Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(10)

The chancellor’s shoulders slumped.

“You talk about it as if it would be easy. Building is harder than destroying. Rebuilding after blowing things up would be even more so.”

“You would be wrong to underestimate my anger.”

“I fear it will only make things worse.”

“We’ll speak again after I’ve offered Quebec a new start. And I hope you will help me build the city that my father refused to restore.”

? ?

Cap-Rouge never changed. Every day, the fisherfolk went out with the tide and they returned to the village with the tide, bringing back enough fish to feed their families, and a few more to sell to any taker waiting on the beach.

Visitors made their way by boat from villages farther west to buy their catch. Sometimes, they stayed after roasting their purchases on a driftwood-fed fire. When night fell, they found shelter in the inns and taverns standing on the tip of the island.

Through the gloom and noise of the common room slinked less savoury visitors. Strangers whose clothes smelled of the forest. Who carried blunderbusses and single-shot pistols. Who wandered in with bows and arrows. Who didn’t answer many questions, but paid their fare with good copper coins, occasionally with slivers of silver or gold.

Darrick was drinking alone at a table in a corner of the biggest inn on the strand. He was sitting so as to display clearly the sword by his side. Nobody would bother an ironbearer.

Except the man he was waiting for. Who only showed up after nightfall, ordering a beer at the counter before turning around to scan discreetly the rest of the room. The man’s disguise was good. The newcomer looked like an Algonquin farmer from the Upper Laurentides, one of those who earned the equivalent of a year’s income by joining a brigade of western Voyageurs from time to time. Yet, the venison bag slung over his shoulder sported a bit of tartan that could pass as a mere patch but wasn’t, of course.

Darrick called him over, pointing to the empty chair in front of him. The man circled in.

“Ségole Portelance.”

“Philippe Taillefer,” Darrick answered.

Passwords exchanged, they hugged like old friends meeting again after a long separation, though somewhat awkwardly, each one wondering if the other was going to stab him in the back.

“You’ve come a long way?”

“You said it, ironbearer! A Voyageur isn’t afraid to voyage, and I’ve paddled all the rivers between here and Saskatchewan.”

“I didn’t think there were any left.”

“No, they still flow in the spring when the snow melts. Nothing better to ship boatloads all the way to Lake Superior or Hudson Bay. But I’ve also escorted my share of caravans crossing the steppes in high summer.”

Escorted or attacked? Darrick reminded himself to keep in mind who he was dealing with.

“But you’re retired now, right?”

“Soon enough, I hope,” the man said without smiling.

His black hair was streaked with grey, but there was no sign in the man’s face of Lacombe’s beaten-down weariness. Darrick nodded, as if he were contemplating old age and its pastimes.

“Some men, when they stop working, they no longer know what to do with themselves.”

“Speak for yourself, ironbearer! Me, I think I’ll take up fishing.”

“It’s pleasant enough, if the sea is kind and the fish plentiful.”

“You just need to know the good spots, that’s all. What do you think? Any likely ones around here?”

“I’d advise trying the waters near Port-Sillery. Tomorrow, you’ll be completely alone.”

“If you say so… Maybe I’ll go bother the fish with some friends of mine. What do you think I could get for my catch?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Nothing less.”

His reply snapped like a whip-crack, setting Darrick’s teeth on edge. The ironbearer held the man’s stare. If the man didn’t trust him, his whole plan would come to naught. The murderous light in the Voyageur’s eyes met Darrick’s self-confident gaze until the older man yielded.

The deal was done. They revived the conversation by broaching less perilous topics, but the man called Ségole grew uneasy when a group of the governor’s guards took over a nearby table. Darrick too had strained to appear unconcerned, telling himself the guards did not seem to be on the lookout for anything but an evening meal, even assuming that they’d been provided with a reliable description of their quarry.

When the Voyageur took his leave, Darrick found himself alone. He was giving in to the pleasant stupor induced by a good meal, a couple of pints, and his exertions atop a stolen bicycle from one end of the island to another. Had he run himself ragged just to elude pursuers?

Or had he run so hard because he was afraid of enjoying his return too well? He could still give up. The fate of Quebec’s population did not seem so harsh. He was free to head back to France, or to move to Montreal if he wished to live out his days in more familiar surroundings. He would still dream of building a better world, and that world would retain the unsullied perfection of dreams never put to the test of reality.

At the other table, the governor’s guards were picking over the scraps of their meals when the serving girl stopped by to ask them to pay up. The commanding officer snickered.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, girl?”