The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [38]
The coach came to a stop in front of an ordinary-looking building, built in the Ennering-Rowan style: plain walls, square windows. The only sign of the club’s identity was the square bronze sign about the door, with the image of a windmill pressed onto it in enameled red steel. Inside, young gentlemen of the Esteemed Families of Trowth would watch the duette: a slow dance in which two young women would mime at dueling each other with long, slender knives. In Sar-Sarpek, when the duette had been invented a hundred years earlier, it had been a bloodsport. Now, it was an excuse for wealthy bachelors and married men to see women dressed in the skin-tight duetta’s outfit, instead of the heaps of skirts and bustles that Trowth women were expected to wear.
It was not uncommon that a man like Edgar Wyndham-Vie should dismiss his coachman after arriving at a place like the Windmill. He might go on from there to engage in any number of scandalous activities; following one of the dancers home to a cat-house, or going with his new acquaintances to a hotel room, rented for the sole purpose of doing things that young men ought not to be doing in their homes. Edgar and Robert left their carriage and went into the club.
The coachman drove the Wyndham-Vie coach around the corner, just far enough out of sight that no one could see it from the door, then climbed down and headed back to the Windmill. He stopped a half a block from the entrance of the club, arriving just in time to see Edgar and Robert leaving again. They’d either watched an unusually short dance, or they were off to engage in business of their own.
The coachman tipped his tall black hat down and followed after them, trying to keep a discreet distance behind the two men. New Bank, where the Windmill made its home, saw less traffic than the Royal Mile did. There were few people left on the street here, and it would do no good to be spotted, but a man would be surprised at just how much practice this particular coachman had at being discreet.
He followed the two young gentlemen back down the steep streets of New Bank, then back up the not-quite-as-steep streets of Old Bank. They stopped in front of a familiar building, decorated with the sharp, organic-looking Vie-Gorgon merlons and guarded by a pair of red-glistening Lobstermen. The coachman coughed and turned away, leaning against a cold buttress, trying to reproduce the look of an inconspicuous gentlemen, out for a brisk walk, taking a rest for a few moments.
The two men were not inside for very long. The coachman wished he recognized the building, but it was unmarked. He noted down the address, filed it away in his memory as the men emerged. Edgar had something square and bulky under his arm. The coachman was prepared to follow them both again, when Robert Rowan-Harshank saw him.
The young man nudged his friend and pointed towards the coachman; Edgar Wyndham-Vie squinted to get a better look. He can’t see me from across the street, Beckett thought to himself. Just behave naturally. He wrapped his coat tight around his waist, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk away.
“You!”
Aw, no…
“You!” Wyndham-Vie started screaming at the Lobstermen. “The man there, with the red scarf! Arrest him! Now, you idiots!”
The scarf. Right. Stupid. Beckett turned, and contemplated drawing his weapon. He thought better of it almost immediately. One of the Lobstermen had raised a rifle, while the other had sprinted in a long, curving arc to the side, staying out of the first one’s line of sight and still closing on Beckett faster than he could possibly move.
The Marine with his wet-blood armor crashed towards him at speed, nearly as fast as a racehorse. Beckett raised his hands to show that they were empty. Shit. He thought.
“Lie on the ground and put your hands on your head.” The Lobsterman shouted as he thundered to a stop, his own rifle held like a spear.
Shit, shit, shit.