Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(11)
“I don’t believe we are in the business of offering free meals, sirs. Do you want me to speak to my boss?”
“You should know better, little goose! If you really want to collect, my pretty one, you’ll be paid in kind, on this very table.”
“Wham-bang, right between the legs!” one of the guards threw in.
“She doesn’t get it. It’s an honour to serve a Dome guard.”
“An honour without price!” they chorused before laughing uproariously.
Nobody else laughed. Silence spread from one table to the next, conversations dying and gazes swivelling to take in the scene. Darrick straightened, sobering as he tightened his hand on the sword’s grip. But there were five of them, and they weren’t drunk enough to improve the odds. Before he could talk himself into it, the innkeeper burst from the kitchen, grabbed the serving girl by the shoulder, propelled her behind him and bowed before the officer.
“Forgive me, sirs, she didn’t know. Trust me, we appreciate the honour you do us by gracing our establishment. May I offer you another pitcher of our best Montebello red?”
“Do so,” the officer said. “But next time…” He didn’t finish, so certain of his authority that he did not feel the need to bellow or threaten. Moments later, guests began to settle their account and leave. Like them, Darrick tipped generously, even though it wouldn’t undo the girl’s humiliation. She looked young. It was probably her first time working in such a place and she would learn. Yet, he hated thinking that she would grow to find official thuggishness perfectly normal.
? ?
The automobile rolled up to the entrance of St. Macaire’s Palace a little after nine o’clock. Ministers, secretaries, clerks and petty clerks were already at work inside the wings overlooking the forecourt. The clickety-click of typewriters wafted through the windows thrown open to let in the springtime warmth. The main building rose between the two wings, housing the offices and apartments of the governor, as well as a connecting hall leading to another wing behind, used for state occasions, grand balls and official dinners.
The men guarding the entrance to the inner court stopped the vehicle. Half-burnt ethanol fumes emanated from the malfunctioning motor, thick enough to choke the guards who didn’t keep their distance. The luxurious vehicle’s only occupant was a liveried driver. When he was asked the purpose of his visit, he pointed to the coat of arms adorning the rear compartment’s doors.
“I work for Lord Odrigo de Lorette. He asked me to come get his mother, Lady Claudette de Bergerville. She had an appointment with the Minister of the Registry.”
“Very well, I’ll check,” the commanding officer said. “Meanwhile, please park that thing over here.”
His airy gesture did not quite hide his fascination with the motor car. He went back inside to check the log. His underlings watched with undisguised interest as the driver manoeuvred the automobile by the windows of the guardroom. He set the parking brake and got out.
“If this is going to take long, can I go take a piss?”
A guard pointed him to the door leading to the basement. The others surrounded the parked vehicle, admiring the chrome inlays and the wood veneer. The ethanol fumes quickly dissipated, but they only got near enough to catch the sound of a faint ticking just before the car exploded.
? ?
St. Macaire’s Basilica rose on the highest part of the island of Quebec. Its dome was the focal point of the governor’s compound, a hodgepodge of buildings dating back to the Université Laval or to the first governor’s efforts to link the most defensible ones with rough-hewn additions.
His successors had concentrated on the main entrance, adding guardrooms and sentry boxes, while lodging most of the guard company in a dormitory one floor above. When the high explosives hidden in every available nook of the automobile detonated, the blast shattered the nearest wall. The upper floors collapsed, burying the guardrooms and the people inside under the debris. The shock wave blew in the windows overlooking the courtyard, shooting glass shards and wood splinters into the offices. The sheer thickness of the outer wall saved it from toppling, but it was left in no shape to withstand an immediate assault.
Yet, once silence fell, quickly filled with the moans and crying of the wounded, no attack followed. The men set to clearing the debris did not stop to question the logic behind the bombing.
At the other end of the compound, Darrick heard the explosion and he muttered a quick prayer for Naoufal’s safety. Had he been able to find shelter in a basement that was deep enough? Would he manage to join the rescuers, mix in, and escape?
The ironbearer easily imagined the destruction, the deaths, and the injuries he’d just caused. He was certain that criminals and thugs had died. He did not doubt that he had also killed innocents. But his dream of a better city counted for more.
He climbed the steps of the entrance to the basilica without stopping.
“Who goes there?” a guard asked, bursting out of his sentry box with a halberd held upright.
“Faucher de Limoilou!”
“Wh… what?”
Darrick whipped out his sword, pushed aside the halberd lowered too late and thrust forcefully into the chest of the man still trying to figure out which of the governor’s sons he had in front of him.
Thanks to his father’s procreative efforts, he had once been able to pass unnoticed as one son of many. Granger de Limoilou had complicated everybody’s life by taking several wives and siring even more children. As he marched down the nave, Darrick shouted into the hollowness within what he’d sworn to tell his father.