand looking at her, and she stuck out her tongue, started giggling. Armand smiled back at his little sister and looked out the window, as they got closer to the Palace Hall.
Since Father’s coach was flying the pennants of a government minister, they made good time, save for once, when they slowed to a crawl at Government Square, near where Parliament met every spring and fall. The building was one of the oldest in Toronto, with impressive columns and windows. Before the main entrance, set on tall metal pikes near the iron gates, was where the heads of the condemned were placed after execution. Armand noted that half of the pikes were empty, while the other half contained clay reproductions. Men who did foul things against children or women ended up here, as well as would-be assassins and once, just after Armand was born, the wife of Emperor Alexandre III, who had cuckolded him.
Their coach gathered speed. Times change, Armand thought. Nowadays only the most violent criminals had their heads posted there as warnings, and since Armand was a child, the real heads had been replaced a few days later with clay reproductions. Father told him once that the severed heads would stay up there until the flesh rotted and the birds had at it, bones appeared, and the jawbones fell away. But Emperor Louis II and his son, the current Emperor, decided these warnings could be taught without so much gore.
Armand supposed this was progress, as they sped through the night.
He stretched out his legs, pretended to scuff the shoes of his younger sister. She pulled away with a squeal and then stuck out her tongue again. Mother, who was still fussing with Michelle, snapped out, “Both of you, stop that right now. Oh, look we’re almost there. I told you Roland, we should have gotten ready earlier. Look at the line going in!”
Father adjusted his formal wear, ran a hand across the ribbons and medals displayed over his left breast pocket. “Absolutely, Henrietta. Absolutely. But with that long line, think of how many more photographs the newsjournals will take of us.”
Not surprisingly, that quieted her down, as the coach reached the walkway to the Palace Hall. Imperial Guards in red and black uniforms opened up the rear doors, and they got out, with Father and Mother up forward, Armand escorting his sisters in. Jeannette took his right arm without complaint but Michelle reluctantly took the other arm. “I should punch you, for what you did to Teresa on that sailing trip.”
Armand said, “Keep a smile on your face, sister. Mother won’t like it if our photos show up in tomorrow’s society pages, with you frowning and looking like a beggar’s daughter.”
She squeezed his arm, tried to make it hurt, but that only made Armand laugh. They slowly joined the other line of dignitaries, going into Palace Hall, for the social event of the month.
Later Armand thought he would have paid more attention, if he knew it was going to be the last one he would ever attend.
In the rear of his father’s armored coach, heading to a private entrance to the Palace Hall so they wouldn’t have to wait in line with the rest of the pampered fools attending this dumb function, Randall de la Bourborn folded his arms petulantly and waited. The back of his head still ached where his father had earlier cuffed him, because Randall was supposedly taking too long to get dressed. Father sat across from him, reading from a red-bordered sheet of paper, half-glasses perched on his prominent nose, a little electrical lamp illuminating his read
ing. He had on a severe black suit and polished black shoes, and once again, Randall wished the old man would dress more gaudily, like the other noble fathers, with ribbons, jewels and sashes. But save for a tiny gold fleur-de-lis pin in his left lapel, the old man wore nothing flashy, save for his large red signet ring.
Without looking up, his father said, “And for God’s sake tonight, don’t hog the food line. Get out and talk to people! Make yourself known!”
“People already know me,” Randall said. “And I don’t have to perform for them, or for you.”
His father grunted and flipped a page. “You’ll do as your told. And pay more attention to that girl from the de la Couture family. You should keep on seeing her. She seems thick-headed but her mother is a sharp one, willing to do anything to make a name for herself and her daughters. Could prove to be very, very helpful for you.”
Maybe, Randall thought, maybe I will do as I’m told tonight. And next week. And next month. But there will be a time, old man, where I’ll be the one cuffing you on the back of your shiny bald head…
Another turn of the page. “I received word from your school that you’ve returned to gambling. We don’t need to have that talk again, now, do we?”
“No, sir,” Randall said, his tongue suddenly dry.
“Because last time, I covered your debts, and I told you again, no more. So you better stop whatever you doing.”
Randall just nodded, wishing this evening were over.
His father said, “And what in the world were you doing at my offices yesterday? You know I don’t like you dropping by without first making an appointment. I couldn’t see you because of my meeting schedule. It’s awkward.”
Lying easily, Randall said, “School let out early. I just wanted to say hello. That’s all.”
His father kept on reading, didn’t say anything. Randall looked at him and wondered how his father could have gotten so far in the Ministry of Security, based on what Randall had gotten away with. Oh, yes, he had gone to the floor where father worked, but earlier, he had snuck into the basement and sub-basements. In a dusty laboratory that was always leaking water from the stone ceiling, he earlier had befriended an experimenter called Georges Pelletier who had a dull son named Roberge. In exchange for tutoring thick Roberge in the finer points of biology, the experimenter let Randall play with some of the potions and instruments …
… including a stolen one nestled in his inside coat pocket. It was a thin knife that had a glass tube as its blade point. Inside the tube was a special poison. One simply pressed the knife into the victim’s back, breaking the glass tube, and pulled it out. Within a few minutes, the victim would quickly collapse, throat swelling and choking. Usually the victim was paralyzed, and sometimes died. What made it perfectly delightful was that any examination would later show the victim had most likely suffered from a food allergy.
With the large buffet and food tables available tonight, all Randall had to do was to slip behind Armand de la Couture in the crowd and give him a slight punch in the back. After the wailing from Armand’s parents and the possible obituary in the Toronto Star newsjournal, one major problem in Randall’s future would be gone.
He noted his father’s signet ring again. Simple old man didn’t know that Randall was aware of his involvement in whatever political plotting was going on, which was fine. Soon after that meeting in Quebec City, a man named Angelo Munro had approached him outside of his father’s building in Toronto. Flashing a Ministry of Security identification card, Munro had told Randall he was the contact from Quebec City. Since then, Armand had passed along scribbled notes to Munro on whatever he could learn about Armand de la Cloutier… which hadn’t been much.
So months later, impatient at simply passing along notes of Armand’s taste in sports --- hockey --- and his travels --- off to Potomick with his dull father --- Randall decided to take matters into his own hand. Hence the little instrument in his coat pocket. He knew some sort of greatness was waiting for him, and if it meant Armand de la Cloutier losing his limbs or life so he could get it, so be it.
Randall touched the side of his cape, smiled. His father snorted. “And stop grinning so much! Makes you look deficient!”
“Yes, father,” Randall said, trying very, very hard to appear to be a good son.
After the initial excitement of being announced by the Lord Chancellor and taking in the music and food and displays, events such as these quickly descended into tedium for Armand. The large imperial hall was noisy with chatter and conversation, and music being played in one corner. It was fun at first to see the fancy-dressed ladies and gentlemen of Court and other assorted hangers-on, parading around, looking at each other, gossiping, standing with small plates of food, carrying drinks in one hand. But nobody was around his own age, save for Randall de la Bourbon, and he already spent too much time with the fool in class and on the school’s playing fields.
So Armand wandered around the great hall by himself. Flags and banners, not unlike those from the airfield terminal, hung from the high rafters, moving gently back and forth, like ghost breezes were finding their way in to stir them. Male and female servants of all ages strolled around in their black and white clothing, brass rings about their necks, serving exotic foods and drink. Trumpets then sounded and applause and cheers broke out as Emperor Michel I appeared on a raised platform, holding up his arm in a simple greeting, his other arm around the thin shoulders of his nephew Andre.
The Emperor was tall and thin, wearing the simple unadorned uniform of an Imperial soldier, only highlighted by a light purple ribbon around his neck and the gold fleur-de-lis medallion that marked his office. His eyes flickered, like he was having a hard time focusing on the applauding crowd before him. The Emperor was forty-five years old, widowed at an early age when his princess and bride died of cancer. Although some in Court still allowed him the privilege of mourning, there was still idle gossip that for the good of the Empire, he should re-marry soon and produce an heir.
Armand, grimly recalling his sailing trip with Teresa Dumont, thought the Emperor probably felt one marriage had been enough.
From behind him in the crowd, Armand heard a snatch of a conversation, of rumors the nephew would be named Crown Prince, “and then watch out, such power and responsibility in a young man’s hands…” The Emperor made a short speech that wasn’t amplified correctly, so Armand didn’t hear much of it, although the Toronto Star newsjournal would have the full transcript tomorrow. When the Emperor was finished, there were cheers and applause, and then, accompanied by Imperial Household guards and the Royal Chancellor, he went into the crowd of lords, viscounts, earls and dukes, and their assorted ladies and dames, and did whatever Emperors do at functions like these.
By then, Armand’s father had gone off with his Ministry of Trade cronies, and Mother was holding a mini-court of her own in one corner of the hall with Michelle and Jeannette and some of her friends. Armand felt his belly growl, knew it was going to be a long and dull night, and decided to go to one of the buffet tables. But as he walked towards the food, he couldn’t help noticing the bustling servants moving around, all dressed in black and white, all wearing the familiar brass rings about their necks. Somehow, the gently mocking tones of Micah Kennedy came back to him, of the difference between servants and slaves.
There was no difference at all.
Randall could hardly believe his luck, seeing the opportunity before him. The arrogant boy was going right into a crowd about the near buffet table. Randall shoved his way through the chattering group of overdressed women and satisfied men, making his way behind Armand de la Cloutier. He shoved his hand underneath his coat, carefully grabbed the handle of the slim knife, pulled it out and put it down by his leg.
Armand stood in line, trying to get some smoked salmon before the plates were picked clean, when somebody punched him hard in the side, making him gasp in surprise.
Armand’s back was opened right up before him, and Randall brought the knife up
and ---
A hand tugged at him, pulling him back.
After his back was punched, Armand whirled, fists clenched, ready to have words with whoever had done that to him, and ---
“Henri!” Standing before him in the dull red uniform of an Academy military cadet, with short blond hair and a roguish grin, was his best friend, Henri Godin.
Armand shook his hand. “You son of a gun… why didn’t you tell me you were coming tonight?”
“Because I didn’t know until this morning,” Henri said, his eyes filled with amusement. “I was on a General Staff express train with my father with no chance of sending you a telegraph.” Armand looked at Henri closely, seeing the familiar features of his old chum, but noting his skin was darker, his features heavier and more muscular, and –--
A scar on his left cheek that hadn’t been there before.
Pointing, Armand said, “What the hell is that? A shaving mark?”
Henri shook his head. “I wish. Look, let’s break away from this crowd. I can barely hear you talk…” and then he looked to Armand’s waist and added, “And I think you’ve eaten enough for one night. Come along.”
Randall turned and in the jostling, dropped the knife, the glass tip breaking on the tile floor.
Before him was Michelle de la Cloutier, Armand’s sister, and her face was heavily-made up and her ears were sticking out as usual. She bowed and said, “Randall… please… do come over join my mother and I. We do need to catch up.”
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 8
