They flooded in from every corner and crevice. Not the few that had almost killed Leo, but hundreds, tumbling over one another, growing as he watched, flinging themselves forward with snarls like dogs. They met a wave of power from Esther and Stephen which flung them over and over backwards, and bounced up and came on again, with a dreadful shrill squealing and a scrape and dry rustle of claws on earth and stone.
“Get him free!” Stephen yelled at Merrick, as Esther shoved Leonora behind her. The four justiciars formed a semicircle in front of Crane, shoulder to shoulder, hurling power. A rat leapt at Esther and its skull exploded like a rotten orange. Behind them, Merrick hopped up onto the table with his pocketknife in his hand, and began to saw at the thick ropes that pinioned Crane.
“Hoi!” he shouted at Leonora. “Up here, give me a hand.” He pulled out another knife. “And you, Vaudrey, on your feet.”
“You try,” slurred Crane, stiffening his legs under him as best he could to stop his body slumping.
“Shit.” Merrick was working furiously. “The fuck did they do to you?”
“Put that thing in me. Shaman ghost.”
“Fuck.”
“S’alright.”
“It’s not,” said Leo grimly, sawing at his other wrist.
Crane looked round her. The rats were filling the room now, in their hundreds, clambering over each other, with savage, single-minded killing determination. The four justiciars were holding their ground, somehow keeping a corridor of space in front of themselves, but there were so many rats that the pile of dead was two feet deep already and the creatures kept on coming. A rat leapt over the top, over their heads, its limbs spread wide in attack. Saint rose high in the air to punch it away, and the other three all cried, “Hold the line!”, swaying back in unison.
Crane glanced to his left and yelled, “Janossi!”
The man had good reflexes, which saved his life. He didn’t look at Crane but to his other side, and that meant he was able to twist away from Town’s attack so that the blade aimed at his heart scraped off ribs and stabbed the flesh below his shoulder.
Janossi bellowed with pain and released a bolt of power that sent Town flying back into the wall, and as he did so, the rats surged in.
“Hold the damned line!” Stephen screamed. “Resonance three over eight and go.”
All four justiciars hissed indrawn breaths in violent unison. A terrible high-pitched vibration filled Crane’s head. Leonora clapped her free hand to one ear, twisting her neck in a fruitless effort to turn away from the sound. The pitch rose slightly higher and became a feeling, a buzzing in the teeth and eyeballs. The rats hauled back, hesitating, squealing in confusion, and Saint gave a savage cry of triumph as the justiciars pushed forward at a command from Esther, sending rat parts flying, but the creatures turned again in a smoothly coordinated wave and reattacked with as much savagery as before.
“Will you cut that blasted rope!” Stephen shouted.
“Nearly there, sir,” called Merrick, sawing patiently away with the knife.
Knife.
Town had held the knife competently, a man who knew how to stab someone to death…
“Why did they kill Willetts?” Crane asked aloud.
“Who gives a fuck?” grunted Merrick. “Yes.” The thick rope parted, the last strands breaking as he and Crane wrenched at it. Merrick immediately moved to help Leo with the other rope.
“He doesn’t need a spell, look at him.” He was Xan; Crane was not going to speak that name aloud. “And he doesn’t need an amulet to control the rats, either. So why kill Willetts? What did Willetts know?”
“The story?”
“The ending,” Crane said, with sudden certainty. “The real ending. The girl, the vessel of the Red Tide. Of course.”
He glanced at Stephen, but the justiciars were fighting for their lives now, no time to talk. Janossi fell to one knee and Esther hauled him up, but it cost her a step back.
“Fuck.” Crane wrenched at his pinioned hand but it wasn’t even close to free, so he made a decision, gave the order.
“Merrick. Kill Mr. Humphris. Strangle him. No blood.”
Merrick stopped sawing at the rope. He met Crane’s eyes, his face emotionless.
“Now,” Crane said.
Merrick folded his pocketknife and put it in Crane’s free hand. “Anyone got a bit of string?”
“There’s a handkerchief in my pocket.”
“Here.” Leonora kicked off her shoe and dragged off a torn silk stocking. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Merrick took the stocking and jumped down from the table, pulling a pencil from one of his pockets. He went to Monk where he lay by the wall and pulled the recumbent man to a kneeling posture. He slipped the stocking round his neck with the pencil inside the loop, and began to tighten the makeshift garrotte, face remote and calm.
“Oh God, Lucien,” Leonora whispered.
“Keep cutting.” Crane’s own hand was shaking so hard he’d be in danger of slicing an artery if he tried to help.