The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  Melinda smiled. “It’s been a delight, though I’m looking forward to going home.”

  “And where might that be, dearie?” he asked. “I know it’s someplace far north, in your Empire, which we still call Canada.”

  Her smile faltered. “Yes, north enough.”

  “Is it true,” Zebulon asked, “that up there, there’s actually snow on the ground?”

  “Quite true,” she said. “Snow sometimes remains on the ground for months. There are places further north, that I’ve seen with my own eyes, where the snow is on the ground, year round.”

  Zebulon shook his head. “Amazing, simply amazing.”

  They ate and chatted some more, and then Zebulon offered them both a tour of the Saint Clemens. Melinda declined, although Armand went along for another hour or so, seeing the cargo holds, the galley in the rear, the corridors that led to the cabins, and the noisy, wood-fired engines, where strong men wearing only shorts tossed in chunks of wood into an enormous, flame-roaring boiler. Zebulon leaned into his ear and yelled, “Some boats… they short-change the black gang. ‘cause they’re dirty, ill-educated, more muscle than brains. But not the Saint Clemens. Sometimes you need a strong back, and you need a good black gang to put on the speed when you need it.”

  Outside and up from the engine room, the sultry air about Armand felt cool indeed, and Zebulon was pointing something out when his first officer, an officer named Landry, came up, touched his cap. “If I may, sir, we’re comin’ up on the badlands.”

  Zebulon reached into his coat, pulled out a thick watch, and shook his head. “Damn thing’s running slow. All right, Carl, you know the drill. Everyone under cover or below deck, until they hear the steam whistle blow clear.”

  The first officer scurried off. Armand said, “Sorry, I don’t understand that. There are badlands this far south?”

  Zebulon said, “Come up to the bridge, you can see for yourself.”

  Armand followed Zebulon through an open door and up a narrow stairway, and at the top was a door that said CREW ONLY. He opened the door and Armand followed. There were windows all about, and being the highest point of the boat, they had a wide view of what was out there. The land out there… Armand felt queasy, like the ship had suddenly started rocking back and forth, back and forth, in great violent moves. On either side the riverbanks, the trees and lush greenery he had earlier seen was gone.

  The land was dead, flattened, with bits of brush and dying trees, struggling for life. Zebulon went up to the helmsmen, standing before a spoked wheel, a compass set before him, and the young man was trembling. Zebulon gently slapped him on the back and said, “You’ll be fine, Brian. Jus’ you see. You’ll be fine.”

  “What is this place?” Armand asked, remembering the day he and Melinda held their ground, attacked by the Ayan. “Did a sun bomb hit here?”

  Zebulon rubbed his hands nervously. “Aye… a long time ago, during the War of the World. The land and waters all around here are still poisoned, and we take precautions. Mister Linden, if you please, button her up!”

  There was sharp blast of the whistle, followed by three more blasts, and then metal shutters were lowered on all the windows. Armand recalled the porthole in their cabin, and the odd metal screen hanging there. Inside the bridge, gas lights flickered on and Zebulon said, “Doctors have told us that even years later, if the wind blows right, you can get sick from the dirt about here.”

  All of the shutters were down, and the one in front of the helmsmen had a tiny slit. Zebulon went forward, and then said, “Standard drill, gentlemen. Keep your yaps shut, ‘less you want us to run aground in this dead zone.” Zebulon then stood in front of the thin slit in the metal window, looked out, and then glanced down at what looked to be a compass.

  Zebulon said, “Two degrees to starboard, Brian.”

  “Two degrees starboard, aye, sir.”

  The helmsmen moved the wheel slightly, and Armand felt the tension rise among the other crewmembers on the bridge. They were literally sailing blind, depending on their captain’s view through the slit, his reading of the river and his compass, his memory of past trips, and the skill of the helmsman.

  “Steady as she goes, Brian.”

  “Steady as she goes, aye, sir.”

  A few more minutes passed, and then, “Three degrees to port.”

  “Three degrees to port, aye, sir.”

  That went for what seemed to be a long time.

  Chapter Seven

  Zebulon relaxed with a release of breath and said, “Ah, there’s the Monterey Mount. Mister Linden, send out the all clear. We’ve made it yet again.”

  Two blasts of the steam whistle, and crewmen worked to lift the shutters. Zebulon came over and slapped the helmsmen on the back. “Great job, Brian. Great job. You’re off watch now. Go below and get a drink from the saloon. On me.”

  The young helmsmen touched his hand to his forehead. “Thank you, captain. Thank you very much.”

  Another crewmember took his place, and Zebulon said to Armand, “Like I said earlier. You take of your people, and they’ll take care of you.”

  It was dark by the time Armand went back to the cabin. One of the gas lamps was set low and in the flickering flame, he got undressed and found a clean nightshirt in his duffel bag. After getting dressed he heard something from Melinda’s bunk.

  “M’lady?” he asked.

  No answer.

  Armand went over in the dim light and shadows and listened again, to what seemed to be sobbing. He knelt down on the carpeted floor. “Melinda?”

  She took a deep, shuddering sigh. “You… I didn’t think you’d be back so soon…”

  “What can I do for you, m’lady?”

  Another sob and she said, “We… we’re going to be home, in just a very few days… and I’m so afraid…”

  He gently stroked her hair. “Afraid of what?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Armand. Afraid of my family. Afraid of what they’ll say to me, how they’ll react, when I get dropped back into their lives. With my scars, my fading tattoos, the tales of what happened to me… the dishonor I’ve brought upon them by becoming a piece of branded property and –--“

  Armand stroked her hair again and said sharply, “Stop that, Melinda. Don’t be foolish.”

  “What do you –--“

  “After believing you were dead, your family will be happy to see you home alive,” he said, speaking quickly. “That is all that will matter. For what happened to you among the Ayan, if your family has any honor, any love, any affection, they will hold you tight and cry with you. For that I’m sure. They will be so very proud of what you did, so very proud that you survived.”

  She stayed quiet for a moment, making Armand wonder if he had gone too far, and her voice was meek. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. As for my own family, I don’t know what my mother will say. She will no doubt report me to Imperial Security the moment I get back home. Even if I’m now a viscount.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I had forgotten about that. About your mother and your poor father.”

  Armand touched her hair again, and started to stand up. She said suddenly, “Don’t go.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m just going over to my own bed.”

  “Fool,” she said, rustling about her blankets and sheet. “I don’t want you to go there. I want you here.”

  The forwardness of it stunned him, but Armand quickly moved in and lay down next to her. He kissed her and she kissed him back, and she touched his face. “Poor Armand. All this way to end up with a damaged girl.”

  Armand kissed her again, delighting in the smell of her, the sensation of her slim body against his. “I don’t care, don’t care at all.”

  “Sweet boy, but I’m so sorry.”

  “About what?”

  She kissed him again and put her head upon Armand’s chest, her arm flung around him. “I can’t be courting a boy, not now. It’s been too soon since we’ve left the Ayan.
But Armand, some day I will be with you, if you’ll have me. After all that’s gone on before.”

  Armand kissed the top of her head, luxuriating in her clean and safe scent. “That would be a joy.”

  “But not now, not here,” she said. “Tonight, I just want a warm friend next to me, someone who will hold me and tell me that everything will be all right.”

  Armand squeezed her with his arm. “Everything will be all right.”

  “When we get back to the Empire, I will introduce you to my family, welcome you as my savior. That I’m looking forward to. If there is any honoring to be done, you will receive the honors. The young boy who rescued me. Oh, I can hardly wait.”

  “Me as well, m’lady.”

  “Mmm… our very first day back together in the Empire, what shall we do?”

  Something cold knotted itself in Armand’s stomach. He thought of past betrayals and future betrayals, and what she may think of him at this time next week. The plain and direct voice of Tompkins Earl came up in his mind: 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 said, “Why don’t we decide that later?”

  She murmured and moved against him. “That will be fine.”

  Armand said nothing else as she rested against him, that cold knot still inside of him, hearing her soft breathing as she fell asleep. The throbbing sound of the Saint Clemens’ engines droned on, driving them south to their fate, to their destiny, to a treacherous end.

  Armand woke up and it was early morning, and then he heard it again. The sound of a boat whistle. He noticed something else. The engines were still rumbling but there was no splashing sound of the paddlewheel.

  They had stopped.

  Armand quickly tossed the blankets and sheet off and Melinda sat up, her hair tousled, yawning. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve stopped.”

  “Are we at Orleans already?”

  “No, too soon,” Armand said. He went over to his bunk and quickly got dressed, tossing aside his nightshirt, in his speed not caring that he was getting dressed in front of a girl. “Something must be wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m going to find out.”

  Melinda swung her long legs around. “I’m coming along as well.”

  “No,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

  “Armand…”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know I want you here, with the door locked. All right? I promise, once I find out why we’ve stopped, I’ll let you know.”

  She made a face but she stayed still. Armand went over and kissed her. “Last night, it was simple, but it was magical.”

  That made her smile and she gently tapped him on the cheek. “Go on out there, Monsieur Armand de la Cloutier. And I’ll get dressed, and lock the door. Promise.”

  It was early morning, with thick curtains of mist coming out from the overgrown banks. Armand closed the door, waited, and then heard a click as Melinda locked and the door. The decking was slick with morning dew, and the water behind the stern wheel was barely moving. He went up forward and saw something frightening: the river ahead was blocked. There was a tangle of tree trunks, brush, lumber and roping. This was no accident. They had been blockaded. Armand opened a side door and went up the same set of stairs from yesterday, with the sign that said CREW ONLY. He didn’t hesitate, opening the door and stepping onto the bridge.

  Crewmen were murmuring to each other, and the captain was at the forward window, with a set of field glasses up to his face. Nobody paid Armand any attention, and he stood silently by one of the bulkheads. He saw something else that made him even more jittery, for all of the men had holstered pistols on their belts.

  A door on the other side of the bridge opened up and the first officer came in, saluted, his face red and sweaty. “Away parties are mustered, cap’n, and Mister Rollins is preparin’ the male passengers. And Mister Armstrong is almost done as well.”

  Zebulon said, “Very good, Mister Landry. Take the parties away, clear a path. We’ll be ready to assist if necessary.”

  “Aye, aye, cap’n,” and with another salute, he went out and shut the door behind him.

  By now Zebulon had spotted him. “Armand, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I saw we’ve stopped,” Armand said, stepping forward. “What’s going on?”

  Zebulon grunted, brought his field glasses back up again. “Pirates.”

  Armand had to think through what he had just said. Pirates! “Here? Really?”

  Something worked in Zebulon’s jaw. “Yes, young man. Really. They work through the night, constructing a blockade like this, and while we work to free ourselves, they attack.”

  Two longboats set out from the bow of the Saint Clemens, heading over to the mess of ropes and lumber. Then a line of male passengers came out and went forward to the bow, joined by members of the crew. The crew members were carrying crates and bales of cloth. Zebulon said, “The only law on this stretch of river is from the port cities. But there are still a lot of wild areas up and down these parts, and pirates are a constant problem. They halt the boat, rob the crew and passengers, and take any cargo they can carry. If they’re in a foul mood, they’ll also murder everyone and burn the ship.”

  Zebulon lowered his glasses and said grimly, “But they’ve chosen the wrong boat this time.”

  Armand said, “The passengers down there, are they volunteers?”

  The captain shook his head. “No, it’s part of the responsibility, when they purchase a voyage. Fine print on the rear of the ticket. If necessary, they are called upon to defend the ship”

  Armand said, “Then I should be down there.”

  “No,” he snapped back. “You’re in my care, my protection. I promised the Starmen that I’d get you and your lady friend to Orleans. That I intend to do.”

  “And I intend to do my part,” Armand said, going to the nearest door. The captain shouted but he went down the stairs, heart thumping, thinking of Melinda up there in her room, locked in, and knowing he wouldn’t let any more harm come to her.

  At the prow of the ship, behind the barricades, one of the ship’s officers, a Mister Rollins, was passing out rifles from a wooden crate that had rope handles at either end. He looked at Armand, face puffy and red. “Do you know how to use a rifle?”

  “I do,” Armand said, and Rollins grunted and passed over a weapon, along with a sling of ammunition. Armand examined the firearm and shook his head. It was even simpler and rougher than the lever-action rifles the Ayans had; this one was a bolt-action, single-shot rifle. Armand worked the bolt, inserted a cartridge, and waited.

  Near him, other passengers and a few members of the crew stood ready, and Mister Rollins walked up and down. He laughed. “Not to worry, m’mates. The pirates have picked the wrong ship to rob. The Starmen will help us, just you watch. Just you watch!”

  As Rollins walked over to the other side, a bearded passenger standing next to Armand worked his jaw and spat out a stream of tobacco juice, lifted up his ship-issued rifle. “Hah. Starmen. We’ll see about that, damn it.”

  “That’s right,” Armand said, wondering what Rollins meant. Did Captain Zebulon have a wireless set to contact Ft. McGee? And would the Starmen --- the soldiers back there --- would they use one of their flying machines to come rescue them? And did the Starmen --–

  Shouts and yells from up forward. The two longboats reached the barrier. Men hidden inside the tree limbs and brush spilled out, with spears and swords, and some type of firearm that made a long bang and a burst of smoke when it was triggered. Rollins yelled out, “Open fire, boys, give it to ‘em! Aim small, miss small! And make sure you don’t hit none of the crew!”

  He knew the old Armand would have hesitated, thinking about shooting at strangers out there, men who had done him no harm, but the new Armand had Melinda on
his mind and saw one of the Saint Clemens’ crewmembers get run through by a spear. Armand fired at the man in ragged clothes, holding the spear, and Armand was happy to see the pirate fall. He worked the bolt, ejected the spent cartridge, re-loaded, and fired again.

  Melinda sat upright in her bunk at the sound of the gunfire. She went to the porthole and couldn’t see anything, save for the opposite riverbank, an evil-looking mess of low-brush, logs and trees whose branches overhung the dark brown water. She stood there and knowing Armand’s demand, wondered what to do.

  The gunfire increased. She could hear whoops and yells. Her mind flashed back to that desperate night when the Ayan raided the farmhouse, with the same gunfire and yells. She started quivering. She wasn’t going to stay here and get captured. She’d leave and find Armand and get the hell off this boat.

  She raced to the door, unlocked and ran out, and she got three steps before someone grabbed her.

  The firing on both sides kept on for what seemed to be a long time, and while some of the pirates fell back, the men in the longboats were taking the brunt of it. Crouched in a defensive posture, they couldn’t do much to cut away the tangle of ropes and lumber. Occasionally a projectile whistled over Armand’s head, making he and the others duck, and at the far end, there was a scream as one of the passengers was shot in the shoulder.

  The man next to Armand spat out another stream of tobacco juice. “Starmen… damn stupid to place yer hopes on the Starmen. They better damn show up an’ do something quick, or those pirates are gonna overrun us, just you see.”

  Armand fired off another round, worked the bolt on the rifle, checked the number of cartridges in the ammo belt, saw he just had a handful left. Damn. His comrade was right. As many pirates as they were hitting, it seemed there was an endless stream of them coming out of the tangle of brush and trees.

  One more shot on Armand’s part, ears ringing. He had a cold, desperate feeling, knowing that no matter what, when he was down to five rounds, he was going to break free and run up to the cabin, grab Melinda, and make their way off the boat. The crew had treated the both of them well, but his responsibility was to Melinda and promises Armand had made, to other men, and to himself.