The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [50]
Almost. Valentine drew his second revolver, cocked it. “Sure I can.”
“Some of us will get to you…”
“What is this?” Valentine snapped. “A pissing contest? Fine, I can’t shoot all of you. Maybe I can only shoot five of you. Maybe I can only shoot two. Who wants to go first?” Trying to threaten his way out of the situation did not seem to be working. Maybe they knew he wouldn’t really shoot. Maybe the men behind him were planning on rushing him. He needed a new plan.
Aw, Mr. Horse, I’m sorry. There was no way he could let the man on horseback draw a pistol.
There was a loud crack, as Valentine fired a shot right between the horse’s hooves. The animal screamed, reared, lost its balance and fell, but Valentine had already turned to charge the men directly behind him. He ran as fast as he could, roaring at the top of his voice, waving his revolvers in the air.
In the excitement, the gendarmes forgot that Valentine probably wasn’t going to shoot them. They dove out of the way, their instincts to “Avoid the Raving Maniac” overriding their rational desire to “Arrest that Man.” Valentine ran past them and up the hill.
They were in Old Bank. Raithower Square wasn’t far. If he could get to it, he’d be safe. It was no fun trying to run up hills, but there was some small satisfaction in knowing that the slope would give as much trouble to his pursuers as it gave the young coroner. At least, until the equestrian got his horse back on its feet. Valentine put on speed.
Seventeen: Valentine’s Story
Harry the carriage-driver had led Skinner into the Raithower office of the Coroners. He was concerned for her safety, which is why Skinner held back the urge to kick him in the shin and say that she was perfectly capable of finding her way into her own office, thank you very much. Once they’d gotten inside, Harry had breathlessly explained to Karine about the hundred men who’d come to kill Valentine, and how he was facing them down even as they spoke, and surely soon a whole battalion of Lobstermen would be crashing the gates of Raithower House. Karine immediately took charge of Skinner’s protection, and with all concern helped her find a comfortable seat on the couch.
Skinner growled inwardly, but was pleased to note that she kept the sour expression off of her face. The indige arrived with tea; Skinner heard the silver spoon clink on porcelain as Karine scooped sugar into a mug.
“Karine,” Skinner asked, gently taking the hot cup. “Would you please look out the window and see if Valentine is coming? I think I can hear his footsteps.”
“He is, Miss Skinner,” Karine said after a moment. “There’s some men chasing after him. He’s running for the gates now. The guards are opening them…”
“Does it look like he’s going to make it?”
“I think so . . . wait. He tripped! No, he’s up again. He’s past the gates now, and the guards have closed them. They are yelling at the other men. Harry’s on top of the coach, waving his rifle around and shouting. I suspect he means to shoot someone.”
“I can hear them, Karine, I just can’t see them.” She took a sip from her teacup. “What’s Valentine doing? He isn’t saying anything.”
“He’s lying on his back, miss. On the flagstones.”
“Oh.” They waited. Skinner drank some more tea. “Is he still there?”
“Yes.”
It was several minutes before Valentine burst through the office door, face flushed and still panting. “You…” he said. “...wouldn’t…believe. How far I had…to run.”
“I would,” Skinner told him. “I came the same way. In the coach.”
“But I had to run. Fast. The . . . men. They had . . . sticks and things.”
“I’m sure it was very hard. Do you want tea?”
Valentine was silent for a long moment. “No.” His voice was sullen.
After a moment, Skinner heard him sit, and the tell-tale clinking sound of porcelain teacups. She smiled.
“So,” Valentine asked between gulps of tea. “Do we know anything?”
“Not unless you found out something spectacularly interesting on the run up here. Or when you disappeared