The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  All this effort, for just one prisoner?

  Armand lowered the binoculars.

  No. Not just one prisoner.

  They were looking for Armand de la Cloutier, the son of nobility and the permanent deputy minister of trade. A traitor to the empire.

  But why? What in God’s name did he have or possess that would cause such effort?

  Armand didn’t know.

  But knew he had to get moving.

  Armand slung the binoculars over his shoulder, started running again, heading to where he hoped the south was.

  Another hour passed and Armand smelled something burning. Off to the east a wisp of smoke was rising up, and he paused, wondering what to do, where to go, and then made a choice. Off to the east. Something was there, something that might help him avoid the horsemen on his trail. He continued trotting, breathing hard, each breath cutting into his lungs. Armand came up on another rise, saw a small farm fronting a river, with fences and cattle.

  A river.

  Armand raced down to the farmhouse, and from behind him, came the sound of dogs baying.

  There was a small dock, jutting out into the river, and tied up to the dock was a canoe. It looked like the best Joyeux Noel and birthday present ever. Armand passed through a gate, found a root cellar. He opened up the wooden door, went down a few steps. Some potatoes, some carrots, which he took and put into his rucksack. A side of bacon. Sweet Lord, that looked so good. That went in as well. Armand stumbled back up to the outdoors, and heard barking of the dogs, louder.

  One more building. With wire fencing. He burst in and there were chickens, and reaching through the straw, pulled about a half dozen eggs and --–

  The door creaked open.

  Armand turned.

  A young girl was there, with a wicker basket, wearing a long gray wool dress.

  He put his hand up, to say shhh, but she beat him to it. She screamed and dropped the basket and ran.

  Armand ran as well.

  She went racing to the farmhouse, still screaming. Armand went down to the river, carrying his much-heavier rucksack, and the door slammed open to the farmhouse, and there were yells. He knelt down on the dock, undid the rope –-- and thank all gods, past and present, there was a paddle in the bottom of the canoe --– and he looked back and a bearded man came running out of the farmhouse, a shotgun in his hands.

  Armand got the rope off, got into the canoe, and pushed away from the dock. He started paddling and ducked at the boom! of the shotgun, and water next to him burst up in a spray.

  He paddled hard, digging in, and looked back, saw a man on the dock, working to reload his shotgun, and then horsemen cleared the ridge and came down to the farmhouse, howling dogs leading the way.

  Armand dug in again with the paddle, as the river curved around, and the farmhouse and his pursuers went out of view.

  He paddled harder and harder, his hands aching again, like he was back being a stoker. The riverbanks narrowed, increasing the current, and Armand was happy to see his speed increasing. The river moved through more prairie land and then the overcast sky broke out, and the sun burned through, allowing him to get a fix. His heart lifted when he saw he was heading south. Armand paddled and paddled, sometimes letting his arms rest and letting the river drift him along. There were waterfowl about --– and Armand had a flash of memory, of Tompkins trying to teach him about birds –-- and a couple of times, other farms with docks. Armand paddled fast through those areas, not wanting to be spotted by curious farmers who might recognize the canoe, but not the paddler.

  When dusk fell, he was near a wide spot in the river, with flat islands with shrubbery and low trees. Armand dragged the canoe into the brush and stretched out, breathing hard, and then got to work. He gathered up some small branches and curled up bits of birch bark, and with flint and steel, got a small fire going. He warmed himself in front of the fire and unloaded his rucksack and checked what he had stolen: all but two of the eggs had made it through all right, and with a small metal plate, he eventually had scrambled eggs and cooked bacon. It was the first hot meal Armand had since escaping the camp, and any thoughts of rationing the food, of trying to make it stretch, disappeared at the smells of the cooking bacon. He gorged himself and rested in the dim firelight, and then went to the river to wash his hands, face, and the metal plate.

  Armand came back and sat by the firelight, and from deep inside one of his pockets, brought out the coin with Father Abram’s face on it. Even in the light he could make out the profile, and he remembered the stir he felt, standing in front of his statue, down there in Potomick, so many klicks and lifetime away. Armand rubbed the coin for luck, for he hoped that wherever his spirit dwelled, Father Abram would be pleased that Armand, as a slave and prisoner, had found freedom, as treacherous as it was.

  He put the coin away and then looked up at the stars overhead, even brighter than they were from the camp and from his escape route. He stared up at them for a while, listening to the trickling of the water passing by, hearing the sounds of the night birds and insects, and then saw a bright unblinking dot of light, passing overhead. A remnant of the old ones, scores of klicks up there in space, looking down on a world that had changed and bled so much over the centuries. Armand wondered if that little dot of light was still alive, was still taking pictures, was still making measurements for its makers, dead these long years. What terrible things that little dot of light had seen, and was cold, thinking of what more terrible things might be ahead.

  Back at the campsite he flipped the canoe over so it balanced on the trunks of two thin birch trees, and Armand rolled himself up in his bedroll under the overturned canoe, letting the fire die down. He stared at the glowing red and orange of the coals, and though his back and hands ached, his mind was still very much awake. Escape, escape, we’ve escaped, a tiny voice inside of him chattered with glee, but that voice was drowned out by a louder, more skeptical voice.

  What now?

  Armand thought, let’s face it, sport, not only are you a traitor to the emperor, you’re now an escaped prisoner. Combined, that would no doubt mean a quick trip to the gallows if captured. Or a one way trip back to Jacques Templair.

  So don’t get captured, Armand thought, rolling over in his bedroll. Nope, get your young butt to a village with wireless or telegraph capability, contact Father, point out his rights under the Compact. He hadn’t had a proper trial! And give him a proper trial, with a proper solicitor, then all would be made right. Armand was certain. And after that… he remembered his conversation with Churchill Grace, before his arrest, about what had to be done. To slowly change minds and opinions, to make things right, to eventually free those who lived and worked as slaves in the empire. Armand knew that when he got back to Toronto, the life of a minister of trade, of living soft and playing sports and attending concerts, that life was over. Something much more important had to be done, including finding out why he had been arrested, and who had been behind it.

  Then he remembered Jacques Templair, striding jauntily off the airship, heading to the camp, heading for Armand.

  Why? Why was he there?

  Armand thought about that some more, before blessedly falling asleep.

  On the ninth day, early in the morning, Armand spotted plumes of smoke in the distance, marking some sort of town, and through the tree line, he also saw telegraph poles, pointing the way ahead. In his mind he again composed and re-composed the message he was going to send to his father, and also thought of how he was going to convince the telegraph office to send his message collect.

  Lost in these thoughts, he came around a curve in the river and dug in with the paddle, back paddling so hard that he thought the wooden paddle would split.

  For ahead of Armand, on the shores of this long and --– to him, still unnamed --- river, was a fort of the Army of the Empire of Nunavut.

  He found a small cove to rest in, while he thought things through, knowing he didn’t have much time. The fort was made of sto
ne and logs, guarding the approach to the town, and extending out from the fort was a long dock. At the end of the dock a squad of soldiers were inspecting canoes and boats milling about.

  Armand knew he couldn’t stay here long. Soon enough, as the sun climbed higher into the sky, there would be more boat traffic, and a solitary canoe sitting still in a cove would raise some questions. Going back upstream… what would be the purpose? And paddling against the current would be hard work.

  His mouth was dry. Only one option available, as bad as it was.

  Armand went ashore in some brush and weeds, hiding the canoe among the low brush, and then he climbed up a small hill carrying his binoculars and rucksack. The brush was thick and whipped at his hands and face, but he found a good vantage point and lay down. Before him the river widened to where the fort was located, a flagpole proudly flying the empire’s standard. There were self-loading cannon mounted along the top of the fort wall. Beyond the fort were a village, buildings and docks on either side of the river. Armand felt relieved at seeing the telegraph poles go right into town. If he could get into town and to a telegraph office, well, maybe it would still work out. If he could stay away from the army troopers, as well as any public safety proctors demanding to see his identification, well, that was a lot of ifs.

  And if Armand didn’t make it… there were those two poles, near the entrance of the fort. He didn’t need binoculars to see the heads mounted there, though it was hard to tell if they were real or clay reproductions.

  Armand shifted his weight and looked again at the fort. There were two steam-powered armored cars situated at the rear of the fort, and there were horses, as well, tied off at hitching posts. Calvary, of course, and he saw some of the troopers nearby, talking and grooming their mounts, and in a flash, seeing the troopers, another option suddenly presented itself.

  A few minutes later Armand was in a farmer’s field of wheat, and stepping lively and carefully, he made it to a well-packed and maintained dirt road. As he started walking towards the distant plumes of smoke, he was nervous indeed, being out in the open like this. But still it felt good, being able to walk for a long stretch, after so many days in his stolen canoe.

  As he got closer to town, from behind him he caught the sound of a leather harness being jangled about, and the steady clomp-clomp of hooves. Armand turned and saw a horse-drawn wagon coming his way, with two men up forward. As the wagon got closer, the driver murmured something and the pair came to a stop. A sheet of canvas, held down by ropes, was over the wagon bed.

  “Hey there,” the driver called out, his voice recognizable but with an odd accent.

  “Yes?” Armand replied, thinking this was the first man he had spoken to since his escape. He was about twenty years older than Armand, with a bearded face, wearing overalls and a plain shirt and a round straw hat. His companion looked to be his son, a bit older than Armand but dressed the same, with a wisp of a moustache under his nose.

  “You lookin’ for a ride into town?” the man asked.

  Armand smiled. “No, not really. I’m doing fine.”

  The man scratched at his beard. “Jus’ so you know, the proctors –-- if they’re not sleepin’ or drinkin’ --– they pay more attention to a lone man wandering in by himself, than someone that rides in from one of the farms.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Armand said.

  He shrugged. “Jus’ so you know.”

  Armand walked to the wagon. “Well, I am getting tired, and a ride sounds great. Thanks.”

  “No bother,” he said. “Nathan, help ‘em up now.”

  Armand scrambled up to the wide wooden seat of the wagon, and dropped his rucksack behind him. The driver made a click-click sound with his teeth and shook the reins, and the horse resumed his pace. The driver said, “When we get to town, best you fold your arms, pretend your asleep… and for God’s sake, don’t say anything ‘less you have to.”

  “Why’s that?” Armand asked.

  “’Cause of your damn voice, your damn accent,” he said, grinning. “Might as well hang a sign around your neck, sayin’ you’re from far away… and that’s not a sign you want to be displayin’.”

  Armand was going to ask his benefactor some more questions, when they moved through a grove of trees and came out to a clearing. There was a palisade fence of rough-hewn logs set up on both sides of the road, with a small gatehouse, and two proctors in dark blue uniforms were passing the time by a gatehouse. The driver nudged Armand’s ribs and he folded his arms and lowered his head. Armand closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the hooves hitting the dirt, the squeaking of the wheels, and the creaking of the leather harness. Then, voices.

  “Hey, Stuart,” came a voice from the left. “If it’s Monday, must be you, eh?”

  “That’s right, Louis, you know us well.”

  A voice from the right. “Who’s that in the middle?”

  Stuart said, his voice lower, “My wife’s idiot nephew, from the west. Staying with us for a while, to see what real farm work is like, eh? He’s been dozing ever since we left the farm.”

  Some laughter and the voice on the left said, “Go on, then. And make sure you leave on time, right?”

  “Right.”

  Armand waited a few minutes and then opened his eyes. They were now on the outskirts of the town, with some wooden buildings, most without paint, and off to the left, Armand saw the fort. “Thank you, thank you so very much. Look. Can I get off here?”

  He grunted. “Don’t see why not.” He drew the reins in and Armand got off, rucksack and bedroll in hand, and looked up at him and his boy. “I… just thank you.”

  Stuart touched the brim of his straw cap. “Don’t stay long here, all right? You get picked up by the proctors for doin’ somethin’ stupid, then I’ll be in trouble, too.”

  Armand nodded. “I promise. I won’t be here long. And what did the proctor mean back there, about leaving on time?”

  Stuart looked amazed. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  Stuart seemed cold, for just a moment. “Sorry, I don’t have time to explain. You… you just be careful and get out, as soon as you can.”

  Then the wagon jerked forward, and went down the road, and Armand picked up his rucksack and shouldered it, and started walking to the fort. The flag of the Empire moved softly and gallantly in the breeze, but looking at it didn’t mean that much anymore. Armand looked up at the fleur-de-lis and the stone symbol of the People of the North, and all he could see was the basement of the Security building in Toronto, the train out west, and the long days and nights at the oil sand pits. And, of course, the two pikes he had seen earlier, where the heads on top of the pikes were not clay reproductions, not at all.

  Windsor Senior, he thought, poor Windsor Senior, dead because of him…

  Outside of the fort, near the two steam-driven armored cars, cavalrymen were still with their mounts, some riding them about a small paddock, others checking their hooves and grooming them. The cavalrymen had on boots and trousers, but in the warm mid-day sun, most were either in short-sleeved white shirts or were bare-chested. A few were sitting on fence railings, and a few young boys and girls were clustered about, watching them in awe. Armand ambled up to a small group and watched the horseplay, and then moved down to one section of fence, where a trooper was reading a folded-over newsjournal.

  Armand leaned over the railing, resting his arms, about a half-meter from the trooper. He looked to him and laughed. “You’re certainly doing better, reading without moving your lips.”

  The trooper abruptly lowered his newsjournal. “What the hell did you just say, citizen?”

  Armand laughed again. “I said, it’s amazing that you’re able to read now, without moving your lips, which means military service for you has done wonders, Henri. For you are Henri Godin, are you not?”

  His old friend dropped his paper to the ground, his voice a stunned whisper. “Arm
and.. Armand de la Cloutier… I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it, Henri, believe it,” Armand said.

  Chapter Eight

  Randall de la Bourbon sat in his room, algebra textbook opened before him on his ornate wooden desk, with Munro standing before him. His heart was pounding so hard with fury that it made his head ache, and he knew his face was flushed. In one hand he held a pencil, and about thirty seconds ago, when Munro had briefed him, Randall had snapped the pencil in two.

  “He’s escaped?” Randall said, hating how shrill his voice sounded. “That damn Armand has escaped?”

  “Young sire, it seems ---“

  Randall tossed the broken pencil pieces at Munro, who didn’t budge at the assault. “You assured me that your people in his camp would take care of him. They had two opportunities. They failed on both. Then he was transferred to a remote area of the camp, where it would take extra effort to get to him… and before that blessed event happens, he escapes? Is that what happened?”

  Munro stood stock-still, his face pale. “That’s true, young sire… but if I may… it appears he’s escaped to the south, where the badlands are. Trust me, he won’t last long. Between the rogue Indian tribes and the barbarians beyond the southern border, he won’t last. An alert has been distributed. Imperial forces may pick him up… and if that happens, young sire… I guarantee. He won’t live out the next day.”

  Randall’s head started hurting, an ache that began behind his eyes, started throbbing through his sinuses. “Out. Get out. And the only time I want to see you again is when you have news of Armand’s body being found.”

  Munro went out of Randall’s room, gently closing the door behind him, and Randall rubbed at both eyes with the base of his hands. He hated this room. There were plenty of rooms in this house, but his father took the best ones for his own use, for his library, for his home office. But his only son’s room was on the same floor as servant’s quarters --- an embarrassment and an abomination! --- and had one tiny window that overlooked the home’s garage and always smelled of whatever was being cooked in the kitchen one floor below and ---