The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1)

by Brendan DuBois

  “Close the door behind you,” she said. “I don’t pay to heat the outdoors.”

  Armand closed the door and she motioned to a tall stool, where he sat down across from her. Electronic gear and other metal boxes and frames that came from the old ones were piled high about her. She was still bent over to her work. “The name is Churchill Grace. And you’re Sire de la Cloutier. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, you are. And how did you know my name?”

  She smiled, her rough and worn hands moving slowly. It seemed she was about ten or so years older than Armand. “My name may not be of noble birth, but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Arrangements were made, promises kept. You’re the only royal I have here scheduled for the whole day. Who else would you be?”

  Armand looked around, not liking her tone of voice. “What is this place?”

  She said, “My means of living.” Before her on the flat, scarred wooden table was a complicated slab of electronics. She had an interesting tool with long, thin pliers at the end, and Armand saw her work delicately along the slab, picking and poking, taking off little bits of metal and dropping them into wooden bins.

  “What kind of living is that?” Armand asked.

  “My job, being a salvager,” she said. “I’m salvaging, and you’re talking too much, so please shut your hole.”

  Armand was shocked at her tone. He knew his mother or his sister Michele would have swept out of the room in anger, and would have gotten a proctor to detain the woman for using such insulting language, but Armand kept his peace. More important things were going on here than common insults to a member of the nobility. And besides, the place fascinated him. There were shelves and shelves of battered electronic equipment and gear from the old ones. A number of smells were in the room, of metal and plastics and solder, and of old things being disturbed.

  Churchill sighed. “Aaahhh, there we go.” She put down her tool and shifted away the magnifying device, and lifted the glasses up off her head. She wiped at her eyes and looked towards Armand, and he was shocked again. Her rough hands didn’t go with her fair and smooth skin, and instead of being a decade or so older, she was about his age. But her hazel eyes also looked as if they had seen lots of things over the years, many of them unpleasant. About her neck was a pale mark, like that of a brass ring that had been there a long time and since removed.

  “What are you salvaging?” Armand asked.

  “Bits of gold. Silver. Other precious metals.” She pointed to the bin. “Hard work, but worth it. Many of these pieces of equipment have lots of precious metal hidden in them. I just go in and pry them out, and sell them to jewelers up the street.”

  Armand picked up the frame, colored green, and tilted it in the light. “What did this do, back then?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. The old ones… they had very advanced wireless systems, and calculating machines. Machines that were so complex they could actually transmit books and newsreels over wires and even the air… and could actually operate machinery, like aircraft.”

  Churchill brusquely took the piece away from Armand and tossed the frame into a wicker basket, where it clattered amongst its mates. “There’s work going on at the universities and some of the larger companies, trying to learn what these did, how they operated, and whether they could be made to operate again. But they’re so old… they’ve decayed so much… and during the War of the World, a type of bomb was used that could destroy their electronics from hundreds of klicks away, even though they look like they hadn’t been touched…”

  She turned, picked up another piece of equipment, about the size of her hand. “Some say this particular piece of work was a storage device, not unlike a record. An entire library of books could be stored on something this small… imagine what could be in here, if we only knew how to unlock it, how to read it.”

  Then she surprised Armand, by tossing it aside. “So what. I don’t have time to worry about what the old ones did. I worry about paying the bills and putting money away for later.”

  Armand had that feeling again, when he was back in Potomick, of looking up at the face of Father Abram and feeling a sense of loss and melancholy, of now knowing things he had ignored in his young life.

  Now she looked straight at him. “So here you are. Sire Armand de la Cloutier. Father is Viscount Roland de la Cloutier, of the Ministry of Trade. And why are you here, young sire?”

  To sell me some salvage from the old ones? Or are you looking to purchase the finest quality gold or silver scraps?”

  “You’re mocking me,” Armand said crisply. “And I don’t like it.”

  That made her laugh. “Of course I’m mocking you, and I don’t particularly care if you like it or not. You should be at the Coliseum, watching a game or a concert. Or out on the lake, sailing. Or riding along the trails on horseback. Picnicking with a girl of your own age and station. Preparing for Academy, practicing your social skills… a thousand places you could be except for here.”

  Armand said, his voice cross, “You know why I came here. And who sent me. And it’s not for me to be made sport of.”

  Her gaze was steady. “This is what I know, then. My name is Churchill Grace. For generations my family was servants --- slaves --- to a variety of families in Toronto and Montreal and Quebec. Our contract was very old, our debt was very huge… until two years ago. At the time my mother and I served an old man named Napoleon de la Rouge. Monsieur de la Rouge… he made my mother do many things, things that made her weep almost every night… and when he died, he left his fortune to us. Oh, his family howled and complained and put up a fuss… but the will was legitimate, and the probate court, reluctantly, ruled in our favor.”

  She paused. “Look around, Armand. Even with that old man’s fortune, enough to pay off my family’s contract, I still have to live and work here. That’s what I know. And what I know is that I am a free woman, and in a number of years, I will even be able to own property and vote… but there are tens of thousands of my fellow servants out there, who will never have a moneyed gentleman like my mother and I, who took pity upon us before dying. That’s what I know. And what do you know, Sire Armand de la Cloutier?”

  His mouth was dry but Armand kept his voice strong. “I know that I’m young, and some consider me ignorant. Very well. But I also know now that our way of life in the empire is wrong. That it has been wrong for centuries. That to keep servants… slaves… year after year, with no chance of freedom, is an obscenity.”

  Her eyes seemed to harden. “This is no game, young sire. Do you realize that? This is a way of life that has existed for centuries… and do you know why? Do you?”

  “The histories… they say it was a means of settling a just and safe society. After the War of the World sputtered out, there was chaos and –--“

  She held up a rough hand. “Lies. All lies. Are you now just learning that adults, grown-ups, our supposed betters lie to us all the time? Here’s a new lesson for you, young sire… after the War of the World died down, what happened here, in this old country, was a place overrun with chaos, refugees and death. The lands here teetered on the edge, ready to slide into the pit of barbarism that overtook the empire to the south and other nations. And they almost did… except for the bastards who controlled the power.”

  “The army?” Armand asked.

  “No, young fool. The electricity.” She pointed up to a flickering electrical light in the ceiling. “Most of the electrical power in this battered nation was concentrated in one province, and one province only, that’s what they called the kingdoms back then… and it was a type of power that would never be exhausted, coming from dams and flowing water. They kept things alive, barely, and for those in the rest of the nation… to survive they made deals. Grain, fish, and beef were traded, and when they didn’t have grain or fish or beef, they bartered with their very lives. The people here, the ones with the wrong last names, they slipped into bondage to have full bellies, and in bondage they still remain.”

  S
he leaned over the counter. “The system has remained thus for centuries. And it’s lasted so long because there are clans, tribes, nobility and business guilds that profit very much from it. So what kind of danger do you think waits for someone who wants to change it? Especially if there are already pressures out there in the system… an increase in the number of runaways, the problem of demographics.”

  On the stool in this dank basement, Armand drew himself up. “I may be young, I may need to learn more, but I’m a full citizen… a member of the noble class… I have rights and responsibilities to my emperor and my people… and part of that responsibility is to fight against injustice, wherever I can, as I grow older.”

  Her smile was generous. “Told like it was given to you, no doubt, by a very sincere civics teacher at your prep school.” She leaned back and then raised her arms, and Armand heard something creak and snap. “Damn, working like this can turn your back into knots.”

  Then she sighed. “It’s been a long day. Look, young sire, what we are doing… what is going to be done… is to change opinions. There have been wars and revolutions and bloody conflicts all over the years, but that’s not going to happen here. What I would like to do… if you’re agreeable… is for you to come here on occasion, to talk, to learn, to argue. That’s all. Doesn’t sound too revolutionary, does it?”

  Armand was confused and it must have shown on his face, for Churchill Grace reached over and clasped his hand, her skin rough and dry. “We mean to change the minds of the young. That’s all. The young in prominent positions. So that when they get older, like you, they can make a change here, a change there. Perhaps a law preventing family members from having their contracts sold to nobility in faraway kingdoms. Perhaps a law limiting the interest charged on servants’ contracts, so that there is a chance at some point, of the contracts being paid off. There’s many ways for the good to win out… but only if we try. Only if you join us.”

  From under the counter she pulled something out, something that made Armand gasp aloud. It was a coin, a double of the one he had back home, but this one was duller and seemed older. But there was still no doubt; it was Father Abram. Armand was surprised at the tears that welled up in his eyes as he examined the coin and handed it back to her.

  Her voice softened. “It happened once before. It can happen again. There’s no reason slaves cannot be freed once again.”

  She put the coin back under the counter. “Those who work to stop this sin… they carry this coin. Which is why Windsor Senior told me you can be trusted. Is that true?”

  Armand didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  She asked, “Will you help us?”

  Again, no hesitation. “When can we meet again?”

  Churchill Grace smiled. “How does the day after tomorrow sound?”

  “It sounds fine,” Armand said. “Tell me what you meant earlier, about demographics. I didn’t understand.”

  She waved a hand. “That can wait until our next conversation.”

  Armand got off the stool but before he headed to the door, he said, “I’m just curious. Your mother. Does she help you here, or does she do something else?”

  Churchill Grace put on her eyeglasses again. “Something else, I suppose. You see, the day after Monsieur de la Rouge passed away, my mother took her own life.”

  Melinda Whitehorse suddenly woke up in terror, at the touch upon her skin. For the past several days she still hadn’t gotten used to being slapped, grabbed and pushed around. She rolled, saw who was before her, and was going to cry out when a dirty hand was slapped against her mouth.

  “Shut up,” Tracy Donovan hissed, huddled over her, her filthy hair hanging down. “I’m trying to get you free if you’d just relax.”

  Melinda nodded, heart thumping so hard she was sure one of the raiders would hear it. But a quick glance over to the smoldering embers saw men rolled up in blankets or fur robes, their horses resting in a line beyond them. The day before, two women had ridden out to join them, and the women were among the resting shapes as well.

  Melinda whispered, “How did you get free?”

  Tracy’s fingers worked at the knotted rawhide on her wrists. “Was put up against a rock. One of the rock edges was sharp. Worked half the night to saw off the rawhide.”

  Melinda looked behind Tracy. “Where’s Christy?”

  Tracy’s whisper was harsh. “Her feet are bleeding. She can’t go far.”

  “You’re leaving your sister?” Melinda asked, stunned.

  Tracy said, her voice still harsh, “I’m getting out. And I’m going to try to get you out. Because I’m not going to end up like Constance. Savvy?”

  Melinda just nodded in terror. Three days ago, Constance had been dragged away by two of the raiders, brought behind a collection of boulders. Her screams went on for a long, long time. Eventually the raiders emerged, and their leader came to them, yelling. Their hands were stained with blood. The two raiders endured several minutes of being punched and shoved by their leader, before he stalked away. The raiders then slinked off to join their group and when the horses were saddled and they kept on moving south, Constance didn’t join them.

  “Damn,” Tracy said, “Damn, Melinda, these bounds are tight, tight, tight. Wish I had a knife.”

  Melinda whispered back. “Maybe you could go over and ---“

  One of the men by the smoldering campfire started coughing, louder and louder. Another man murmured to the one coughing and there was a retort from the first. Tracy froze and took her fingers away. “Melinda… oh God, I’m so sorry…”

  Melinda squirmed around. “Please… please don’t leave me…. Tracy… you can’t… you can’t leave me….”

  But by then, she was speaking to the darkness. During the rest of the long night, she wept and wept, feeling as lonely as she had ever been.

  In the morning, there were shouts, yells, and then the camp was broke and they resumed their ride south, and in one heart-breaking moment, Melinda caught the eye of Christy, riding on another horse, her face reddened and eyes puffy. The girl’s face was blank, like that of a lifeless doll, trying to pretend to be alive and caring and thinking.

  They rode hard and rested mid-morning, when there was a shout from a raider, keeping watch from a tall pine tree. He jumped down from the lower branches and in a while, a horse came back, being ridden by one of the two women. She had on a long skirt but rode well, and her hands and arms were muscular. Long hair was flowing from her head, but something was wrong, something didn’t look right. Then Christy started screaming and screaming, just as the woman rode up to the men, laughing.

  Fastened to her own braided hair was the bloody scalp and hair of Tracy.

  In a crowded and smoky bar called La Ligne Bleue, on New Main Street in Toronto, Randall de la Bourbon sipped from a mug of cocoa and tried to keep a bland expression on his face as he took in the muscular man sitting across from him in a corner booth. His name was Dayton McNeill, and he was the centre for the Toronto Imperials hockey team. He had on a black turtleneck sweater, sleeves pushed up to reveal beefy forearms, and his thick black hair was combed back. Dayton was trying to keep his temper in check, which made perfect sense, since Randall was doing his best to bribe him.

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Randall said softly, making the large hockey player lean in to hear him. “You’ve got a game coming up next week with the Scotia Codmen. I’ve got a rather large sum being bet that the Imperials will lose. So as a favor, I’m hoping that you either sit out the game, or don’t play up to… your usual standards. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Dayton said. His nose had the look of being broke once or twice, and there were faint scars on his broad forehead. “That’s all? Look, you boy, I’ve got this far because I’ve worked my butt off since I was a child. Up early and out late, practicing and practicing on frozen ponds… making my own equipment… skipping schools, parties and girls. Now I’m the best, boy, with my face on newsjournals, my best shots on the we
ekly newsreels. Why in hell should I do anything different?”

  “Because I would consider it a personal favor, Monsieur McNeill,” Randall said, acting shyly. “And as you’ve so repeatedly pointed out, I’m just a boy. But I’m in a position to do you good things in the future. Monsieur McNeill, at some point, you won’t be playing hockey any more, and --–“

  Dayton said, “Stupid boy, let me tell you. Nobody tells Dayton McNeill where or how to play. Especially a pudgy thing like you… and I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re a noble or not. No member of the nobility got me where I am today, and no nobility is going to tell me what to do next week or next month or next year. So if you lose a bunch of money next weekend, too bad. Not my problem.”

  Randall ran a finger along the edge of his cup of cocoa. “Is that your final answer?”

  The hockey player said, “That is my last, final and only answer, boy.”

  He paused, looked about the crowded bar, noticed a bunch of other hockey players looking at him, with their women, all of them older, all of them in better physical shape than he. Randall was the youngest by far in this bar, and he could feel their dislike coming at him, in long waves, like a heat wave in July. He rather enjoyed their hatred and attention.

  Everyone, that is, save for one man, dressed in brown trousers and a shapeless gray sweatshirt, at the far end of the bar, sitting underneath a framed portrait of a saint the Empire’s hockey players all prayed to. The portrait was quite old, faded, but the saint had a devilish smile and was wearing a hockey jersey with the number 99 upon it. He was called “The Great” and trinkets and candles were set beneath it, to give the hockey players luck and good wishes in their careers.

  Randall picked up his cocoa cup, and it slipped from his fingers, smashing to the floor. “Damn,” he said. “Fingers got slippery there.”

  “Or nervous, boy,” Dayton said, pushing himself out of the booth. “Don’t bother coming back. You’re a noble but you’ll find in places like this, even nobles can get into trouble.”