The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  Tompkins shook his head. “I don’t recognize the reference.”

  “I don’t blame you, because I didn’t either, until I read it last night,” Armand said. “It’s been years since I’ve studied the Compact, but article twelve, section fourteen, is part of the rights and responsibilities of the nobility. There’s a section on what happens if a member of the nobility is charged with treason.”

  “What happens then?”

  Armand clumsily opened the book, like he still couldn’t believe he had found this boon. He read aloud, “’In any case where a member of the nobility is charged with the high crime of treason against the Empire or the Emperor, a trial shall commence within thirty days of such charge, said trial to be held under the auspices of the Lord Chancellor, with a jury of five to be comprised of peers of the member of nobility charged, said jury to be the final say in determining sentence and punishment.’”

  Armand lowered the book. Tompkins said, “And what does that mean?”

  Even with the throbbing pain at his side, Armand felt a sense of excitement and anticipation he hadn’t felt in very long months. “It means I’m here illegally,” Armand pointed out. “I had no trial. I had no hearing before a jury of my peers. I was interrogated, tortured, sentenced and dumped on a train that brought me here.”

  Tompkins seemed to hesitate for a moment, like he was trying to choose the right words. “That is all well and good, young sire. But what do you do then?”

  “I send appeals to the Emperor, to the Lord Chancellor, to friends and acquaintances, hell, even to some of the news journals from Toronto and even Quebec City. That’s the kind of story that could cause a lot of interest. Inquiries will be made… attention will be paid… and I’m certain I’ll be taken back to Toronto for a formal trial.”

  “With no disrespect, young sire, how does that assist me?”

  “Because once I’m in Toronto, I will meet with my father. He’s in the Ministry of Trade, with the power to conduct investigations and grant pardons. Ten minutes with my father and a telegraph message later, you’ll be free.”

  Armand could sense what was going on behind those commoner eyes, what sort of debate must be going on within his mind. To gamble with his own sentence, his own secure place of safety and well-being in such a camp, for the very outside chance that a pardon could be sent his way.

  Tompkins seemed to stand up straighter. “My overseer has suggested that an assistant would be necessary.”

  “He has, has he,” Armand slowly said, not wanting to push him.

  “Yes.”

  A long few moments, where Armand thought he could feel his heart thumping away in his chest. Tompkins picked up the two books he had given to him the day before.

  “At the end of the day,” he finally said. “You’ll be out of here, young sire.”

  Armand closed his eyes, felt the tears well up, embarrassed that it was happening. “Thank you.”

  His friend’s voice was harsh. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “For if nothing happens, if you’re not granted a trial, if you don’t leave this place, then I can easily send you back to your barracks. Back to your shovel and the oil sands, and back to whoever is trying to kill you. Understand?”

  “I do,” Armand said, realizing how much he --- a supposed member of nobility --- would always owe this young commoner. And hoping this commoner would also never find out how devious Armand had been, for everything he had just said to Tompkins was pretty much a lie.

  Chapter Six

  An hour later, Tompkins returned and helped Armand out of his bed. Armand leaned on Tompkins as they walked past the other dirty beds in the infirmary. At the main door, a bored guard looked up from his station and Tompkins handed over a cardboard pass embossed with silver foil. The guard got up, unlocked the door, and they went outside.

  “Hold on,” Armand said. “I want to enjoy the air for a moment.”

  After being inside the infirmary with its sickly-sweet stench of blood, sweat and medicine, it was a relief to be outdoors, even with the smell of the oil sands. Armand took a few breaths and winced. Tompkins said, “Still hurting?”

  “Hurts like hell,” he said.

  “How are you going to take care of yourself, in my quarters?”

  Armand glanced back at the infirmary. “Saw a doctor once, for about a minute, when I was back there. I think I can make do on my own.”

  Tompkins nodded. “Yeah, I guess you can.”

  The walk seemed long, as they left the infirmary compound and went to another gated area, and once again, Tompkins showed his gilted pass. They went in through a double-gate of wire and wood. Ahead were a collection of small, one-story buildings, about the size of cottages, and Tompkins led Armand up to the nearest one, unlocked the door.

  “Here, young sire,” he said, helping Armand up the steps. “The camp’s library, my home, and your new quarters.”

  Armand said, “Only if you stop calling me sire, Tompkins. We’re not in court, now, are we. Call me Armand.”

  They went into the dark interior, which had a scent of old books that had once gotten wet and then dried. There was a stove that was burning in one corner, warming up the room, and some old furniture: chair, couch and a bed. Piles of books were stacked up in other room near a cot. Tompkins led him to the cot and said, with a touch of apology, “Best I could do on short notice. By the end of the week, we’ll have a real bed for you.”

  Armand sat down on the cot with a sigh of relief, stretched out. Tompkins went out and then returned shortly with a mug of tea. Armand sat up and drank it eagerly, and Tompkins said, “One of the advantages of my position. I have a small kitchen where I can make some hot water and some meals. Are you able to move much?”

  Armand finished off the tea and stretched out on the cot. “I’m… I’m doing better. What I’d like to do now is sleep.”

  Tompkins took the empty mug away. “Go right ahead.”

  Over the next several days Armand got his strength back, hobbling out with Tompkins to the trustee’s cafeteria, where the food was much better than what they got in the barracks. Tompkins was a gracious companion, but one day he said, “You have to start working, Armand. You’ve got to show my overseer that he didn’t make a mistake allowing you to come here. Some in the camp administration wanted you to stay as a stoker, but I managed to keep you here.”

  “How did you do that?”

  Tompkins looked cheerful. “By bribery, what else.”

  “How did you bribe your overseer?”

  That produced a wider smile. “Occasionally, mistakes are made in the book shipments. Sometimes old magazines, or books of a more… let us say, prurient nature, are supplied. Those that appeal to the overseer, are sent over to him. But Armand, I can only do so much.”

  Armand said, “You’re quite right. Here, will you help me?” He was in the center of the large room, and lifted up his coarse shirt, touched the stitches along the side. They made his skin itch. Tompkins frowned. “I’m… I’m sorry, Armand. When it comes to this, I cannot be of much help. I find it… uneasy.”

  “Then be useful,” he snapped at him. “A mirror and a pair of small scissors. Or a razor.”

  He came back a few minutes later, with a large, dirty handmirror. “No scissors,” he said apologetically. “This will have to do.” Tompkins handed over a straight razor and Armand had him hold the mirror still. Working slowly, Armand sliced off the knot of each line of stitches, and then worked them out of his skin. There was a strange tugging sensation but not unpleasant, as each stitch worked its way through the healing flesh. It was like having an itch that drove one crazy for days, and removing the stitch was like having a long, pleasant scratch.

  When Armand was done he handed him back the razor. “There. I’ll be able to work tomorrow.”

  Tompkins took the razor in hand. “Very well. But be careful. Someone in this camp wants to hurt you.”

  Armand rubbed at the freshly healed wound. “No, Tompkins, you’re wrong
.”

  “I am?”

  “You are,” Armand said, lowering his shirt. “Someone in this camp wants to kill me.”

  Armand soon fell into a quiet and safe routine with Tompkins, of bringing out the books to the infirmary and other buildings, bringing them back, and repairing them when needed. In every round, Armand kept a close eye on the other prisoners, but most were either infirmed or elderly. Still, he always made sure a knife was within easy reach in the book cart. And every time he wondered about his boys in barracks nineteen and how they were doing, the knife reminded him that to go back there would be too dangerous.

  Armand was also curious why the books never went to the regular barracks, and that made Tompkins laugh. “Because, Armand, the camp wants the workers over to be as ignorant as possible. You give all of them books, they’ll learn and start asking questions, and too many questions will lead to trouble.”

  Even though books were moldy and damp, Armand learned to love going through the old pages. He read them all, even the books on math and geometry, and learned of tales from different parts of the earth, all long before the War of the World. Some of the books even bore the stamp of the Imperial censor, the faded blue words written in an archaic form of Franglish. During long nights, around the stove, Armand told Tompkins about growing up as a noble, and he told Armand of his days as a student teacher in a small village north in the Kingdom of the Scotia. Tompkins also recalled how he had gotten the attention of Imperial Security when he had asked questions of his students, about the servant class, the Compact and the way the Empire was governed.

  “Of course,” Tompkins had said ruefully, “my teachings were all for naught, for the youngsters only wanted to learn enough to write, read and count, so they could go do what their fathers and grandfathers had done -– go fishing for cod. Humorous, isn’t it, that I sacrificed myself for students who had no interest in what I was trying to offer.”

  About then Armand showed Tompkins the Father Abram coin. He told him about the trip to Potomick and the legend of Father Abram, how he had freed the slaves, and with that, Tompkins had said, “I had heard tales about a Father Abram, from the old empire to the south. Not everything down there was an abomination. It makes you think, what other lies are taught to us by the adults.”

  “You should know,” Armand had said, “Being a teacher.”

  “But not a very good one,” he countered, laughing.

  Armand also spent time walking around in the trustee compound, looking at the fences, the guard towers, seeing the patrols with the guards and the dogs, and even though the dogs were trained to stalk and attack, a part of him ached with the memory of Martel. Armand was also ashamed that at night, he often woke up screaming from nightmares, of the soft looking Francois Parchard coming at him with a sharp knife in his hand.

  One day Armand was walking along with Tompkins at the far fence and the boy paused, sighed, and said, “If I was braver, this is where I would escape.”

  Armand didn’t believe what he was hearing. “Escape? Do you have a plan? What the hell do you mean?”

  Tompkins pointed to one guard tower, and then the other. “There’s some sort of blind spot here along the fence, where guards in either tower can’t see this point. I did some measuring and determined that if you stand right here, you can’t be seen.”

  Armand laughed. “Hell of a theory, Tompkins. Your students must have loved what you taught…”

  “No theory,” Tompkins simply said. “A couple of months ago I stood there with a set of wire cutters I had made. Middle of the day. I cut the wire and walked away.”

  Armand was too stunned to say anything at first. Then he recovered and said, “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  Tompkins resumed walking. “Like I said, I’m not a brave boy. I just walked away… to feel free, if at least for a few minutes, and then I walked back. I have a five-year sentence, with a chance of parole if I’m lucky. I’m a prisoner of the Empire, just like you, no matter how many letters you write.”

  Ah yes, the letters… oh, the letters Armand wrote, over and over again, to everyone and anyone he could think of back in Toronto who could help, who could get word to either Father or the Chancellor, but week after week, nothing. Armand also tried not to be jealous of Tompkins, who often got a letter from a woman in Scotia named Chaffee Sandra.

  Tompkins read the letters in private, and once said, “A sweet girl. She works as a secretary in the school where I started teaching. We were dating until I got arrested. I’m thrilled that she’s writing to me, but really, do you think she’ll wait five years? I don’t think so.”

  Armand replied, “At least you have a girl. If only for a while.”

  “But I thought you nobles could have any girl you want.”

  “Then you thought wrong,” Armand had said. “In our circle, it’s a damn breeding farm. Relationships and marriages are arranged. Even going on a handful of dates means an understanding that it’s the basis for a future proposal. It’s much easier to avoid girls and the eventual trap.”

  Traps, he thought. There were lots of traps out there, including one that he was firmly caught in, for he had continued lying to Tompkins since the very moment he had entered the boy’s book-filled cottage. It was a hell of a way to repay his generosity, but Armand saw no other way open to him.

  One day over dinner in their cottage, Tompkins said, “Let’s say you do get back to Toronto, and get me out as well… two blessed events. What then? Will you go back to being Sire Armand de la Cloutier, and put this all behind you?”

  Like it had built up inside for too long, Armand said sharply and quickly, “The hell I will. On the outside I’ll be the good dutiful son, returning to my father’s side but I’ve got two priorities. One, to find out how and why I got exiled, and to make sure whoever did that to me ends up in barracks nineteen. Two, and it may take a while, Tompkins, but at some point I’m going to inherit my Father’s position and title. Then I’m going to work from the inside to change this damn Imperial society, to close these camps, and do something about slavery, no matter how fancy we call it.”

  Tompkins gave a short laugh, reached over and gently tugged at the rawhide necklace about Armand’s neck, where his metal ID tag hung. “Hell of a goal for a prisoner of the empire.”

  Since Tompkins had told Armand about the gap in coverage of the fence, he had been busy with other matters. During their meals in the trustee’s dining hall, he had smuggled out bread, cheese and dried meats. A rucksack that was torn and that Tompkins had thrown out, Armand had retrieved and repaired it. He had also stolen a pair of pliers and another knife, leading Tompkins to believe that they had been lost while making their rounds.

  All of these items Armand had hidden behind a loose baseboard in one corner of the cottage, behind a moldy stack of books. Late one night, when Armand had gone in to add two more bread rolls, there was a slip of paper there. He held it up to candlelight and saw Tompkins handwriting: Let’s talk, shall we?

  Armand took a breath, debated what to do. Then carefully holding the candle stub in his hand, he went to Tompkins’ bed and nudged his foot. Tompkins woke up, yawned, and said, “Hard to hide things when you live and work in a small place like this. Guess you saw my note.”

  “You guessed right.”

  “Mind telling me what the hell you’re up to?”

  Armand sat on the end of Tompkins’ bed. “Preparing to break out of here, that’s what I’m doing.”

  Tompkins smiled sadly. “You dense, Armand? Even if you get out beyond the wire, where are you going? West to the bogs? Or east to the bogs?”

  “SaintJohn,” Armand said.

  “You’ll be picked up in minutes.”

  “Not if I pick the right day,” Armand said.

  “And what day is that?” Tompkins said.

  “The emperor’s birthday, about a month from now,” Armand said. “October fourteenth. Empire-wide holiday. I break out, get up to SaintJohn, and what do I find? Prac
tically the entire town whooping it up, drinking, raising hell. Good chance for a boy like me to slide in, get to a telegraph office, and send a telegram to my father. And I promise, I get out, I still get you out.”

  Tompkins rubbed at his eyes. “But what about all those letters you’ve been writing? To your father, the lord chancellor, and the Toronto Star?”

  “All a waste of time, pure crap,” Armand said. “None of my mail has ever left the camp.”

  Tompkins was now wide awake. “Did you know this back in the infirmary, when you said those letters might get the both of us freed?”

  Armand said, “Yeah, I did.”

  “Hell of a thing, lying to me like that.”

  “I had to get out of there,” Armand said. “I didn’t want to give my would-be killers a third chance. Tompkins, I’d apologize, but I’m not going to do it. What other choice did I have?”

  Tompkins stayed silent for a moment and shifted in his bed. “You lying about anything else since you’ve got here?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Tompkins said, “Then get to sleep, noble. You think you’ve changed since you’ve gotten here, but there’s still a good part of you that’s a right bastard, Sire de la Cloutier, not hesitating to use people.”

  Armand didn’t feel like arguing with him, so he got up, blew out the candle, and found his way to his own bed.

  The next day, Tompkins acted like nothing had happened the night before, and Armand didn’t raise the issue either. A week later, on a warm day with no wind, they were relaxing after getting through their rounds quickly, and they were on section of flat roof of their home, looking out over the camp, binoculars nearby to look at birds --- a fascination of Tompkins’ --- and a jug of water. It was getting near dusk and Tompkins gestured out to the pits and smoke and said, “Tell me, Armand. What is that you see out there?”