The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [48]
“Instrumentation is on the right. Those,” the clerk pointed to five neatly stacked cylinders, “are the audio recordings.”
Valentine turned to him. “You keep a record, right? A list of everyone that comes in? They have to sign a…a book, or something…”
“The logbook, yes.”
“I’ll need to see it.”
The clerk shook his head. “I can’t.”
Valentine started waving the Writ around. “You misunderstood me. By order of the Crown, I am seizing your log books.”
“No, sir,” the clerk said. “You misunderstood me. I can’t give you the logbook. It’s already been taken.”
“By whom?”
“The Committee for Public Safety,” Skinner said, her face thoughtful. “Right, Robert?”
Robert Rowan-Harshank nodded.
With a growl, Valentine grabbed the young man and threw him against the wall. He drew his revolver, and pressed it against Robert’s cheek. “Someone came in here and copied those recording cylinders. Who?”
“If you shoot me, the Lobstermen will be down here before you can draw a breath…”
“I’m sure that’ll be a great consolation to you when you’re dead. Who copied the cylinders? Was it Wyndham?”
Robert Rowan-Harshank shook his head. “No. I can’t tell you…”
“I. Will. Kill. You.”
“Valentine,” Skinner interrupted. “We need to go.”
Robert’s face was deathly serious. “If you kill me, you’ll never find out.”
Valentine paused, then thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. He removed the gun from Rowan-Harshank’s cheek, and pointed it at the man’s crotch. “I can keep questioning you after I’ve shot your balls off.”
“You’ll hang…”
“Valentine!” Skinner shouted.
“Not me,” Valentine sneered. “I’m a Vie-Gorgon. I won’t even get Transportation.”
Robert Rowan-Harshank snorted. “A Comstock Vie-Gorgon. You might as well be a Wyndham. Or a Crabtree.”
“Who made the copies?” Valentine screamed at him.
Skinner grabbed his arm. “Valentine. We need to leave. Now.”
For one long, desperate moment, Skinner was afraid that Valentine was going to shoot the young man in front of him. Then, he took a deep breath, gently lowered the hammer back into position, and put the revolver in his belt. “You may think you’re doing someone a favor,” the coroner told him. “But right now, you are in. Over. Your. Head.”
He led Skinner back up the staircase. “What is it?”
“Gendarmes. A lot of them. I can hear them coming up the street.”
“Oh. Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
Skinner was quiet as they passed the Lobstermen, who stood at their posts with the placid disinterest of career sentries. Then: “No. I don’t.”
The street, when Valentine and Skinner arrived, was empty. “Skinner, I don’t see anyone. Are you sure…oh. Never mind.” The young man practically threw her into the coach. “In, get in. Go back to the office. Wait for me, or Beckett, or someone. I don’t know. Go.”
“Valentine—”
“Listen, I really feel that, of the three people investigating this situation, at least one of us should not be in prison. I nominate you. Second! All in favor, aye! Good!” He slammed the door of the coach, and shouted to Harry. “Go! Back to Raithower!” Then turned to meet the approaching gendarmes.
These were ordinary human beings, outfitted only with the same riot armor that the pressgangs wore: boiled leather breastplates and collars, greenglass goggles. They carried swords and cudgels. One man rode a horse; a big draft horse that he probably used to stomp on criminals.
There was little question that these men had been sent by Edgar Wyndham-Vie in his capacity as Adjunct to the Vice-Minister of the Committee of Public Safety. His authorization for deploying Lobstermen was no doubt quite limited. Unquestioningly loyal fanaticism was expensive, after all.
There were half a dozen different organizations with Imperial mandates to operate in the city of Trowth. The management of these organizations was a delicate balancing act, all designed to keep the major Families constantly at each other’s throats. The organizations all had different jurisdictions, and limited budgets. The Imperial Guard, and the Coroners Division by extension, for instance, was responsible directly