Two Times a Traitor, page 1
Half Title
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Copyright
First published in Canada and the United States in 2017
Text copyright © 2017 Karen Bass
This edition copyright © 2020 Pajama Press Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.
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The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bass, Karen, 1962-, author
Two times a traitor / Karen Bass.
ISBN 978-1-77278-024-6 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77278-031-4 (hardcover).--ISBN 978-1-77278-155-7 (EPUB).
1. Louisbourg (N.S.)--History--Siege, 1745--Juvenile fiction.
I. Title.
PS8603.A795T86 2017 jC813’.6 C2016-907802-7
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)
Names: Bass, Karen, 1962-, author.
Title: Two Times a Traitor / Karen Bass.
Description: Toronto, Ontario Canada : Pajama Press, 2017. | Summary: “Reluctantly touring Halifax with his family, twelve-year-old Laz Berenger accidentally stumbles through a time tunnel to a 1745 war zone. Caught by English sailors from the American colonies, his only hope for freedom is to spy for them in the French fortification at Louisbourg. But he finds himself torn in three directions when the commander at Louisbourg becomes closer to him than his own father”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-77278-024-6 (paperback) | 978-1-77278-031-4 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Time travel – Juvenile fiction. | Louisbourg (N.S.) –History -- Siege, 1745 -- Juvenile fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Historical / Canada / Pre-Confederation (to 1867). | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General.
Classification: LCC PZ7.B377Two |DDC [F] – dc23
Cover design: Rebecca Buchanan
Cover images: © milyana, © Swill Klitch/Shutterstock
Interior design and typesetting: Rebecca Buchanan, and Martin Gould / martingould.com
Manufactured by Friesens
Printed in Canada
Pajama Press Inc.
181 Carlaw Avenue, Suite 207, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M4M 2S1
www.pajamapress.ca
Distributed in Canada by UTP Distribution
5201 Dufferin Street Toronto, Ontario Canada, M3H 5T8
Distributed in the U.S. by Ingram Publisher Services
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Dedication
For Nikki
History connects us all
Chapter One
Laz had forgotten what it was like to not be angry. For the last seven months he’d lived every day inside a personal storm cloud, ever since his father had moved them to Boston without any warning. So when he stepped out of the restaurant, he felt the electric prickle of a coming storm that had been brewing through lunch. But so far the only sign was the thunder of his father’s booming voice.
Electricity crawled over Laz’s arms and neck like a hundred centipedes. He shivered and stopped under a blue awning to button up his wool coat. It was spring break, but in this cold Canadian city of Halifax, winter still floated in the air and made the salty tang of the nearby ocean sting inside his nose. Wanting to be anywhere else, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
Emeline nudged his elbow. The gloomier Laz was, the more Emeline shone. She always pushed away his sadness. Now she beamed at him, dark curls framing her face like a halo and brown eyes seeming to sparkle with flecks of sunshine. “Halifax is a like a small Boston, don’t you think?”
Laz shrugged. “My best friend is in Boston, not here, Bébé.”
“Don’t call me a baby anymore. I’m nine.” Emeline crossed her arms.
“You’re still a shrimp.” Laz smiled when she faked a pout.
Their mom made her usual comment about them both being her babies. Laz rolled his eyes and Emeline giggled. At twelve years old he was the same height as Mom, but that never stopped her from embarrassing him with mushy stuff.
Voices light and breezy, they tried to blow away the ugly remains of the argument over lunch when Laz had said he’d rather be called Berenger than Lazare and his dad had flipped out over the idea of calling Laz by his last name. Now Dad cut through the chatter with an icy blast. “Form up. We’re heading up Duke Street.” He pointed at the intersection a few feet away.
Laz did not want to march around the city like an army troop. “Couldn’t I go back to the hotel and swim, maybe watch a movie? I know where it is.” He peered down Hollis Street.
His dad’s eyebrows slanted inward as he glared down his straight nose at Laz. “You’re too young to spend the afternoon alone.”
“I am not. I’m almost thirteen.” Laz knew Dad didn’t like him talking back, but he couldn’t help himself. Or maybe he hadn’t been trying to help himself. In a way, it felt fair for his dad to be as angry as Laz felt. He had learned about the family’s move while he had been at Grandmère’s farm. It had happened so fast he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to his old friends.
“You’re twelve, Lazare, and you’re spending the afternoon with your family. That’s what you do on a family vacation.” Dad pointed, the way he did when he was done talking.
Laz bit back the urge to restart the argument about being called by his full name. It was old-fashioned, and kids at school made fun of it. They called him Bizarre Lazare. Instead he muttered, “Not that the family got to choose. Ryder and I had plans, you know.”
He and his friend had saved up to attend an introductory parkour camp. It looked incredible on videos. Parkour was like running an obstacle course, but through the city, over walls and roofs and whatever got in the way. Laz knew he’d be good at it because everyone always said how fearless he was, and he was great at gymnastics. But when Dad used the Look like he was doing now, it was time to give in. The Look could peel skin.
Being fond of his skin, Laz turned away; satisfied he had scored a point. He’d gotten Dad angry, but not angry enough to blow up.
Duke Street climbed a steep hill. Laz pumped along and imagined being old enough to do anything he wanted. His parents let him stay home alone for short periods while they ran to the store or took Emeline to skating. So the problem must be Halifax.
A small hand grabbed his and Emeline gushed, “Dad said we’re going to a fort where people dress up in old-time costumes. It’s called the Citadel. Mom’s ancestor was a soldier who moved from New England to help guard the fort during the American Revolution. His name was Ebenezer Wright.”
That explained why they were in Halifax. Martin Berenger was super interested in family history, on both sides. “You’re a great parrot,” Laz said. “You repeat whatever you hear.”
“Squawk!” Emeline laughed then said, “Look at those lion statues.”
Laz glanced back. Their parents were half a block behind. “Let’s check them out.” He looked for traffic and pulled Emeline across the road to where two lions holding shields perched on chest-high pedestals.
He pulled out his cell phone. “Take my picture.”
“You were supposed to leave that in the hotel room.”
Laz shrugged. “It’s my phone.” He gripped the edge of the shield and swung himself up onto the ledge of the base. Holding onto the shield with one hand, he waved and grinned while Emeline took his picture.
When he jumped down he took a selfie of them and one lion’s head. The picture showed how much they looked alike, except Emeline’s nose was turned up and his was straight like Dad’s. Her hair was a little longer. His touched his collar now, and he liked the way that bugged his dad.
Emeline tugged him and they continued up the hill. She bounced as she walked, and she talked and laughed like a ringing bell. People smiled at them, which made Laz duck his head and try to pull away. Emeline hung on.
At the next intersection they waited for a red light. That same electric frizzle made Laz shiver. He looked up, in case there was a real cloud ready to zap him with lightning. The sky was blue.
Something swished across his black sneakers and the person next to him sobbed. It was a woman in a long dress with a white apron. She spun around, one hand on her frilled white cap and one on her mouth. Her eyes were wide and scared. A car zipped around the corner. She gasped, jumped back, and bumped against a garbage can attached to the light pole.
Laz reached out to stop her from falling. “Are you okay, lady?” He smelled something tangy and familiar, but couldn’t place it.
The woman turned toward Laz, gray eyes so wide they were round. She was barely taller than Emeline. Tiny and terrified, Laz thought. Moaning leaked from behind her hand. She lifted her skirt and pelted down the hill.
“Did you see that, Bébé?”
“The lady in the dress? She must be from the Citadel.”
&
“I don’t like that nickname.”
“You’ll always be my baby sister, so too bad. What’s wrong?”
“You and Dad. When you talk it sounds like you’re both growling. And I know what the problem is—you don’t have any filters.”
They reached a stone wall beside a grassy slope below the fort. Their parents were a full block behind now, but Mom waved for them to go left, so they headed toward a white building that looked like a fancy three-tiered cake topped by a green roof.
“Filters?” Laz asked. “What does that mean?”
“You say whatever comes to mind, no matter how much it bugs Dad. Maybe because it bugs Dad. You’ve started your rebellious stage early, and I hope you grow out of it soon.”
“You’re being a parrot again. Who were you listening to?”
She gave an exaggerated huff. “Mom. I heard her talking on the phone to Aunt Marie.”
“Mom doesn’t like us eavesdropping, Bébé.”
Her brown eyes were shiny with a film of water. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re rebelling. You want to upset Dad with everything you say or do.”
Laz shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s always upset with me anyway. Nothing I do is good enough.”
“But when Dad gets angry with you, it’s scary. Both of you become…like tomcats hissing before they attack each other. What if you guys do that some day instead of just arguing?”
“We won’t. I know what I’m doing.” Laz ruffled her hair because he knew she hated it.
He ran down the sidewalk with her chasing him. At the white building, a wooden staircase climbed the hill. He raced up the stairs, laughing at Emeline’s calls for him to slow down. Laz rested on a bench at the top until she arrived, puffing hard, and fell against him. While they sat, warmth uncurled in Laz’s chest, and he wished he could sit like this for the rest of the day. He was about to tell Emeline she was the best of the family but didn’t get the chance before their parents arrived, panting worse than his sister had been.
Emeline immediately herded them toward the entrance where a sentry in a tall, furry hat, red coat, kilt, and white covers on his boots stood very still. A tourist beside the guard was getting her picture taken. Laz thought that guard might have the most boring job in the world.
A tunnel cut through earthen walls Laz thought were called ramparts. A bridge stretched over an empty grass moat, where another tunnel with “Citadel” carved into the stone above it, opened into a huge inner yard. Some men, dressed in navy uniforms with red trim and round hats, were doing marching drills. Emeline bounced with excitement.
Laz paced into the middle of the huge yard and turned slowly. There was a long building with slanted roof and red chimneys, a few lower stone buildings, stairs, ramps, cannons on the walls, mounded earthworks. He imagined doing a parkour run here. There were gaps to jump, poles to swing from, walls and cannons to vault over. He knew it would be awesome.
“Lazare,” Dad called, “come on.”
He squinted at his dad. “Come where?”
Dad worked his jaw side to side then said, “We’re going through the timeline exhibits.”
Behind Dad, Emeline nodded. Laz almost felt the click in his head, the one that let the storm loose and made him argue. “No thanks. I’d rather look around on my own.”
“You can help us look for any references to your mom’s ancestor.”
Another click. “That sounds boring.”
Without warning, the argument began. Anger crackled between them, and when his dad shouted, Laz shouted back. Gravity took over and words spilled out, like water gushing from a downspout in a rainstorm. Laz didn’t know what he was saying; he just yelled every angry thing he’d ever thought. His body quivered.
He spun away. Dad spun him back.
“Your behavior is unacceptable.” He spat out each word like a marble.
Laz wrenched free. “Don’t touch me.” He backed away. “Send Emeline to find me when you’re done.” He trotted backward, away from his father.
“Where do you think you’re going, Lazare? Get back here.”
“No. If here is near you, then I want to be anywhere but here.” Laz raced across the yard.
Chapter Two
His heart was pounding so loud Laz didn’t hear if his father called after him or followed. Laz knew he’d be put through the grinder later. During summers spent with Grandmère he’d helped her grind meat; he shuddered at the picture in his mind.
Laz shot toward a painted blue door that was propped open. When he saw it led to a staircase, he stomped down the steps. Rectangular gray stones were streaked with red, green, and charcoal. An arch of cobblestone-sized stones formed the ceiling. Near the bottom, a sign in the ceiling read, “Caution. Low overhead.”
Black double doors opened to a wide ditch between the inner and outer walls. Laz stood in the space he thought of as the moat and peered at the bridge he’d crossed to enter the fort. Sounds of people on the bridge seemed muffled, as if the U-shaped ditch and walls absorbed it like a sponge.
Laz sat on cool grass, leaned against the rough wall by the staircase, and tilted his head to stare at the cloudless sky. He was shaking. He and Dad had never had a fight that big. He couldn’t remember what he’d said, only that he’d felt like a volcano exploding and spewing words like flaming rocks.
He had been out of control, and it wasn’t a feeling he liked. He rubbed his itching neck and his fingers rolled over the chain hidden there. He pulled it out and brushed his thumb over his ancient St. Christopher medal. Mom’s mom—Nan to Emeline and Laz—had given it to him before she died. “He’s the patron saint of travelers,” she had said. “I feel like I need to give it to you. This has been in the family over 200 years.” “I don’t get it, Nan,” Laz had replied as she’d draped it over his head. She’d patted his chest. “I don’t, either, Laz. Let’s call it an old woman’s whim. So you humor me, hear?”
Nan had sworn him to secrecy, which he still thought weird, but he had promised. So even though Dad loved family history, Laz was the one wearing a piece of it.
He kept rubbing the medal and tried to recall what had set him off. Dad had shouted something about selfish. To Laz, it didn’t feel selfish. It felt like treading water, like fighting with his dad was how to survive the stormy waves washing over him.
When calm returned, Laz tucked the medal back under his shirt and pulled out his phone. He tapped out a message to Ryder: “messed up 2day”
The response came in seconds: “y?”
“blowout with DM” That’s what Ryder and Laz called Dad: Dungeon Master (DM).
“worse than usual?”
“way” When no reply came after thirty seconds, Laz added, “total explosion”
“u ok?”
“hanging in”
“learn to shut yr mouth” Ryder knew that was what got Laz into trouble.
Laz knew it too, but it didn’t stop him from talking back. He felt better after telling Ryder, even if it only blew off steam. He tapped, “tbl” Text back later.
“ok”
No one else was in the trench. Laz walked to the middle and opened his phone’s video then turned in a full circle. He recorded the greening grass, the stone walls that reached at least twenty feet up, the grassy mounds on top of the walls. He faced a door in the outer wall directly across from the stairs he had descended. He squinted at the phone’s screen as the camera recorded the plain door with big iron hinges. He whispered, “There must be a tunnel under the outer wall. Got to see this.” He ended the recording and climbed the two wooden steps.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, and a mix of smells hit him. The strongest was musty dirt, like the cellar where Grandmère kept her potatoes and carrots. The stone in the chamber also seemed to give off a smell, sharper than the dirt. Another unidentified scent teased Laz, but he couldn’t place it.
