Charles

  Rupi Dhaliwal closes the door to the Committee Room after the last of us have filed in. We stand in awkward silence for a moment or two before someone—Senator McFeely—finally speaks up.

  “Personally, I liked her speech,” he enthuses. “I think the new Governor General has our best interests at heart.”

  Most of the other members turn to look at him in bewilderment; then they look at each other; then, once more, they look at him. It’s a young Manitoban MP named Charles Simard who finally speaks.

  “With all due respect to the honourable Senator from New Brunswick: Are you fucking insane!?”

  Suddenly, everyone’s talking at once. McFeely is prattling on about unparliamentary language; Simard is making a point about colonial condescension and the infantilization of the colonized subject; several other members are shouting things like “she literally called us children!” while others are either agreeing with Simard or quibbling with the details of what one of the others has said; Cloutier and Hiscox each try to calm their partisans down; and Rupi (who has resumed her “Speaker of the House” post atop a swivel chair), tries, without success, to call for order.

  And then there’s a knock on the door.

  The room immediately falls silent. We all avoid one another’s gaze, no one volunteering to open the door. Whoever is outside knocks again.

  “For heaven’s sake,” mutters Rupi. She climbs down from her chair, walks over to the door herself, and flings it open.

  The Viceroy’s golden-skinned handmaiden stands on the other side, smiling politely.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “Her Highness, her Excellency, Elestrine Berit-Ardra av-Dahuyn, Princess of True Sorrow and Governor General of Canada, invites the Parliamentary contingent to meet with her in the Commonwealth Room immediately.”

  Cloutier steps forward. “We were, uh, of the impression that our meeting would take place this evening.”

  The handmaiden maintains what I can’t help but think of as a “customer-service” smile. “Her Highness regards the establishment of a working relationship with her Majesty’s Canadian subjects as being of paramount importance and has therefore requested that the schedule be adjusted accordingly.”

  Cloutier exchanges glances with Hiscox and me. “Well then, we graciously accept her invitation.”

  “Excellent,” the handmaiden replies with a nod. “I shall inform her immediately. Good day.”

  The door closes behind her.

  “What the hell does this mean?” Hiscox demands.

  “I think it’s a good sign,” mutters McFeely.

  *

  Our “contingent’” consists of Cloutier, Hiscox, and myself—the three seniormost members of our respective parties—as well as the three remaining members of the upper chamber: McFeely, McNaughton, and a third Senator named Jeman al-Khouri (a young poetess from Montreal who had been one of the former Prime Minister’s celebrity appointments). Cloutier and Hiscox remain married to their foolish “show of strength” strategy and, knowing that I’m not going to dissuade them at this point, I elect to put up and shut up.

  A Fairy guard outside the Commonwealth Room holds open the door. “Your Excellency, I present the Parliamentary Contingent.”

  The new Governor General—Elestrine Berit-Ardra av-Dahuyn—stands in wait for us, and beside her, scowling in his military finery, stands General Audan.

  “I greet my loyal subjects,” Elestrine says evenly, her accent crisp and vaguely English, her voice like honey. The door closes behind us. “Please have a seat.”

  “If you don’t mind, your Excellency, we would prefer to stand,” replies Cloutier. He pulls a handwritten note from his breast pocket. “As a first order of business, we have a number of points of critical concern to our constituents that we would like to address.”

  “I beg your pardon, but…who, may I ask, are you?” the Governor General interrupts.

  “Oscar Cloutier, your Excellency,” he replies, trying mostly successfully to avoid registering his annoyance. “Acting Prime Minister.”

  Elestrine looks vaguely amused, but takes the paper from Cloutier nonetheless. There’s a moment of silence as her eyes scan the page, her smile growing deeper and more sardonic as she takes in all of our carefully crafted “demands” for food aid, warm weather, electricity, and (ugh) compensation to businesses for lost revenue. Then, at last, she looks up.

  Cloutier takes initiative: “Well?”

  The paper bursts into flames in her hand. She sprinkles the ashes on the ground.

  “I have decided that Parliament will be playing a purely consultative role from here on,” she announces.

  Purely consultative? McNaughton mouths silently. My jaw clenches involuntarily.

  Cloutier maintains an even tone. “You mean we’ll no longer be involved in the process of making laws?”

  “Not at all!” says Elestrine. “In fact, you will still pass those laws that need to be passed, and I shall take your suggestions duly into consideration, implementing those that I consider to be of merit. But I’m afraid I must bring an end to the effective supremacy that Parliament enjoyed under the old regime. I could not, in good conscience, grant you free rein—any more than you would let an infant play with knives.”

  “I see.” Cloutier forces a smile. “And…if I may ask—your Excellency—do you intend to act upon the…advice that I have just delivered on behalf of Parliament?”

  Elestrine smiles and shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “May I ask why?”

  She sighs. “Because, Monsieur Cloutier, the incontrovertible fact is that a Shift has taken place; magic exists on Earth once again. Moreover, you have capitulated to us: this country belongs to the Winter Queen, by right of conquest, and it is our full intention to administer it as a colony of the Everglacian realm. Therefore, there will be no restoration of electricity or motorized transportation; no resumption of your so-called natural climate; and certainly no effort upon our part to humour the ‘competitiveness’ concerns of industry in an economy that no longer exists.

  “As for your people, they must simply learn to adapt. We will train them—to the extent we can—and help them to find their proper place in the new order; you will find that magic can be most accommodating when you know how to reap its bounties. But, like all children, your people can only truly learn from experience. And learn you will.”

  The ones who don’t starve first, I think bitterly.

  Cloutier closes his eyes, seeming to call upon the saints for serenity. “And what shall we eat until then, your Excellency?”

  “I think that you will find many beasts in the wood, Monsieur Cloutier,” she replies.

  “You…expect us to feed an entire nation on hunting?”

  “Only for a time.”

  “…How long of a time?”

  “Until we train you otherwise.”

  Finally, the acting Prime Minister loses his cool. “That’s simply unacceptable! Millions of lives are at stake! You talk about us like we’re infants but—”

  General Audan speaks for the first time, his voice deep and rich. “A demonstration may be in order, Excellency.”

  Elestrine sighs, turning away from Cloutier. “Unfortunately, General, I believe you are right. Kindly introduce the acting Prime Minister to the finer points of the new relationship between the legislative branch and the Crown.”

  “With pleasure, Excellency,” says Audan drawing his sword.

  “No!” someone screams; and suddenly, a gust of hurricane-force wind strikes the General full in his armoured chest, knocking him against the far wall.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It is only after his sword has clattered unused to the floor that I notice that both the scream and the blast had issued from me.

  For a moment, the room is so quiet that you could hear a mosquito fart. I stare at my own hands. What…the hell?

  Elestrine breaks the silence: “What do you mean by assaulting an officer of the Crown in the process of discharging his duty?”

  It takes me a moment to register the question. “I couldn’t let him…murder,” I mumble.

  Elestrine forces me to look her into her hard, blue eyes. “You do understand, I assume, that I have supreme executive authority here?”

  At this point, my brain overcomes its shock and gets back into the driver’s seat. I know I need to be very careful about what I say next.

  “Yes, your Excellency,” I reply. “But murder is murder and the law is the law. And the law rules; not the Prime Minister, not Parliament…and not you.”

  She scoffs. “Do you really imagine that I care for your laws?”

  Time to lay my cards on the table. “Yes, your Excellency, I do. I think you must, or what else has this pageantry been for?”

  Elestrine glares at me, seemingly trying to bore through my skull with her eyes. My instinct is to flee, but there’s nowhere to flee to, so all I can do is stand my ground.

  Abruptly, she laughs, and says something to Audan in her own language. The General, busy picking the tattered shards of his dignity off the ground, says something sneering by way of reply.

  “No doubt,” says Elestrine. She turns back to me: “What’s your name, good sir?”

  “Chuck Oakes, your Excellency.”

  “Oaks…” she intones. She runs a finger intimately down the side of my face, making me uncomfortable in a way I don’t understand. “I am fond of oak trees. They are steadfast and strong, the very kings of the forest.”

  “It’s just a name, Excellency.”

  “Nothing is ever just a name, Mr. Oakes,” she says. “Now tell me, and speak truly…what do you think of your acting Prime Minister?”

  I look back at Cloutier, who seems frozen in a state of panic. The other parliamentarians look on nervously, seemingly trying to hide behind one another.

  I swallow. “Oscar Cloutier is a vain, arrogant, self-serving technocrat who’s more interested in advancing his own career than in serving his constituency. But I back his demands 100%.”

  Elestrine seems to find this satisfactory. “And you don’t want him to be murdered.”

  “No, Excellency, I don’t want him, or anyone else, to be murdered.”

  Elestrine assumes a puzzled expression. “I confess, Mr. Oakes, to being unfamiliar with the particulars of your laws. Am I correct in assuming that any act of deliberately and premeditatively killing a human being—outside of war, of course—constitutes murder?”

  “…Essentially yes,” I say, sensing this to be a poor time to quibble over legal details.

  “And do laws against murder pertain to other animals?”

  I feel a vague sense of unease. “No, Excellency.”

  “Ah.”

  I hear a yelp of surprise from Heidi Hiscox and snap my head around to face my fellow parliamentarians. Cloutier is gone, replaced by a very alarmed-looking stag, incongruously wearing an Armani suit and Gucci loafers.

  “Fetch my bow,” Elestrine orders, smiling beatifically.

  Audan grabs a fine white hunting bow and a quiver of arrows from one of the room’s tables and places it in her hands. Cloutier—or what he’s become—is now skittering frantically around the room, seemingly trying to free himself from his clothing. He manages only to get his shirt and jacket caught over his antlers, blocking his vision. The rest of us are torn between concern for a colleague and not wanting to get too close to a large, panicked stag as it bucks and kicks blindly.

  Elestrine nocks her bow. “You might want to get out of the way for this,” she intones.

  I thrust my hand out, hoping that whatever magic I had managed last time could be repeated. No such luck—I just end up looking like an idiot.

  “Do something!” Rita McNaughton begs.

  “You can’t shoot him!” I exclaim.

  “You know, Mr. Oakes, I really do like you, but your incessant prattling about what I can and cannot do grows tiresome.”

  “But you can’t!” I insist, the gears in my head spinning into overdrive. “Not legally, your Excellency, not right now.”

  The Governor General aims her bow; Cloutier rolls around on the floor, knocking over an end table. “No? And why not?”

  “Deer aren’t in season.”

  Elestrine looks at me quizzically.

  “For hunting, I mean. Your Excellency. Deer can only be killed at certain times of year.”

  For a moment, no one says anything; then Senator McFeely clears his throat.

  “Uh, he’s right, your Excellency. Deer season doesn’t start until October 1st in this region. And you need a permit.”

  Elestrine seems to consider this. “Well, I made the deer myself,” she says at last. “Surely concerns about overhunting do not apply?”

  “Well, the concerns might not apply,” I answer quickly. “But the laws still do. We’re…a bit behind the times on this whole ‘Shift’ thing. You know how it is.”

  “Oh.”

  She lowers her bow. After standing a moment in thought, Elestrine asks: “Are there seasons for killing cockroaches, Mr. Oakes?”

  I freeze in horror. My brain scrambles for something to say, some way out of this predicament.

  “…No, Excellency, there are not,” cuts in Senator McFeely. And, in spite of myself, I hate him more in this instant than I have ever hated any living thing.

  Elestrine smiles as warmly as it is possible for such a person to smile. “Ah, thank you very much, Mister…?”

  “McFeely, your Excellency. Senator McFeely.”

  “Well. I am glad to see which way your loyalty lies, Senator. Indeed, you remind me very much of the nobles in my mother’s court.”

  McFeely nods in satisfaction, and if there’s any trace of regret for his betrayal, it doesn’t register on his face. “I do what I can, your Excellency.”

  “Oh really?” says Elestrine. “So do I.”

  Suddenly, McFeely disappears in a puff of greasy smoke, his empty clothes collapsing into a heap on the frost-lined floor. But not totally empty, as it turns out; a single fat, shiny cockroach climbs out, scurrying madly.

  Elestrine locks her eyes directly upon my own. “Don’t tell me I can’t.”

  And then, with a soft yet sickening squish, she brings her foot down.

  *

  I never cared for Byron McFeely. For the last few seconds, I have despised him. In my darker moments—when he would vote for petty, partisan reasons against bills that I supported—I may have even fantasized about killing him. But seeing that bundle of splayed, broken legs and antennae, I feel…

  Empty. I feel like someone has gutted me with a fish knife and dumped my hollow carcass in the trash. I have never before seen a man killed in front of my eyes.

  Elestrine regards the smear for a moment, her face expressionless. “I think that that will be enough for today,” she says distantly. “You may take your deer and go.”

  Hiscox shoots her a look of utter hatred as she clutches a sobbing al-Khouri; McNaughton lingers too long, eying the smear that had once been her colleague. Cloutier seems pleasantly unshaken by recent goings on, but content to finally have gotten the shirt off his antlers.

  “Not you, Mr. Oakes,” says Elestrine, stopping me in my tracks. I know that I should feel worried, but I can’t summon up the wherewithal to give a damn.

  “We’re not leaving without him,” McNaughton declares.

  It’s a nice sentiment, but I’ll be damned if they stay on my account. “Go.”

  “Oakes…”

  “Go,” I repeat. I wish I could assure her I’d be fine, but I’ve never been one for lying.

  And so they leave, the guard somehow managing to shoo Cloutier out the door alongside them.

  “General Audan,” Elestrine calls, “you may also take your leave.”

  “Excellency, I must protest. This man is at least somewhat versed in magic, and—”

  “Your concern is noted, but Mr. Oakes will not harm me. Will you, Mr. Oakes?”

  At that moment, my imagination swims with visions of that murderous bitch lying lifeless on the ground, head twisted clean off. But what I say is: “No. Not while my country is hostage.”

  “There, you see? Honest and sensible. Now leave us.”

  Audan bows, turns, and leaves. I am left alone with Elestrine.

  “It’s not your country, you know,” she says. “It’s mine. I had hoped that that demonstration would clarify matters.”

  “You may consider the matter clarified,” I say, keeping my voice studiously level.

  “You think me cruel, don’t you?”

  I am in no mood for repartee. “Yes.”

  She considers this. “Because of what I did to McFeely?”

  “Because you enjoyed it,” I snap. “Because you toyed with us beforehand. Because you’re more concerned with your goddamn powerplays than you are with the fact that your subjects are starving to death.”

  “You really don’t fear me at all, do you?”

  “Oh, I fear you,” I retort. “I fear you more than anything.”

  “And yet you remain honest nonetheless. Despite what I might do to you.”

  “I’m not afraid of what you can do to me, your Excellency.”

  “Oh no?” she laughs. “Then what?”

  I look her in the eye. “I’m afraid of what you are. I’m afraid of power without wisdom or compassion. I’m afraid of a person who has never troubled themselves with the difference between good and evil, or wondered whether they ought to be one rather than the other.”

  I let my words sink in for a moment. “Now, is there a point to this little heart-to-heart, or are you just in the mood to chat? Because honestly, I think I’d rather be stomped to death.”

  “Actually,” she says, “I’d like to offer you a job.”

  “What?”

  “I find myself in want of a Prime Minister,” she says. “You seem the obvious candidate.”

  My mouth hangs agape. “You cannot be serious!”

  “I assure you that I am, Mr. Oakes. As you seem to have realized, it would be beneficial for me to abide by the local laws; you seem to have a well-developed knowledge of them. Simply put, you understand the country—and it was not a coincidence that you, unlike most of your fellow humans, have been able to use magic. Moreover, you seem an honourable, forthright man and servant of the people. You have clearly earned the respect of your Parliamentary colleagues. Most importantly, I trust you. You will tell me what is true, and not what you think I want to hear.”

  “If you make me Prime Minister,” I say, “I will spend every minute undermining you.”

  “You will not, Mr. Oakes. Hate me though you may, your loyalty is to your people, and you know that they cannot afford bad government on top of the present crises. You may also be interested to learn that, whereas it is indeed beneficial for me to the follow the letter of the laws of this land, I am by no means compelled to do so—and indeed, I am more likely to violate them, even unintentionally, if you are not on hand to advise me.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  “Then I would simply appoint someone else to the job. General Audan, for example.”

  I freeze, evidently Elestrine’s desired reaction.

  “He’s not an MP, of course,” she purrs, “but it would be my pleasure to appoint him to the Senate. I doubt the people would enjoy being governed by the man who cut through their armed forces, and I’m afraid it would go rather hard for them in this scenario. He would not be my first choice.”

  I clench and unclench my jaw, trying to think of a way out of this. There is none. “I see.”

  “Congratulations on your appointment, Mr. Prime Minister,” she says, bowing before me.

  “May I offer you a bit of frank advice, your Excellency?” I ask.

  “Always.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  She laughs musically. “That may be an interesting experience…but not, I think, today.”

  I look away.

  “I shall send a party of knights to accompany you and to announce your new position to your colleagues. No doubt they will wish to congratulate you. I can already tell that this is going to be a wonderful partnership!

  “Oh, and Mr. Oakes?”

  “…Yes?”

  “You will soon find that I also have this country’s best interests at heart.”

  I feel a deep reserve of anger bubbling up inside me. “Tell that to Byron McFeely’s grandkids,” I say without thinking. “Excellency.”

  Without another word, I head toward the door.