The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [19]
The coach pulled down Bynam Lane after that, and the view of the palace was blotted out by the North Ferry front of the Architecture War. A smaller skirmish than the castle, but still just as visible. The coach began to slow almost immediately.
“What’s the problem?” Beckett growled up to the driver.
“The crowd, gov. Can’t go any farther.” Harry’s disembodied voice seemed irritated. “Want me to push through?” Harry had been working as a coachman for the coroners since before Beckett’s time, driving his two horses which he insisted were descended from Saaghyari devil-mares. He always seemed to be looking for an opportunity to show off what they could do.
“No, Harry.” Beckett turned to Skinner. “Crowd?” She shrugged. Beckett grunted and hefted himself out of the coach. Skinner followed directly and Alan, after waiting for an uncertain moment in the empty coach, followed her.
Bynam Lane was filled with people, a hundred at least, all wearing the sober-colored suits and tall hats of well-established businessmen. They were mostly middle-aged men, well-dressed and with well-groomed mustaches and muttonchops. Occasionally, Alan spotted young women, who he assumed were the wives of the men. Around the edges of the crowd lounged disreputable looking gendarmes, some leaned in alleys or against bronze lamp-posts, others squatted in the street and played at dice or cards.
The crowd was not unruly, except for the man standing at its head. He was up on an old wooden crate in front of the Zindel house, and he was shouting lustily at the men and women who surrounded him. Behind the man, and blocking the entrance to 612 Bynam Lane, were half a dozen Lobstermen.
“I can’t hear him from here. What’s he saying, Skinner?”
The Knocker opened her jaw slightly, and her breathing slowed. “That’s Edgar Wyndham-Vie,” she said, after a moment. “Adjunct to the Vice-Minister for the Committee for Public Safety. I heard him speak in Parliament once. He’s talking about sharpsies, now. I’m not sure if he’s trying to quell a riot or start one.”
Beckett took a long look around at the fat, satisfied men in the streets. Some of them were old enough to have avoided the press, but just as many had probably bribed their way out of the war. “I don’t think these are the rioting type. Come on.” The old coroner began to shoulder his way through the crowd.
Skinner put her right hand on Alan’s shoulder, an action which caused a fluttering feeling in his stomach. She smiled at him, then, which caused the fluttering to get worse. Knockers, he knew, had virtually supernatural hearing. Could she hear the butterflies in his stomach? Could she hear what he was thinking now? Alan put his head down and tried to lead Skinner through the path that her partner had made.
“Where the hell is Valentine?” Beckett growled as they approached. “I thought he was watching the cordon.”
“He was supposed to be,” Skinner called over Alan’s shoulder. “He’s not here?”
“No. His carriage-thing is, though, so he must not have gotten far.” Beckett finally pushed his way past the men in the very front of the crowd. They were holding small blue candles. “What the hell is going on here?” Beckett shouted, as he approached Edgar Wyndham-Vie and his men. The Adjunct did not look at him, but continued to shout out to the crowd.
“… assure you all that the Imperium is doing everything in its power to ensure the safety of all of its human citizens…”
One of the Lobstermen stepped forward. The insignia on his breastplate