The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  “Me, too,” she said. “Ask you question?”

  “Sure,” Armand said, lowering the binoculars.

  “Why are we heading south? Shouldn’t we be going north, back to the Empire?”

  Armand slowly rubbed at the smooth metal of the binoculars. “Maybe so. But we were deep into Ayan territory, and you told me that they were afraid of the southern lands, where the Starmen supposedly lived. By going north or east or west, we’d still be in Ayan territory for longer than I want.”

  Melinda looked at him, face composed, but her eyes chilly. “Perhaps, Armand, but maybe there is another reason, eh?”

  Armand put the binoculars back into the leather case. “Such as?”

  “Back at the Ayan camp, you told me were an escaped prisoner from the oil sands authority… correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So are we heading south because of the Ayans, or because you don’t want to cross back into the Empire, perhaps to be re-arrested again?”

  Armand slowly closed the lid to the binocular case. “I’m not sure, m’lady. It may be a combination of both.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You may be a noble, Armand de la Cloutier, and you may call me m’lady all you want. But I’m a free woman of the Empire, well over the age of majority. You are not my father, my brother or my appointed protector. So I expect to be consulted and considered on any more decisions. Do I make myself clear?”

  Something cold burrowed in his chest. “Absolutely, m’lady.”

  They rode south all that day at a gentle pace, giving their horses a chance to recover from the hard riding from the day before. Every hour or so, they got off their mounts and walked in front of them, leading them by their reins. In the afternoon Armand said, “Have I introduced you to my four-hooved friend?”

  Melinda said, “No, you haven’t.”

  Armand stopped and rubbed his friend’s large nose. “This is Jasper. Late of the Imperial Cavalry.”

  She said. “And what did you do? Steal him?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I guess I did. I met up with an old friend of mine, stationed with the cavalry, who arranged Jasper’s…. transfer to me.”

  “I see. Horse thief and escaped camp prisoner. Both hanging offenses in the Empire.”

  Armand bowed. “You forget, m’lady, we are no longer in the Empire.”

  “True. I hope you stole more than just a horse from the Imperial cavalry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Melinda paused, wiped at her eyes. “When I was captured, that first day. The four of us saw something magnificent. An Imperial cavalryman riding into camp. But he didn’t come to rescue us. He betrayed us. He paid off the Ayans, didn’t even bother to look at us, and rode away.”

  Armand stopped, stunned at what she had just said. “M’lday, please tell me you’re joking.”

  Her eyes brimming with tears, she said, “Does it look like I’m joking, young fool?”

  Armand paused, not sure of what to say, and said, “M’lday, at some point, I will find out what happened, and why, and I will make it right.”

  Melinda wiped at her eyes, managed a smile. “But not today, correct?”

  “True, not today,” he said, and wanting to change the subject, he said, “And your horse? Does she have a name?”

  It looked like Armand had succeeded. She rubbed the side of her black head, and gently whispered, “I call her Freedom. What do you think of that?”

  “A noble name. And speaking of names. What’s your family name, Melinda? Isn’t it time to tell me?”

  She ducked her head into Freedom’s neck. “No,” she said, her voice partially muffled. “That time will never come.”

  At one of their rest breaks, Melinda said, “Tell me, noble boy, how in hell did you get arrested and sent to the oil sands authority?”

  Armand reached into his right-hand pants pocket, and pulled out the coin of Father Abram. “It’s this man’s fault, that’s why.”

  She took it from his hand, held it up. “It looks very old. Who is he?”

  “He’s Father Abram. Centuries ago, he ruled the lands to the south of our Empire and freed all the slaves. There’s an old statue of him in a temple, in a city-state called Potomick, on the Atlantic, hundreds of klicks south from the Empire. A long time ago, I visited Potomick with my father, and saw the statue, and got this coin. I’ve kept it ever since.”

  She passed the coin back. “And how did he get you in the oil sand pits?”

  Armand put the coin back into his pants pocket. “Because he made me think, that’s why. And that got the attention of Imperial Security.”

  Melinda grinned. “Thinking is good. So. You went to Potomick with your father. What is he? A duke? An earl?”

  “A viscount.”

  “Ah, a viscount. Did he do anything besides count his sovereigns and travel far afield?”

  Something angry burned inside of him. “My father was the permanent deputy minister at the Ministry of Trade. He worked very, very hard, m’lady.”

  “So why did he allow you to be arrested, and be sent to the tar pits?”

  “I don’t know,” Armand said, going to Jasper, no longer wanting to talk to her. “He’s dead.”

  When night came they were on a flat stretch of plain, and Armand found a slight dip in the land that offered some shelter from the constant wind. He hobbled both of their horses and they had a cold meal of water, bread and buffalo meat. Armand bowed to Melinda. “M’lday, I’m sorry to tell you this, but we can’t have a fire tonight.”

  She had a blanket wrapped tight around her and said, her voice slightly muffled, “Why the hell not?”

  “Because we’re on a flat stretch of prairie, and even a spark can be seen for klicks and klicks. If our Ayans are chasing us, no need to give them any unnecessary help.”

  “Don’t bother saying ‘if’, Armand,” she said. “You’ve killed a number of them, stole two horses, and burnt down their village. They will follow you to the gates of hell.”

  “If we get to the gates of hell, make sure you tell me,” Armand said, wondering if his voice was as shaky as his mood. “I don’t want to be surprised.”

  They rolled up in their respective blanket rolls, wearing all of their clothes. Melinda was next to him and Armand tried to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground and it was not easy, as he shivered, and shivered again. Armand looked up at the harsh stars, and as if on cue, a bright shining dot of light sped overhead, a machine from the old ones, maybe even the ancestors of the Ayans who tried to kill them all, who had captured Melinda, and had --–

  “Armand?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m freezing over here.”

  Armand said, “Hold on, you can have my blanket.”

  She rolled closer. “For someone trying to be so noble all the time, you can be a damn fool, Armand. If I take your blanket, you’ll either freeze, or not get a wink of sleep. That won’t help us in the morning. So listen to your elder, someone who’s been living out in the wilds for quite some time. We’ll cuddle up under the blanket rolls, share body heat. All right?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  After a few minutes of fumbling and moving things around, they were back under the blankets, cuddling spoon-fashion. Her back was against him, his arms clasped tight around her, Melinda’s hair tickling and playing against his face and nose. She sighed. “Warming up, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Armand said. “Thank you.”

  She moved against him and said, “Armand? Don’t take offense. But the fact we’re cuddling means just that, keeping warm. If you try to touch me differently, kiss me, I’ll get up and start walking, and you’ll never get me back.”

  Armand breathed in her scent. “I see what you mean, m’lday,” and the moment he said those words, he regretted it.

  Her voice was sharp. “If you understand, deep within the marrow of your bones, what it means to be a pet for a gang of men, threatened day after day, even branded like a cow,
then you will know what I mean. Only then. Otherwise, say not a word.”

  Armand gave her a gentle squeeze with his arms. “I hear you, Melinda. I surely do.”

  “Good.” She sighed. “Never forget it.”

  He kept quiet. He was warming up and Melinda said, “Answer me something, Armand?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was going to ask you back at the camp, but it seemed to be a silly subject to bring up. But now that we’re out, well, what’s it like, being a noble?”

  He shifted his hip, which was up against a rock the size of his fist. “It… well… I don’t know. I used to think it was the best thing in the world.”

  “Is it true that some nobles, they actually have servants to brush your teeth? Or wipe your bum?”

  Armand laughed. “If there is, I’ve never heard of it. No, we’re a pampered lot, that’s for sure. Food and drink whenever we want it. Warm clothing. Safe houses. A secure future. And plenty of servants.”

  She sighed. “A wonderful way to live. So why did you throw it all away?”

  He moved his hip again. Rock still there. “Like I said, I decided to point out an obvious truth, one I learned when I went to Potomick and saw Father Abram.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That our servants are nothing more than slaves. Have been slaves for generations, and will continue to be slaves unless it’s changed. And I was going to be part of that change when I got older.”

  If Armand thought she would be impressed by his words, her laughter told him how wrong he was. “This? This took you so long to learn?”

  Even in the cold, Armand felt the flush of embarrassment. “That’s what I knew. That’s what I was taught.”

  Melinda said, “I guess it’s true, what they say. That the higher up in society, the thinner the air and the dumber the inhabitants. Armand, what you told me is no great secret, at least in our part of the Empire. Our people, at least, have always refused to keep servants. But we all know of the nobility, and their servants, and how they got there. It happened during the War of the World.”

  “And what was that?”

  She sighed. “Power was key. When the War was over, only one part of the country that made up the pre-Empire back then had a surplus of power. With that power, they wanted control. So that’s why the nobility occurred, when those with the Franco last names, the ones who controlled the lights and machinery, took control. The ones with Anglish surnames, the ones that surrendered their freedom for food and electric lamps, they took their part in the society. The rest of us, and the free Anglish, and First Peoples, went along as well.”

  “Then why doesn’t anybody do anything about it?”

  “About what?” she whispered back. “It’s a system that works. Most people have enough to eat, have enough power for lights and to heat their homes. For those who promise something different, they look here, to the badlands, to the places where animals and cannibals live, to frighten them.”

  Armand stayed quiet for a minute or so, and she said, “And you? Asking questions was so horrible that you were exiled for life?”

  “That’s right, asking questions. I talked to servants about their lives, and how they lived, and what they desired for their future. For that I was questioned and tortured by Imperial Security, and then sent west.”

  “And your father and your mother? They weren’t able to intervene?”

  The bitterness came up in his voice. “My mother. The last time I saw her, she was humiliated at what I had done to our family name. My father, I never had a chance to talk to him, after my arrest. And now he’s dead.”

  They were both still, and she said, “And what made you escape from your camp?”

  “I saw a Imperial Security officer arrive by airship. The one who had interrogated me, who had arranged my torture. He came to the camp. So I left.”

  Melinda shifted and laughed. “Maybe he was coming to pardon you.”

  He laughed in return. “Maybe so.”

  They both stayed quiet, and fell asleep under the cold stars.

  # # #

  Brendan DuBois of New Hampshire is the award-winning author of twelve novels and more than 100 short stories. His novel, "Resurrection Day," won the Sidewise Award for Best Alternative History Novel of the Year.

  His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and numerous other magazines and anthologies including “The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century,” published in 2000 by Houghton-Mifflin. Another one of his short stories appeared in "The Year's Best Science Fiction 22nd Annual Collection" (St. Martin's Griffin, 2005) edited by Gardner Dozois.

  His short stories have twice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and have also earned him three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations from the Mystery Writers of America. Visit his website at www.BrendanDuBois.com.