Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [144]
“I am Ensign Paynes-Grey. Are you Brentford Orsini?”
“I am,” said Brentford, almost flattered by his new celebrity, though, after all, he was the only one here in civilian clothes, and could be easily singled out.
“Captain-General Mason just told me that, from now on, if I were to disobey anyone, it had to be you.”
Brentford laughed.
“Then do not encircle the Hôtel de Police under any circumstances,” said Brentford, indicating the building on the other side of the barricade. “This is an order.”
The young ensign nodded.
“As a free man, I have no choice but to disobey you,” he answered, “and, as a matter of fact, we have already started.”
“How is the situation?”
“Under control. Just a few skirmishes. The Gentlemen of the Night are not soldiers, you know. Unless they’re ten to one, they’d rather take it out on defenceless people. I think they’ll just wait to see which side is winning before taking a stand.”
The other Cadets had approached, very curious about the Sophragettes. Brentford saluted and gave the signal to shove off before the fraternization became too incestuous. There would be plenty of time for that.
The ships pushed off again, and it was hard for Brentford not to think that their procession was not becoming a ceremony. He remembered his grandiose childhood dream, and for a while actually felt like the doge who would marry the Lincoln Sea. The Council, obviously, had relied on symbols more than on sheer firepower, and now that they had sawn off the branch on which they had been sitting, their strategy showed its limits. The Subtle Army was out of the game, the Gentlemen of the Night were contained by the Navy Cadets for the time being, and there was little chance that the people of New Venice would risk their skins for the Councillors, especially now that John Blank had promised to publish photographs of the Seven Sleepers’ desecrated coffins on the front page of tonight’s New Venice News. But do not let it go to your head, Brentford admonished himself. This was not over yet: there was still the Varangian Guard to be reckoned with—a dreaded body of well-seasoned warriors—and, of course, the Council itself, from whom the worst could be feared.
They landed at the dock before the Blazing Building. Brentford’s first idea was that the Sophragettes should not be endangered.
“Blankbate, stay with me! Ms. Lenton! To the rear of the building!” he ordered, hoping he sounded credible as a commanding officer. But he saw Lilian gracefully raise her hand, and instead of obeying his orders, the Sophragettes stopped in their tracks.
“Sorry. I was so thrilled by the sheer virility of your tone of voice, that I did not pay attention to what you said,” explained Lilian with a smile. He could see her little canine tooth, slightly but charmingly unaligned.
Brentford hemmed and corrected himself.
“Ms. Lenton. Would you please be so kind as to make sure the rear of the building is safe from any intrusion?”
“Be sure I’ll gladly see to that,” she said, with some obscure irony that totally eluded Brentford. “Ladies, if you want to follow me. One half with me this way, the other half with Ms. Lovelace to the other side of the building, if you please.”
Brentford watched them go, in a colourful and determined rustle, almost losing his train of thought at the spectacle.
“We should go,” Blankbate said.
“Yes.” said Brentford, nodding. “Yes. Of course.” He had, he discovered, a slight case of stage fright.
Brentford and the Scavengers passed through the gate to find the gigantic Varangian Guards silently lined up in a row, their barbed halberds pointed at the intruders, and quite impressive in their shining armour plates and morion helms. Of course, the Scavengers fanned out around Brentford were armed with guns, but he could well sense their own hesitation.