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

by Brendan DuBois

  Templair’s free hand tapped on the table. “There are just a few seconds left, young stupid sire, before the cogs and wheels of the Imperial Security Service crush you into small, safe pieces. Tell me the names and or you’ll be placed under arrest. Then the interrogation will begin, a process that will make you think fondly of the love-taps I delivered to your squeaky-clean face.”

  “I… demand to speak to my father,” Armand said. “I want access to a telephone. One phone call is what I’m asking for. That’s all.”

  Templair shook his head. “Your father cannot assist you. You’re close enough to majority, young stupid sire. Time enough for you to make your own choices, your own decisions. I want the names of the traitors working against the Emperor.”

  “They’re not traitors!”

  “Last chance,” he said, playing with the pen again. “Last chance. Will you give me those names? Now?”

  Armand hid his hands under the table, so Templair couldn’t see how moist they were. Thoughts were racing through his mind, thoughts as fast as the greyhounds each spring at the Imperial Games. Give up the names, one voice said. Give up the names and you’ll be back home, safe and secure, and let happen what happens. What business is it of yours? What has gone on here has lasted for centuries… who are you to challenge it? Do what the man say. Do what is expected of you, marry a girl that Mother approves of --- even if it is that prattling Teresa Dumont --- work with Father in the Ministry, rise up in the ranks, be another member of the pampered ruling class who depend on the servants, the slaves…

  And two simple memories came storming through his mind: Windsor Senior and Churchill Grace. Can we trust you, they had said. Can we trust you?

  Armand squeezed his hands together tight, clenched his eyes as well so he wouldn’t see the creature sitting before him. “No. I will not give you the names.”

  He opened his eyes. Templair was standing, looking at him with… sympathy? Hard to believe, but yes, sympathy. Armand found that terrifying. Templair picked up the folder and said, “Oh, you will. Perhaps today. Perhaps tomorrow. You will give me the names I desire. And may the Lord have mercy upon you. In the meantime...”

  Templair cleared his throat, like he was about to say something he had done many times before. In a formal voice he said, “Sire Armand de La Couture, I am formally placing you under arrest for the high crime of treason against the Emperor.”

  Then he left.

  What passed for Armand’s life had now come to an end.

  For hours Armand sat alone in the cold stone room. He guessed this was part of the process, to make him wait, to frighten him, to bestir him to do something stupid. If so, they were succeeding on two out of three points, he thought, for he wasn’t going to do something stupid like scream or bang on the door.

  Instead he walked around the length of his room, measuring off the steps, finding that the room was about three meters by three meters. It was cool but not too uncomfortable, but he realized he was hungry. And thirsty. Armand went up to the door, peered through a barred slit. All he saw was part of the corridor and the opposite door, marked with a sloppily painted numeral eight. Armand wondered what Father and Mother were doing, his sisters, and Windsor Senior and Churchill Grace… he backed away from the door, sat in the chair, thought and waited. His stomach grumbled again.

  What was to be done, then?

  He was under arrest. My word, the humiliation Father and Mother would feel upon learning that. But did they even know he was here? From prep school, Armand knew that a prisoner had the right to contact a barrister or a relative, but that was restricted simple crimes like traffic offenses, burglaries, and the like. But matters pertaining to Imperial Security… he had no idea if Father or Mother had been contacted. For all they knew, he was late returning home from his fencing lessons. Little was spoken at home about Imperial Security; they were out there, like a force of nature, a fierce blizzard or sudden rainstorm, unexpected and deadly, something always to be avoided.

  The rumbling in his stomach grew louder. He rubbed at his arms, heard footsteps outside, which stopped before his door. A voice, muffled from the other side: “Step back, go against the far wall, now!”

  Armand did just that, moving away. There was the clinking of the lock being undone. A burly man with a five o’clock shadow on his face and wearing a denim jumpsuit came in. “Up against the wall, hands at your side, don’t move.”

  He moved back until he was pressed up against the stone, hands at his side, and the burly man said, “Let’s go, we’re behind schedule already, so haul ass.”

  Two workmen came in and took out the chairs, unbolted the table, took that out as well, and then came back in with a mattress that they tossed to the floor, a thin pillow and dark green wool blanket. Two covered buckets came in as well, were placed in the corner, and then the burly man checked something off his clipboard, and went out the door, following his workmen.

  “Hey, wait!” Armand called out, stepping away from the stone wall.

  The apparent foreman turned. “Don’t waste my time, stupid. I’ve got two more cells to change out before I can go home.”

  He went out into the hallway, started closing the door, and speaking fast, Armand said, “Please tell my father I’m here. Viscount Roland de la Cloutier, at the Ministry of Trade, I’ll make sure you’re rewarded, that you get paid, that –“

  The door clanged shut, and Armand was speaking to stone and wood.

  “Damn it to hell,” he said, and turned back to his, wiping at his eyes.

  Armand sat on the stiff mattress, looked to the two covered buckets. The first one was nearly empty, except for some scented crystals on the bottom and a few folded sheets of rough brown paper. With the floor’s center drain, his bathroom requirements had been met. He opened the other bucket. Inside was a metal cup with water, a hunk of black bread, a cold sausage and a carrot, dirt still attached. He wiped off the dirt and ate the carrot, the bread and then the sausage. The sausage was tough and the bread was stale. He found he could eat the bread by moistening it in the water. He ate everything and then sat in the corner, blanket around his legs, and hugged himself and shivered and sobbed a few times.

  The lights dimmed once, dimmed twice, and then it was dark, the darkest he had ever seen.

  From somewhere there came a faint scream, a shout. Just a hint of light came through the door and Armand curled up on his side, thinking of how he had gotten here, about Windsor Senior and Churchill Grace. He clenched his fists, thinking of Templair, that arrogant man, and how he had struck Armand over and over again. Wait until Father found out about that! Even if Templair was Imperial Security, he had struck a member of the nobility, had arrested and interrogated him without his parents’ knowledge, plus… well, this was all crazy, he thought.

  Arrested and interrogated, over questions! Over asking people things! Of learning what was really going on in the Empire of Nunavut!

  Questions, that’s all, and despite all that had gone on, Armand eventually fell asleep, dreaming of his own bed, of the delicious food and drink that was his for the asking. Armand also dreamt of Father coming to save him, and sometimes Father was Father, and other times, he had the quiet, dignified face of Father Abram.

  Chapter Twelve

  Armand awoke to the pounding at the door, and the call of “Buckets, buckets out!”

  He gathered up both buckets and went to the door, which opened up, and another man was there, in the same kind of denim jumpsuit. “Put them down, and get back to the wall.”

  Armand lowered the buckets and as he went to the far wall, he quickly said, “My father. Please tell my father, Roland de la Cloutier of the Ministry of Trade, that I’m here and that –“

  The man switched buckets from a cart behind him. “Shut your mouth. Don’t say another word to me or later your buckets will get mixed up. Then we’ll see how you live on a diet of shit.”

  The door clanged shut. Armand wiped at his face, started now to really get afraid, fo
r how could he get out of here, if Father didn’t know? If Imperial Security hadn’t notified them, by now they were panicking, contact the local proctors and militia, the newsjournals and wireless, his friends from prep school… all to no avail.

  The toilet bucket went into one corner, and Armand opened up the other bucket. A metal cup of a hot liquid made from coffee grounds re-used four or five times, a hardboiled egg with a cracked shell, and another hunk of black bread. Armand never ate hardboiled eggs, preferring them softly scrambled and made with cream and Parmesan cheese, but he ate the whole thing in three bites. When he was done, sat and waited. Tried not to think. Tried to keep his mind calm.

  The cell door suddenly opened up. Armand stood up and a fussy-looking man with a leather case and nice suit came in, followed by two more workmen, carrying a comfortable office chair and a wooden table. The table and chair were placed down and the man said, “That will be all, thank you,” and in a moment, they were alone. The older man looked over, his suit a nice gray material, white shirt starched and topped off by a little red bowtie. His hair was slicked back and he had round glasses, and Armand thought he looked like one of the scores of clerks who kept track of Father’s books in the Ministry.

  Armand scratched at the back of his head, conscious he was wearing the same clothes from the day before, and that he also hadn’t bathed. The man sat down, smiled and opened up his leather case. Armand spoke up, with hope in every syllable of his voice, “Are you from the Ministry of Trade? Did my father send you?

  He took out a small square pad of paper, and a fountain pen, which he unscrewed and put in one hand, while pulling out another sheet of paper. “Oh, dear no, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm and gentle. “But I am associated with the Imperial Security force, and I need to ask you a few questions. But before we begin…” he glanced down at the paper and said, “You are Armand de la Cloutier, of Maison de la Cloutier, Toronto, Kingdom of Ontario?”

  “I am,” Armand said, finding himself soothed by the man’s voice. Nothing like the bluster of Jacques Templair.

  “And your age is fifteen, and you are to be posted to the Imperial Service Academy in one month’s time?”

  “That’s also correct,” he said.

  “Very good,” he said with some enthusiasm in his voice. “Now, if you please…”

  He turned the sheet of paper around and held out the pen. “If you sign the bottom, then we can begin.”

  Armand stood on the opposite side of the table. “What am I signing?”

  “You’re signing a form, consenting to allow me to ask you questions.”

  “But I’m not giving up any names!” Armand protested.

  He adjusted his glasses. “That’s neither here or now, young sire. What I do ask is that you do me the favor of reading this sheet, and signing at the bottom, indicating your agreement to have questions posed to you. That’s all.”

  Armand hesitated, and then came forward, picked up the piece of paper: a nice thick parchment with the seal of the Emperor in the upper left hand corner, and saw that it was a pre-printed form, with places where one’s name, address, age and employment or schooling information was filled in. At the bottom was a pre-printed phrase that stated, “Above individual consents to be asked questions by Francois Parchard of the Imperial Security Service” and a place for a signature. The man’s name was hand-written as well, and Armand looked to him. “You’re Francois Parchard?”

  He nodded. “I am, young sire, at your service.”

  Armand picked up the pen and scrawled his name at the bottom of the form. “You’re about ten times more polite than Jacques Templair.”

  He laughed. “You won’t believe how many people have told me that.”

  Parchard took the pen from Armand’s hand and blew on the ink on the parchment, and then put it back into his bag.

  “Now,” he said, looking to his pad of paper. “This won’t last long.”

  Then Armand got cold. Quite cold. He couldn’t understand why and then looked around the room.

  There was no chair for Armand.

  Just for Parchard. His questioner. His interrogator.

  He scribbled something and looked up again with his calm expression. “Monsieur de la Cloutier, could you please tell me which member of your Father’s household staff has recently talked treason to you, of the overthrow of the Empire, of the death of our emperor?”

  Armand felt like he was skating over a frozen pond and was hearing the bone-deadening sound of ice cracking beneath him. His voice quavered as he said, “There is no member of our household staff who has said such a thing, or who would ever say such a thing.”

  “So refuse to give me the name, then?”

  “Monsieur Parchard, please, there is no name to give,” Armand said. “No one on our household staff has said, or would say, anything like that.”

  “I see,” he said, making some scribbles on the notepad. “And on the other matter… could you please tell me the name of the man or woman you were seeing on Chanson Avenue, who discussed treason with you, of the overthrow of the Empire, of the death of our emperor? And the address of this person?”

  Armand swallowed hard, spoke up, his voice faint. “Monsieur Parchard, please, there is no such person.”

  “So you are refusing to name this person, and to give me the address?”

  “There is no such person,” he repeated, knowing how silly he was sounding.

  “I see,” he said, returning to the notepad once again. He made a few scribbles and then gently laid the pen down and folded his hands together before him, his elbows on the table, like he was about to say prayers over the evening meal. “I’m sorry, Sire de la Cloutier, you have really placed me into a quandary here. I have been assigned to come here and not depart until I have those three pieces of information: the address on Chanson Street, the name of the person residing at that address, and the name of the person at your household.”

  “If I could, I would, but there are no names to give you, monsieur.”

  “So you insist, young sire,” he said, sighing. “And I’m afraid we’re going to have to move on.”

  The man called Parchard then put his notepad into the open soft leather case and then started moving about with his hands. Armand said, “Please, monsieur, contact my Father at the Ministry of Trade. I’m sure he can clear this all up and –--“

  Parchard looked up, smiling, like he was an elderly teacher, correcting an over-eager pupil. “I’m so sorry, sire, but your father and what he does is no concern of mine. I am a member of the Imperial Security Service, sent here to get answers to three questions, and I’m not departing until those answers are mine.”

  He stood up, removed his jacket, began whistling a little tune, something popular that was on the wireless last month, and he gently draped his jacket over the back of the chair. From inside his case, he pulled out a long, chest-high apron, which he put on and then tied behind him, like a grocer beginning his day, and then came on wrist-length black leather gloves. He looked to Armand, eyes happy and content, and Armand felt his bladder cut loose as he wet himself. In a deep, logical part of Armand’s terrified mind, he knew what was about to happen, but didn’t want to believe it. He was just a boy. A member of the nobility. A loyal subject of the Emperor. He started thinking frantically, Father will protect me, will save me, will rescue me, please God, make him come through that door. But for the man coming towards Armand, his eyes said what he was about to do, and that he was going to enjoy doing it.

  Armand tried to dodge past him, run to the door, maybe it was unlocked, maybe he could scream and someone would help him, but Parchard moved as quick as a snake going after a crippled field mouse, and in a matter of just a few seconds, he had Armand screaming in pain.

  It went on for probably not long at all, but long enough. There were punches, slaps, twisting of fingers and arms, and different approaches, here and there, where even a simple motion on one of Parchard’s fingers made Armand sob. He tried to fi
ght back, but the fussy little Monsieur Parchard was a master of his craft. He dodged Armand’s feeble attempts with the skill of someone who not only is good at what he does, but enjoys every damn minute of it. After a long, long while, Armand was huddled in one of the corners of cell, with Parchard standing over him, delicately taking one glove off, wiping his hand free of sweat with a clean white towel, and then repeating the process with the other.

  “My dear boy,” he said, though Armand had difficulties hearing him, with the ringing in his ears, sniffling away snot and blood, “you’re doing quite well for someone of your age and position. But the eventual outcome is inevitable. You will tell me what I want to know, and then the pain will end. Do you understand that? The pain will end… once you tell me what I desire. So why play the stubborn fool? Hmmm?”

  Armand quivered as Parchard flexed his fingers in the gloves. He said, “For a young nobleman like you… there have been occasions when I have questioned other young men in similar circumstances, and they have rolled over and given up information like an eager virgin surrendering herself on her wedding night. Every time that has occurred, it has saddened me, seeing how the noble class has become soft and fat. And then, ah, then, a surprise comes along, like yourself, that restores my faith in our nobility”

  Parchard squeezed his leather-clad hands together. “It makes my job all the more worthwhile. Now, the names, please.”

  “Go to hell,” Armand whispered, trying to scoot away on his buttocks, like a small boy, scampering away from an angry dog.

  “Perhaps, but not now,” he said, and he went back to work.

  Armand’s screaming began again in about five seconds.

  Armand woke up, face on the floor, parts of him throbbing, burning, and a hand grabbed his hair, twisted and pulled it up. His tongue was swollen, bloody, bitten in part, and there was a jagged stump of a tooth back there in his mouth. When Armand’s eyes focused, Parchard squatted before him, shaking his head. “Now,” he said. “Now it gets serious. And you’re making me work late. For the overtime salary I’ll receive, I’m thankful. But for missing my niece’s birthday party, well, that I won’t forgive.”