The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [49]
This made determining priority a tricky business, especially when it came to the Coroners, which were technically a joint venture of the Imperial Guard and the Ministry of Internal Security. The Committee for Public Safety could override the activities of the Coroners, and even arrest its members, if their actions didn’t directly protect the Emperor or the Empire but were endangering the safety of the city. None of this included the gendarmerie, either: they were commissioned and employed by individual neighborhoods and were essentially autonomous, unless they were conscripted by one of the government agencies.
All of which meant very little to Valentine as he watched the gendarmes approach. The only really relevant aspect was this: he had no case, which meant that if Edgar Wyndham-Vie could show that he was a legitimate threat to the safety of the city, Valentine would have to show that Wyndham-Vie was a legitimate threat to the security of the Emperor. Or the Empire. Or something.
Aw, damn it, Valentine said to himself, as the nine pedestrian and one equestrian gendarmes fanned out around him in the street. If he was lucky, only the man on the horse was carrying a gun. Think, Valentine. What would Beckett do? He’d probably say something mean, and punch someone in the face. And maybe shoot someone. On the other hand, Beckett had gotten himself arrested. Valentine was almost certain he could not beat all ten men in a fist-fight and, despite his posturing with Rowan-Harshank, he suspected he really would be hanged if he shot someone unlawfully.
“Gentlemen,” Valentine said, as he pulled out his revolver. “I’m sure we’re all eager to resolve this peacefully.” Can’t get arrested. Okay. Pretend you’re Beckett. Beckett was in jail. Pretend you’re Beckett before he was in jail, the Beckett from the old days that was too crazy to be arrested for doing crazy things.
The men had moved into a reasonably tight circle around him. “Valentine Vie-Gorgon,” the man on horseback said. He had a number five branded on his cheek. “You are under arrest. Drop your weapon, lie down on the ground, and put your hands on your head.”
“Sorry,” Valentine tried to smile his most charming smile. Beckett would have glowered, or glared, or done something equally sinister, but allowances had to be made. Valentine did not have an especially intimidating glare. “On whose authority am I being arrested?”
The men shifted uncomfortably. “You’re under arrest…”
“You said that already. If you’re going to arrest me in the name of the Committee for Public Safety, you’ve got to declare it.” He thumbed the hammer back on his revolver. “That’s how it works. Say, ‘I arrest you in the name of the Committee for Public Safety,’ or something like that.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. Under the circumstances, I’ve no intention of going with you. My authority supersedes yours.”
“We’re here in the name of the Committee…”
“Right, but you’re not actually employed by the Committee, you’ve been conscripted by the Committee,” this, Valentine knew, was almost certainly true, “which technically means that I can lawfully refuse arrest until I’m approached by actual agents of the Committee.” This was almost certainly not true. The gendarmes, however, didn’t seem to know that. “You need to get out of here,” Valentine told them, “before I start shooting you.”
Trying to make a convincing argument to the men about to arrest him was not a very Beckett-like thing to do. Threatening to shoot them was. Valentine felt the two gestures balanced each other out.
“Huh.” One of the gendarmes said. He had a long scar under his right eye, and a three branded beneath the left.