The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [95]
“Yes,” Alan muttered. Understandably nervous about his impending execution, he’d been unable to sleep again. “What is it?”
“Get up, get dressed,” Valentine said. “You’re leaving.”
Alan sat bolt upright. “What? Now?” His heart sank deep into his stomach. “I thought . . . don’t I get a last meal, or something like that?”
“Not to the gallows,” Valentine grinned. “Come on, I’m busting you out.” He tossed the young man a satchel, stuffed almost to overflowing with clothes.
“W-what?” Alan said, not daring to let his hopes up.
“Can’t execute you if you’re not here, right? Hurry up, get your clothes on.”
Alan quickly began to dress. “Where, I mean, where am I supposed to go?”
Valentine’s grin widened, and the young cartographer found it infectious. “Corsay. There’s a ship waiting for you by the docks in River Village.”
“Corsay?” Alan practically choked on the word. Corsay was halfway around the world, a backwater colony, full of savages and monsters. “What…?”
“You’ve been accepted at the University there. Corsay University, I’m sure you know, is a long way from Vie Abbey and the Church Royal. They’ve a little more relaxed view about geometry, if you take my meaning.”
“Valentine,” Alan protested, “I can’t afford university.”
Valentine rolled his eyes. “Who’d have thought it’d be so difficult to convince someone to miss their own hanging? Don’t worry about the bill. Everything’s paid for, courtesy of Comstock Street. And don’t worry about your age. You’ll have to take the long way around, so you’ll be about sixteen by the time you get there. There’s a tutor waiting for you on the ship, though I’m sure you won’t need one.” He handed a number of sealed letters to the young man. “There’s your letter of acceptance, thanks to the recommendations of certain highly-placed members of the Trowth civil-service,” Valentine winked, “And a letter of introduction to a boarding house in Ennering Village there. Also paid for. Tell my aunt Helena hello, by the way.”
“Valentine…” Alan Charterhouse found himself speechless.
“Oh, one more thing.” Valentine drew one of his pistols, opened it, dumped the bullets into his hand. He stuffed the beautiful, pearl-handled revolver and its ammunition into the satchel. “Never know when something like that will come in handy.” He tousled Alan’s hair.
The young man didn’t move. After a moment, he said, “Beckett.”
“Trust me,” the young coroner told him. “This is exactly what Beckett wants. He can’t say it, because he can’t know about it, because if he did know, he’d have to stop it. But you saved Skinner’s life, Alan. You saved all our lives, potentially even the Empire. We owe you.” He grinned again, and Alan found himself grinning so widely that he felt his face would crack. “Besides, what good is being rich if you can’t throw money away? Now,” he took Alan Charterhouse by the arm, “Let’s get you out of here.”
“That’s my report,” Beckett told Mr. Stitch. The huge, hideously leathery Reanimate regarded him without expression, his brass eyes immutable. “I don’t know who activated the Excelsior. Anyone I might suspect was otherwise engaged.”
Skin and muscles creaked as Mr. Stitch finally nodded. He sat behind his great wooden desk, its surface bare, his hands folded before him. “It is. Unfortunate. I will. Take over. That investigation.”
“You don’t want me to look into it further?” Beckett asked, slightly appalled.
Stitch slowly cocked his head to the side, and Beckett shivered. He had never trusted the Reanimate, despite what amounted to a century of loyal service to the Empire. “Tragedy. Has strengthened. Our city.”
Beckett stared. Was Stitch really saying what it seemed like?
“I will. Look into it.” The Reanimate’s voice was strangely emotionless, and yet it still held a note of finality. “You. Would not like. The answers.” Slowly, Mr. Stitch raised its dead hand, and dismissed him.
Outside of Stitch’s office, Beckett found Valentine